They were made of fine, thin china decorated with delicate sprays of pink flowers. Smith and Jones held them awkwardly while the Russian emptied his with noisy enjoyment. “There!” he said, banging his cup down in its saucer with a movement that should have shattered it. “You may has your coffee, pah, a harsh drink accurate for peasants and Americans. For gentlemen only the tea is.” He bent a shrewd gaze on Smith. “The last shipment is pleasant?”
Peter was fearless in his use of the English language, if not quite as fluent as he thought he was, but Smith knew what he meant. “Perfectly,” Smith said.
“Again and yet here are you. This time what for you I do, my friend, my very old friend? What has the inventory of Peter which can excite a customer so nice in his testes?”
Smith told him.
Peter shrugged. “Easily available. I have associations in Russia, in Libya, in Afghanistan -”
“I would prefer North Korea.”
Peter made a face. “That will be the more tricky, yes?”
“And the more expensive?” Smith said. “It does not matter.”
However odd Peter thought this request, he didn’t earn his fees by letting it show on his face. He made an odd little bow and spoke in a hollow, echoing lisp. “By your command.” Peter, unfortunately, was a devotee of Battlestar Galactica. He had all the episodes on a set of bootleg VHS tapes, with which he had bored a series of nubile companions who were intelligent enough to pretend an interest in Cylon tyranny for as long as they enjoyed Peter’s support.
Peter laughed heartily at his own joke until he saw that Smith and Jones did not share in his amusement. “Ah well,” he said philosophically, and with a flourish worthy of a professional magician produced a gold-monogrammed handkerchief to mop a sweaty brow. “A telephone call, minutely. I know a general-ah, ah!” He wagged a mischievous finger back and forth. “I must not to reveal my sources, even to such an old friend as you, or there will be no need for Peter’s services!” He laughed again.
He stopped laughing when Smith told him what else he wanted. “My friend, my old friend,” Peter said, looking very grave and shaking his head. He even paused to get his grammar in order. “This thing will be very difficult and very dangerous to aspire, and even more bad to transport. Such things are guards by incomplete companies of soldiers. A nations of them, almost.” He cocked his head. “And even for me, Peter the Wolf, it will be expansive. Very, very expansive indeed.”
“Call your bank,” Smith said.
Peter’s eyebrows shot up in less than genuine surprise. He produced a cell phone and dialed a number. A voice answered. He asked a question, waited for a reply, and disconnected. He looked across at Jones and said, “Do you know who besides you sits, young man? A sorcerer! He makes numbers in my account doubles overnight!” He turned again to Smith. “Where?”
Smith told him.
Peter stroked his chin. “Hmm. Yes, I supposed it could be done. But-”
“It will be expensive,” Smith said. “I know. Will the amount cover it?”
“When?” Peter said.
Smith gave him the same answer he had given Fang. “I wish to be operational by January fifteenth.”
“Where please to ship?”
“ Petropavlovsk.”
Peter spread his hands. “I see no problems.”
“Then let us proceed,” Smith said.
“By your command,” said Peter again, rising to his feet and bowing. “It is, as always, a pleasure giving you the business, my old friend. Dmitri! Call the guests for our car.” He looked back at Smith. “Will you to stay the night?”
Smith shook his head. “Thank you, but no. We have another appointment elsewhere.”
Peter sighed, spread his hands in eloquent dismay, and said to Dmitri, “And take them to the airport.”
The door closed behind them and Peter’s smile vanished. He pulled out his phone again and dialed a number. A recorded message played, and he punched in a code. A voice said, “Yes?”
Without identifying himself he said, “I have had an unusual order.”
“Four o’clock.” The voice hung up.
Peter disconnected, and regarded the phone thoughtfully. Even if the call had been traced, the conversation had been so brief and so cryptic that nothing could be made of it.
Still. Better men than he had been tripped up by hanging on to the same cell phone for too long. Those Americans and their damned satellite technology. Their ingenuity was admirable but their nosiness was not. It was getting harder by the day to make an honest living.
He went to the window, opened it, and let the cell phone fall seven stories to the alley below where it shattered into a thousand pieces. “Masha, my little dove!” he said, raising his voice.
The door opened and the beautiful young brunette looked in. “Yes, Peter?”
“Get our coats. We are going out.”
AT FOUR O’CLOCK PETER was at the railway station, guidebook in hand, face raised to admire the dome and point out its highlights to the young brunette who hung on his arm and his every word.
“Truly magnificent,” a voice said at his elbow. It was the voice from the phone, only this time it was speaking a flawless and idiomatic Russian with the barest hint of Romanov in it. Peter turned to greet him, beaming.
“But yes, magnificent,” Peter said enthusiastically in the same language. “An architectural marvel, and yet a working building in the heart of our beautiful city!”
“The archways over the stairs have always reminded me of a Moorish castle.”
Peter beamed at his new friend. “But yes, how clever of you to notice!” There followed an exchange on the Islamic influence on that part of the world. Suleyman the Magnificent was mentioned, as were his mosques, his contemporary Leonardo da Vinci, and his wife Roxelana, the latter with some eloquent eye rolling. At last Peter said, “But this is dry work. Masha, my sweet, could you find us some coffee?” He turned to the man. “And for you as well, sir?”
“I couldn’t possibly trespass on your hospitality, sir.”
“Nonsense! Coffee for three, Masha, my little dove.”
The girl moved off, clutching the wad of cash Peter had handed her- from which Peter would expect no change, a constant feature of the openhanded generosity which had so endeared him to successive companions-and the two men resumed their adoration of the architecture. They consulted the guidebook frequently, pointing from various passages on the pages to the relevant crown molding, and entered into what anyone listening would have heard as an enthusiastic debate on the relative merits of Doric columns versus Corinthian.
“I see what you mean,” the man said. “Oh, thank you, thank you very much, my dear. You are too kind.” He accepted the cup from Masha, contriving to capture her hand and press a clumsy kiss to the back of it.
Masha’s eyes fluttered, and if she didn’t actually blush she did manage an up-from-under look through her eyelashes that caused the other gentleman to spill coffee down the front of his coat. He drank what was left, exchanged a few more pleasantries with Peter, kissed Masha’s hand a second time with only slightly more panache, and took himself off.