have security arrangements taken care of.”
“Of course, Director. Shall we?” Dobrynin motioned toward the waiting vehicles, struggling to decipher if the director’s words were a compliment, a warning, or simply condescending.
Zharkov nodded. “I understand you were briefed on my requests?”
“Da, we will take you to the hotel now and tomorrow we will go to the mines.”
* * *
Zharkov took in the sights of the bustling city, politely listening to Dobrynin drone on about his most recent diplomatic victories. A five-thousand-man force of Russian military and contracted advisors were in the country training the CAR special operations forces on the finer points of counterinsurgency. Zharkov correctly assumed that meant a systematic campaign of terror aimed at keeping the dissidents in check and ensuring the current president remained in power and friendly to Russian interests in the country.
At each stoplight, the cars were swarmed by children, arms outstretched, their faces hopeful for a coin or a piece of candy. Traffic was at its usual stop-and-go, broken-down vehicles impeding their progress as scooters buzzed past like the swarms of insects that infested the nearby jungle. It was a country on its last breaths.
Just outside the hotel, a small convoy of taxis lingered, each flying a small Russian flag on the front bumper, waiting eagerly for the opportunity to ferry guests to and from the airport. At the approach of the convoy, the Hotel Ledger’s guarded gates opened, and the depravity of the streets was left in the dust. The driveway curved up to the entrance, and the outside world was forgotten. Old-world opulence, no doubt a vestige of the French colonial days, permeated every aspect of Bangui’s finest hotel; abundant marble and ornate tapestry were accented by rich African wood polished to perfection, its gold inlay reflecting the late afternoon light.
“My men will show you to your room. I trust you will find your accommodations acceptable. Will dinner in two hours be convenient?”
“That will be fine, thank you,” Zharkov nodded politely and proceeded to the elevator to the penthouse suite, two spetsnaz and one bellhop in tow. As they arrived at the double suite doors, his new security halted him on the outside.
“Just a moment, sir.”
“Open it,” one commanded the bellhop.
They entered the six-thousand-square-foot suite guns raised, then performed a sweep of every corner before pronouncing it safe to enter.
Zharkov walked in and was not surprised to see two young girls who couldn’t have been more than fifteen in thin white linen dresses standing obediently by the king-size bed. This was Africa. He eyeballed their lean, underfed bodies, dark skin a sensual contrast to their scant dresses. A bottle of vintage 1987 Dom Pérignon and fresh strawberries covered with chocolate were set at the table. He set his pack down and poured a glass of the cold sparkling wine, savoring the taste, and glanced at the agenda sitting on the table.
He looked back to the girls and was tempted, watching them shift nervously, fear radiating from their not-yet-vacant eyes. They still held a glimmer of hope.
He shook his head toward the door, “Ukhady,” he said. “Von,” the Russian said again, more firmly when they remained motionless.
Not knowing a word of Russian, the girls stood there unsure of what to do. Zharkov pointed to the door.
“Out!” he said, this time in English, pointing at the door.
Understanding the international language of tone and gesture, the two girls made their way slowly past him, still unsure of what they should do and beginning to worry they had somehow upset the man they had been told to obey and pleasure. Opening the door for them, he told his new security detail he did not want to be interrupted until dinner.
He’d been through enough prostitutes in this part of the world in his younger days and he needed to stay healthy; his mind was on his mission.
CHAPTER 3
Akyan Hotel, Saint Petersburg, Russia
TO IVAN ZHARKOV, INFORMATION was everything. It had been information, and his willingness to exploit it at all costs, that had led to his position of power in the Bratva, the Brotherhood, known to the rest of the world as the Russian mafia. His consolidation of St. Petersburg’s Tambov Gang was the result of well-timed intelligence, brought to him by his eldest son, Aleksandr. Some even thought that, through Aleksandr, Ivan may have organized the arrests in Spain that took out the powerful gang’s former leadership, though no one dared whisper such a thing. Ivan was the Vor v Zakone. No one, not even the government in