“Very good, miss,” the waiter said.
He stood there waiting, to be sure she was headed back in the right direction. Nadia had to walk the full length of the hall, back to the Markov’s private box. But immediately she poked her head back out again, watching the waiter disappear into Nikolai’s room with the tray of drinks.
She stood waiting, silently counting down the time it would take him to pass around the various vodka tonics, whiskey, scotch, and gin martinis he’d been carrying. At last he returned, hurrying off down the hallway, toward the stairs.
Now Nadia could approach the suite once more. If it was a viewing suite, she could only hope that it would be a large room, dark, with several rows of seats arranged along the window. Enclosed, so the people inside could converse without disturbing the performers or the other concert goers.
If she was lucky, all the men would be seated in such a way that she could sneak inside. If she was unlucky, she’d be spotted immediately.
All she could do was try.
With her heart in her throat, she quietly cracked the door and slipped inside.
It was even darker in the room than she’d dared hope. And indeed, the five figures of the suited men were clustered against the far window—not sitting, but grouped together and engaged in intent conversation.
Trying not to trip over anything in the gloom, Nadia crossed to the side wall as swiftly as possible, partially concealing herself behind the thick damask drapes than hung from ceiling to floor. These were decorative drapes, used to divide the viewing room. By moving from one thick cluster of fabric to another, she drew closer to the men, while staying mostly out of view.
Had they looked directly toward her, they would have spotted her in her unfortunately vivid red dress. But as long as she stayed silent, their attention remained on each other, and occasionally on the ballet unfolding on the stage far below them.
From her sideways angle, Nadia could just see the opening scene, which seemed to be the optional prologue, showing how Odette had first met Rothbart, and been transformed into a swan. The beautiful prima ballerina was twirling across the stage, pale, slender, and graceful as a bird, while the dark sorcerer crept up behind her.
But Nadia had no interest in the ballet. She only cared what the men were saying to one another.
Nikolai stood closest, with his back to her, so she couldn’t see his face. The three Ministers stood in the center of the group, facing the large plate-glass window that looked down onto the stage. And Zavier Markov stood opposite Nadia, facing her, but looking toward the Ministers.
Zavier’s face was so sharp and intent that it frightened her as she peeked out from around the curtain. She was terrified that he would look over and spot her. But she had to lean closer to hear what they were saying over the sound of Tchaikovsky’s music being pumped into the room via speakers in the ceiling.
One of the Ministers was speaking, a short man with a shining bald head—the one who had kissed her hand earlier
“It’s not that simple, Markov,” he said. “There are still other contenders for the contract. Morozov has made an extremely generous offer to the committee, which we are considering.”
“The offer to develop his agricultural land?” Zavier said.
“Yes,” the minister confirmed, looking slightly surprised that Zavier already knew of it.
“I’m afraid he’s not going to be able to make good on that offer. Because I bought the mining rights for that district. And as long as I’m excavating, he won’t be able to develop any of those acres.”
“That is not how these things are done!” the other Minister said, the big burly one with the round belly—Popov. He was red in the face from anger. “This is exactly what we’re talking about, Markov. There are rules in this business. Rules that a gulag gangster like yourself is never going to understand!”
The shorter Minister, Mikhailov, laid his hand on the other man’s chest to silence him.
Nadia could tell that Zavier Markov was furious, his face deadly pale and his eyes blazing, but he refused to lose his temper.
“Everything you’ve demanded of me, I’ve done,” Zavier said, his eyes glittering in the light from the stage. “You wanted the toll roads, I got them for you. You wanted a position for your son-in-law, Popov, now he has it. You said I could never work with the Smirnovs or the Morozovs, you said I was a grudge-holder with a low family name. Well, I’m marrying my son to daughter of my greatest enemy, and their children will have a pedigree unmatched by anyone but the Romanovs themselves. I’ve paid the price. I’ve given you your honey by the pound. Now give me my prize, or I’ll be forced to show you what a gulag gangster will do when he’s been betrayed. What I did to the Kutnetsovs will be as nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”
“How dare you—“ Popov began, but once again, Mikhailov stilled him with a hand on his chest.
“You’re right,” he said to Zavier Markov. “Your proposal is accepted. The Crimean Bridge is yours.”
“Good,” Zavier said, with a quick nod.
Nadia saw the blaze of triumph in his face.
“I expect a thirty percent profit written into the contract.”
“Thirty percent!” Popov cried. “That’s outrageous, we agreed to twenty at most.”
“You’ll give thirty for your deceit and delays. And the bridge will be completed ahead of schedule, in perfect condition,” Zavier said coldly.
