The younger Russian bowed deeply and kissed the Colletta’s hand; Anthony Bosco followed suit with the Batyushkov, and then the juniors shook in the gesture of equals.
“But come,” Giovanni said, indicating the table. “Drink; eat; honor my house by using it as your own.”
The men seated themselves. Giovanni lifted a small frosted glass of chilled vodka, looked the Batyushkov straight in the eye and said: “Za nas!”
He breathed out through his mouth and tossed the cold spirits back, a streak of chill fire down his gullet.
The Russian drank his in the same manner and replied: “Za nas—to us, indeed!” Then, with an unfeigned smile: “Khorosha chertovka. Damned good drink!”
“From FirstSide,” Giovanni said. “Stolichnaya—Dovgan.”
“You were well-advised: an excellent brand.”
The two men smiled at each other, neither under any illusions that they were bosom friends, but more relaxed; young Sergei opened his leather-covered instrument case and did a quick, discreet check of the office while the Primes conferred.
All in the game, Giovanni thought, putting down the vodka glass and using chased-silver tongs to transfer some of the ham to his plate while the Russian scooped caviar onto rye toast.
Batyushkov showed deference by coming to Colletta Hall and Giovanni’s office; Giovanni showed respect by closeting himself with the Batyushkov on equal terms, and taking the effort to learn Russian drinking rituals.
Who knows, they may spread! If there is one thing in which Russians excel, it is drinking, after all.
For that matter, making the Batyushkovs one of the Thirty Families, with a seat on the committee and a share in the Commission’s revenues, was itself a gesture by the established Family lines. Batyushkov had been helpful in recruitment, and in establishing contacts with post-Soviet Russia’s burgeoning commercial demimonde; that eased the perennial problem of laundering the Commonwealth’s minerals and gems on FirstSide. It had enabled the Commission to step up shipments quite substantially, more than compensating for one more minimum Family share of the take.
Still, there had been no absolute necessity to put him on the committee.
Yet there were several thousand Russians in the Commonwealth now, and they had been very useful in this land-rich, labor-starved economy. Inevitably they were still mostly at the bottom of the occupational pyramid, working in factories, mines, fishing boats, farms. Knowing that one of their own had been raised to the highest circles of power was likely to ease their adjustment to New Virginia’s unfamiliar society; and a Russian member in the Thirty Families could jump-start several hundred of his compatriots up the ladder of preferment and patronage.
Or so the Rolfes and their allies thought, Giovanni mused. It had worked, all the other times the method was used. But this time, they have elevated a Prime with wider ambitions.
Batyushkov glanced at his nephew; the young man nodded. That meant the Colletta’s office was clear of bugs planted by the Commission’s police, or any of the other Families, as far as he could tell.
“So, Giovanni Salvatorovich, I find that I must apologize,” Dimitri said.
He knocked back another glass of the icy vodka; strictly speaking, Giovanni should have matched him drink for drink, but he knew his capacity and the Russian’s, and contented himself with a sip of white wine instead. A minor breach of Slavic drinking etiquette and loss of face was preferable to losing his wits.
“A blunder occurred,” Giovanni agreed tactfully. “There is blame enough to go around. As we grow closer to the time of action, the risks increase; they are proportionate to the stakes for which we play.”
Dimitri nodded. “You understand, these people we deal with FirstSide may be my compatriots—my former countrymen—but they are not my subordinates. I—we—must persuade and convince them.” He sighed, and chewed meditatively for a moment. “That is not merely a matter of money. Money is very persuasive, but for hardheaded, realistic men—”
Translation: a bunch of paranoid a’ pinna, Giovanni added to himself.
“—to be persuaded of the reality of a Gate to another world, this is difficult.” A rumbling chuckle. “I did not believe it myself, until I stepped through. I thought that the wealthy Amis were, how do you say, putting one over on me.”
The Russian spread his hands in a deprecatory gesture: “And we cannot, of course, show them directly—anyone who sees the Gate is stuck here in the Commonwealth. It is a system with a built-in fail-safe; Sergei here has been instrumental in convincing them. As of course have your animal specimens, even more than the pictures and videos. Videos can be faked; living animals which are extinct cannot. And, after all, they have sent us those personnel we requested. That is the key to our plan.”
“If there are no more desertions from the Strike Force,” the Colletta said dryly. “If any of those, and the weapons they have stolen, are discovered…”
The Russian winced slightly. “Yes, well, the speznatz discipline is hard for primitives. It will be better after Operation Downfall is complete and we need no longer rely upon them.”
“If we get that far,” Giovanni Colletta said.
If we can assemble a force strong enough to take the Gate by surprise. And if we can make it stick afterward… then we will be the rulers of the Commonwealth. Then there will be changes.
He went on with a smile: “Which of course we will. The time to strike is near. We have only to get through these few months, and it will all be over.”
Sergei leaned forward. “With your permission, Uncle Dimitri.” The Batyushkov nodded, and the young man went on: “Our… associates on FirstSide do, however, have one request. One additional request.”
Giovanni smiled behind gritted teeth. If they wanted more money, he would simply tell them that that well was dry.
“They wish to send through several scientists, suitably disguised. To study the Gate.”
At that, the Colletta laughed and waved a hand. “By all means,” he said. “Let them study to their heart’s content.”
The Gate was incomprehensible. That was well established.
INTERLUDE
“I think you know my associates,” John Rolfe said, his voice smooth and friendly. He raised a hand to right and left, toward the men who sat on either side of him behind the long polished table. “Solomon Pearlmutter and Salvatore Colletta.”
Think of them as my good and bad angels, he didn’t say aloud; his mind threw up a vision of a miniature Sol in a white robe and a tiny red-suited Salvo with a pitchfork, standing on his shoulders and whispering into his ears.
“Yes,” said Ralph Barnes, sometime professor of physics. “I think I met your kid at Stanford.” He nodded to Pearlmutter, and then turned to Colletta. “And your goons doped my drink and dragged me here.”
He was a burly man in a tie-dyed shirt, jeans and moccasins, with long brown hair falling to his shoulders and a trimmed beard. Rolfe thought the whole ensemble looked ridiculous—something like a flaming pansy crossed with a Viking warrior—but apparently it was the fashion among the younger set back on FirstSide these days, and Barnes was in his mid-twenties.