The men’s toilet behind the VIP lounge was tidy in that old-fashioned way that was only to be found in buildings that prided themselves on their tradition.
Dark wood panelling, bright mirrors, brass fittings, cold tiles, washbasins with heavy stone ornamentation. Along with white porcelain basins on the wall, the shape of which no one had changed for decades, presumably out of respect for an era in which club committees believed that progress began and ended with a new ashtray.
It smelled of disinfectant, old stone, cold cigarette smoke and that overly cautious soap that hotels and halls bought when they mistook scent for a substitute for cleanliness.
Outside, the hall still hummed dully; voices behind walls. In here it was quieter, downright peaceful and certainly more cramped.
Shane came in first.
He paused for a moment by the door, as if his own body had only half brought him here. Then he walked over to one of the basins against the wall, rested a hand briefly against the tile above it and exhaled deeply once.
Franklin’s gaze. Fox’s questions. Jennifer’s folders. Ilya’s name on his lips, too often, too quickly, too poorly concealed. All of that hung in his shoulders, in his hands, in the tight grip of his hand on the tile.
The door opened again.
Shane didn’t turn his head.
He knew who it was anyway.
Ilya stepped in, saw Shane, paused for just a fraction of a second, and then decided not to turn back. He walked over to a sink one space away.
For a few seconds, neither of them said a word.
Then Shane began: “If it was you, now would be the time to tell me.”
Ilya didn’t reply straight away. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but too controlled for genuine composure.
“That’s a remarkable way to start.”
“I’m having a bad evening.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Shane stared straight ahead.
“Was it you?”
“No.”
It came quickly, cleanly, and without any visible hesitation.
Shane closed his eyes briefly.
Ilya wasn’t looking at him. “You?”
“No.”
Now it was Ilya who was silent for a touch too long.
Shane noticed it immediately.
“That doesn’t sound like you believe me.”
“It sounds like I’m deciding whether you’re just unreasonable or actually stupid.”
Shane exhaled softly.
“Great.”
Silence again.
Then Ilya, more quietly: “I heard them talking about a boy. Pictures, rumours, a scandal that’s enough, even if it can’t be proven. Doping, perhaps. I didn’t know that Moreau and Arslan were his children, crazy!”
Shane’s jaw tensed.
“I heard them talking about Soviet stuff.”
Now the silence was different. Both realised at the same moment how little the other had — and how dangerously little that was.
“You were thinking of me,” said Ilya.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Shane replied more sharply than he meant to. “Because everyone in this bloody country points the finger at the Soviet Union first when they can’t find a better culprit.”
Ilya accepted that.
“And I was thinking of you.”
Shane turned his head towards him after all. “Why?”
“Because they wanted to use you as a source of money.” Ilya fixed his gaze straight ahead on the tiles. “I know you don’t take anything, at least not on purpose.”
Shane looked straight ahead again.
“Of course I don’t take anything. And I’ve got nothing to do with Franklin.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Which question?”
Ilya paused for a second.
“Whether you did something because you thought it would protect someone.”
“So you did.”
“No.”
“That didn’t sound like no.”
“It sounded like: I’m thinking before I say the wrong thing.”
“And does that happen to you often?”
Shane snorted briefly. “Less often than it should.”
An almost imperceptible twitch played around Ilya’s mouth—not a smile, but a reminder that this candour was nothing new.
Shane lowered his voice even further.
“For a moment I thought that if it was you, I’d understand why.”
Ilya didn’t move.
Then he said very calmly: “That’s a dangerous kind of loyalty.”
“Have you become a loyalty expert since Cartagena?”
Ilya didn’t reply until after a breath.
“For a moment I thought that if it was you, it was because you believed you were sparing me greater harm.”
This time Shane really did turn his head.
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Neither did I.”
Shane looked at the grout between the tiles in front of him.
“Do you believe me?”
Ilya answered honestly.
That was precisely why it was so bad.
“Not entirely.”
Shane nodded once.
