Jenkins had the sense that Yekaterina Velikaya understood Maria Kulikova on a level the men in that room could never understand, that she understood Maria had done what she had done to accomplish what needed to be accomplished, that she had done her duty, without any emotional investment or attachment. She understood because, Jenkins speculated, Velikaya had done exactly the same thing to survive for so long in a man’s domain. When her father had been murdered, Yekaterina had been thrust into the role of head of the family, and Jenkins suspected she did what she had to do to preserve what her father had worked so hard to achieve. She met grisly violence with more grisly violence, and deadly force with more deadly force. Jenkins wondered if she, too, had created an alter ego—if Catherine the Great was that mirror image—but that she had never truly believed she was anything more than her father’s Malen’kaya Printsessa. Jenkins met a movie star once at a charity auction in downtown Seattle, an A-list actor making $20 million a film. But that wasn’t what drew him to the man. What had drawn him was the man’s quiet intimacy and his humility. When asked, he told Jenkins acting was simply his job. A well-paying job, for sure, but still just a job. The job did not define him. He did not believe the accolades heaped upon him any more than he believed the assaults that ripped at the characters he portrayed, because it was just that—a character created to play a role in a film. It was not him.
When Maria finished, neither woman moved. No one spoke. A good minute passed. Then Velikaya stood. Maria followed. The two women stared at one another for a moment before Velikaya stepped forward and the two women exchanged a kiss on each cheek in a mutual sign of respect.
Velikaya looked to Federov and, without emotion, said simply, “I accept your counterproposal.” Then she stepped toward Alexander Zhomov and considered him. “Do you know what they do with the scraps of meat and the sides of beef they do not sell?”
His mouth duct-taped closed, Zhomov could not answer.
“Let me tell you,” she said.
After Velikaya and her men had left the hall, Jenkins said to Federov, “I’m assuming Matt Lemore got in touch with you?”
Federov let out a long sigh. “It seems that you are . . . how do you Americans say it?” He looked to the behemoth whom he called Peanut. “Zhvachka na podoshve moyego botinka.”
“The gum on the bottom of my shoe?” Jenkins translated.
Peanut laughed.
“Did Lemore threaten you?” Jenkins asked.
Federov chuckled. “Let’s just say he made the ramifications very clear if I failed to come forward and be of assistance. Your Mr. Lemore has a fondness for you. He can be very persuasive.”
“I think he has a greater fear of my wife than a fondness for me,” Jenkins said. “He made her a promise once that he would bring me home safely, and she made it very clear she expected him to keep that promise, and that there would be hell to pay if he fell short.”
“Having been married, I can understand his motivation.” Federov looked to Maria. “No offense intended to the present company.”
Jenkins knew Federov could just as easily have walked away and not taken the significant risk of returning to Russia. He knew Federov didn’t do it just for the money, or even the chance to spit in Sokalov’s eye. His reasons also weren’t completely altruistic. He was a complicated man. Jenkins was sure his reasons were just as complicated.
It didn’t really matter.
“Thank you, Viktor, for what you did. I owe you.”
“Do not be na?ve, Charlie. As you may recall, I am a very good chess player.”
“Da, no tvoy blef—der’mo,” Peanut said. Yes, but your bluffing is shit.
“Nevertheless,” Federov said. “Mr. Lemore and I negotiated a healthy donation to my retirement fund. It seems that saving you is a lucrative side business for me. But yes, indeed, you do owe me, and someday I intend to collect.”
Jenkins knew Federov was just protecting his image. No doubt Lemore had threatened to expose Federov, but only to get him to the negotiating table. Russian men were steadfastly proud. They did not like to have their character, or their courage, impugned or insulted. Lemore, who had studied Russia in college and made the country his life’s work, undoubtedly knew this. After the threat, he would have negotiated a payment amount to allow Federov to save face, and Federov had gladly accepted the money. But knowing Federov, Jenkins also knew he could not be so easily manipulated. His motivation for his actions went much deeper than dollars or rubles.