“Viktor!” Peanut embraced Federov in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. Though Federov was just shy of two meters and more than ninety kilograms, he felt as small as a child in Peanut’s arms.
“Hey, Peanut.”
“How long has it been?” Peanut asked, his eyes wide. He put Federov down.
“Too long,” Federov said.
“You never come to visit your old friends in Irkutsk anymore.” He gently slapped Federov on the cheek. “What, you got to be too good for us?” Peanut waved his palms and cooed. “A Moscow FSB officer. I’m scared.” He laughed loud and long, as if Federov were his son or his kid brother.
When Peanut saw Maria Kulikova, he brushed Federov aside. His eyes ran up and down her body as he spoke. “Is this the cargo bound for Vladivostok? You never told me it was exquisite.” He offered his hands and Maria reciprocated with one of hers. Peanut gently kissed the back of her hand, then each of her cheeks. He looked to Mishkin. “And is this—”
Federov spoke quickly. “An associate of mine. I’m afraid we’ve run into a problem. Is the Fly home?”
“Plato is in the pool in the backyard with his kids.”
“More kids? How many does he have?”
“With this wife? Three. Altogether, seven. Come on. I’ll take you there. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Nothing for now, Peanut. Thank you.”
“And the beautiful woman,” he said, looking to Maria. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Nothing for me, Peanut,” she said.
Peanut feigned a swoon and leaned close to Federov’s shoulder but spoke loud enough for Maria to hear. “You sure she has to leave? I could fall in love with this one.”
They walked through Plato Vasin’s garishly ornate house, which indeed included a fly motif. He had flies fabricated from different materials on the mantels and shelves, and embedded in the marble floors, the expensive throw rugs, and the paintings hanging on the walls.
Federov knew Plato had learned from his father’s death. He remained elusive and inaccessible to the public, though for friends he was always available. His reputation in criminal circles had become almost mythical. Had he not been the eldest son of a mafiya kingpin, he probably would have become a powerful public figure, maybe an oligarch. As it was, his boyhood had schooled him as thoroughly in street-mean survival as any university could have honed a leader of the apparat—those in authority. He was also a contradiction. Despite his viciousness, the Fly was known for his integrity and fairness. To those he employed, the Fly was God. He’d earned their devotion and expected it returned in spades. Those in his employ lived by strictly observed rules and values, the code of the vory.
Federov had grown up privy to the vory’s system of favors, obligations, and punishment, and though he did not join in their criminal activities, he had stood with them and by them in his early years. The Fly had become King of Irkutsk, and when Viktor joined the FSB, they did occasional favors for each other. Viktor could provide the Fly with connections and information when the Irkutsk FSB office was about to clamp down, or when another gang tried to make inroads.
The favor Federov was about to ask, however, would test the bonds of their friendship. Unlike Peanut, who loved Viktor unconditionally, the Fly did not love. He looked at people as chessboard pieces to be moved and manipulated to his benefit.
Peanut led them to a backyard that looked like a miniature Disney World. The pool was three tiered, with waterslides and waterfalls cascading from one level to the next, and a lazy river that meandered around the expansive yard. The pool interior included several well-stocked bars. And tiled on the pool bottom was a huge fly. A lush, green football field lay adjacent to the pool, and smoke rose from a barbecue area beneath a cabana with seating that looked like it could fit a royal wedding party.
Despite it being morning, the Fly lay in the pool on a large green flotation device. The salt-and-pepper hair on his chest, as thick as his brother’s, did not keep the sun from coloring his skin an uncomfortable-looking pink. His entire body looked slick with oil. He wore sunglasses and spoke on a cell phone. Another flotation device bobbed close by and held several glasses of half-finished energy drinks, for which he had a penchant, and two additional cell phones. As a boy, the Fly had always been on the go—always making a deal, no matter what kind. He loved the art of negotiation, the ability to manipulate others without them knowing he was doing so. Federov had never seen him stop moving for more than a few minutes.