“I am doing well on my own,” said Sasha.
“You could be doing better with us,” said Boris.
“I’ll consider it,” said Sasha. “I’ll have to talk to some of my people.”
“Of course,” said Boris. “We believe our arguments can be very persuasive.”
Boris spoke with a friendly smile but Sasha recognized the threat, as he was intended to do. “I’m sure,” Sasha said. “I have some questions about the details of this merger.”
“Ask your questions and we will come back to you with answers,” said Illya, leaning forward, hands clasped together.
“I would prefer to ask my questions and get my answers from your boss,” Sasha said, trying to duplicate the way Jean Paul Bel-mondo had said nearly the same thing in an old French movie Sasha had recently seen on the television.
“Perhaps,” said Boris. “We will see. Meanwhile, you have a dog you wish to enter into our fights to show us the quality of your kennel?”
“A pit bull,” said Sasha. “If the effort proves profitable, he can fight again and we can begin our negotiations with my bringing more dogs.”
“Your animal is good?” asked Illya.
“My dog will win,” said Sasha with a smile and a tone of confidence he did not feel. He was speaking from information provided by an older uniformed MVD officer named Mishka, who had tended and overseen the training of the dogs of Petrovka for a quarter of a century. Mishka had dogs that could locate drugs, seek out hiding fugitives, and attack when signaled to do so.
Mishka had assured Elena and Sasha that Tchaikovsky, the pit bull, would kill any human or animal on command. Mishka was particularly proud of Tchaikovsky, who had been named thus because the famous composer had lived in Mishka’s hometown of Klin, an hour northwest of Moscow on the old Leningrad Highway.
The beagle-faced Mishka had warned the two young officers that they were to be very careful with Tchaikovsky.
The white pit bull with black spots had seemed docile enough when Mishka had taken him from his pen, petting him and talking softly to the dog, even nuzzling the animal with his head.
Tchaikovsky had wagged his tail.
“Don’t be deceived,” Mishka had said as he petted the animal.
“Our Tchaikovsky can, on command or on his own if provoked, or even for no reason, attack and sink his teeth into an antagonist with deadly and determined ferocity. Getting Tchaikovsky to release his grip can be very difficult, and if it is a death grip, it can be nearly impossible until the victim is dead.”
“That is very reassuring,” Sasha had said, and Mishka, recognizing no irony in the comment, had responded:
“Yes.”
Sasha was not particularly confident about placing his safety in the jaws of a pit bull. These were dangerous men. If the pit bull didn’t do well, Sasha might be in very serious trouble.
Illya and Boris, a bit clumsily, questioned Sasha, whom they knew as Dmitri Kolk, about Kiev. Sasha had casually responded using his wife, Maya’s, history in Kiev as his own. In spite of the desire to get back to the hotel room, turn off the lights, and close the drapes, he chatted, drank, accepted some Italian biscotti, which he normally liked but which now caused a renewed wave of queasi-ness, and made himself as amiable as possible.
“It is getting a bit late and you will want to prepare your dog,”
said Boris, standing.
“Yes,” said Sasha, taking a final bite of biscotti and saying, “delicious.”
“Thank you,” said Illya. “Our driver will take you back to the hotel.”
“Good,” said Sasha, straightening his slacks and adjusting his blue silk paisley tie. “And tomorrow I would like to discuss the proposed operational merger with your boss.”
“I think that can be arranged,” said Boris. “But tonight, your dog fights. He has a name?”
“Tchaikovsky,” said Sasha.
Boris and Illya smiled.
“Amusing,” said Boris.
“Disarming,” said Sasha.
The two men ushered Sasha to the entrance to the building. Two women in their forties, carrying shopping bags, stepped aside to let the three men pass. The Lincoln was waiting and the driver was behind the wheel. There was no doubt that someone had been listening to the conversation in the office, that someone had probably been watching; otherwise, what was the point of driving all the way out here?
“One last question,” said Boris. “How well do you know the woman you are with?”
“Lyuba Polikarpova?” asked Sasha.
“Yes,” said Boris.
“She’s Russian,” Sasha said casually, though he was sensing warning signals. “I picked her up last time I came to Moscow for some fun and called her when I returned here on Tuesday. She’s a whore, but an educated one who asks no questions, looks good, and is very accommodating. Why do you ask?”
“Caution,” said Boris with a smile Sasha did not like. “Just being careful.”
“Good,” said Sasha. “I like working with people who are careful.”
The three men shook hands and Sasha got into the Lincoln, which drove off. Boris and Illya went back into the building to the office. Behind the desk sat a young man, younger than Sasha. He was dressed in dark slacks, a fresh white dress shirt, and a pullover black cashmere sweater. The young man had a round, pink face with a thin white scar about two inches long running in a straight line directly under his nose. His hair was dark and recently cut, and if one was close enough, the musky smell of expensive aftershave was faint but evident.
His name was Peter Nimitsov. His nickname, never spoken in his company if one wanted to survive the encounter intact, was
“Baby Face.” He was twenty-seven years old and had been born in the apartment building in which he now sat. He had formed a gang in the complex of crumbling concrete high rises when he was fourteen and the Soviet Union and Communism had begun to die.
When he was seventeen, the gang had taken over these apartment buildings and extended their influence to other complexes, eliminating competition and making deals with other gangs. When he was strong enough, Peter Nimitsov had begun to move his operation inside the Outer Ring Circle. In the course of his rise, Nimitsov had murdered, suffered his white scar, and grown powerful enough to have his Zjuzino Mafia feared or respected by even the largest and most ruthless of the other Mafias of Moscow.
Peter kept a very low profile. His goal was power and wealth, not infamy, but power and wealth were a means to an end. He maintained a large suite at the National Hotel, but he lived in a luxuri-ous apartment adjoining the office in which he now sat. The apartment, like the office, was decorated in antiques of the Russian czars. Some had cost Nimitsov a great deal of money. Others had cost people their health or, in the case of one stubborn thief, a life.
Peter Nimitsov shared his wealth with his mother, father, sister, various relatives, and the initial members of his teenage gang, who formed the inner circle of those loyal to him.
Boris and Illya were front men, inner-circle Muscovites, hired bureaucrats who had held middle-level government jobs and lived on their meager salaries, bribes, and corruption before the fall of the system. The two men had connections, knew where skeletons were buried, and were invaluable to Peter. Both men were old enough to be their boss’s father, though neither had paternal feelings for the young baby-faced man behind the desk. They had seen him suddenly explode because of a lie told, a remark made. They had seen him draw a gun and begin to fire wildly at a member of his gang who had told a minor lie: Peter had begun to shoot, missing the man who had lied but killing another who had gone flat on the floor and taken a ricocheting bullet to the head. Peter had fired till he ran out of bullets. In addition to the dead man on the floor, Peter had shot one of his own cousins in the arm. The man who had lied had stood with his back to the door, hyperventilating, waiting for Peter to reload or order his death.