PETROZAVODSK, RUSSIA
Impossible!” growled Sergei Stavropol into his satellite phone, careful not to draw the attention of the various technicians and scientists working around him. “I don’t care if that body is inside a wolf, a bear, or some farmer’s hungry pig, I want you to find it, cut it open and bring me the bones. Do you understand me?”
Milesch Popov, the twenty-two-year-old, knife-scarred entrepreneur on the other end of the line, was pissed off. Who the fuck did this man think he was talking to? “You paid me to retrieve the cars from the lodge in Zvenigorod. I could have sold those cars for a lot of money, but our deal was for them to disappear, permanently, and that’s what I made happen. Then, you call me and ask me to goback to Zvenigorod to see what the police were up to. They were everywhere, but I went anyway and I took a look like you asked me to. That I did for free, out of good customer service, but what you’re asking me now is out of the question because I-”
Stavropol cut to the chase and interrupted the young Moscow Mafioso, “How much?”
“This isn’t about money.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the new Russia. Everything is about money.”
“Stolen cars are not exactly in the same category as dead bodies,” said Popov, lowering his voice and readying himself for a tough negotiation.
“You are trying my patience, Milesch. I am a busy man. Name your price,” demanded Stavropol.
Popov thought about it for a moment. In his line of work, he did not get to deal with many highly placed people like Sergei Stavropol. Whatever this was about, it was obviously serious. The papers had been full of the news of the disappearance of three generals and the discovery of two of the bodies behind the old hunting lodge in Zvenigorod. Popov knew his client had had something to do with it and that made the negotiation all the more dangerous. Then again, Popov had learned that men like Stavropol respect only men who respect themselves and set limits. “If I locate your missing package,” said Popov, “I want five hundred thousand dollars U.S. plus expenses.”
“You ungrateful, greedy little fuck,” roared Stavropol. “I should cut your balls off!”
“Watch it, old man,” responded Popov. “You don’t want to give yourself a heart attack.”
“Such insolence! Who do you think you are?”
“I think I’m the guy who’s going to help you sleep at night. My guess is that until you figure out what happened to the unaccounted-for Karganov, a good night’s rest is going to be a little elusive. Am I correct?”
Stavropol said nothing.
“That’s what I thought,” said Popov. “I want half of my money up front and the other-”
“No. I will give you ten thousand dollars in advance, the rest upon successful delivery of the package.”
“Now who’s being greedy?”
“Twenty thousand in advance then, and you cover your own expenses,” answered Stavropol.
“Seventy-five thousand, plus expenses, or I take the police to the lake where the dead generals’ cars were mysteriously submerged.”
There was a very long pause before Stavropol responded, “Fine, you have a deal. But, Milesch?”
“Yes?”
“When this is all over, you’d better disappear somewhere far, far away.”
And with that, the line went dead.