Chapter Thirty-Two
In which there are sinister machinations, vile human traffickers and a shit ton of vodka.
Andrey…
While St. Petersburg will always be home to me, there's a certain energy about Moscow that I find appealing. Aggressive, almost frenetic, a city building as fast as more ancient parts of it crumble. Glass and steel architecture crowds in next to the turrets and onion-shaped domes.
Iris eagerly watches the streets as we pass, observing the people, the outdoor markets, and then, the stately boulevards lined with trees. When we pull up to the Morozov mansion, she grins. "This screams Morozov."
"How so?" I ask.
"It's built like a fortress, with the stone and the iron gates. You have more trees than anyone else on the block, it's spaced further away from the street and your neighbors. And the thick columns of the house feel like they're bracing for a rocket to get fired into them."
"Don't joke about that," Nikandr says, helping Caroline out of the car. "That's happened before. Well, not here," he corrects as Iris's eyes grow wide in alarm.
"We have never had an attack on this house," I tell Iris as I take her hand, leading her to the front door. I'm being truthful. We've had to rebuild multiple sections of our St. Petersburg mansion after attacks by grenades, firebombs, and recently, a drone loaded with C 4.
The attackers came to deeply and painfully regret their actions, but that's not relevant here.
The entry hall is two stories, with a massive flight of stairs facing the door and a wall of windows behind it, brightening the hall. A walkway circles the second floor with elaborately wrought iron railings.
As always, the staff is lined up to greet us, no matter how many times Nikandr assures them it's not necessary. I'm indifferent either way to pomp and circumstance, but it makes him uncomfortable, as if we enjoy this subservience the way our bastard grandfather did.
"Iris, Caroline, allow me to introduce Miss Magda, our housekeeper. This is Mr. Belov, head of security."
"A pleasure," Iris says warmly, holding out her hand. It seems to surprise Magda, but she gently shakes it, and then Caroline's. Mr. Belov looks like he'd have a stroke if he was requested to shake hands. Iris tactfully draws hers back.
Trofim comes up behind me, murmuring in my ear. "I'm sorry to interrupt the homecoming. Dariy Agapov has already found out you are in residence. He's requesting a meeting regarding the surface to air missiles you've ordered.”
I nod irritably. "Tell him to join us here. Iris, I'm sorry. I have a meeting. Will you allow Miss Magda to escort you and Caroline on a brief tour and take you to our suites?"
"Suites," Caroline mouths elaborately at Iris, who stifles a giggle. "Wait," Caroline says, "do we have our own wings, like we do in the St. Petersburg palace?"
Nikandr gives her a grin. "No wings, darling. We have been downgraded tragically to suites."
"Oh, dear," Iris whispers to Caroline. "Only suites."
"I know," Caroline sighs. "You get used to the massive and imposing glamour of the Morozov Russian lifestyle."
Iris flashes me a quick smile over her shoulder as she's drawn away.
I find myself smiling back. It's not a natural response, but it comes more easily now with my wife.
Nikandr and I head into the enormous study.
For security reasons, it's easier to meet clients here.
I settle myself behind the desk before Nikandr can.
"Sorry, Sovietnik," I say. "I got here first."
Placing his hands on the desk, he leans forward. "Oh, I'm afraid you're forgetting your place, brother. Here, I outrank you as Sovietnik. Get your ass out of the chair."
"You'd better pray none of your court cases come before my bench," I say haughtily, but I rise and give it back to him.
Less than twenty minutes later, Dariy Agapov bursts through the door, barely contained by an amused Trofim.
"My dear friends, I am delighted to see you again!
" He beams as if this is the best of all things.
Even though he's a fool, he runs an aggressive shipping and smuggling business.
More crucial are his ties with all of the Moscow Six families.
So, I've learned to tolerate his annoying, friendly puppy-like enthusiasm.
"Nikandr Morozov, my dear friend!" He brightens. Nikandr reluctantly rises from his seat to shake hands. "How is the beautiful Caroline?" Dariy says, "I do hope she has accompanied you on this trip?"
My brother's smile is pained. "Yes, she has."
"To think I was the first to know here in Russia that the two of you had married," Dariy gleefully reminds him.
And instantly galloped to the phone to spread the news to the Moscow Six, I think cynically.
"Indeed," Nikandr says thinly.
"Andrey Morozov, I hear that you too are a married man?"
"This is true, Dariy Agapov, my wife Iris also accompanied me, but I fear our trip is quite short, and we may not have time for further pleasantries. Another time, perhaps."
He is noticeably disappointed, primarily because he harbors a persistent crush on Caroline.
"Let's discuss the missiles," Nikandr says, inviting him to be seated. Trofim pours drinks before returning to stand by the door, hands folded.
"I have the shipment that I promised you," Dariy says.
"Two hundred and fifty surface to air missiles, excellent quality, superior range.
This is the sophisticated U.S. technology I acquired; reverse engineered.
So, the product is equally superior without the annoyance of having to steal a U.S. shipment."
"Very good, Dariy Agapov," I say. "We thank you for your diligence."
"There is one problem." His cheerful countenance fades. "A new buyer is pushing his way into the market. I would not sell the missiles to him, of course. But I thought you should know."
"Tell us more," I say.
"I am not quite sure how he managed to find me. But when he did, he requested a trade for the shipment of missiles.”
"Trade for what?" Nikandr asks.
Dariy is a murderer. He's just as willing to shoot one of his own guards as he is an enemy.
But even this man has his standards. "He wanted to trade me a hundred women for them," he says with disgust. "He referred to them as 'prime meat,' and told me I could get triple their value in the slave markets.
I told him no, of course, but he is insistent. "
"What's his name?" I ask slowly, precisely. That little whirlpool of fury that was banked inside me is swirling faster.
"Vladimir Fadeyev, he's been doing business in Georgia and Turkey. I can give you a couple of places where I know he operates here in Moscow. His main holding area, where I fear he's keeping these girls, is unknown," Dariy says.
Nikandr frowns. "Why haven't any of the Moscow Six families addressed this?"
"I'm not sure they know yet," he says. "This svin'ya, this pig, has been dealing primarily with me."
"Send me everything you have, Dariy Agapov," I say. "This needs to be handled immediately."
He brightens again. "I knew you would have a solution.
In the meantime, your shipment is in my most secure location.
I'm happy to deliver them to wherever you like, but I want to make sure the handoff is clean and without interference.
This Fadeyev, I will not have him interrupting, damaging my reputation. "
What the lazy bastard isn't saying is that he wants us to take care of the problem, rather than risking his own men
"A toast, then," Nikandr says, "to a prosperous partnership."
We clink glasses and patiently follow the polite requirements of conversation for another twenty minutes before we are finally able to escort Agapov back out the door.
It seems I have someone new to slaughter before we can head back home.