Chapter Nine
In which Nikandr is kind of a dick.
Nikandr…
Sergei Pushkin, the General Manager of Otel' ?Tsaritsa? is in the lobby to greet us when we arrive. It's a nice courtesy, though I notice that after he greets me first, and respectfully, as Sovietnik, his attention immediately turns to Caroline. There's a big smile wreathing his face.
Puskin is one of our most successful general managers in our hospitality division.
He's in his early fifties, already silver-haired, and based on the amount of rhapsodizing I am forced to listen to from my Russian finance managers, he's considered a silver fox.
He takes Caroline's hand in his, gently shaking it.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Caroline Basha.
Your work with the new Hotel Lyrica has been delightful. "
Now, a genuine grin flashes across her face and I'm instantly infuriated that it's not directed at me.
"Sergei Puskin, I have been dying to hear more about the keyword profile that you've been building on to target your guests.
It's so fascinating, and yet, I still can't figure out your programming. "
He leans forward, still shaking her hand.
"I am most pleased to show it to you, and will also insist on hearing more about your choice to use the reclaimed fixtures in some of your suites versus the ultra-modern ones in the others.
" Sergi gives me another absent nod and then sweeps his hand out in a courtly fashion, personally escorting Caroline to her suite.
A starry-eyed concierge races up to me with my keys. I'm staring at Sergi's silver head, bent attentively towards Caroline's as he follows her into the elevator.
This motherfucker.
"Thank you." I force myself to not snatch the key card away from the crestfallen concierge, "My guards will bring my luggage up to my suite."
The Hotel Tsaritsa is a grand old building that used to be one of the smaller palaces for the Russian nobility. It has a high tower on one side where the penthouse suite was constructed. Loosening my tie, I walk into the tower room, which has a 360° view of the city, and put in a call to Alexsey.
"There you are.” He’s irritable as hell. "I've been working on this asshole for twelve hours. Nice of you to finally show up."
"I have been busy putting this fire out on the East Coast," I remind him. "What have you learned from Novikov's man?"
"They've been trying to break into the Moscow market," Alexsey says irritably. "How do these stupid fucks not know that it's already saturated with guns and drugs?" I hear a meaty punch and then a howl.
"You've let him keep his teeth?" I disapprove of this.
"Yeah, because I still wanted to understand what he was saying," Alexsey snaps back.
"I'm sleep deprived and in a very bad mood.
So far, I know that we better make nice with Viktor Volkov because they've been working him hard, offering him a fifty-percent reduction on arm sales for the first two shipments. "
"Stupid fucks," I curse, putting my hand on my hip and pacing the circular room. "The only way they could be doing that is if they're stealing from someone else."
"You might want to check in with the MacTavishes in Edinburgh," Alexsey says. "This is more in their wheel house. Assault weaponry, sniper rifles, armor-piercing ammunition, that sort of thing."
It's a surprisingly clear day in Moscow and I can see the glittering windows of the high-rise part of the city, aggressively modern, unlike the formal authenticity of the older section with the cathedrals and the palaces. I wonder if Caroline's been here before?
"– So, you can see why I'm concerned." Oh, Alexsey’s still talking. There’s silence. "Are you listening to me?"
"Yes! Yes." I rub my eyes. "It isn't a sustainable business model. It's designed strictly to get into Volkov's favor. I'll schedule a meeting with him tonight to make sure there's no chinks in our partnership. Do you need any help with questioning Novikov's man?"
I hear him shut the door, stepping outside. There's the faint sound of a boat horn so he must be down by the docks. "Actually, I just took over." He sounds distinctly queasy. I've never heard Alexsey sound like this before, somewhere between barely contained nausea and acute terror.
"What's going on, cousin?"
"You've heard of Father's old torturer, I assume?"
I pull at my shirt collar and unbutton a couple to breathe easier. "You mean Bogdan?"
"Yes.” There's a deep-rooted dread in his voice, buried there from all the horror stories we'd been told as children. "Guess who found out we were in town and showed up to, and I quote, 'Keep his hand in?'"
"Oh, fuck me," I blurt. "Why didn't you tell him to leave?"
"You look at that psychotic old bastard and tell him to leave!" Alexsey shouts.
"You've been in the same room as him for… how long now?" I pull my collar away from my neck. I swear it's choking me.
"Fortunately, Satan is in his early eighties and got tired after a brisk six hours of torture." From the sound of it, queasy is winning out over terror for Alexsey. "I definitely learned a few new things."
"Sorry cousin, but I'm deeply grateful it was you and not me," I say fervently.
"Bogdan's the one that dug out Novikov's shipping location here," Alexsey says. I hear the flick of a lighter and a deep inhale.
"Are you smoking?" I ask incredulously.
"Don't tell my wife. I need something to take the edge off and it's either this or a gallon of vodka and I still have work to do here."
I put one hand up like I'm taking a vow. "No judgment here, do what you must. So do you think we need to take the central location to wipe them all out?"
"No, not yet," Alexsey exhales the smoke blissfully. "This isn't our territory. It's the Moscow Six's. We do business here with their blessing. Wiping out a competing syndicate will show disrespect. But if I have proof, that's something different."
"Understood," I say. "Let me know what you find, and Radi Boga, for god’s sake, come back to the hotel soon and take a shower. Perhaps drink heavily, get the memory of Bogdan out of your head."
"I'm looking forward to it," Alexsey says.
I spend the afternoon meeting with a few of our Brigadiers here in Moscow.
Our operations here are delicate. We own St. Petersburg and everything surrounding it, but my people in Moscow are here mainly for oversight and negotiation with the Six, so the meetings are fairly easy.
