The lights to the building dimmed, everything now cast in the red glow of the emergency lights near the exits.
The driver put the car in reverse and hit the gas, tires spinning on slick concrete, smoke filling the air. He swung around and returned to Mily and the other men, who had pulled automatic assault rifles and stood back-to-back.
Yekaterina stepped from the car. Her bodyguard moved to shield her.
“What is happening?” she asked Mily.
“I do not know, Comare.”
She looked around the room. The men who had locked the bay doors had vanished; there was nothing but the slabs of meat hanging from the hooks.
A metal door opened, then shut, the sound echoing. A man’s dress shoes clicked against the concrete floor. He emerged from between the hanging carcasses, bathed in the red light, like a ghostly apparition. He did not rush. He walked deliberately across the hall. As he neared, she saw he wore a suit, an expensive brand, and carried something beneath one arm. The driver aimed his weapon, as did Mily and the other guards.
The man stopped a few meters from the group, opened a chair, and set it down across from the folding chair already there. He held open his coat to show he was not armed. Then he offered Yekaterina a seat.
She did not know this man. They had never met. He was not the head of one of the other families, certainly not in Moscow. She doubted he ran a family in Irkutsk. She would have known.
This man, whoever he was, had a quiet confidence about him. His face wore a thin, but not smug, smile. Unlike other men he also did not rush to speak. He waited, politely, for Yekaterina to sit.
Curious, she did so.
Viktor Federov unbuttoned his suit jacket and crossed his legs. For this to work, he had to project an air of confidence. If not, he’d be riddled with bullets. Plato Vasin had made it clear he did not want a war with the Velikayas, and Federov had given him his word he would not provoke one.
“My apologies for the theatrics, Ms. Velikaya. When you have a child in the theater, you become attentive to making a favorable impression upon entry and exit.” One of the guards stepped toward him. Federov stopped him with a cold gaze. “I can assure you that will not be necessary. I’m unarmed.”
Yekaterina waved the guard to step back but kept her gaze on Federov. Good. She was curious. That was the first step if this was going to work. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Federov, Viktor Nikolayevich.”
She stared at him as if waiting for more. When Federov added nothing she asked, “Is that name supposed to mean something to me, Federov, Viktor Nikolayevich?”
“No. No, I’m sure a woman of your stature has no idea who I am. But you do know my friend.”
“And who is your friend?”
Federov nodded to Charles Jenkins. “I see you two have met. Intimately, one might say. Nice of you to hang around, Charlie.”
“Fuck you, Viktor,” Jenkins whispered.
Federov gave a small shrug. “He gets angry when he isn’t fed.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Federov?”
“I have a problem.”
“Yes, you do. Do you know who I am?”
“Certainly. You are Yekaterina Velikaya, the most powerful woman in Moscow.”
It was her turn to smile. “You flatter me, Mr. Federov. Yet, you hold me captive against my will.”
“As I said, I apologize for the dramatics. My daughter is an actress, so perhaps theatrics runs in our veins.”
“Or stupidity.”
Federov smiled. “No. Stupidity is only me. My daughters are very bright. They take after their mother.” He uncrossed his legs. “I needed to make an entrance to capture your attention.”
“And so you have.”
He nodded. Beneath the borrowed suit he was sweating bullets, but he continued to project serenity, as if he were in charge. Maybe he had missed his calling and should have pursued theatrics, like his daughter. “Thank you. You see, Ms. Velikaya—”
“Call me Yekaterina, Mr. Federov. Your stunt here has earned you that right. It might, however, be your last.”
“And you will call me Viktor. You see, Yekaterina, I am being paid a significant sum of money to get Mr. Jenkins out of Russia, and I will not be paid unless and until I do so. So you can understand my dilemma.”
“No. I fail to see how your dilemma is of any concern to me.”
“Another problem,” Federov said. “No doubt.”
“No doubt. So unless you would like to be hanging on a hook beside Mr. Jenkins, I would suggest you walk out of here while you still have two legs to carry you, and tell whoever locked the bay doors to open them. Or I will make you my problem. Do we understand one another?”