The Russian's Greed

by Cap Daniels

  Anya slid onto the rear seat. “We would like to buy clothes.”

  The driver eyed Gwynn, hoping for something a little more specific.

  “Let’s start at Bloomingdales on Lexington and East Sixtieth,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The remainder of the afternoon and early evening was spent collecting shopping bags and boxes and racking up points on Uncle Sam’s American Express.

  When their driver dropped them off back at the apartment, Anya said, “We cannot carry all of this up to the apartment. It will take two trips.”

  Patrick opened the door of the Town Car, and Gwynn decided to have a little fun with the Irishman at Anya’s expense. “Hi, Patrick. I’m afraid we’ve made a huge mistake. We bought too much stuff to carry in one trip. Do you think it would be safe to leave half of it in the lobby long enough for us to make it upstairs with the first load?” She gave him a wink.

  “Oh, missy, you’re giving an old man another laugh. I’m going to have to keep me eye on the two of you troublemakers.”

  Anya sat confused by everything happening around her, so Gwynn continued the game. “You know what? I don’t think I want to carry any of this stuff up there. Let’s just forget it and buy more stuff some other time.”

  Anya stepped from the car and eyed the doorman. “I do not understand.”

  Patrick threw up his hands in mock surrender. “The lady said she doesn’t want to do it, so I reckon you should go on up, and I’ll find something to do with all of this stuff.”

  Gwynn took Anya’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go up.”

  The Russian looked between the car, the building, and the doorman in rapid succession, but Gwynn kept pulling her toward the door.

  Completely baffled, Anya followed Gwynn into the elevator. “What is happening? Why would we buy all of those things and then leave them on the street? I do not understand.”

  Gwynn had carried the charade as far as she could, and she burst into laughter. “You may know everything there is to know about being an assassin, but you’ve got a lot to learn about being a New Yorker. I’ll make a deal with you. You keep teaching me what you know, and I’ll teach you about life in the city.”

  Anya scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  Gwynn pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. “This is a whole new world for you, isn’t it? Patrick will have someone bring our bags up for us. It’s part of the service.”

  The Russian drew a blade from somewhere Gwynn hadn’t noticed and bounced it against her palm. “If you do this to me again, I will pretend you are boss yelling at me inside office, and I will stab you in throat.”

  6

  MATRYOSHKA

  (NESTING DOLLS)

  Federal agent Gwynn Davis and former Russian assassin Anya Burinkova spent the evening putting away their trophies from the day spent shopping in Manhattan. Both were exhausted from the arduous day that had begun at Supervisory Special Agent Ray White’s breakfast table and culminated with the two women settled into their new Big Apple apartment overlooking Times Square.

  Gwynn joined Anya on the couch with a bottle of water in one hand and a stack of paper menus in the other. “Something just occurred to me.”

  Anya looked up. “What is it?”

  “Do you remember the name of Viktor Volkov’s favorite Friday-night restaurant?”

  “Of course I remember. It is Matryoshka. This means—”

  Gwynn cut her off. “I know what it means. Matryoshka are Russian nesting dolls. I think we qualify. We’ve been nesting all afternoon, and just look at us . . . we’re definitely dolls.”

  The two shared a laugh, and then Anya said, “If doormen—I mean, if the doormen—carry our packages for us, do they also bring for us food when we want?”

  “You’re getting better at this English thing. Pretty soon you’ll sound like a New Yorker.”

  Anya rolled her eyes. “I have been in New York for several hours, and I have never heard two people who sound the same. I do not believe there is a New York accent.”

  “Actually, you’re probably right,” Gwynn said, “but you’ll notice some similarities over the next few days. It really depends on where you are in the city. And yes, food will magically appear whenever we want.” She slid half of the menus across the center cushion of the couch. “Do any of those sound good to you?”

  She picked up the menus and shuffled through them. “Where did you get these?”

  “They were in the drawer in the kitchen. I guess the previous tenant left them. Do you like Chinese?”

  “The people, or their food?”

  Gwynn shook her head. “I was specifically asking about food, but now I’m curious about the other.”

