above his right eye. Grey couldn’t help but think that Zharkov looked much the way Czar Nicholas II might have looked in his sixties had he not been shot by Bolsheviks in a basement alongside his wife and children.
His handshake was firm and his expression was warm as he invited Grey to take a seat. It seemed somewhat odd to Grey that he wasn’t offered coffee or tea, though after his journey across the globe, he wasn’t quite sure if it was time for breakfast or cocktails.
“Thank you so much for meeting me, Pakhan.” Grey spoke first using the Russian term for “boss” and showing off his command of the Russian language that he’d spoken exclusively in his childhood home in Pennsylvania.
“It is I who should be thanking you, Mr. Grey. You have come such a long way.”
“It was nothing,” Grey lied.
“I was very sorry to hear about Colonel Andrenov’s death. He was a friend of my business, and I know that he was like a father to you. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you, Pakhan, that means a great deal to me. The colonel spoke highly of you.”
“He exaggerated, I am sure. He did the country a great service by removing our president. He was a weak man who was selling us out to the Americans. I know you played a significant role in the operation. Blaming it on the Muslim savages was a touch of genius.”
Grey nodded, taking credit for what had not been his idea.
“What has brought you from such a warm and pleasant climate to such a cold one? You have risked a great deal by making this journey.”
Oliver had practiced his pitch many times during the past weeks. “I have, Pakhan, but it will be worth it, for us both. I know the capabilities of the U.S. intelligence community. I spent my entire career using all of their tools to track and analyze Russian people of interest. I’m offering that expertise to you. The Americans trained me well, Pakhan. I know everything there is to know about your rivals, about your critics in Moscow, and about the weaknesses of the Western nations’ law enforcement efforts.”
“You have my ear,” the mafia leader acknowledged.
“I know where your rival organization, the Solntsevskaya Gang, is exposed and I know which members of your organization are working with the FBI and CIA.”
Zharkov spoke without shifting his eyes from Grey. “Order some breakfast for our friend here.”
One of his men nodded in response and swiftly left the room.
“Go on, Oliver.”
The shift to his given name was not lost on the wayward spy.
A hearty breakfast was rolled into the room by one of Zharkov’s bodyguards within minutes, the waiter having been stopped and searched by the security men in the hallway. Zharkov took only coffee for himself but an impressive spread of vegetables, cold meats, eggs, and pastries was presented to the famished CIA man. Grey ate quickly and drained the Bloody Mary as soon as he realized that it contained more than tomato juice. Zharkov ordered his bodyguards to keep the drinks flowing. When Grey put down his fork and took a breath, Zharkov continued the conversation.
“You’ve promised much, Oliver, and I’m willing to pay a fair price for the kind of information you claim to have. My father was a grain buyer when the communists were in power. He could have rubber-stamped the purchases, but he took pride in his work and only bought the best crops. He demanded a sample from every bushel that he could inspect. I need a morsel, Oliver, a sample of your wares.”
Grey was prepared for the challenge. “I understand, Pakhan. I have information on Melor Sokolov of the Solntsevskaya Gang. Despite appearances, he is a homosexual.”
“Interesting.”
“He’s a suka, too, a bitch.”
“As much as that kind of behavior disgusts me, Oliver, men who have been in prison do such things. This is not shocking.”
“I agree, Pakhan, but the man who puts him on his belly is a flight attendant for Air France. He is also an asset of DGSE. He’s French intelligence. They know every move that the Solntsevskaya Gang makes and report much of it to the U.S.”
“Now that, Oliver, is fascinating,” Zharkov confirmed.
“I believe in long-term relationships, Pakhan.”
“As do I, Oliver.”
“I would like to become a permanent asset to you, to your organization.”
Zharkov’s bushy gray eyebrows arched upward before his eyes followed them to the ceiling, considering the proposal.
“I must ask you, Oliver, and I hope that you will forgive me for being direct,