BUTCHER
LUBYANSKIY DRIVE
MOSCOW
The man, Nemkov, walked into the restaurant. It was crowded, the mood festive. Moscow’s best steakhouse on a Saturday night.
He cut through the crowd. He arrived at a booth upholstered in soft blue leather. It was a luxurious, private table in the back, out of any sight lines from the window. He sat down and placed his valise to the side, inside the booth.
Nemkov looked at the man seated in front of him, Ilyitch.
“Ya izvinyayus. Ya prishel tak bystro, kak tol’ko mog.”
I apologize. I came as quickly as I could.
“Vasili is dead,” said Ilyitch.
Nemkov’s mouth went slightly agape, his only emotion.
“How?”
“Last night, at a nightclub. He was beaten to death, then they broke his neck. This is Vasili we’re talking about.”
Nemkov nodded. He reached to the other man’s glass of vodka.
“Do you mind?” he said.
“No.”
Nemkov took a large sip, then put the glass down.
“And you think he talked?”
“Can we take that risk?” said Ilyitch. “Why else would someone kill him? More important, who could kill him? This is not a man who loses a bar fight.”
“So someone is digging into the death of her husband?”
“If she is exposed, she knows a great deal,” said Ilyitch.
Nemkov stood up.
“I understand,” he said.
Nemkov grabbed the glass of vodka and polished it off. He put the glass down and gave Ilyitch one last glance—then turned and walked quickly to the door.