Blood Vendetta

“Look, you ungrateful—”

“Ungrateful? Remember Tajikistan? You almost got me killed ten times over. I’m grateful to be away from you.”

“I need you to run an operation,” Yezhov said. Mikoyan said nothing, but Yezhov heard him clucking his tongue on the other end of the connection. From experience, Yezhov knew that sound meant Mikoyan was thinking. Yezhov wasn’t even sure whether the other man even was aware of the noise, the habit.

“How much money?” Mikoyan asked.

“Don’t you want to hear the job first?”

“No. I know you. If you called me, it’s a crap job. The details don’t matter because the job will suck no matter what. So tell me about the money first and I’ll decide whether it’s worth my time.”

“Trust me, it is.”

“What is it the Americans say? Money talks. Bullshit walks. Give me numbers.”

Yezhov said an amount, twice Mikoyan’s usual fee.

Mikoyan laughed. “What am I? A bag lady? That is crap pay!”

“It’s also my only offer.”

More tongue clucking sounded from the other end of the line.

“Okay, I’ll take it.”

“I need you to snatch someone—a woman.”

“Sounds horribly complicated,” Mikoyan said, sarcasm evident in his voice.

“You’ve heard of the Nightingale?”

“Nightingale? Sure, I’ve heard the stories. Total bullshit. No one can steal all that money and get away with it.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Sure it is,” Mikoyan insisted. “It’s a story some crooked accountant cooked up after he embezzled money from the wrong guy. Did it to save his own ass. Don’t tell me you’ve bought in to this fairy tale.”

“I have.”

“Please—”

“She stole from me.”

“How much?”

“It doesn’t matter. It was a lot. The point is, she stole from me. I can’t tolerate that.”

“You want the money back.”

Yezhov shrugged even though the other man couldn’t see him. “I have little hope that will happen.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. You think she has dollars sitting around in suitcases somewhere? My guess is she takes what she steals, splits it into a dozen or so accounts and makes it all disappear. The last thing she wants is for someone to track her or take what she has stolen.”

“Okay, you don’t want the money. What do you want?”

“I do want the money—I just don’t have much hope I’ll get it back.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want her. I want her alive, Dmitri. I want to kill her with my bare hands.”

“To send a message.”

“Yes.”

“Consider it done.”

“I sent two other men to do it. Or, more to the point, one of my employees sent two men.” Yezhov glanced at the spot on the carpet where the recently removed corpse had fallen. “Make that a former employee. Anyway, they both ended up dead.”

“Should’ve called me first.”

“Maybe. I’ll send a courier with more information.”

The line went dead and Yezhov slammed down the phone.

A single, soft knock sounded against his office door. He looked up in time to see the door swing open and a woman enter. As always, her fire-red hair, which cascaded past her shoulders, caught his attention first, followed by her jade-green eyes. Her full lips spread into a wide smile, lips parting enough to expose even white teeth.

“Tatania,” he said, returning the smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes,” Tatania Sizova said.

Crossing the room, she walked to him, reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Stepping back, she eased herself into one of the wingback chairs that stood in front of Yezhov’s desk. Crossing her legs, she placed her folded hands into her lap.

Yezhov looked at his guards and dismissed them with a nod. One by one, they filed from the room. He finished making her drink—a gin and tonic—and handed it to her.

She thanked him for the beverage and, looking at him over its rim, sampled it.

“Lovely,” she said.

“Good.”

“I’ve seen little of you this week. You’ve been up early and working late into the night.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s the woman,” Sizova replied.