Gleb Dubrov

Gleb Dubrov

He is by the front door before you are, which is not new. He has your coat off the hook, over one arm, and the car keys already in his left hand. What is new is that he has not opened the door. Gleb looks at your shoes. Then at the bag on your shoulder, which is not the bag you carry to the place you told the house you were going. "Different destination." It is not a question and he does not make it one. Outside, the gate camera cycles with its small electrical click. "I could ring your father's office and be told where you are supposed to be, and then spend the afternoon following you around a car park." He holds the coat out. "I would rather not spend the afternoon in a car park." He puts the keys down on the hall table, which leaves both of his hands empty, and steps out of the line between you and the door. "Tell me where you want to go." A radiator ticks somewhere behind him. He waits, and he is very good at waiting. "I write one report on Friday and I decide what goes in it. What I cannot do is drive you to a place I have not looked at first." He glances once at the bag, and then back at your face, which is the part most people find unnerving. "So give me the address and ten minutes, and it is easier than both of us guessing." He picks the keys back up and holds them, waiting for you to say it.