“Did Lemore threaten you?” Jenkins asked.
Federov chuckled. “Let’s just say he made the ramifications very clear if I failed to come forward and be of assistance. Your Mr. Lemore has a fondness for you. He can be very persuasive.”
“I think he has a greater fear of my wife than a fondness for me,” Jenkins said. “He made her a promise once that he would bring me home safely, and she made it very clear she expected him to keep that promise, and that there would be hell to pay if he fell short.”
“Having been married, I can understand his motivation.” Federov looked to Maria. “No offense intended to the present company.”
Jenkins knew Federov could just as easily have walked away and not taken the significant risk of returning to Russia. He knew Federov didn’t do it just for the money, or even the chance to spit in Sokalov’s eye. His reasons also weren’t completely altruistic. He was a complicated man. Jenkins was sure his reasons were just as complicated.
It didn’t really matter.
“Thank you, Viktor, for what you did. I owe you.”
“Do not be na?ve, Charlie. As you may recall, I am a very good chess player.”
“Da, no tvoy blef—der’mo,” Peanut said. Yes, but your bluffing is shit.
“Nevertheless,” Federov said. “Mr. Lemore and I negotiated a healthy donation to my retirement fund. It seems that saving you is a lucrative side business for me. But yes, indeed, you do owe me, and someday I intend to collect.”
Jenkins knew Federov was just protecting his image. No doubt Lemore had threatened to expose Federov, but only to get him to the negotiating table. Russian men were steadfastly proud. They did not like to have their character, or their courage, impugned or insulted. Lemore, who had studied Russia in college and made the country his life’s work, undoubtedly knew this. After the threat, he would have negotiated a payment amount to allow Federov to save face, and Federov had gladly accepted the money. But knowing Federov, Jenkins also knew he could not be so easily manipulated. His motivation for his actions went much deeper than dollars or rubles.
Simply put, Viktor Federov liked to win.
“I think, maybe you and I would work well together,” Federov said. “In the future, perhaps.”
Jenkins smiled. “Is that a threat, Viktor?”
“We are the same, you and I.”
“How do you figure?”
“Why did you step in to help the prostitute in the Yakimanka Bar? You had to know it was the wrong thing to do, professionally.”
“My head hurts too much for a deep conversation right now, Viktor.”
“Very well. We will have this discussion on another occasion. Perhaps one in which I can meet this wife of yours. She seems, how should I say, to have a bull head.”
Jenkins laughed and grabbed his side. When the pain eased, he said, “I’ll be sure not to tell her that.” He grimaced and looked to Maria. “Sokalov is in for one hell of a surprise.”
She looked at Federov. “Khotel by ya byt’ mukhoy na stene doma Vasina.” I wish I could be like one of the flies on Vasin’s walls.
Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Federov chuckled. “You will. Soon enough. We’ll get you a doctor and let you rest for a few days before you travel . . . depending, of course, upon your condition.”
“I think it best if Maria and I get out of Russia as quickly as possible,” Jenkins said.
“Nonsense,” Federov said. “To do so would be an insult to your host. Where I am taking you, no one would dare to follow. You will be in the good graces of Plato Vasin. You have already met his brother, my friend Peanut, and other men who work for him.” Federov made a sweeping gesture with his hand to the others in the room.
Peanut looked down at Jenkins.
“Peanut?” Jenkins said to Federov. “I’m having a hard time picturing him as small.”
“Peanut was never small. I suspect, like you, he was born big and just kept growing, always the biggest in our class.”
Jenkins looked up at the man. “Spasibo,” he said.
Peanut smiled and spoke English. “You’re welcome.” He helped Jenkins to his feet, but they were stopped by the small man standing to the side. He stepped forward, speaking to the room.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “If everyone is done getting reacquainted . . .”
Federov stood. “A private conversation,” he said. “Everyone clear the room but for Mr. Jenkins and my associate.”
“I wish to stay,” Maria said, holding a blanket around Jenkins’s shoulders.
“Very well,” Federov said, and everyone else left the room.
“Mr. Jenkins, my name is Arkhip Mishkin, chief investigator with the Moscow police.” He paused as if unsure. Then he shrugged. “Good day. I recognize that you are in pain, but I have come a long way to ask you a few questions and would request your indulgence for just a bit longer.” Jenkins was amazed that a Moscow investigator was present in a room filled with mafiya. “I need to know what happened the night Eldar Velikaya died in the Yakimanka Bar.”
“You told Yekaterina Velikaya what happened.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did. But, you see, the videotape from the CCTV cameras has gone missing, the medical examiner’s report is a fabrication, and every other witness is deceased. You are the only person remaining who can tell me the truth, so that I may close my file, my last file before I retire. I believe your testimony will contradict official reports and perhaps cost a few jobs.”
Mishkin did not look happy at the prospect.
“That’s your only motivation for being here?”
Mishkin looked at Maria Kulikova. “It was,” he said.
Jenkins looked to Maria, then to Mishkin, and understood. “What is it you would like to know, Chief Investigator?” Jenkins asked.
“Only the truth.”
Jenkins waited a beat. “Did you want to record our conversation?”
“Absolutely,” Mishkin said. The chief investigator moved his hands, then stopped. “I’m afraid I don’t have my notebook or an instrument to write with.”
“One moment,” Maria said, and she left for the door across the hall.
“Maria left the cabin at night on the train. Did she speak with you?” Jenkins asked.
“It seems neither of us sleep well,” Mishkin said.
Maria returned with a pen and a pad of paper with “Irkutsk Meatpacking Plant” across the top. “This will do,” Mishkin said. “Thank you.” He looked to Jenkins. “Please. Begin.”
Arkhip Mishkin put pen to paper as Jenkins patiently answered Mishkin’s questions. When they had finished, Mishkin clicked the pen. He looked to Maria. “I will make my way back to Moscow. I do apologize again for not telling you who I was, but I hope that you can understand.” He bowed slightly and turned to walk away. Maria’s question stopped him.
“Do you travel, Arkhip?” Maria asked.
He shook his head. “I have never had the time. I was always working. Now . . .” He sighed. “It is one of my regrets. My Lada and I discussed trips many times that we would take when I had retired.”
“Like the Trans-Siberian Railway?”
“Yes. That was one.”