VICTOR DROVE SLOWLY to Secretnaya Banya. There he would meet Gennady, the newest in a long line of Directorate emissaries.
In the old days, these meetings had never worried him. He had worked in the KGB alongside the Directorate’s leadership, but there was a new regime now. The old guard, the ones Victor had slaved to impress or mollify or blackmail, had moved on, leaving Victor with a worthless account of debts and favors owed that could never be collected and a new set of Machiavellian bosses whose desired end wasn’t power for the Motherland but profit, profit, profit.
Victor’s power and influence had seemingly diminished overnight, leaving him with responsibility and no leverage. A dangerous position.
Secretnaya Banya was a secret club opened to the elite of the New York Russian community by special invitation only. For a hefty sum, members of the banya enjoyed traditional Russian baths, gourmet food, and privacy in a rarified environment that spoke to them both of their Russian roots and their fabulous success.
Yet the club was not a venue for displaying success to others. The building had a grimy, brick facade that gave no hint of the luxury inside. Visitors were stripped of all of the trappings of their position. All belongings, including cell phones, were left in the locker room. While at the club, everyone wore Turkish robes that had been specially designed with wide sleeves and no pockets, a uniform that made them all equal. Sort of.
Upon arriving in the United States, Gennady had immediately received an invitation. Victor never had.
Victor had loudly and openly complained about the “oversight.” No doubt Gennady sought to rub Victor’s nose in the slight. The Directorate operatives specialized in psychological warfare, even against each other.
Gennady waited in the lounge when Victor arrived. A man at ease, he sat in a leather armchair, reading a newspaper and indulging in buttered crackers with Beluga caviar. Victor assessed him, looking for weaknesses or signs of vice, finding nothing obvious—no bloodshot eyes or yellow-stained fingers or even extra weight around the middle. The man, in his early forties, if that, was a picture of robust good health and classic Russian handsomeness with his blue eyes and a full head of wavy blond hair.
“You’re late.” Gennady folded the newspaper and placed it on the side table. His eyes, a light blue, were unfriendly. Likely Gennady was keeping a tally sheet of all of Victor’s and Artur’s deficiencies, which he intended to bring back to Moscow to help his own advancement.
“Where’s Artur?” he demanded.
“Eezvenete.” Victor was carefully polite. “There were pressing matters.”
“I see.” Gennady rose. He was taller than Victor, and he stood close as if using his height to intimidate him. “What is more pressing than meeting me?”
The question was rhetorical. The man’s sense of superiority grated on Victor. Gennady seemed to think that since he was delivering orders, he was actually giving them. He forgot he was only a messenger.
Tempting as it was to remind the upstart of his true position, Victor pressed his lips together and remained silent. He treated Gennady with extreme caution.
Gennady had a key advantage. Stationed in Moscow, he had direct influence with his superiors, while Victor had none.
Still, Victor had his rank, and it was higher than Gennady’s. He had his years of experience. He had Artur with his incredible charisma and penchant for strategy, both of which kept the money flowing.
What he didn’t have right now were his favored tools of the trade. Victor had been forced to leave everything—his recording devices and his pills—in the locker room.
Now, he had no way to gain an advantage.
“Davai.” Gennady turned away and led Victor down a hallway to the Russian baths. Victor, no stranger to a visit to the banya, pulled his robe closer around him. Soon they would leave their robes behind, too.
The anteroom to the banya was empty. The area looked like a spa, with green glass tiles and simple carved wooden benches. Gennady disrobed without hesitation and hung his robe from the hook near the bench before removing his slippers.
Victor tried to hide his own hesitation, his sense of disadvantage. He was more than a decade older than Gennady, and he certainly didn’t have the man’s muscular physique.
The banya was deserted. There was no one to witness or comment on the differences between the two men, but Victor felt as if an arena full of spectators bore witness to his humiliation.
Gennady smiled slightly, as if he felt Victor gawking. He strode wordlessly to the wood and glass door of the bath and went inside. “Victor, chto takoe? Don’t you like the banya?” he called over his shoulder.