  Anya pulled out a Chinese menu written in Mandarin and ran her finger down the page. “I like all of it, but this is my favorite.”

  Gwynn leaned toward her. “Are you kidding me? You can read Chinese?”

  “Only Mandarin. Not Cantonese. And yes, I like the people, but I do not trust the government.”

  “Be honest,” Gwynn said. “Do you really trust any government?”

  Anya looked up from the menu. “Is interesting question coming from government police officer.”

  Gwynn giggled. “Yeah, I guess it is, huh?”

  Anya extended her hand. “Give to me phone. I will make order.”

  Gwynn handed over her cell phone, and Anya dialed the number. Two minutes later, Gwynn was even more amazed at her partner’s ability to not only read Mandarin, but also her apparent ease in speaking the language.

  “Okay, that’s pretty impressive,” Gwynn said.

  “Is only order for dinner. I did not negotiate a peace treaty.”

  The delivery arrived, and the two devoured the dishes as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

  Gwynn laid down her chopsticks. “I’ve waited as long as I can. I need you to tell me the plan for tomorrow night.”

  Anya finished her dinner and spent twenty minutes explaining every detail of how, with Johnny-Mac’s help and a fake diamond, they would lure Volkov right into their hands.

  Gwynn listened intently. “That’s a brilliant plan, but what if he doesn’t take the bait?”

  “I am great actress. I will make certain he not only takes bait, but also he will swallow my hook.”

  “If anybody can pull it off, it’ll be you. I can’t wait to see the performance.”

  “You will brief Agent McIntyre, yes? He doesn’t like me, so it will be better for you to do it.”

  Gwynn frowned. “What do you mean he doesn’t like you? Everybody likes you. He’s just intimidated by you, that’s all.”

  “Not everyone likes me. I have told you of the man who once loved me, yes?”

  “Yeah, Chase Fulton.”

  Anya let the memory of the man consume her momentarily. “Yes, him. He has now wife. Her name is Penny. She does not like me.”

  Gwynn huffed. “Well, that’s kind of understandable, don’t you think? You’re a threat to her. She probably thinks she’s competing with you for Chase’s affection.”

  “If this is what she thinks, she is wrong. In some ways, he is a simple man. He loves her and will not hurt her for me or anyone else. He is loyal to his friends and to her. This is admirable thing. Sometimes people talk of how they would change their past if this were possible. I would do this. I would be loyal to him, and I would love him if I could turn back hands of clock.”

  Seeing one of the deadliest warriors on Earth open her soul and share such personal emotion left Gwynn mesmerized. “Does he know?”

  “Does he know what?” Anya asked.

  “Does he know you’d, you know, change things if you could do it all over again?”

  “I do not know. I have never said this to him, but more than this, I have secret I can never tell him. But every day I want to so badly it hurts inside me.”

  Gwynn watched the Russian fight back the tears welling up in her eyes. “Secrets can eat at us like
cancer. I know it’s not the same, but you can always tell me.”

  “This I cannot tell anyone. You have responsibility to government, and you could not keep secret. This is burden for me to carry alone.”

  “I understand, and you’re probably right. If I learn something about you that might affect the operation, it’s my duty to report it. I hope I never have to make that choice, though.”

  Anya wiped away the single tear that escaped the corner of her eye. “I hope this, also.” A few seconds later, the Russian’s face showed no sign of ever having been in turmoil. “There is not fighting training tonight. Maybe we will do this tomorrow. For now, I must sleep.”

  After Anya closed her door and slid beneath the cover, Gwynn stood at the living room window, admiring the scene below. Times Square bustled with people who looked like tiny scampering ants. Countless people went about their lives, never looking up to see who was looking down on them. Gwynn and Anya were tasked with the awesome responsibility of stopping a criminal element so violent and so contemptuous of law and civility that it would eat away at the very foundations of the moral and financial stability of the United States until those foundations crumbled beneath their feet. No one would ever know the sacrifices they made to rid the world of such parasites. Turning from the window, Gwynn ached to know Anya's unspoken secret.

