Vera held his gaze.
“I have to. Otherwise none of this means anything.”
A long silence followed. Outside, dusk was settling in.
“I have something,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “Documents. I kept copies, just in case. Hid them where no one would think to look.”
Vera held her breath.
“What kind of documents?”
“Meeting notes. Contracts. Everything I signed over the years. And…” He lowered his voice even further. “Recordings. Conversations with Dmitry. With that notary—what’s his name—Polyakov. I’m old. My memory isn’t what it used to be. So I recorded things, so I wouldn’t forget what they wanted from me.”
Vera’s heart started pounding so hard she thought he might hear it.
“Vitaly Ignatyevich, those recordings… they could change everything.”
“I know.” He sighed heavily. “That’s why I kept them. Thought they might come in handy someday. Insurance, you might say.”
“Will you help me?”
The old man looked at her for a long moment, weighing something.
“Come back the day after tomorrow. Evening. Same time. And…” He glanced around as if someone might be listening. “Not a word to anyone. Anyone. Do you hear me? I need time to think.”
The next two days crawled by. Vera drove her taxi, but her mind stayed fixed on the conversation with the old man. The documents. The recordings. This was the breakthrough they needed. If Vitaly Ignatyevich really had proof of collusion, they could win the case. She told neither Anton Sergeyevich nor Gromov. The old man had asked for silence, and Vera decided to honor that request at least until the second meeting. Once he handed over the materials, she could tell them everything.
On the second day, her mother called from the hospital. Her voice was weak but clear—a good sign.
“Verochka, sweetheart… when are you coming?”
“Soon, Mom. This week for sure.”
“The nurses said you brought oranges. Thank you, honey. But why spend the money? I’m getting better little by little.”
Vera swallowed hard. Her mother still didn’t know the truth—not about the divorce, not about losing the house, not about the taxi. The doctors had warned against upsetting her, so Vera kept the illusion going. She came to the hospital in decent clothes, smiled, told edited stories about life.
“How are things, sweetheart? Dmitry treating you all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. Just rest.”
“And little Masha? Does she call?”
“She does. School’s going well. She sends her love.”
The lies were getting harder. But the truth might have done more damage than the stroke. On the evening of the appointed day, Vera drove to Vitaly Ignatyevich’s building. Her heart was racing with anticipation. Tonight everything was supposed to change. She climbed to the third floor and knocked on the familiar door. No answer. She knocked harder. Then again. Silence.
Strange. He knew she was coming. He had said, “Same time.” Where could he be? She took out her phone and dialed the number Gromov had given her just in case—the old man’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. A cold unease began creeping into her chest. Vera went downstairs and knocked on the neighboring apartment. An older woman in a robe opened the door.
“Excuse me,” Vera said. “I’m looking for Vitaly Ignatyevich in apartment thirty-seven. Do you know where he might be?”
The woman looked at her in surprise.
“You didn’t hear? They took him away in an ambulance yesterday. Heart trouble. He collapsed right in the hallway. They barely got him back.”
The ground seemed to tilt under Vera’s feet.
“Which hospital?”
“City hospital, I think. Cardiology.”
Vera ran for the car. At the hospital she was sent from desk to desk before finally finding the right ward, the right room. But she wasn’t allowed to see him—Vitaly Ignatyevich was in intensive care. Serious condition. No visitors.
“Are you family?” a tired nurse asked.
“No. A friend.”
“Then definitely not. Come back tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be moved to a regular room.”
Vera walked out into the dark and sat on a bench in the hospital courtyard, not feeling the cold. A coincidence? Or had Dmitry found out about her visit? The thought sounded paranoid, but she couldn’t shake it. The old man had lived in fear for years, yet right after talking to her he had a heart attack. Coincidence? She called Gromov.
“Igor Pavlovich. I need to see you. Right away.”
They met an hour later in an all-night diner. Vera told him everything—the first visit, the documents, the recordings, tonight’s trip to the hospital. Gromov’s expression darkened as he listened.
“You should have told me sooner,” he said when she finished. “I could have taken precautions.”
“He asked me not to tell anyone. I gave my word.”
“Vera Nikolaevna, this is not a game. Your ex-husband is a dangerous man. If he learned there was compromising material…”
