the street and entered the restaurant, which was brightly lit and spartanly furnished, with black and white vinyl tiles, round Formica tables, and hard-backed wooden chairs. It was the late dinner rush, and almost every table was occupied. Overhead, speakers emitted the tinny sound of Chechnyan pondur music, similar in sound to that of the Russian balalaika.
Yuriy scanned the restaurant. A few customers had looked up upon his entry but had almost immediately returned to their meals or conversation. While Russians weren’t a common sight in Chechnyan restaurants, neither were they rare. Despite their reputation, Yuriy had never had much trouble with Chechnyans. For the most part they were live-and-let-live, but woe betide the person they decided to kill. Few organizations were as brutal as the Obshina. They liked their knives, the Chechnyans, and they were handy with them.
In the rear, down a short hall, he saw Nima sitting at the last booth against the wall, beside the kitchen door and the bathroom. Yuriy walked back, held up a “wait a moment” finger to Nima as he passed, then slipped into the bathroom to wash his hands. His hands were perfectly clean, of course; his interest lay primarily in confirming that the bathroom was unoccupied and offered no alternative entrances. Care and caution that the normal person would think excessive had kept him alive as an Illegal for many years, and he saw no reason to change his habits now. He dried his hands, then took a moment to ensure that the Makarov 9-millimeter pistol was seated safely in its holster in the rear waistband of his trousers, then walked out and sat down in the booth, facing the front of the restaurant. The swinging kitchen door was to his left. While Yuriy had been in the bathroom, Nima had removed his sport jacket. It lay draped across the back of the booth. The message was clear: I’m unarmed.
Now the Arab spread his hands and smiled at Yuriy. “I know you’re a careful man, my friend.”
In return, Yuriy opened his sport coat. “As are you.”
A waiter appeared, took their drink orders, then disappeared again.
“Thank you for coming,” Nima said.
His Russian was good, with only a slight Arabic accent, his skin light enough that he could pass for a local with some Tartar in his blood. Yuriy absently wondered if the man had been schooled somewhere in the West.
“Of course. It’s my pleasure.”
“I was unsure if you were available.”
“For you, my friend, always. Tell me: Your colleague arrived safely at his destination?”
“He did indeed. The woman as well. As I understand it, she is everything you told us she would be. My superiors are very pleased with the help you’ve already offered. I trust the compensation was satisfactory? No problems?”
“No problems.” In fact, the money sat securely in a Liechtenstein account, admittedly earning very little interest but safe from the prying digital eyes of curious intelligence and police agencies. How he would move the funds once he needed them he hadn’t decided, but there were always ways, especially if you were careful and willing to pay for such services. “Please pass along my thanks to your superiors.”
Nima tipped his chin. “Of course.” The drinks came—vodka for Yuriy and sparkling water for Nima, who took a sip, then said, “We have another proposal, Yuriy, something we believe you are uniquely qualified for.”
“I am at your disposal.”
“As with our other two arrangements, it is a delicate matter, and not without some risk to yourself.”
Yuriy spread his hands and smiled. “Anything worthwhile in life usually is, yes?”
“Very true. Of course, as you know ...”
From the front of the restaurant came a shout, then the shattering of glass. Yuriy looked up in time to see a man, clearly drunk, pushing back from his chair, a plate of unidentified food resting on his upraised palm. The other customers stared at him. The man uttered a string of what Yuriy assumed were Chechen curse words he felt best described the subpar quality of his meal, then stumbled toward a waiter in a white apron.
Yuriy chuckled. “An unhappy customer, it seems ...” His words trailed off as he realized Nima had never turned in his seat to watch the commotion but was instead looking squarely into Yuriy’s eyes with something akin to regret. Alarm bells began ringing in the former KGB officer’s head. Distraction, Yuriy, an arranged distraction.
Time seemed to slow.
Yuriy leaned forward, his hand reaching behind him toward the Makarov in his waistband at the small of