insisted that his eldest son pursue a career in the nation’s intelligence services, a career that would surely pay dividends for his father’s business interests. Aleksandr had sacrificed his entire adult life climbing the ladder of the SVR, a ladder that had led him through countless third-world hellholes, places where not too many questions were asked when a man went missing.
Meanwhile, his two younger brothers lived the good life, chasing women, driving fast cars, and putting coke up their noses in Paris, London, New York, and Miami. His father promised him that, in the long run, he would be the Pakhan and his brothers would be his lieutenants. Yet, year after year, his brothers rose in influence, building their own networks. Aleksandr knew that he was too valuable to his father in his current position to leave and that his younger siblings at this point would not let him simply walk in and take what they now considered theirs. Aleksandr felt the pull born of a primal instinct from a time when people lacked the ability to reason, when they were no different from every other animal roaming the earth. Civilization was a more recent introduction to the evolution of the species. Despite that thin veneer, instinct still requires the young bull to exert his dominance over the herd. That time was approaching for the Zharkov line, and Aleksandr would soon make his move.
CHAPTER 8
Saint Petersburg, Russia
SEVEN HUNDRED KILOMETERS TO the northwest, Ivan Zharkov had left Oliver Grey in the suite, giving him a chance to bathe, rest, and recover from his travels. Prostitution was one of the Bratva’s primary rackets, and the mafia boss had offered Grey a woman for the night. Upon Grey’s refusal, Ivan had offered him a man. Grey graciously declined both, which caused some confusion on the part of his host. The embarrassment of Grey’s one sexual encounter with a female was an experience that he did not wish to repeat.
The vodka left Grey buzzing, but after a long bath in the room’s extravagant tub, he felt almost human again. He was beginning to doze when a knock on the door sent a surge of adrenaline through his body. Wrapped in a bathrobe, he peered through the peephole and spied a small bearded man carrying an attaché case.
“Can I help you?”
“I am Lev, the tailor. Pakhan sent me.”
Grey breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door. He had half-expected to see a tall American holding a suppressed pistol instead of the small, potbellied man impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit. The tailor walked into the room without shaking Grey’s hand and began to unpack the tools of his trade. Lev insisted that Grey remove the robe and began taking measurements with a physician’s disinterest in his stark nudity. Each measurement was entered into a small notebook with a small stub of a pencil. Grey was embarrassed and spoke nervously as the man worked, ignoring his attempts at conversation as though they didn’t speak the same language.
“Put on your robe, we need to pick fabrics,” Lev said as he snapped the small notebook shut and wrapped it with a thick rubber band. He spread books of swatches across the bed and motioned for Grey to examine them.
“Mr. Zharkov has generously paid for three suits and five shirts. I will make you more, if you choose, but they will come from your own pocket.”
Grey spent close to an hour narrowing his choices, ultimately picking a brown tweed, a charcoal window pane, and a blue chalk line. He didn’t want to look like another one of Zharkov’s security men. He chose plain, solid shirts that would keep his life simple; he knew better than to tackle the daily challenge of matching his clothes.
“I do not make shoes or ties. For those items, you should go to the Passage on Nevsky Prospekt. It is not far.” The man looked at the small gold watch on his wrist. “These items will be ready in two days.” He quickly packed his bag, returned his black Homburg to his head, and walked swiftly out the door.
It was late afternoon when Grey stepped out of the hotel and began a leisurely half-hour walk toward the city’s upscale shopping district.
You are safe here, Oliver. There is no need to worry.
Though he had only been to Saint Petersburg a handful of times, always on CIA business, he felt strangely at home here.
He absorbed the splendor of Saint Petersburg as he wound his way through