  * * *

  As promised, Patrick had their car on the curb twenty minutes after Gwynn’s call the following evening. The Town Car had been replaced by a black Lexus LX-570. They slid onto the back seat, and someone closed the door behind them.

  “What’s up, ladies? I’m Geno, and I’ll be doin’ the drivin’ tonight. Where we headed?”

  Gwynn excitedly pointed toward the driver and whispered, “That’s the New York accent I was talking about.”

  Anya nodded and appeared to be taking mental notes of the dialect. “We would like to go to Matryoshka at eighty-eight Fulton Street.”

  “Sure, no problem. You ladies just sit back and relax. I’ll have you there in no time.”

  No time turned into forty minutes in the Manhattan traffic.

  Anya said, “Now it makes sense why no one has car in New York.”

  The driver shot a look into the mirror. “Yeah, the problem is them that do got cars don’t know how to drive, and then there’s no place to park. So, that being said, you’re better off without your own car.”

  Gwynn whispered, “Yep, that’s definitely pure New York accent.”

  Once inside Matryoshka, just past nine thirty, the hostess greeted them and led them to a table near the front. Anya scanned the room. Every table except theirs was occupied, but Viktor Volkov was nowhere in sight.

  Anya turned to the hostess and spoke in Russian. “It is very noisy here. Is there a quieter part of the restaurant? We don’t mind waiting if we have to.”

  Pleased to hear her native language, the hostess beamed. “Give me a minute, and I’ll find you someplace nice and quiet.”

  Anya and Gwynn moved to an alcove near the kitchen to watch the hostess go in search of a more suitable table—hopefully, one in full view of Viktor’s table.

  The hostess returned and motioned for them to follow. “Poydem so mnoy.”

  “She wants us to follow her.”

  “Yes, I caught that,” Gwynn said. “I’m learning.”

  As they were led through a curtain into a smaller dining room in the back, Anya spotted Yuvelir immediately in the back corner of the room with his back to the wall.

  The hostess turned to Gwynn. “This is good table for you, yes?”

  Gwynn nodded. “Much better. Spasibo.”

  Anya had a brief conversation with the hostess in rapid-fire Russian before sitting down facing Volkov. Once in her seat, she leaned toward Gwynn. “She says the stroganoff is no good, but the baked salmon with vegetables is perfect.”

  Gwynn continued her study of the menu. “I guess there are advantages to speaking Russian, even in New York City.”

  “Only inside Russian restaurant.”

  Gwynn perused the menu a little longer. “There are some nasty-sounding dishes on here. Boiled veal tongue with mushroom sauce? Are you kidding me?”

  “You should maybe try it. You might be surprised with both flavor and texture.”

  “Yeah, and I might throw up. I think I’m sticking with something a little less disgusting.”

  “We will start with appetizer,” Anya said.

  Gwynn slid her finger up the page and shivered. “Oh, my God. Cow feet and chicken. How can that even be a thing, let alone an appetizer? There’s something seriously wrong with anybody who eats cow feet. I can’t even imagine what part of the chicken comes with it.”

  Anya tried not to laugh. The night’s plan of action required that she be distraught, angry, and brokenhearted. “Maybe for you, just a salad and no appetizer.”

  She let her finger slide down Gwynn’s menu until it reached the salad list. Gwynn actually gagged when she read cod liver with lettuce, eggs, and onion. “No wonder you wanted to be an American so badly. Nobody eats cod liver.”

  Their waitress arrived and looked as if she could’ve been Miss Russia or right off the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Anya ordered for them in flawless Russian, just loud enough for Volkov to hear. When he looked up to meet Anya’s eyes, she gave him a polite, slightly flirtatious smile. He didn’t return her smile, but instead offered a barely perceptible nod and then didn’t look away.

  “I swear to you, Anya, if you ordered me something nasty, I’m catching the next train back to D.C., and you’re on your own.”

  She let her eyes drift away from Volkov’s. “I ordered for you mussels in white wine sauce, pork-stuffed dumplings, and grilled Norwegian salmon.”

