Eternal Empire by Alec Nevala-Lee Page B

man said. “I am Pavel Orlov, head of internal security. I must ask you a few questions.”
    For no good reason, her heart began to thump. Maddy awkwardly claimed the chair behind the desk, studying the security chief as he sat down. He had short hair, a worsted tie, and a silver ring with a red stone. “Tarkovsky and I have been over this. He’s comfortable with my background.”
    Orlov smiled. “With all due respect, Tarkovsky will be comfortable when I say so.”
    Opening the personnel folder in his hands, Orlov began with a question about her most recent employer, then inquired into her time in New York. Maddy had gone over all these matters with Powell, and she responded readily, her uneasiness gradually diminishing.
    A moment later, Orlov asked a question she had not been expecting. “Tell me about Ilya Severin.”
    Maddy sensed a special interest here. “There isn’t much to tell. I was only in the same room with him twice.”
    â€œYes, I know,” Orlov said. “The first was when you were trespassing in the home of Anzor Archvadze, another powerful man, looking for information to put to your own advantage. The second was at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. You went to break into an installation there, for reasons that remain unclear—”
    â€œIt’s a long story. I thought I was uncovering evidence of a plot against my life, but it was all in my mind.”
    â€œYet there were men who wanted you dead. Alexey Lermontov knew that you had learned he was trading in stolen art, so he dispatched an assassin to kill you at the museum. Ilya Severin prevented this, then took out Lermontov himself a year later. From what I hear, it’s uncertain how he managed to find him. Did you ever wonder if he might come after you?”
    Maddy found again that it was easiest to be honest. “No. He has no reason to do so.”
    Orlov closed the folder, apparently satisfied. “Perhaps not. Indeed, the first time you met Ilya Severin, he spared your life. The second time, he saved it. Do you have any idea why?”
    From outside, she could hear the sound of birds in the garden, and she thought once more of the house where Lermontov had died. “I don’t know,” Maddy said at last. “I imagine he had reasons of his own.”

8
    I lya was seated at the table in his cell when the call he had been expecting finally came. He had been reading from his volume of midrash when something made him glance at the door, which was open. There was no one there. All the same, he paused, keeping his eye on the landing. Closing his book, he rested it casually in one hand, the spine facing outward.
    A second later, there was the sound of footsteps, and a shadow fell across the threshold. The prisoner standing outside did not attempt to enter. Prison etiquette dictated that you never went into another inmate’s cell without permission. “Vasylenko wants to see you.”
    Ilya rose from his chair. It was association time. For forty minutes every day, prisoners who were not in segregation were allowed to mix freely. Ilya, for his part, had kept to himself. Since his transfer, he had followed his usual routine, reading, walking on his own in the yard, and reporting to his job in the workshop, where inmates filled remanufactured printer cartridges. Until now, he had been left alone. But he had also been waiting for this moment.
    Taking his book with him, he left his cell and joined the other prisoner on the landing. This inmate, whose name was Sasha, was a thickly muscled man with glasses, red hair, and skin so sensitive that, even in this gray climate, he was perpetually pink with sunburn. Six years ago, he had been convicted of torturing and killing his wife and her lover. His arms were covered in tattoos, but to the eyes of a man like Ilya, they were nothing but nonsense.
    They descended a flight of metal steps to the association room, a common space with steel