Chapter 3 - Forty-Seven Poems
At 1:14 in the morning, Cello Nero's front doors were locked.
The final customers had been politely encouraged to finish dessert early.
The staff went home.
Everyone except Natalya.
Marco lingered beside the employee entrance.
“You sure you're okay?”
“No.”
Her answer surprised him.
Then she smiled faintly.
“But I'll be fine.”
Marco glanced toward the private corridor.
“If you want me to stay—”
“Go home.”
“Natalya—”
“Marco.”
She touched his arm.
“Go.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Call me.”
“I will.”
He walked away.
Natalya watched until the door closed.
She wasn't sure she would ever be able to explain what had happened tonight.
She wasn't sure she understood it herself.
When she returned to the private room, Adrien had removed his suit jacket.
Vincent stood near the door.
The Russians were arguing quietly.
Adrien looked at her.
“We're not going to Queens tonight.”
Natalya stopped.
“I thought—”
“Someone tried to access the vault fourteen minutes ago.”
Viktor stood sharply.
“What?”
Vincent held up a phone.
“Our people contacted the storage company.”
Viktor's face darkened.
“You contacted them?”
“Relax.”
Vincent smiled without warmth.
“We didn't mention you.”
Mikhail leaned toward Viktor.
“They know.”
“Who?” Natalya asked.
Viktor looked at her.
“Whoever has been feeding information into the archive.”
Adrien frowned.
“You said you controlled it.”
“We control the current copy.”
“Then how does somebody know we're looking for it?”
Viktor didn't answer.
Natalya did.
“Because someone inside this restaurant told them.”
Every face turned toward her.
She continued.
“Only people here knew I had recognized the code and that Mr. Moretti wanted the complete archive.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Most of the staff didn't know what was happening.”
“They didn't need to.”
Natalya thought of Table 12.
Waiters.
Bartenders.
Kitchen staff.
Security.
Diners.
“A phone call saying the meeting changed would be enough.”
Adrien's eyes narrowed.
“How many people knew the Russians were coming?”
Vincent considered.
“Twelve.”
“Names.”
He began listing them.
Natalya listened.
Vincent.
Two security men.
Moretti's driver.
Marco.
The executive chef.
Three senior members of Moretti's organization.
The restaurant manager.
Adrien himself.
And someone named Salvatore Greco.
Natalya recognized that name.
Everyone in Cello Nero did.
Salvatore was Adrien's oldest adviser.
He rarely visited the restaurant, but when he did, people treated him with more respect than anyone except Moretti.
“Where is Greco tonight?” Adrien asked.
Vincent hesitated.
“Miami.”
“Call him.”
Vincent stepped aside.
The room went quiet.
Natalya sat with the sample page again.
She needed to think.
If her father had created part of the system, perhaps the first page contained instructions.
The obvious layer used altered meter and word substitutions.
But the compass symbol indicated a second layer.
She copied the numbers she'd found.
7, 14, 3, 9.
Maybe letters.
G, N, C, I.
Meaningless.
Unless they weren't positions in the alphabet.
Pages?
Lines?
Pushkin editions?
Her father had always used the same old green book when they played their Sunday game.
A Russian collection of poetry he'd brought from St. Petersburg.
After his death, her mother had kept it.
Natalya still had it.
She suddenly stood.
Moretti looked up.
“Where are you going?”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“Someone knows you're involved.”
“So?”
“So if there are seven people selling information inside my organization, I don't know whether one of them knows where you live.”
Natalya stared at him.
“I am not staying here.”
“You're not.”
He put his jacket back on.
“You're coming with me.”
“That isn't better.”
For a second, Vincent almost smiled.
Adrien did not.
“You have something at your apartment that matters.”
It wasn't a question.
Natalya hated how quickly he read people.
“A book.”
“What book?”
“My father's Pushkin.”
Viktor went completely still.
Natalya noticed.
“You know about it.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“You're lying.”
Mikhail spoke softly.
“The green book?”
Natalya stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
Nobody answered.
Her anger finally broke through her fear.
She slammed the page down.
“You knew my name. You knew my father. You knew where I worked. And now you know what book he left me.”
She looked directly at Viktor.
“You did not walk into Cello Nero by accident.”
“No.”
“Then tell me why.”
Viktor rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“We've been searching for the key for four years.”
“What key?”
“The original decoding key.”
He nodded toward her.
“We believed Alexei gave it to his family.”
“My mother?”
“No.”
His eyes settled on her.
“You.”
Natalya laughed once in disbelief.
“I was seven.”
“Exactly.”
She stopped.
Viktor continued.
“Adults can be interrogated.”
The room became very quiet.
“Children remember games.”
Natalya's skin prickled.
Pushkin on Sundays.
Find the choice.
Find what doesn't belong.
Her father's finger tapping her forehead.
Good readers notice choices.
She suddenly understood.
“My father made me memorize the system.”
“Part of it,” Viktor said.
“You think.”
“We know.”
“How?”
“Because twenty-two years ago, Alexei told someone that if anything happened to him, the archive could still be opened.”
“Who did he tell?”
Viktor looked toward the table.
“Giancarlo Moretti.”
Adrien's expression became stone.
“My father knew hers?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That is in the archive.”
Adrien turned away.
Natalya sensed this revelation had cut deeper than he wanted anyone to see.
Vincent returned.
“Greco answered.”
“And?”
“Says he's in Miami. He knew the meeting was tonight but nothing about the translation.”
“Who called the vault?”
“Unknown number.”
Viktor frowned.
“They wouldn't need to call.”
Vincent looked at him.
“What?”
“The storage facility doesn't confirm access by phone.”
Mikhail nodded.
