“I told you. I didn’t kill him. And yes, it was a poor choice to get involved.”
“You watched him. You took an interest in him—”
“No. I took an interest in the woman he was beating the shit out of and treating worse than a dog.”
The man shrugged. “She was a prostitute. Why would you care?”
“The fact that you would ask me that question tells me everything I need to know about you,” Jenkins said.
“Really? Then tell me, Mr. Jenkins. Let us see if your powers of perception are as strong as you believe.”
“You’re a yes-man. You say yes to your boss whether you agree with her or not. You’re also either a psychopath, like Eldar Velikaya, who takes pleasure in others’ pain and suffering, and have no empathy for human life, or you have your head so far up your boss’s ass that you will ignore your own morals, which makes you just plain sad.”
One of the other men threw another punch, a circular loop that landed with a dull thud, but before the second man could do the same, the seated man raised a hand. “Stop.” He uncrossed his legs and stood. Then he walked to where Jenkins hung, staring at him with a blank expression though his lips looked as if they were holding back words. He inhaled deeply through his nose and blew out a heavy breath that turned to mist in the cold air.
“Before I kill you, I want you to know that I watched the videotape. I want you to know that I watched Pavil shoot Eldar in the back, as Eldar attacked you. I want you to know that Eldar Velikaya was a shit who could have never taken over the family business. His mother of course knew this . . .” He paused here, perhaps to choose his words. “But she is his mother. And yes, she is my boss. You see, but for your interference, there would have been no shooting and Eldar would still be alive today. Pavil might have pulled the trigger, but your interference pulled out the gun. Tell me why?”
“I told you why,” Jenkins said. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“The Good Samaritan?”
“Do you have children?”
“Whether I have—”
“Do you have a daughter? What are you afraid of, that I’m going to get out of here and kill your family?”
“I can assure you. That is not going to happen.”
“Do you have a daughter?” The man didn’t answer him, but Jenkins could see in his eyes that he did, and that he understood why Jenkins had done what he had done, not that it was going to be any help to him now. “So you know. You just won’t acknowledge it, but you know. Which means I was right in my evaluation. You’re not a psychopath. You’re just sad.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Jenkins, Yekaterina Velikaya has no daughters. She had only one son. So, it would be my suggestion that if you don’t have a good reason for killing her son you come up with one.”
“Is it going to save my life?”
“No. Most assuredly it will not. But it may cut short your punishment.” He smiled. “You see, I can have sympathy.”
48
Vasin Estate
Irkutsk, Russia
Federov stepped from the car and approached the V-shaped, ornate staircase. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. A heat wave across Russia had made the Irkutsk weather unseasonably warm. Once atop those steps he looked across the manicured lawns to wooden gazebos and several guesthouses with views of the Angara River. Further out, he took in the shores of Lake Baikal, a view he recalled from as far back as childhood, when he and the Vasin brothers attended school together. Federov had been best friends with Plato Vasin’s younger brother. Their fathers had also been childhood friends in Irkutsk, though Federov’s father, a mechanic, had never been tempted to become part of the Vasin family business, and he did not want the allure to tempt his son. He shipped Federov off to a boarding school in Moscow with an admonition. “Money is like an attractive woman. Everyone wants it, which makes it very hard to keep.”
Odya Vasin, the father, had died from a car bomb. Some blamed the war with the Velikayas. Others said the death, in 2008 and just a month after Alexei Velikaya had been shot, was part of the president’s plan to kill those who threatened his quest for absolute power.
Federov had played in this house, but that had been many years ago and before the renovations. A fly had been designed in the stained-glass windows of the front door. A guard posted outside the door patted down all three of them, Maria Kulikova more so than necessary, though Federov could certainly understand why. When finished, the guard knocked three times and the door pulled open. Plato’s little brother, whom they called “Peanut” because he grew as big as an African elephant and had a penchant for eating the shelled nut, stepped out wearing shorts and flip-flops but no shirt. The black hair on his chest was as thick as a wool sweater and seemed to be one with his beard and mane of long hair.
“Viktor!” Peanut embraced Federov in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. Though Federov was just shy of two meters and more than ninety kilograms, he felt as small as a child in Peanut’s arms.
“Hey, Peanut.”
“How long has it been?” Peanut asked, his eyes wide. He put Federov down.
“Too long,” Federov said.
“You never come to visit your old friends in Irkutsk anymore.” He gently slapped Federov on the cheek. “What, you got to be too good for us?” Peanut waved his palms and cooed. “A Moscow FSB officer. I’m scared.” He laughed loud and long, as if Federov were his son or his kid brother.
When Peanut saw Maria Kulikova, he brushed Federov aside. His eyes ran up and down her body as he spoke. “Is this the cargo bound for Vladivostok? You never told me it was exquisite.” He offered his hands and Maria reciprocated with one of hers. Peanut gently kissed the back of her hand, then each of her cheeks. He looked to Mishkin. “And is this—”
Federov spoke quickly. “An associate of mine. I’m afraid we’ve run into a problem. Is the Fly home?”
“Plato is in the pool in the backyard with his kids.”
“More kids? How many does he have?”
“With this wife? Three. Altogether, seven. Come on. I’ll take you there. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Nothing for now, Peanut. Thank you.”
“And the beautiful woman,” he said, looking to Maria. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Nothing for me, Peanut,” she said.
Peanut feigned a swoon and leaned close to Federov’s shoulder but spoke loud enough for Maria to hear. “You sure she has to leave? I could fall in love with this one.”