Chapter 6 - THE MESSAGE FROM A DEAD MAN’S FRIEND
The email contained no greeting.
No apology.
Only an address and a sentence.
Celia must come alone.
She read it twice.
Then deleted the second sentence in her mind and replaced it with something more accurate.
Celia must do something unbelievably stupid.
“No,” Stellan said.
Celia turned from the computer.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re going.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Good conversation.”
She reached for her coat.
Stellan caught her wrist.
Not hard.
But enough.
Celia looked down at his hand.
Then up at him.
He released her immediately.
“You have no idea who sent that.”
“It came from my father’s account.”
“An account can be compromised.”
“It mentions a childhood nickname nobody here knows.”
“Grekov could know.”
“You really have a comforting answer for everything.”
“I have a living answer.”
Celia’s anger rose.
“My mother needs treatment tomorrow.”
“We can arrange it.”
“If she trusts your people.”
“She trusted your father.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Stellan’s eyes cooled.
“You are not walking into an unknown location alone.”
Celia stepped closer.
“This is my family.”
“And someone in your family spent eight years paying a man inside my house.”
The words struck.
Celia took a breath.
“Then you should want answers too.”
“I do.”
“Good. We finally agree.”
Archer solved the argument.
“We let her go.”
Stellan turned toward him slowly.
Archer continued.
“Not alone.”
“The email explicitly says—”
“I know what it says. We don’t need to be visible.”
Celia looked at Archer.
“I’m not wearing a wire.”
“No one asked you to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes.”
Stellan remained silent for a long moment.
Then said, “You follow my instructions.”
Celia almost objected.
He cut her off.
“Or you don’t go.”
That was how, ninety minutes later, Celia found herself walking into an all-night diner forty miles south of the compound while Stellan’s people remained somewhere she could not see.
The diner smelled like coffee and fryer oil.
Three truck drivers sat near the counter.
An elderly couple shared pie near the window.
Her father sat in the back booth.
Celia stopped.
Twelve years disappeared.
He stood.
“Cece.”
Nobody had called her that since she was fourteen.
“Don’t.”
Thomas Rowe sat again.
Celia remained standing.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Safe.”
“That word has lost meaning lately.”
“She’s with a doctor.”
“Which doctor?”
“One I trust.”
“You left her phone behind.”
“She couldn’t bring it.”
“She has dialysis tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Then start talking.”
Her father looked older than sixty.
Not physically.
Tired in a way that seemed permanent.
“Your mother and I worked for Alexander Varo.”
Celia stared.
Stellan’s father.
Not Grekov.
“For how long?”
“Fourteen months.”
“What did you do?”
“Translation. Intelligence analysis. Negotiation support.”
“That sounds very clean.”
“It wasn’t.”
Celia sat across from him.
“Did you work for Grekov too?”
“We were sent into meetings with his organization.”
“By Alexander Varo?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed Viktor Grekov was building something larger than anyone understood.”
“What?”
Thomas looked toward the window.
“A network based on ports, labor contracts, shipping schedules, customs contacts. Not simply criminal activity. Influence.”
Celia folded her arms.
“And my mother?”
“Better than I was.”
“At translating?”
“At hearing what people were afraid to say.”
Celia almost smiled despite herself.
That sounded like her mother.
“Why did Grekov mention Omsk?”
Thomas’s face tightened.
“Because of a meeting there.”
“What happened?”
“Your mother translated for Alexander. Grekov attended with his father.”
“And?”
“Grekov’s father ordered the killing of a dock supervisor who refused to cooperate.”
Celia went still.
“My mother heard it?”
“She translated it.”
“Did she testify?”
“There was nowhere safe to testify then.”
“Did Alexander know?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“He began keeping records.”
Celia thought of Stellan.
“Records Grekov wanted.”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
Thomas looked directly at her.
“I thought Alexander destroyed them.”
“You thought?”
“Until eight years ago.”
The diner suddenly seemed quieter.
“The year Alexander died.”
Thomas nodded.
“He contacted me three weeks before the crash.”
“What did he say?”
“That someone inside his household had discovered what he was doing.”
“Calder.”
“I didn’t know the name.”
“Why were you paying him?”
Thomas blinked.
“I wasn’t.”
Celia leaned forward.
“Your initials are attached to transfers.”
“Then someone wanted them there.”
She studied his face.
Her father had lied professionally for half his life.
She knew that now.
“How do I know you aren’t lying?”
“You don’t.”
At least that answer was honest.
Thomas reached into his coat slowly.
Celia tensed.
He placed a small brass key on the table.
“Your mother kept one thing from Omsk.”
“What?”
“A recording.”
Celia stared at the key.
“Of the murder?”
“Of the order.”
“Why keep it for twenty-seven years?”
“Insurance.”
“Against Grekov?”
“Against everyone.”
Celia thought of her mother’s fear.
“Where is it?”
Thomas pushed the key toward her.
“Anchorage.”
Celia almost laughed.
“Of course it is.”
“A bank box under your mother’s maiden name.”
“Why tell me now?”
“Because Grekov knows she kept something.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Thomas’s eyes moved past her shoulder.
His face changed.
“Celia.”
She followed his gaze.
A man had entered the diner.
Dark coat.
No umbrella despite the rain.
He stood by the register without ordering.
Thomas rose.
“Go.”
Celia’s pulse surged.
“Who is he?”
“Go now.”
“You said Mom was safe.”
“She is.”
“Then who—”
The front windows exploded inward.
People screamed.
Celia dropped beneath the booth.
Thomas pulled her toward the kitchen.
The man near the register ran.
Not toward them.
Away.
He had seen the danger first.
Two vehicles stopped outside.
Men moved through the rain.
Before they reached the door, another black SUV slammed to a stop across the entrance.
Stellan emerged.
Celia had never seen him move quickly.
Now she understood why nobody ever needed to tell him twice.
He crossed the diner in seconds.
Archer and two security men entered behind him.
“Celia.”
“I’m fine.”
Stellan looked at Thomas Rowe.
For the first time, Celia saw her father afraid.
Not of Grekov.
Of Stellan.
Thomas whispered, “You look like Alexander.”
Stellan froze.
Then the rear kitchen door slammed.
Archer shouted.
Thomas turned.
And Celia suddenly understood.
Her father had not come to the diner only to meet her.
He had come expecting someone else.
“Dad.”
Thomas looked at her.
The regret in his face told her before he spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
He ran toward the kitchen exit.
Archer went after him.
Celia started to follow.
Stellan caught her.
“No.”
“He has the information!”
“He also used you as bait.”
The words hit harder than the shattered glass.
Celia stopped.
Because Stellan was right.
Her father had known someone would follow him.
He had brought her anyway.
Outside, tires screamed.
Archer returned thirty seconds later.
“He’s gone.”
Celia stared at the brass key still clenched in her hand.
Stellan looked down at it.
“What did he give you?”
Celia closed her fist.
For once, she did not answer immediately.
Stellan’s gaze met hers.
There was a question in it.
Not command.
Trust.
Celia opened her hand.
“A key.”
May you like
“To what?”
“The reason Grekov wants my mother.”
