22. Adam

22

ADAM

A fter three days, the fact I have a team to run forces me back into the office. And after some resistance from me about the cost, Anna has persuaded me to let her pay for some extra security for our little space out in Brooklyn. The building manager spluttered at me on the phone when I tried to explain to her why we needed it, but eventually agreed to having more people on site, muttering something about famous people and their agendas. If it had been Janus’s building downtown, I’m sure they wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Even to me, it’s all ridiculously over the top, but after the paparazzi tried to break into my apartment, I have to admit that I need to protect my staff. So, on Friday, I pull them into a meeting and give them a briefing, and stress that the best defense if anyone accosts them is to pretend they don’t understand what they’re talking about.

Now Susie is looking at me across my desk, her phone held to her ear and her eyebrows raised, as the building manager squawks on the other end of the line.

“Arty Maroz is in reception and says he wants to speak to you,” Susie whispers, her hand over the microphone. “He grabbed someone from another business in the lobby and slammed him against the wall before security pulled him off. They called me instead of calling the cops.”

I bury my head in my palms. Maroz has turned up here? Why? God, I hope Anna’s all right. “I’ll go and talk to him.”

Her eyes go wide. “You can’t do that, boss.”

I wave my hand. “We’ve got security now; I’ll have backup.”

She gives me a dubious smile. “I can watch your back. I learned to fight dirty on the streets.”

She and Fabian both. “I’ll be okay. I’m a ninja.” I make a chopping movement with my hands like an idiot, and she grimaces. Not convincing then. Whatever, I’ve taken him down before.

One of the security guys stops me when I step out of the elevator, concern creased across his face. “It’s that guy who’s been in the papers. He’s not armed. He said it’s important, and he just needs to talk to you.” He glances back over his shoulder. “But I’m not sure you should be down here at all,” he adds.

“Let me find out what he wants. Maybe I can persuade him to leave quietly. Just cover my back.”

He makes a face, but he’s right behind me as I head down the corridor to the lobby where I discover Arty Maroz pacing red-faced across the floor.

“Finally!” he says, like I’m some minion who’s kept him waiting.

“Do I know you?” I say.

He scoffs as I widen my stance and fold my arms over my chest. If he comes at me, I want to be ready. “Why are you here?”

“You need to stay away from Anna.”

“That’s it?”

“You can’t just say, ‘that’s it,’ like it’s easy. Things are never simple. You don’t understand.”

He’s like some kid who can never put aside high-school rivalries. What is his agenda? He’s mightily persistent. If I can work out what he’s doing and why, we’d have more leverage with him.

“What don’t I understand?”

“Russia. The whole thing. Have you asked Anna about her tennis coaches? The deal she did. ”

“The deal?”

“You don’t get out of Russia without making a deal.”

“What sort of deal?”

Maroz paces across the floor, scowling. “She never talked to me about the deal she did or who she did it with, but everyone makes a deal.” He waves his arm around. “No one talks about it. If you come from Russia, you’re looking over your shoulder all your life. You never escape, and that’s the end of it. People want things from you, and you have to do what they ask, because you won’t be alive in twelve months if you don’t.”

Is this true? “How about you, Arty? Did you do a deal, too?” Is he, I suddenly wonder, doing something someone asked him to do, right now?

He stops pacing and says nothing as he stares up at the ceiling, face screwed up, and runs a distracted hand through his hair. “Yes, I made a deal, and that’s all I’m going to say to you.”

Is this the reason he’s being such a nuisance? Maybe his deal has something to do with Anna .

Suddenly I lose patience. I step forward and grab his arm, twisting it behind his back and slamming him up against the wall. Defense tends to be my default—wait it out and let them make the mistake—but I can do offense when it’s warranted.

Maroz yelps, perhaps more in surprise than anything. “What the hell are you doing?” he grunts out from where his cheek is pushed into the concrete.

“Why are you so interested in her business? Does your deal involve Anna?” I growl.

“What? Fuck, no!”

“So why are you pestering her?” I twist his arm a little tighter, and he cries out again.

“How the fuck are you so strong?”

“Answer the question.”

“She owes me.”

“She owes you? ”

“My father negotiated all her first sponsorship deals in tennis. She fucked him over and switched to a US agent. It cost him millions, and he lost a lot of face. Ask her. Ask her about the stupid games she plays with the people who support her career. She uses people.”

“Don’t athletes switch agents all the time?” I’m sure I read something about this.

“Not in Russia.”

“We’re not in Russia.”

He glowers, even though his face is still hard against the concrete.

“Is your father the person she made this supposed deal with?”

“I already told you I have no idea what she agreed or who with.”

Christ, I’m starting to believe some crazy deal-making system exists. It’s dangerous to talk to a guy like Arty Maroz. Is this the whole reason for all his bullshit? Some problem with his father losing money and face? Is Maroz the attack dog that oligarchs like his father set on people they can’t reach themselves?

I put a bit more weight and an extra little twist into his arm, and he howls. “What are you doing, you fucker!”

“Leave Anna the fuck alone. I don’t care about you or your stupid stories about deals. I don’t want to see your face anywhere near her.” He grunts at me, and I lean in a little more, making him yowl again. “I didn’t hear your agreement.”

“Yeah, okay! Okay! Motherfucker.”

I step back and blow out a long breath.

“You’ll regret this,” he says, straightening his jacket. “My father is friends with a lot of powerful people. You’re the idiot here. Try asking her a few more questions before being so eager to defend her. You have no idea who she is and what she’s done. Ask her about what happened in Russia.”

He gives me one last scowl then turns on his heel and heads out onto the street.

Later on that evening, when I talk to Anna, we talk about how Christmas is only four weeks away now, how she’s trying to persuade her parents to come over for the holidays, and how I’ll have to go back home and see mine. And it feels wrong to think about leaving New York, even for a few days. The urgency to sort out Arty Maroz throbs in my veins.

I don’t tell her about Arty’s visit or the stuff he spouted about some deal. Everything he told me about Anna and “making a deal” is likely bullshit, but something is going on here and I want to understand what it is and why he’s hanging around, before I speak to Anna. My best way forward has to be Fabian. Anna didn’t want to do anything illegal when I first mentioned it to her, but that’s not such an issue for me. Fabian won’t do something that will land me in trouble, and what option do I have? Maybe Anna didn’t want me digging into her past, but the questions Maroz has placed in my head mean I’ve got to do something. It turns my stomach. Hopefully, Fabian will find some stuff that will force Maroz to stay the fuck away from the both of us and we can nail this stuff for good.