They walked through Plato Vasin’s garishly ornate house, which indeed included a fly motif. He had flies fabricated from different materials on the mantels and shelves, and embedded in the marble floors, the expensive throw rugs, and the paintings hanging on the walls.
Federov knew Plato had learned from his father’s death. He remained elusive and inaccessible to the public, though for friends he was always available. His reputation in criminal circles had become almost mythical. Had he not been the eldest son of a mafiya kingpin, he probably would have become a powerful public figure, maybe an oligarch. As it was, his boyhood had schooled him as thoroughly in street-mean survival as any university could have honed a leader of the apparat—those in authority. He was also a contradiction. Despite his viciousness, the Fly was known for his integrity and fairness. To those he employed, the Fly was God. He’d earned their devotion and expected it returned in spades. Those in his employ lived by strictly observed rules and values, the code of the vory.
Federov had grown up privy to the vory’s system of favors, obligations, and punishment, and though he did not join in their criminal activities, he had stood with them and by them in his early years. The Fly had become King of Irkutsk, and when Viktor joined the FSB, they did occasional favors for each other. Viktor could provide the Fly with connections and information when the Irkutsk FSB office was about to clamp down, or when another gang tried to make inroads.
The favor Federov was about to ask, however, would test the bonds of their friendship. Unlike Peanut, who loved Viktor unconditionally, the Fly did not love. He looked at people as chessboard pieces to be moved and manipulated to his benefit.
Peanut led them to a backyard that looked like a miniature Disney World. The pool was three tiered, with waterslides and waterfalls cascading from one level to the next, and a lazy river that meandered around the expansive yard. The pool interior included several well-stocked bars. And tiled on the pool bottom was a huge fly. A lush, green football field lay adjacent to the pool, and smoke rose from a barbecue area beneath a cabana with seating that looked like it could fit a royal wedding party.
Despite it being morning, the Fly lay in the pool on a large green flotation device. The salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, as thick as his brother’s, did not keep the sun from coloring his skin an uncomfortable-looking pink. His entire body looked slick with oil. He wore sunglasses and spoke on a cell phone. Another flotation device bobbed close by and held several glasses of half-finished energy drinks, for which he had a penchant, and two additional cell phones. As a boy, the Fly had always been on the go—always making a deal, no matter what kind. He loved the art of negotiation, the ability to manipulate others without them knowing he was doing so. Federov had never seen him stop moving for more than a few minutes.
His third wife, twenty years his junior, stretched her lean and well-toned body on a chaise lounge along the side of the pool, her face covered beneath a floppy hat and large sunglasses. When Peanut introduced them, she gave Federov a lazy wave.
The Fly flipped his phone closed, tossed it onto the flotation device with the two others, and smiled at Viktor, who waited patiently at the side of the pool. After friendly greetings, the Fly said, “I didn’t expect you to come to my home, Viktor. Though I welcome you and invite you to stay.”
“Thank you, Plato. I apologize for coming unannounced and disturbing your time with your family.”
“For an old friend, a friend of Peanut’s, I am always available.”
“Spasibo.”
“Tell me why you are here?”
The plan had been for Viktor to pick up Jenkins and Kulikova and deliver them into the arms of the Fly’s men, but not to meet with the Fly. The largest heroin supplier in Siberia, the Fly shipped his stock by rail, plane, and boat to partners in Mongolia and Kazakhstan for distribution worldwide. Jenkins and Kulikova would be put into a railcar and delivered to a distributor in Mongolia, who would see them to the shores of the East China Sea, where a cargo vessel would take them to the United States. For this, the Fly would be paid an exorbitant sum.
“I have just one of the shipments.”
“One? It looks like two to me, Viktor.”
“This is Arkhip. He is an associate of mine.”
“You are taking on partners now, are you, Viktor? Business must be good. I heard you left the FSB and are working on your own. What about me? Why am I not your partner?”
“We have lost one of the cargo,” Federov said.
“‘We’?” The Fly rolled from the raft into waist-deep water and stepped from the pool. A man handed him a large white robe and another green energy drink. “I did not lose anything, Viktor. Your job was to deliver the cargo. My job was to transport it. That was the deal, was it not?”
“That was most certainly the deal, Plato. And I do not want to take advantage of our friendship.”
Plato chuckled. “But you’re going to do so anyway, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so. It seems the Velikayas have taken an interest in our cargo and picked him up at the train station.”
The Fly lowered his sunglasses and looked at Viktor over the rims. “The Velikayas?”
“Yes.”
After a beat, the Fly said, “You always were a good chess player, Viktor.” He led them to the shade beneath an awning and invited them to sit in plush outdoor furniture. Another man handed the Fly a plate of gigantic shrimp and put a glass bowl of cocktail sauce on the table. The Fly dipped one of the shrimp into the sauce and ate it to the tail. “Are you bluffing, Viktor, to gain my favor?”
“I would never play you, Plato, unless it was straight up.”
“This I know. The Velikayas have come into my backyard without asking my permission. Who is it?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I am told that Yekaterina has taken a particular interest in the capture of this man.”
The Fly’s eyes widened. He stopped in mid-dunk of a second shrimp, leaving the tail protruding from the cocktail sauce. “Who is this man, Viktor? You told me he was CIA.”
“He is most certainly CIA, Plato, or at least in their employ.”
The Fly sipped his energy drink and set it down on a silver platter. “For Yekaterina to return to Siberia uninvited after so many years, this man must be very important. Why does she want him?”
“She believes, wrongly, that this man killed her son, Eldar.”
It was clear from the flat expression on Plato’s face that he was well aware of the news. “Did he?”
“No,” Mishkin said. Federov turned his head at the sound of the chief investigator’s voice, dismayed by the intrusion.
“And you are again?” the Fly asked.
“Arkhip Mishkin. I am an associate of Mr. Federov.”
“What do you know about the death of Eldar Velikaya?”
Mishkin filled in the Fly on the details of his investigation, but deftly, careful not to use that term or indicate police involvement.
“And why do you know so many intimate details of this murder, Mr. Mishkin?”