When Casey and Rhodes arrived at the run-down apartment building, they saw several high-end luxury vehicles already parked in front.
“There’s nothing better than blending in, is there?” asked Megan.
Gretchen shook her head. “Russian mafia. What do you expect?”
Two large men in cheap suits with fake Rolexes took entirely too much time patting the ladies down. “You know, I normally get dinner first,” quipped Rhodes.
Casey had had enough as well. Turning, she gave the man behind her a surprisingly good shove, forcing him back on his heels. “Party’s over. Where’s your boss?”
The men got the message.
Casey and Rhodes stood on the cracked tiles of the foul-smelling lobby as one of the Russians spoke into his radio. When a response came back, he looked at Casey and said, “You upstairs now.”
The women walked up to the fourth floor where two more men, cradling shotguns, were sitting outside an apartment door.
As the ladies approached, the men stood up, walked over to them, and indicated that they would be frisked again.
“Too bad Cooper didn’t come,” Megan whispered. “This is more action than she’s seen all year.”
Gretchen was starting to get angry. “Nyet,” she said, holding up her hand. “This is business. Go get Luka. Now.”
Whether the men understood English didn’t matter. They definitely understood her tone. One of the Russians stepped back and knocked on the apartment door. There was a grunt from the other side and it was opened. The Russian then stepped back and gestured for the women to enter.
The interior was just as decrepit as the rest of the building. Paint was peeling from the walls and a sour odor pervaded the entire apartment. Neither Casey nor Cooper could tell if it was coming from something that had overstayed its welcome in the fridge or from the twenty-five Russian men crammed into the tiny flat.
The Russians were in various states of undress. Some wore undershirts, some no shirts at all. Many had tattoos, and they were all in exceptional shape. Weapons of all sizes and calibers were scattered around the apartment. There were several metallic briefcases along the wall, which were probably crammed full of cash. Sitting at a table in the kitchen, the ladies were introduced to the man they had come to see, Luka Mikhailov-heir to his uncle Viktor Mikhailov’s crime syndicate.
They shook hands and Mikhailov barked at two of his men to get up from the table so that Casey and Rhodes could sit down.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Casey.
Luka was younger than they had expected; somewhere in his late twenties. He appeared more polished than his colleagues and came off as more management than mobster.
“Thank you,” he replied, as he studied his guests. Leaning back in his chair he flipped open the refrigerator door. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thank you,” said Casey.
Mikhailov allowed the door to swing shut and brought his chair legs back to the floor. “Apparently, we both have powerful people we answer to,” he said.
Gretchen understood what he meant. According to Hutton, Jack Walsh had quietly reached out to some of his colleagues in the Russian intelligence world. Through some subtle pressure, Luka Mikhailov had been persuaded to agree to this meeting.
“We also have a common enemy,” replied Casey. “Armen Abressian.”
The name obviously meant something to the Russian, as the expression on his face instantly changed. It was only a flash, but Casey had caught it.
“Why would you think that Armen Abressian is my enemy?” he asked.
“Because if he had killed my uncle, that’s exactly what he would be to me.”
“How do you know he killed Viktor? Do you have proof?”
Now came the hard part. Everything would depend on how badly Luka Mikhailov wanted to believe the story she was about to tell him. “Shortly before your uncle was killed, the Central Intelligence Agency intercepted a phone call between the men responsible for his murder and a man named Thomas Sanders.”
There was another flash of recognition on the Russian’s face.
“I take it you know this man?” asked Casey.
Luka nodded.
“The CIA also intercepted an earlier call from Armen Abressian to Sanders, during which he authorized the murder of your uncle.”
She could see the Russian’s anger building.
“I would like to hear this phone call,” he said.
Casey shook her head. “I’m sorry. The call has been classified by my government.”
“Why?”
“We’re pursuing Abressian on another matter that I’m not free to discuss.” As she let that sink in, she said, “Our Treasury Department is also now tracing a large sum of money we believe Abressian moved in order to pay your uncle’s killers.”
Luka Mikhailov remained silent.
“We also believe the AK47s and the RPG used in the attack were provided by a known arms dealer connected to Abressian, named Nino Bianchi.”
Casey felt no remorse in lying to the man. He was a scumbag underworld figure who had probably brought more misery to more people than she would ever know. If he could be manipulated into doing something useful, then so be it. With the water sufficiently chummed, she then sat back, kept her mouth shut, and watched to see if he’d bite.
Another man, who appeared to be a consigliere of sorts, bent over and whispered in Mikhailov’s ear.
Luka listened and, after several moments of reflection, looked at Casey and said, “Tell me what you would like us to do.”