Tyson winked at Boris as he staggered to his feet.
“You think this is funny?” Boris asked in English. “I know where you live.”
Tyson signaled for the men to stop. A hush fell over the crowd.
“What did you say to me?” Tyson asked again, this time cupping his hand around his ear.
“I said, I know where you live,” Boris repeated before spitting in Tyson’s direction.
“Good,” Tyson said. “I’d prefer to fight outside where I could take you down in a matter of seconds instead of putting on a show for the people.”
Boris growled and then lunged at Tyson. The American didn’t flinch.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” Tyson shouted over the crowd, which had begun singing about his victory.
After a few trips around the room, Tyson was eased onto the ground. He sauntered up to the bar and ordered his customary shot.
“Another fine fight,” said Ivan, the bartender. His surprising command of the English language made Tyson wonder if the man had been a spy in the U.S. in the past.
“Spasibo,” Tyson said before throwing back the glass.
The revelers crowding around Tyson all cheered before returning to their prior conversations. He went to the makeshift locker room in the back of the warehouse to collect his gym bag and coat. Just to the left of the door, a striking young woman adorned in a fur coat shot him a knowing glance.
“Annika, how many times do I have to tell you no?” Tyson said.
She opened her coat, revealing a sequined low-cut dress. “The real question,” she began in her clipped English, “is how many times will you deny this?”
Tyson stopped and shrugged. “As many times as you ask.”
He resumed his march into the locker room, which didn’t stop her from running after him.
“I just don’t understand,” she continued. “Nobody’s ever resisted me like you do.”
“I already told you, Annika, I’m spoken for.”
“You Americans and your fidelity.”
Tyson chuckled and shook his head. “How did you say that with a straight face?”
“It’s not true, no?”
“Hardly,” Tyson said. “Americans are virtuous in many ways, but when it comes to temptation such as this, we’re not known for putting up much of a resistance.”
Annika leaned against the wall, easing her coat open again. “So what makes me so undesirable to you?”
“I have a wife,” Tyson said. “I love her very much.”
Annika slowly surveyed the room. “But she’s not here.”
“Opportunity is never an excuse to break one’s vows.”
“And when will she be joining you in the middle of Siberia?”
“Never,” Tyson said.
“And you never expect to leave?”
“No.”
Annika’s bottom lip protruded as her face fell. “Just tell me you think I’m ugly so I will leave you alone.”
“If you want me to lie, I will,” Tyson said as he slid on his coat.
“Just say it so I can go away in peace.”
Tyson was more than ready for Annika to leave, but he held firm. “I don’t say things that aren’t true.”
As she leaned against the wall, she slid to the floor before turning into a blubbering mess. “I wish you hated me.”
“Good night, Annika,” Tyson said as he left her in tears.
He made it halfway down the back corridor before three men stepped into Tyson’s path.
Twisting his body so he could penetrate the shoulders of the two men, Tyson found neither of them were interested in moving.
“We need to talk, Mr. Tyson,” one of the men said.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry to get home.”
Tyson tried again to get through the barrier they’d formed. He took a step back and tried to skirt them on the outside. But they shifted their feet, maintaining their imposing presence. Most of the time, he’d punch his way through, but he realized that these men were going nowhere—and they knew where he lived.
“You’re not going anywhere until we’ve had a word with you,” one of the men said.
Another man pushed open a nearby door and led them into a room. The cramped office was littered with a couple of broken desks and chairs that were no longer salvageable. A wooden bookshelf against the far wall was almost bare, save a few copies of Joseph Stalin’s Foundations of Leninism. One of the fluorescent lights in the back corner intermittently flickered.
“Have a seat,” one of the men said, nodding at a bucket turned upside down on the floor.
He pulled back the corner of his coat and revealed a holstered gun. Tyson understood that this was the international signal for “don’t even think about objecting unless you want to die.” He sat down and looked up at the men now spread out with their backs against the wall.
“That was quite a performance you put on tonight,” the mustached man said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “You fight pretty good for a dead man.”
“Dead or alive, that’s how I’ve always fought,” Tyson said with a shrug. “Now, what’s the meaning of this? I don’t suppose this is some strange FSB ritual.”
The bald man stepped forward. “We need you to do us a favor.”
Tyson eyed the man closely. “Are you asking or telling?”
“Mr. Tyson, you are here merely as a guest of the Russian government,” baldie said. “We don’t ever ask for favors.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that next time,” Tyson said. “So what do you want?”
Mustache, who was sandwiched between baldie and mute man, stepped forward and asserted his position as the trio’s lead spokesman. “Mr. Tyson, we’ve been more than gracious hosts to you over the past three years, but we no longer see this as an equitable relationship.”
“What do you mean?” Tyson asked.
“You seem to be benefitting from this situation more favorably than the Russian government,” mustache said. “And that’s not how we do things here. If it’s not equal, Russia deserves to get the extra benefit, not you.”
“Especially not an American,” said the mute, who Tyson noted was now four eyes.
Tyson shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong,” he began. “I’m very grateful for the opportunity to find refuge here. But I’ve given you plenty of information.”
Mustache groaned and wagged his finger. “Information that we could’ve found out ourselves with little digging. We need more.”
Tyson cringed inside, doing everything he could to resist the urge to show how he truly felt. Deep down, he despised the Russians and what they’d done to one of his former colleagues a decade earlier in Finland. They killed him when they discovered he was working for the CIA and dragged his body into the woods. Three years passed before some hunters stumbled upon what was left of his bones, picked clean by nature and time. Tyson would never give the Russians anything actionable, even though their refuge was the only thing keeping him alive.
“What more do you need?” Tyson asked. “I’ve given you the names of all the agents I worked with.”
“And they all work at Langley,” baldie said. “They’re untouchable for us. We need field agents.”
Tyson shrugged. “My last partner is dead and everyone else I’ve worked with is either retired or left the agency.”
“Perhaps you need to make another visit to the Yakutsk Prison to refresh your memory,” mustache said.