Federov had to give Mishkin his due. He’d handled it well, and it wasn’t a lie.
“Why did you not tell me of this potential complication, Viktor?” the Fly asked.
“I did not learn the details until a short while ago. Besides, I did not think the Velikayas would have the temerity to come into Siberia without first seeking your permission, Plato.”
“Don’t placate me, Viktor. It is unbecoming.” The Fly thought for a few moments, then said, “This man, and what he is accused of, is no business of mine. I have no desire to get involved. Get him here and I will ship him. That was the deal. Otherwise, she goes alone.” He rescued the second shrimp from the sauce and popped it into his mouth.
“I understand,” Federov said. “It’s just that . . .”
The Fly leaned forward for a third shrimp but stopped and considered Federov, again over the top of his sunglasses. “It’s just what, Viktor?”
“I just wonder what the other families in Siberia will think when they learn the Velikayas came into Irkutsk without permission or repercussions.”
The Fly leaned back in his chair and stared at Federov for what felt like a full minute.
Peanut, standing off to the side, said, “It may make us look weak, Plato.”
The Fly shifted his gaze to his brother, then back to Federov. “As I said, you were always a competitive chess player.” He gave Federov a hard stare before smiling, then laughed. “Make me look weak? Hardly. What is it you really want? Why is this man important to you, Viktor?”
“This man is a friend of mine, Plato. He has done me several favors in my lifetime and, as my associate has detailed for you, he is innocent. I want to get him back for his wife and his children.”
“When did you get to be sentimental, Viktor? It is unbecoming.”
“Perhaps, but possibly lucrative for you.”
“Really? Tell me how,” he said, not sounding convinced.
“I will be sure the CIA is made aware that it was only because of your graciousness that we were able to recover Mr. Jenkins.”
Federov could see the wheels spinning in the Fly’s head. The CIA had its fingers all over the heroin trade, and it would not be bad to have them owe Plato a favor.
“What I will do is out of respect for our friendship and the friendship of our fathers, not for any expectations. Is that clear?” the Fly said.
“Absolutely.”
“What do you need?”
“I’m going to need your resources to find out where he has been taken.”
“What makes you think he is here and not in Moscow?”
“Sokalov also wants this man. Why bring him back to Moscow and give Sokalov the chance to take him from them? The Velikayas will hide their kill here. Once we determine where, I will need your manpower to get him back.”
“And potentially start a war with the Velikayas; I don’t think so, Viktor. It’s bad for business.”
“No. The Velikayas will give Mr. Jenkins back willingly. Without bloodshed.”
“Is that a promise, Viktor? I warn you, do not make promises you cannot keep.”
“It is a promise, Plato.” He returned the Fly’s hard stare. “On this I swear.”
After a moment Plato said, “The cost for shipment has doubled. Call your contact and get approval. If you do, I will take it as a showing of good faith and give you what you need.” He looked to his brother. “In the interim, Peanut, make some phone calls. See where the Velikayas have taken this CIA man.”
“Thank you, Plato,” Federov said.
“Don’t thank me, Viktor. Get on the phone. Get me my money. Then you can thank me. Otherwise, I might offer you something other than shrimp.” With that, the Fly rose, cinched tight his bathrobe, and departed inside the mansion.
Federov turned to Mishkin. “When Peanut finds Mr. Jenkins, I assume you have a contact in the ministry who will leak the information to the FSB.”
“Indeed, I do,” Mishkin said. “Vily Stepanov would sell his mother for the right price.”
“Use him, then. If he doesn’t already know it, tell him that Mr. Jenkins is on the president’s kill list, which will make Mr. Jenkins considerably more valuable. Leak also that Velikaya’s men have captured Maria Kulikova.”
Federov was playing a hunch. At the railway station, Alexander Zhomov had every opportunity to shoot and kill Charles Jenkins. He knew Zhomov had been a sniper in Afghanistan as well as when called upon by the government. He could have positioned himself in the parking lot or the rail terminal, or on the hillside above it, but he had not done so. That told Federov that Zhomov didn’t want Jenkins dead. His job was to bring him back alive, likely for the very reason Maria Kulikova had said. Jenkins was worth more to Sokalov alive than dead. He was Sokalov’s potential ticket to the Kremlin and, if Kulikova’s betrayal ever came to light, Jenkins might be the chit that kept Sokalov alive despite his having divulged classified information.