No one else has heard anything about Novikov circling the other families.
It's been a long day; I yawn into my fist. I should have slept on the jet.
I'm afraid it's too late now, though. A meeting with Viktor Volkov is always an extravaganza, an all-night negotiation where he must be plied with good food, expensive liquor and lavish compliments.
Fortunately, he has a young wife that he's faithful to, so I've never been forced to arrange for escorts.
Watching the sun set, I shower and put on a black suit, a silver tie, and some heavy silver cufflinks embedded with diamonds. They were given to me by my parents for good luck.
Cracking my neck, I paste on my most pleasant expression and head for the hotel's bar.
"My friend! It has been too long!" Viktor comes at me with outstretched arms and exuberantly gives me a brisk round of the Russian three kisses, not as common these days from another man, but if it makes him happy, so be it.
"Viktor Volkov, it has been far too long," I say in a way that I hope is charming.
"But a man as busy as you are is hard to pin down, eh?
" I turn to his wife, a very sweet twenty-something with blonde hair and a tremulous smile.
"Polina Volkova, I hope you are well?" I do not attempt to give her the three kiss greeting.
Once we're seated and Volkov has his first vodka working through his system, he noticeably relaxes.
"I hear you have been dealing with some unrest with your shipping routes from here to St. Petersburg," he says, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
It makes me wonder just how far those talks have extended between him and Novikov.
"Nothing we can't handle," I smile pleasantly. "In fact, my cousin Alexsey is here as well, handling some of the more delicate matters of the issue."
Volkov's bushy grey eyebrows go up with that comment and I know he's quite clear about what I mean. Alexsey is not our Bratva's chief torturer, but he does enjoy keeping his skills sharp, so to speak.
We do the requisite social talk. I ask about his family, his daughter who is close to Polina's age just gave birth to a boy. His son, the apple of his eye, is about to graduate from Cambridge University. He asks after mine.
This is the part of the dance with our Russian business associates that always drives me mad. I prefer the American approach of getting straight to the heart of the issue, hashing out any concerns or details and getting the goddamn thing signed.
But not here.
There is protocol, and things must be observed and be done in a certain way to make sure all the niceties have been observed.
I used to sit in meetings with my father when he would negotiate for hours with endless glasses of vodka and hearty laughter over stories I knew he'd heard half a dozen times before.
I learned patience, thanks to my father, and I will exercise it.
Still, by the time we leave the bar to head to the restaurant, I'm hiding a foul mood, which is not improved by seeing Sergei standing across the lobby with Caroline.
They're talking animatedly, and she throws back her head and laughs as he gazes at her admiringly.
With her high heels on, they're exactly the same height.
Her hair is shining, tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, and she's wearing an elegant dress with two dainty straps, going over her shoulders to crisscross elaborately over her back. She looks delicious. She looks far too good for the likes of Sergei.
Was that sleazy prick planning to take her out to dinner?
Gesturing to one of my guards, I murmur, "Go break into one of the unoccupied suites and start smashing a few things up. Then call in a noise complaint as another guest."
He looks at me, his forehead furrowed as I instruct him to trash a Morozov property. But only for a moment before he nods and heads off. I've instructed my security to perform far more inexplicable activities than this. They know better than to ask.
In a couple of minutes, Sergei is approached by an anxious front desk clerk, wringing her hands. He frowns, leaving quickly after saying goodbye to Caroline. She's standing by the door, checking messages on her phone as my group walks toward the entrance.
I step behind her. Closely. "Don't you think it's unprofessional for you to be going to dinner with another Morozov employee?"
"Well, hello to you too," she says, putting her phone away.
Her dress is dark green and lightens her eyes.
I don't know why I'm bothering to notice.
"Do you really think it's any of your concern whether two professionals share a dinner - as colleagues - to exchange trade information? " she says acidly, folding her arms.
"This isn't a sex trip for you, Caroline," I say, and immediately regret it when she laughs.
"Oh, get over yourself. You've been using my hotel as a fuck palace for how many –"
"I was not using it as a fuck palace, and my personal activities in the hotel are none of your concern. I am the Sovietnik -"
"I don't care as long as you're not causing extra work for my people. In fact…" She turned to face me, fully. "Despite your extremely elaborate setup with those two gorgeous blondes, Housekeeping told me that you didn't even mess up the bed. That was all for show, wasn't it?"
I lean closer with a nasty grin. "What makes you think we used the bed?"
Her eyes are blazing with fury as Volkov chooses that moment to join us.
"And who is this?" he asks cheerfully, looking between us. "A new friend?"
Shoving down my frustration, I introduce them. "Viktor Velkov, this is the GM of our newest hotel, Lyric in New York City, and also a close cousin to Alexey's new wife, Liria."
His ruddy face lights up with recognition and he beams, shaking her hand. "I have heard of your hotel," he says. "I'm looking forward to staying there when I travel to New York next. I'm a bit of a musician, you see," he says, putting his hand on his chest and bowing slightly.
Caroline's smile is slightly warmer than her professional one, the irritation vanishes instantly from her face. "It would be an honor to have you stay with us, Viktor Volkov." She turns to Polina with an expectant smile and Volkov happily introduces her.
I check the time. "Well, we must be off, our table is waiting." I smile at the Volkovs. "Shall we go? I have taken the entire restaurant for us tonight. It's one of my favorites, Imperatritsa."
It's a rooftop restaurant in one of the older, grandly renovated mansions here in Moscow. It's warm for a late autumn Moscow night. And I know they serve twenty-seven different kinds of gourmet caviar, including all of Volkov's favorites.
And I will finally get away from Caroline before I can pick another fight.