Through the glass of the door, Victor watched as Gennady picked up the venik, a green pile of birch branches lying on the wooden bench inside the hot room. Gennady wielded the collection of branches, hitting different parts of his body with smooth and rhythmic swings, as if he were engaged in martial arts training.
Everything the man did, whether or not by design, showcased his vitality and physical power.
Victor felt his own power slipping through his fingers. He didn’t know how to hold on.
He untied the plush robe and quickly placed it beside Gennady’s. He looked straight ahead, refusing to let his gaze wander toward his gray chest hair and liver spots or the rolls of fat hugging his chest and abdomen. Inside he felt the weight of his years.
He was past his prime, no longer a competitor or a peer, merely an old man to be handled and ordered around.
He opened the door to the sauna, and the heat hit him full in the face and throat, along with a growing fear that he wouldn’t be allowed to retire with dignity.
“Your shipment arrived last week, and you haven’t yet sold the merchandise,” Gennady said. “I hope you haven’t decided to back out.”
“No, of course not.”
“Good.”
Victor felt slightly nauseous in the hot room with sweat pouring down his face. His knees buckled, and he landed heavily on the bench. If the heat and humidity of the sauna hadn’t made Victor break out into a sweat, Gennady’s question would have.
There was no rebellion, no backing out, or changing your mind. Once you were a part of the Directorate, there was only one way out. Victor had no intention of following that path—or of letting Artur take that road to perdition.
“You should know there’s a problem,” Victor said.
“A problem?” Gennady lay the bundle of branches on the bench and sat down beside him. He gave Victor his full attention. “What problem?”
“Artur’s daughter was raped last night.”
“What does that have to do with business?”
“The Georgians are involved. Their man raped her and was murdered.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Gennady said. No emotion inflected his words. Cold-hearted bastard. Victor would have admired him were he not such a threat.
“Artur wants to punish them. They hurt his daughter. He wants to call off the deal. He’s talking about going to war.”
“Unacceptable,” Gennady said. “The risk is too great. You can’t let him do anything that will call attention to us or jeopardize the deal.”
“That’s what I told him,” Victor said.
“Tell him again. Make sure he understands. It’s your job to control him, Victor. Don’t tell me you can’t handle your job anymore. I’d hate to have to terminate you.”
Victor could taste the bitter edge of his own panic. For years, he had hoarded information and power. Now, his life’s work could turn to dust overnight because personal revenge was more important to Artur than business.
Victor was not about to let Artur’s selfish decisions leave him in the cold. Decades ago, if he had left the decisions to his friend, Artur would be living in the American suburbs with Sofia and a pack of brats and no imagination or riches, and Victor would be … nowhere. Maybe rotting in Moscow in a dead end job and rubbing his worthless rubles together—if he had managed to keep his position now that his sponsors had moved on.
Then as now, Victor couldn’t afford to lose Artur, his most valuable asset.
The secret to controlling Artur was to play into his favored myth of himself as a tortured hero. Artur clung staunchly to the fiction that beneath everything he was a good man, a good father.
A truly good man wouldn’t descend to the depths of corruption Artur had—for any reason. He wouldn’t go along, head down, performing greater and greater feats to appease his tormentors.
This latest venture was no mere white-collar crime. Initially, Artur had balked at the newest assignment from the Directorate. Yet with the proper pressure, he had brilliantly masterminded the newest deal.
At some point, a good man would turn on them, refuse, or try to escape. In a quarter century, Artur had done none of these things. He had even stayed with Maya, whose father, Semyon, was their last remaining link to power in Moscow.
Gennady exited the hot enclosure and plunged into the icy pool beyond the doors. Victor followed. The cold made him gasp and sputter.
Victor had no intention of getting trapped in a prison worse than the one he lived in now. Maybe Maya had done him a favor tonight. While Artur slept peacefully, Victor would take matters into his own hands. Artur made the right choice when he imagined he had none. Victor was a master at narrowing Artur’s choices for him.
This time, as before, Inna was the key.