“I have a problem.”
“Yes, you do. Do you know who I am?”
“Certainly. You are Yekaterina Velikaya, the most powerful woman in Moscow.”
It was her turn to smile. “You flatter me, Mr. Federov. Yet, you hold me captive against my will.”
“As I said, I apologize for the dramatics. My daughter is an actress, so perhaps theatrics runs in our veins.”
“Or stupidity.”
Federov smiled. “No. Stupidity is only me. My daughters are very bright. They take after their mother.” He uncrossed his legs. “I needed to make an entrance to capture your attention.”
“And so you have.”
He nodded. Beneath the borrowed suit he was sweating bullets, but he continued to project serenity, as if he were in charge. Maybe he had missed his calling and should have pursued theatrics, like his daughter. “Thank you. You see, Ms. Velikaya—”
“Call me Yekaterina, Mr. Federov. Your stunt here has earned you that right. It might, however, be your last.”
“And you will call me Viktor. You see, Yekaterina, I am being paid a significant sum of money to get Mr. Jenkins out of Russia, and I will not be paid unless and until I do so. So you can understand my dilemma.”
“No. I fail to see how your dilemma is of any concern to me.”
“Another problem,” Federov said. “No doubt.”
“No doubt. So unless you would like to be hanging on a hook beside Mr. Jenkins, I would suggest you walk out of here while you still have two legs to carry you, and tell whoever locked the bay doors to open them. Or I will make you my problem. Do we understand one another?”
“Indeed. It is a fair proposal,” Federov said. “May I counter?”
Yekaterina chuckled. “Why not?”
Federov put a hand in the air and twirled his finger. The sound of machine guns being racked echoed all around the warehouse, and no less than fifty men in white coats and white hard hats stepped out from behind the hanging slabs of meat, each bathed in the red light. Federov waited a beat, and this time it was indeed theatrical. Mily and the other bodyguards raised their weapons, but it was a ridiculous response.
“Here is my proposal. You wish to be vindicated for the loss of your son, so much so that you would kill an innocent man.”
“How do you know he is innocent?”
“Because I know all the evidence.”
“Which is what?”
“I could tell you, and you would think I was lying, no?”
“Probably.”
“Then would you indulge me and allow my associate, someone who knows firsthand what happened, to tell you the evidence?”
Yekaterina nodded.
Federov remained seated but waved behind him. The door from which he had entered opened. Arkhip Mishkin stepped into the warehouse and crossed the floor. He also carried a folding chair. His shoes clicked on the concrete as he approached. Velikaya’s men again raised their weapons.
When he arrived, Mishkin bowed slightly to Yekaterina. “My name is Arkhip Mishkin.”
“Chief investigator,” Mily said.
“Yes,” Mishkin said. “May I first offer my condolences to you and your family on the loss of your son. I had hoped to do so in person earlier but was unable to secure an interview.”
Another nod from Yekaterina. Then her eyes shifted to Federov—even more curious.
Mishkin unfolded his chair and sat. “It is my job to close the case involving the death of your son, Ms. Velikaya. And I will need Mr. Jenkins’s testimony to do that. In my career, I have never not closed a case. I have been one hundred percent successful.”
Yekaterina looked puzzled. “And that is why you are here?”
Mishkin did not immediately answer. After the pause, he said, “It must seem strange to you, a chief inspector here in this position. My circumstances have changed in the past few days, but not my desire.”
“And what is your desire?”
“Justice,” he said.
“Tell me what it is that you know, Chief Investigator.”
Mishkin sighed. “Since my wife’s death two years ago, I have had a heavy heart. I don’t sleep well. For this reason, I told my captain to give me the murders that occur late at night, so that I might have something to do. Your son’s murder is one of those cases.”
Mishkin went through the evidence from the moment he arrived at the Yakimanka Bar until his arrival at the slaughterhouse. “You see, my notes and my personal observations make it clear that your son was shot in the back, not in the front, and that Mr. Jenkins did not kill him.”
Yekaterina, whom Federov assumed already knew this information from viewing the CCTV footage, did not look impressed. “That is all very interesting, Chief Investigator, but the fact remains my son is dead because Mr. Jenkins stuck his nose in a place where it never belonged.”
“Or perhaps he stuck his nose in a place exactly where it did belong, but where few men have the courage to do so. We can debate this for many hours, I am sure. But let me ask you a simple question, if I may? Do you sleep at night, Ms. Velikaya?”
“What business is that of yours?”
“None. I ask only because I want to ask next whether you have obtained any satisfaction from the beating and the torture of Mr. Jenkins. Do you believe it will help you to sleep at night?”
“What is your point, Chief Investigator?”
“Perhaps I can answer,” Federov said. “You will not sleep because you know it would be a hollow victory to kill a man who did not kill your son, and you would get no satisfaction from this. It would not alleviate your grief or your pain. You know this because you have been through this before, have you not?” She did not answer, but Federov knew she understood. “The unresolved death of your father in 2008.”
“It is only unresolved to the general public.”
An answer that gave Federov hope. “Yes. So my point . . . Kill Mr. Jenkins and you will still have to live with the pain of your son’s death, just as you have had to live with the pain of your father’s death, without any recourse against the men responsible.”
“I am tiring of this game. What is it that you are offering me, Federov? You said you had a counterproposal. Make it or unlock the bay doors.”
“I am offering you the chance to right a wrong, something very rare in these times. I am offering you the chance at more than a hollow act. I am offering the chance to once again sleep soundly at night.”
“And how will you do that?”
Federov again raised his hand. This time the slabs of meat hanging all around them quivered and shook, then moved along the conveyor belt. The slabs came to a right turn and each piece of meat spun, nearly 180 degrees, just behind Federov’s shoulder. From around that far corner of the room came a man hanging from a hook, with his back to the circle as he proceeded around the track. When he reached the right turn, he spun and faced them.
The blood drained from Yekaterina’s face. “Zhomov,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The man who shot your father,” Federov said.