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They were about to leave the club when Tara came rushing to the front door to stop them.
"Black! Wait a minute," Tara yelled.
"What’s up?"
"You got a call in the office," she said, trying to catch her breath.
"Who is it?" Black asked as they returned to the office.
"It’s Angelo Collette."
When Black got to the office and picked up the phone, Angelo, to his surprise, was still holding.
"What’s up, Angee?"
"For Christ’s sake, Mikey, you need to get a fuckin’ phone. At least while Kevon was around somebody could get in touch with you, but now that he’s dead, you know how many places I had to call to get you?"
"Sorry, Angee. You know I don’t like being all that accessible."
"And believe me I understand why you feel that way. I mean, there are times when I wanna throw this fuckin’ thing out the fuckin’ window."
"Then why don’t you? Not havin’ one works just fine with me. One less place a mutha fucka can listen to you."
"You got a point."
"What you got for me?"
"You feel like ridin’ out to Brooklyn?"
"Not really."
"Well, if you wanna talk to Oleg tonight you’ll be at his uncle’s restaurant in Brighton Beach at midnight."
"Good look."
"He’ll be there waiting for you."
"Thanks, Angee. Save that bottle of Rémy for me. I’ll get with you in a couple of days."
"You do that."
It was just after midnight when Black and Victor pulled up in front of a restaurant on Neptune Avenue in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn. The place was closed when they arrived. Victor knocked on the door.
"Yes," the large man said when he opened the door.
"Mike Black to see Oleg Mushnikov," Victor said.
The KGB targeted Oleg for recruitment even before he graduated. He spent seventeen years as a mid-level agent in the KGB’s foreign intelligence wing, rising to the rank of lieutenant colonel. After a few years spying on foreigners in Leningrad, he attended the elite foreign intelligence training institute, and then was assigned to work with East Germany intelligence, the Stasi, and the raw intelligence was sent directly to Moscow.
The downfall of communism left an economic, moral and social vacuum. Oleg began to fill the gap, supplying luxury items, jeans, cigarettes, vodka, chewing gum and stereo equipment to those who could afford them. Then he got involved with members of Izmaylovskaya that were running prostitution and gambling rings in Sri Lanka and scheming with the Colombian drug cartel. Once they tried to sell their newfound Colombian friends a Soviet-era submarine.
The man stepped to one side and allowed them to enter. Black saw Oleg sitting alone at a table near the back of the restaurant. Oleg waved for him to come back. Black handed both of his guns to the man who opened the door and made his way to the table. Victor surrendered his weapon and took a seat at the bar.
Oleg stood up to greet him. "Mikhail," Oleg said, calling Black by the Russian name for Michael.
"How’s it goin’, Oleg?" Black said, and the two men shook hands. "I know that you are a busy man. Thank you for agreeing to see me."
"Please sit," Oleg urged. "You know, when Mr. Angelo Collette calls and says Mr. Mikhail Black wants to talk to me, I say, oh no, I have no Rémy Martin for him to drink." Oleg pointed at his man, and he brought a bottle of Rémy and placed it on the table in front of Black, along with two glasses. "I sent someone to find a bottle so we can drink together."
