Page 66 of Emerald

Once he’s got it in place, his eyes gleam with interest.

“This is a tricky little system,” he says happily.

“Can you figure it out?” Sloane asks.

“I dunno. Probably.”

He starts typing away, his expression bright and focused for the first time since we met him. It’s quite the transformation. While before I was wondering if we even had the right person, now I can see the intelligence in this kid. The genius, even.

“What are you doing brokering hits?” I ask him. “A kid with your talent.”

Zima gives me a look of disgust. “What, are you going to tell me to get a real job?” he says. “Bit hypocritical coming from you two.”

“No,” I say. “Maybe just something that won’t get you killed. Once Remizov realizes you’re not getting the flash drive for him . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Zima says. “I won’t go back to that apartment. I’ve got others.”

“Do you clean the other ones?” Sloane says.

“Not much,” Zima admits.

“Where’re your parents?” I press him. I should let it go, but I don’t want this kid getting killed the minute we drop him off. Maybe because he reminds me of Karol a little.

“I’m adopted,” Zima says, still typing away furiously. “Bit of a cuckoo situation. I outgrew the nest by the time I was twelve years old. My parents are a janitor and a grocery-store clerk. Nice people, but they didn’t know what to do with me.”

I take a sharp left at the next intersection.

I’m not just going to dump Zima off in the middle of nowhere.

“Where are you going?” Sloane asks me.

“I’ll take him back to the compound,” I tell her. “He can stay there awhile.”

Sloane cocks her head, giving me an appraising look.

I don’t know if my sympathy for this kid will earn me any points in her eyes—Sloane is no softy herself. But she seems to respect my decision.

When we’re about five minutes away from the monastery, Zima stops typing. He looks up at us.

“Got it,” he says.

“Really?” Sloane asks, grabbing the laptop.

“Yeah,” Zima says, in his offhand way. He doesn’t seem any more animated by success than he was by our threats. The only thing that seems to get this kid excited is a challenge.

Sloane scrolls through the files, her face slack with astonishment.

“What is it?” I ask her.

“It’s . . . everything,” she says. “All Remizov’s dirt on everybody. Offshore accounts, details of dirty business deals, pictures of mistresses, criminal evidence. He’s got half the bosses in St. Petersburg by the balls.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “Now we’ve got them instead.”

“I guess so . . .” Sloane says.

She’s still scrolling through the files, her face growing increasingly pale.

“What is it?” I ask her.