The kid is a genius with computers. He’s completely overhauled our internal and external security systems, as well as building himself a command center up in the east tower.
I can’t imagine what he gets up to up there. Every time I poke my head in the room, he’s typing a bunch of shit that might as well be hieroglyphics for all I can understand of it. This despite the fact that he has the floppy hair of a K-pop boy band and the sleepy expression of a hibernating tortoise.
I bring Maks up to Zima’s little hidey-hole so he can help me figure out the best way to get our weed back.
“First off, I need to know for certain where they’re keeping it,” I tell Zima.
“Lemme check if they have digital inventory records,” Zima says. His long, spidery fingers click across the keys. I’m not sure exactly how he sees with that much hair in his eyes, but he seems to do alright.
“Did you guys bring up any snacks?” Zima says, still typing.
Maks stares at him,
“We literally just ate lunch.”
As in, we all walked up here together from the dining hall, where Maks and I just watched Zima demolish three bowls of stroganoff.
“Yeah.” Zima nods. “But still . . .”
I sigh. “What do you want?”
“We got any Kara-Kum?”
That’s Zima’s favorite—little gold-wrapped chocolates from Turkmenistan. They’re called “Black Sand” because they have sort of a sandy/crunchy texture from the cocoa-powder praline inside.
“Go check, Maks,” I say.
“Me!” Maks says, outraged. “Why can’t he—“
“I’m typing,” Zima says.
“He’s typing,” I tell Maks.
“How do you know he’s even doing anything helpful? He could be torrenting porn for all you know.”
“I am torrenting porn,” Zima says. “But only in the background.”
Maks narrows his pale blue eyes at Zima but pushes back his chair in a huff. He stomps down the stairs, then climbs back up them a few minutes later, throwing a handful of candy into Zima’s lap.
“There you go, your highness,” he says.
“No drink?” Zima says.
“Don’t push it,” I tell him, stifling a laugh.
“Anyway, I found it,” Zima says lazily.
He points to the screen where he’s hacked into the St. Petersburg police database, finding the evidence storage records.
“They’ve got an off-site location for most of the evidence, but with a big stash like this, they’re keeping it right in headquarters until they hand it off to the destruction team next week.”
Jesus Christ, the idea of all Bory’s hard work going up in smoke without anybody there to inhale it . . . what a tragedy.
It’s what I figured. And what Ivan was worried about. Going into headquarters will pit us against dozens of armed officers. There’s sure to be a massive shoot-out.
“Can you see the schematics?” I ask Zima. “Where are they keeping it?”
He pulls up a blueprint of the headquarters, pointing with one, skinny, grubby finger at the storage locker.
“It’s in there,” he says.
Right in the center of headquarters, with no exterior walls. Fucking perfect.
“So how can we get in there without blowing a hole through twenty people?” I say out loud.
I don’t really expect Zima or Maks to answer. But after a moment, Zima says, “Well, you could go tomorrow night. During the gala.”
I sit up.
“What gala?”
“The Police Officer’s Ball. It’s not just cops—lots of politicians and oligarchs, too. Pretty much every senior officer’ll go. So they won’t be at the station. Just a skeleton crew left behind.”
I like the sound of that.
But I want to be just a little more sneaky.
“Look up one more thing for me,” I say to Zima.
“Sure,” he says, hands hovering over the keyboard. “What do you want to know?”
I grin.
“Where do they send their laundry?”
4
Lara
I’m so irritated with Pavel that I could scream. I feel like he’s doing this on purpose to annoy me—malicious compliance. Finally letting me out of the house, but only to go to the musty police station, which is worse than our flat, if that’s even possible.
I don’t like being around the other officers. Most of them are men, and they treat me with this exaggerated politeness as the commissioner’s daughter, then make snickering comments to their friends as soon as my back is turned.
Pavel knows that, so he’s leaving me with Zaitsev, who’s old and curmudgeonly, but at least not lecherous like some of the others.
Actually, I don’t mind Zaitsev. He likes to play the crossword in the newspaper. I guess the art and history clues, he solves the anagrams and riddles, and between the two of us we can finish most of the puzzles.
If I were just hanging out with him, and not sitting in the cramped, smelly station, then maybe I wouldn’t mind it.
It’s the fact of being babysat that humiliates me.
I’m so tired of being a prisoner. The whole reason I left Moscow was to escape the constant surveillance, the constant control. I thought things would be better here.
In some ways, they are. I mean, it would be impossible to be worse than Moscow. Still, I feel more isolated than ever.
Now that I’m soberly dressed in a knee-length skirt, nylons, a blouse, and Mary Janes, with my hair pulled back, Pavel deems me fit to leave the house. He’s so conservative.
At least he’s not a hypocrite. He’s very careful with his appearance himself—his face always freshly shaven, mustache trimmed, hair cut and combed, aftershave applied. He keeps the flat perfectly tidy. He makes his bed with military precision each morning. He eats the same plain and nourishing food—a boiled egg, unbuttered toast, a piece of fruit, black coffee.
He’s disciplined. Principled. Dedicated. That’s why he was chosen to clean up St. Petersburg. And that’s why I trust him. I may want to strangle him at times. But I know he’d never betray me.
That trust only goes one way, unfortunately. Instead of dropping me off in front of the station, Pavel walks me all the way inside, all the way to Zaitsev’s desk at the back of the main room.
The station is much emptier than usual. Instead of the normal hubbub of officers chatting and drinking coffee, petty criminals being hauled in, and random citizens lodging complaints, the main room is practically deserted. Only five or six officers remain on staff. Those officers look sullen, forced to man the desk and phones while everybody else gets to go to the party.
It’s mostly junior officers and a couple of guys who got in trouble recently. I see Kapowski sulking at the front desk. I know he just got off a three-day suspension for “losing” his service weapon. Of course, he probably didn’t really lose it at all—he probably sold it, or had to get rid of it after he shot it at somebody he shouldn’t have.
Since Pavel has been cracking down on bribes and violence within the police ranks, he’s had to put down all kinds of little mutinies. He’s fighting a battle on two fronts—with the criminals on the streets and with the men in his own ranks.