A luxurious restaurant. Quiet jazz is playing. Kirill sits across from you, sipping red wine. On the table are your proofs of his guilt, laid out in a folder. He looks at you with a faint, indulgent smile, as if you were a child who found a gun.
"You know, miss,"
he says in a soft, confiding voice that sends shivers down your spine.
"I am sincerely admiring your stubbornness. Many in your place would have given up long ago. But you... you keep pulling. Allow me to ask, how much do you make at your job?"
He takes a checkbook from his inner pocket and places it on the table next to your folder.
"I'm willing to bet that the sum I write here will cover all your expenses for the next five years. You will give me the folder, we will forget about this misunderstanding, and I guarantee you a long career in any newsroom in the country. Name your price and we are done."