“You must physically present credentials.”
Adrien's gaze sharpened.
“So somebody went there.”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“According to your man? Twenty minutes.”
Adrien looked at Vincent.
“How far is Queens?”
“From here? At this hour, twenty-five minutes.”
“Meaning whoever went there left before we called.”
Natalya understood.
“They knew before the meeting ended.”
Adrien nodded.
“Exactly.”
The traitor wasn't reacting.
The traitor had planned ahead.
“Maybe they expected the Russians to give you the location,” Natalya said.
Viktor shook his head.
“Only four people knew the vault.”
“You two?”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
Viktor hesitated.
Mikhail looked at him.
Then Viktor answered.
“Our employer.”
“Name?”
“No.”
Adrien sighed.
“We're past that.”
Viktor remained silent.
Moretti leaned forward.
“You've demanded thirteen million dollars while withholding the identity of the person employing you.”
“You didn't ask.”
“I am asking now.”
A pause.
Viktor finally said:
“Elena Markova.”
Natalya knew the name.
Not personally.
Everyone who followed Russian business news knew it.
Elena Markova had built an international logistics empire after the collapse of several state-owned shipping companies.
She funded museums.
Universities.
Refugee programs.
She was photographed with presidents.
“She hired you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To sell the archive.”
“Why would a billionaire need thirteen million?”
“She doesn't.”
Viktor's expression darkened.
“She wants the archive out of her possession.”
Natalya understood instantly.
“Because someone is hunting for it.”
“Yes.”
“Volkov?”
Viktor said nothing.
Again, enough.
Adrien checked his watch.
“We get the book.”
Natalya shook her head.
“My mother has a spare key.”
“Then call her.”
“She'll panic.”
“Good. Panic keeps people alert.”
Natalya glared at him.
“You have an inspiring bedside manner.”
Something almost like amusement touched his expression.
“I'm told it's one of my strengths.”
Fifteen minutes later, they left through Cello Nero's kitchen entrance.
Natalya rode in the rear of Adrien's SUV.
Moretti sat opposite her.
Vincent drove.
Two additional cars followed.
Natalya hated everything about it.
The tinted windows.
The quiet men.
The knowledge that she was now traveling through Manhattan with people she had spent eight months avoiding.
“You always this calm?” Adrien asked.
She looked at him.
“I'm not calm.”
“You look calm.”
“That's different.”
His gaze rested on her.
“Fair.”
Streetlights passed across his face.
For the first time outside the restaurant, he looked less like the terrifying man from Table 12 and more like someone exhausted by a life that never allowed exhaustion.
Natalya looked away.
“Did you know Judge Henderson?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bribe him?”
Adrien's eyes moved toward her.
“You're direct.”
“You hired me as a translator.”
“I didn't hire you.”
“You told me to sit down and then involved me in a thirteen-million-dollar negotiation.”
A pause.
“Fair again.”
He glanced through the window.
“Henderson took money from my father years ago.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
“No.”
“Then?”
Adrien looked back at her.
“I paid him once.”
“For what?”
“To keep someone alive.”
Natalya frowned.
“That's convenient.”
“Truth usually is less convenient than lies.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
Natalya almost pressed him.
Then Vincent's phone rang.
He answered through the vehicle speakers.
A voice came from the lead car.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Problem at the Petrov building.”
Natalya sat up.
“What problem?”
The voice hesitated.
“Apartment door's open.”
Her stomach dropped.
Adrien's posture changed instantly.
“My mother.”
Natalya reached for her phone.
No answer.
She called again.
Nothing.
“Drive faster.”
Vincent did.
Natalya tried a third time.
Voicemail.
Her hands began shaking.
Adrien noticed.
“She may not be there.”
“She lives two floors below me.”
“Call her landline.”
“She doesn't have one.”
Another call came.
The lead car.
“We checked the lower apartment.”
Natalya stopped breathing.
“And?”
“Empty.”
Her chest tightened.
Adrien leaned forward.
“Signs of forced entry?”
“No.”
“Anything disturbed?”
“Doesn't look like it.”
Natalya closed her eyes.
Her mother was gone.
The green Pushkin book might already be gone too.
Then her phone vibrated.
A text.
Unknown number.
Russian.
She opened it.
Nata. Do not come home. I remembered what your father told me. Go where the lions face the sea. Bring no one you cannot trust.
Natalya read it twice.
Adrien watched her.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“What does it say?”
Natalya looked through the dark window.
Where the lions face the sea.
Her father used to take her somewhere with stone lions.
She remembered water.
Wind.
A railing.
But that had been in St. Petersburg.
Not New York.
Unless her mother meant something else.
Then another message arrived.
One photograph.
The green Pushkin book resting on a wooden table.
Beside it lay a key.
Stamped with a number.
47.
Natalya felt cold.
The archive.
Her mother had known about it.
Perhaps for twenty-two years.
And she had never said a word.
Adrien leaned closer.
“What is it?”
Natalya turned the screen toward him.
“The key.”
“To the vault?”
“I think so.”
His eyes narrowed.
Then Natalya noticed something in the photograph's background.
A man's hand.
Only part of it.
A wedding ring.
And on the index finger, a heavy signet ring bearing a familiar crest.
She had seen that ring before.
Three hours earlier.
On a man standing behind Adrien at Table 12.
One of his trusted people.
One of the twelve who knew about the meeting.
Natalya zoomed in.
Adrien's face changed.
“You recognize it?”
She nodded.
“So do you.”
His voice went quiet.
“Carlo DeSantis.”
One of Moretti's senior captains.
The first of seven names.
May you like
And he was sitting somewhere with Natalya's mother.
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