“Bronze, silver and gold for Ilya Rozanov the One and Only!”
For a few seconds, neither of them said a word.
Then Shane, more quietly: “Do they have it in for you?”
“Perhaps my name. Perhaps my grandfather.” Ilya’s voice remained flat. “He was the Soviet Olympic coach for the ice hockey team.”
“You’ve never told me that before.”
Ilya said nothing.
The silence was answer enough.
Shane ran his free hand over his mouth. “Shit.” When he realised it was the hand that had just touched the tile, which probably hadn’t been properly cleaned since 1947.
“Mole.”
Shane forced himself to ask the next question with just enough courage so that it didn’t sound like a plea.
“Did you notice anything about the trophy?”
Now Ilya reacted immediately.
“No. Why? I took the bloody thing over from Franklin. And then he keeled over. You were there, weren’t you? He wasn’t wearing gloves and neither was I. So if the trophy was poisoned, I’d be lying here dead too.”
“Just asking,” said Shane.
Ilya wasn’t looking straight ahead either now. “That wasn’t a ‘just asking’ question.”
“And your ‘no’ wasn’t just a ‘no’.”
There was that close, false intimacy again, born of mistrust and protection.
Ilya replied more quietly. “I didn’t notice anything. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t anything there. Maybe he’d eaten or drunk something poisonous earlier, when he was in the storeroom.”
Shane swallowed.
Ilya whispered so softly it was almost just a murmur: “If you do something stupid now to protect anyone, it’ll make things worse.”
Shane replied just as softly: “The same goes for you.”
At that very moment, the door opened. Both of them visibly flinched.
Cemil stepped in. He stopped immediately upon seeing them and took in the scene in precisely that split second when intelligent people realise that the actual action had already taken place: Shane and Ilya and a space between them. Both with the completely wrong kind of neutrality in their bodies. Cemil’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.
“Hollander. Rozanow.”
“Arslan,” said Ilya.
Shane said nothing.
Cemil did not go to the empty space between them, but to the space on Ilya’s other side.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sterile, embarrassingly ordinary background noise of this situation.
Then Shane stepped back, smoothed his clothes with a practised, swift movement, and went to the washbasin without looking at Ilya again.
Ilya waited exactly one breath longer, then did the same.
Cemil stayed behind, and precisely because of that, remained on the sidelines.
At the sink, Shane ran cold water over his hands. For too long, so that Ilya stepped up to the sink next to him. Neither looked in the mirror, even though that would have been exactly what neither of them needed right now: their faces in close proximity.
Cemil stepped behind them, waited, didn’t press, was simply there.
Shane turned off the water, reached for a towel and said, just loud enough for it to sound like a meaningless courtesy: “See you later.”
“At the interrogation,” said Ilya. Nothing in the word gave away whether it was a threat, a promise or excitement.
Then they left. Shane first, back to the club room. Ilya followed, just as if they hadn’t spoken to each other at all.
Cemil stood alone at the sink for a moment longer, looked in the mirror and thought something very Ottoman.
Outside, Shane and Ilya both carried the same feeling with them: the desperate realisation that the other might have done nothing — or perhaps something, somewhere between sheer stupidity and murder.
Volume 1: Ice, Blood and Old Debts
Following
Table of Contents
Black Reef in the light of the chandelier Dutch tea from yesterday Frozen masks from Cartagena The trophy with the boar's heads Shanes misunderstanding Ilyas misunderstanding Two minutes of Hart-escape Brothers in the corridor A timetable under the spotlight It all comes down to the ice The Fall After the stretcher Four captains and their stories A quadrille against the panic The table of suspects Two half-brothers with three motives Rozanov under suspicion Almost the truth Trophies of past guilt A better decision Snow on the files Departure through White The south awaits Honest tea for tomorrowAlmost the truth
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by 3 Armored Kittens · Prodromos v.1.1 - World Anvil 0.9.15.049 © 2017-2025 [en] | Anvil Time: 01:43, May 16 2026