Angeloff immediately loosens his hold and replies, “My apologies, Mrs. Kozlov.”
“No harm done. This time.”
Sergei Antonov, the youngest of the three at barely thirty, raises his vodka in greeting without approaching. Smart man. Adrian Morozov, silver-haired and wearing a suit that costs a small fortune, nods but keeps his distance.
“Gentlemen,” I begin as I accept a drink from the hotel staff and guide Katya to the leather sofa with sightlines of the whole room. “I appreciate you making time for this discussion.”
“After yesterday’s drama, we felt it was necessary,” Angeloff says as he takes his seat. “Attacks on family members affect all of us.”
“Indeed, they do. Which is why I want to discuss expanded cooperation between our organizations.”
“Cooperation?” Antonov finally speaks up. “Or are you asking for backup because you can’t protect your own wife?”
At the insult, Katya inches her fingers toward her purse, where she’s insisted on carrying the small pistol I gave her this morning.
“Yesterday’s attack wasn’t random,” I reply. “Someone coordinated six armed men and professional extraction equipment to target my family.”
“Your family,” Morozov repeats with emphasis. “Tell me, Dmitri, how well do you really know your wife’s background?”
“Well enough to marry her.”
“But perhaps not well enough to understand why someone would risk open warfare to take her.”
The room goes silent. Even the traffic noise from twenty stories below seems to disappear as everyone waits for my response.
“Choose your next words like your life depends on them, Adrian.”
“Just making an observation. We’re all friends here.”
Katya sets down her untouched drink and folds her hands in her lap. “Mr. Morozov, if you have something to say about me, please say it. I’m not fond of games.”
“No games, Mrs. Kozlov. Just curiosity about what makes you worth such extreme measures.”
“Maybe they thought I knew something about my husband’s business that could damage their own operations,” she offers.
“Maybe,” Angeloff agrees. “Or maybe there’s something about your past that your husband doesn’t know.”
All three men turn their attention to Katya, who meets their scrutiny without blinking. A normal woman would be intimidated by this much focused attention from Moscow’s most dangerous criminals.
Katya looks bored.
“My past is unfortunately unavailable for discussion.” Her smile does not touch her eyes. “Memory problems; you understand. But I should mention that threatening me is probably not the smartest decision you’ll make today.”
“Oh? And why is that?” Morozov asks.
“Because he’s already put eight men in the ground for me. And because I’m remembering skills that don’t leave witnesses.”
“What kind of skills?”
“The kind you never find on a report.”
Katya delivers the threat with the same tone she might use to discuss the weather, but she’s coiled now, ready to move, and I realize she’s not bluffing.
Antonov clears his throat. “Perhaps we should focus on business rather than hypothetical threats.”
“Absolutely,” I agree before this gets out of hand. “About the territory disputes in the Zamoskvorechye district...”
The conversation moves to safer ground, but I catch the men watching Katya with newfound wariness.
