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I’m looking for Numeros, the contact Tomas told me to look for. I try to see the man who’s standing at the bar with his back toward us, as it looks like he fits Numeros’ profile. “Let’s get a drink,” I say, gently drawing Taara off my lap. She keeps her head bowed and leaves as little space between us as possible. I need to get her alone. Something happened in here tonight that’s affecting her. I’m going to find Numeros, listen to what I can about Moscow, then get the hell out of here.
When we approach the bar, I see a man who’s small and lithe, with swarthy skin, when he looks to me, his piercing blue eyes confirm this is indeed the man I’m looking for. I don’t go to him at first, the men standing next to him are speaking in low, rapid Russian.
“Vodka,” I order for me, “And a glass of Pinot Grigio for my girl.”
She grips my hand tighter.
We drink in silence, and I keep our backs to the men, but I’m catching bits and pieces of their conversation. One mentions the prichal—a wharf, and another the otgruzka, or shipment. We need a place and time, or at the very least names we can pursue, if we’re to find the men behind the potential overtake of the American Bratva. I gather little bits and drabs of conversation, but nothing really concrete.
“Come,” I say to Taara, tugging her toward Numeros. When I reach him, he lifts his glass in greeting and clicks mine.
“Stefan.”
“Numeros.” We shake hands. Though we can’t speak as freely here as I’d like, he may have information we need.
“And you are…” his voice trails off as he looks at Taara. She looks to me for permission to speak.
Good girl.
She’ll be rewarded for that.
“This is Taara,” I tell him, but offer no further information.
Numeros sips his drink. “Nice to meet you,” he says, then to me, “She looks Afghani, but I have no recollection of her being in any of the auctions.” He smiles. “I’d remember.”
“You’ve spoken to Tomas?” I say tightly. I’m not answering the question.
He nods, takes another sip of his drink, and fixes his gaze somewhere over my shoulder when he speaks in a low whisper. “The men behind you. Brigadiers to the Thieves.” He clears his throat. “That’s all I can tell you. Watch them.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Be careful. And if you follow them?” His eyes go to Taara. “Leave her behind.”
Then he waves a hand to someone who greets him from across the room, and leaves that quickly, likely so as not to draw any more attention from those around us.
Leave her behind? Like fuck I will.
“Greetings,” says a voice behind us. "Pervyy raz na bortu?”
Your first time aboard?
I grip my glass tighter and hold Taara by my side, while I turn to greet the three men Numeros gestured to, the ones he says work for the Thieves. These are the very men who plan to overtake our American Bratva. They know who I am. We’ve spread word that their comrade, the very man whose body lies in a grave Nicolai and Rafael dug this morning, is still alive, so they don’t suspect my motives.
“Hello,” I greet. “And yes, it is.”
Two of the three men are blond, one with a shaved head, and I’d bet under their suit jackets all three bear the ink of the Thieves.
“Your son’s no cruise virgin, though, eh?” The man with the shaved head holds a shot to his lips and downs it, holding my gaze in bold challenge. It’s widely known my son obtained his wife from one of the auctions, but that she was sold into slavery by her father. There are varying opinions on how and why Nicolai did what he did, and I will not allow it to come into this conversation.
“And your name?” I ask the man with the shaved head.
He places his drink on the bar before turning back to us and gives me a calculating smile. “Master.” He won’t tell me his name. It isn’t until then that I realize he has a woman on a chain behind him. He snaps his finger and two more women, all dressed in skimpy clothing with bowed heads, approach them.
“Join us?” he asks. “We’re going to a private room for the remainder of the evening, and your woman is beautiful.” He scoffs at the room around us. “And there are far too few pure-bred Russians in attendance.”
I take a second shot, hold up the vodka to toast his drink, and play my part. “Ya soglasen, brat.”
I agree, brother.
If I’m to get in with these men and find out what I need to know, I can at least acquiesce to solidarity with fellow Russians. In recent years, various brotherhoods have inducted men into their groups without demanding pure Russian ancestry. Throughout history, from Hitler to Genghis Khan, men sought to overthrow political regimes under the auspice of purifying the population. I wonder if the reasoning behind the plotted overthrowing of the American Bratva is related.
