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“Raze, I love ya like a brother, but if you don’t get to the point, I’ll…”
Razor looked up at him.
“Never mind. I’m not in a position to make threats, even if I’m not serious.”
“Take it easy on yourself, Gunner. You’ve never seen my bat-shit crazy.”
“If I haven’t, has anybody?”
Razor shrugged. “No, but…”
“I changed my mind, if you don’t tell me where you’re going with this in the next ten seconds, I’ll rip your face off.”
“Svetlana Ivashov is Armenian.”
“But Petrov isn’t?”
“Nope. Azerbaijani all the way.”
“He had to know his wife’s nationality before he married her.”
“We need some inside intel on this. Too bad Pimm…sorry, man.”
“What are you getting at?” Gunner asked, his voice low.
“Who else have we got that’s far enough inside?”
“Grigor Bedrossian.”
“Shiv.” Gunner stood and greeted the man who’d just joined them. “How’s Pimm?”
“I’ll be fine, you stupid fucking asshole.”
Shiv stepped aside, and Pimm walked toward Gunner and reached out his hand.
“You armed?”
“Shake my hand, ya wanker.”
Gunner did. “I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven.”
“Why?”
“Gunner, thank the man for accepting your bloody apology,” said Shiv. “We have an op to finish.”
“What do you want to know about Bedrossian?” Pimm asked.
“Nothing,” answered Razor. “I want to track Svetlana Ivashov’s whereabouts for the last twenty years.”
“Bedrossian would be the man.”
“Is your cover blown?” asked Gunner.
“What cover? He knew I was MI6. So was he, actually. At one point anyway. When his uncle became president, he immediately appointed Grigor as ambassador to the UK. Now that the pres needs more help from you Yanks, he sent him to DC.”
“Get me everything you can on Svetlana and Topor Evasov,” Razor said to Pimm.
