“Tell Mr. Naumenko that William Hoffman is here to see him.” The guy kept staring at him, raising an eyebrow as if to ask who he was to be giving orders. He turned all the same, a forced nonchalance, like a kid trying to back down without losing face, and as he walked away he told one of the others to search JJ.
JJ slowly opened his jacket, let the guy frisk him, acknowledging the nod when nothing was found. They all stood for a minute and then the first good sign came when the other guy returned looking embarrassed, apologizing to JJ for any disrespect he’d shown him. JJ shrugged it off, mystified all the same as he often was by his own reputation, by the thought of what must have been said in those brief moments as he’d waited by the elevator.
The guy led him along a corridor and into a room which was either part of a suite or had been refurbished specifically for Naumenko to use as an office. There was a large desk over by the window, a couple of sofas, no flowers or ornaments, the only decoration a few more suited men around the edge of the room.
Naumenko was standing in the middle waiting for him, wearing a suit but no tie. It was the first time JJ had seen him, bar the file picture Holden had shown him. The guy was unlike any of the big Mafia bosses he’d seen, in his early thirties, in good shape, hair neatly combed, almost conservative looking, the boss of a computer company perhaps.
When he spoke, though, electricity came off him, crackling around the room, the flunkies tightening a little in readiness at the deep roll of his voice.
“It’s a great pleasure, Mr. Hoffman. I take it I may call you JJ?” The Russian lilt was still there but his English accent was pretty good too; he had the air of someone who relished speaking the language, finding pleasure in the words, the sounds.
“Of course,” said JJ. An expensive-looking smile came back at him.
“Excellent. And of course you must call me Alex, none of this formality or patronymics. Please, come and sit down.” JJ followed him over to the sofas and sat down opposite him. Naumenko ordered mint tea for them both, saying, “So, I understand you’ve had a particularly busy week, killing people in London, Geneva, Paris.”
“Connecticut, Vermont,” said JJ, adding to the list, Naumenko’s face showing that he hadn’t known about his two men over there. He seemed to brush it off though, and said with a smile, “I studied at Yale, you know?”
“So I heard—it’s a small world.” He thought about it for a second and added, “I didn’t know they were your people, but I would have killed them anyway. See, I know you have unresolved issues with Holden, but he’s one of the good guys.”
“That’s all very well, JJ, but you know perhaps I’m one of the bad guys.”
JJ smiled but thought of Tom talking in the bookstore and said, “No, the good guys are the ones still alive at the end of the story.”
“Then that’s settled.” Naumenko laughed, encompassing everyone in the room with his outstretched arms. “We’re all good guys.” A couple of his people smiled or laughed too, looking uncertain what the joke was but amused all the same.
Naumenko looked at JJ then and said, “So anyway, you’re not here to kill me at least. What then did you have in mind?”
“I came here to tell you that I killed David Bostridge.”
For the first time in the meeting Naumenko looked as dangerous as his reputation; there was an almost imperceptible shift in his expression but it was clear all the same, a calculated and underplayed fierceness in his eyes, like a button had been pressed, a countdown started. As it stood at that moment, JJ was dead, exactly the reaction he’d expected, hoping only that the second part of his plan would achieve the expected reversal.
Holden had advised against even mentioning it, too aware himself of how deeply Naumenko had felt about his friend, but the way JJ saw it there’d been no other option; it was a piece of information which might be lethal in the open but could be used by Berg to discredit them if he’d kept it concealed. He was glad he’d mentioned it anyway, felt a strange exhilaration coming off the visual death sentence of Naumenko’s eyes, as if dealing with it was a challenge that was worthy of him.
The mint tea was brought in, and Naumenko returned to a level of token charm, the clock counting quietly beneath the surface, the end result not in question.
“You know how I felt about David,” he said finally. JJ nodded, Naumenko instructing him, “Then explain.”
JJ sipped at his tea, found it too hot, and began casually, “The hit came to me through Viner, and until this week I assumed it had come through the normal channels.”
“Ours is not to reason why,” added Naumenko. It was unclear from his tone whether he was being sarcastic or not.
JJ responded like he was being straight, saying, “Exactly. But it was someone else’s hit. They made it look official but it was personal business. This person, though, ran it past Holden.”