  “Thank you. Now, please tell me you’re not having veal tongue or cow’s feet. Cows don’t even have feet. They have hooves.”

  “I am having buzhenina. Is roasted pork, smoked eel salad, and sausage with sour cabbage.”

  Gwynn sighed. “The eel sounds disgusting, but I might want a bite of the buzhenina.”

  The appetizers arrived, followed shortly by the salad and dumplings. Anya stayed in character and shot occasional glances toward Volkov. To her delight, he was staring back at her every time she looked up.

  The main courses arrived, and the portions were enormous.

  “I’ll never be able to eat all of this,” Gwynn said.

  Anya whispered, “Do not worry. We will not be here long enough to finish. It is time to call in Johnny-Mac.”

  7

  PREDSTAVLENIYE

  (THE PERFORMANCE)

  Gwynn thumbed the send button on her phone, launching a two-word text message to Special Agent Johnathon McIntyre.

  Outside the restaurant, Johnny-Mac felt the vibration and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen displayed the message he’d been waiting to see for over an hour:

  It’s Showtime!

  Four minutes later, he waded through the sea of tables inside the Russian restaurant. When he spotted Special Agent Gwynn Davis, he moved quickly to the table and faced Anya with Gwynn at his right hip.

  Anya barked in heavily accented English. “How dare you come to table. You are worthless, terrible little child. You will leave now!”

  Johnny-Mac put on an Oscar-worthy performance. “After everything I’ve done for you, I’ll not be treated this way. You’re an ungrateful, selfish bitch.”

  Anya wasn’t expecting his words to sting, but it appeared he was blending his actual feelings with his performance. She took a few seconds to brush off the reality in his tone, then turned to Gwynn with an outstretched hand. “Give to me ring! Give to me!”

  Gwynn suddenly felt the heat of the moment and almost believed it was far more than acting. She fumbled through her bag and pulled out the worthless ring.

  Anya yanked it from her hand and held it up in Johnny-Mac’s face. “This is what you call being good to me? Huh? This is worthless piece of trash. Is not real
diamond! Did you think the poor Russian girl was too dumb to know difference? Is this what you really think of me?”

  Agent McIntyre shoved a finger into her face. “Look at you. You’re making a fool of yourself in front of all these people.”

  “I am no fool!” she roared. “If I were fool, I would believe your lies, but I am finished with you. Get out of my face, and YA bol'she ne khochu tebya videt’, ublyudok!”

  The switch to angry Russian had been part of Anya’s plan all along, but she didn’t expect the raw emotion that came along with it. Her pulse pounded in her neck as her face turned blood red. She shoved the ring toward Johnny-Mac’s face again. “This is what I think of you and your phony ring!” She hurled the piece of jewelry across the room, bouncing it off the wall behind Viktor Volkov, who’d been watching the show with great interest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Volkov lift the ring from the floor and shove it into his pocket.

  Anya rose from her seat and screamed, “You are dead to me!” Before she finished the verbal attack, she landed an open-hand slap on Johnny-Mac’s right cheek, sending him stepping away after the blow.

  He lunged for her and grabbed her wrist. The heated exchange took a dark turn as the agent’s grip dug into Anya’s flesh. She raised a foot in preparation to send a heel kick crashing into his shin—or perhaps his knee—but she never delivered the blow. Instead, Viktor Volkov laced his powerful right arm around Johnny-Mac’s neck from behind and lifted him from his feet. With the agent kicking and flailing, the beefy Russian dragged him through the kitchen and deposited him in the alley behind the restaurant.

  Ninety seconds later, Volkov returned to the dining room and lifted his jacket from the chair beside his table. As he slid an arm back into the jacket, a soft round of applause rose from the room.

  Anya looked up and said, “Spasibo.”

  Volkov motioned for a waitress, and she scampered to his side. He pointed toward Anya’s table. “Move their meal to my table. They will be sitting with me for the rest of the evening.”

  His Russian accent was unmistakable, but a gentleness emanated through his words that neither Gwynn nor Anya expected. The waitress moved their plates and pulled a pair of chairs to Volkov’s table.