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Nikoli Antonov, his palms together and index fingertips touching his lips, was deep in thought as he looked at the plain brown paperboard box. It was on the far side of his desk, where Dmitri Gurnov, who had just left, had placed it ten minutes earlier.
Antonov was trying to figure out why Gurnov had been acting oddly.
Why is he so nervous?
He said he was distracted with the plans to get the keys from Carlos. But I do not believe that.
It is something else. He is not thinking clearly. Evidence of that is that I told him to call me about this box of muscle relaxer.
Instead, he chose to bring it here, to the casino! Careless!
I told him over and over there can be absolutely nothing associated with those killings and the casino or Diamond Development.
And this drug could most certainly be a “direct connection,” as Bobby and Mike said.
I do not like either of them. But that is different from having a professional respect for them. . . .
—
“Let’s be clear on this, Nick,” Bobby Garcia’s voice had come over Antonov’s speakerphone, his tone impatient. “This is not our first rodeo. We know what we’re doing.” He paused, then added, “Apropos of nothing whatever, per federal law, there has to be proof of a gift being given to a politician that actually caused him to act in some official fashion—and that proof has to be a direct connection.”
Antonov was quiet a moment, then said: “An example?”
“Okay,” Mike Santos had said, his tone equally impatient. “For example: Giving said senator regular use of your Citation results in him having included in another law—one wholly different, say, on immigration reform—a line item that provides a tax exemption for any corporation that engages in the gaming industry and said corporation is run by a blonde-haired former Russian national whose suit size is forty-two long.”
Antonov grunted.
“Short of that, Nick,” Garcia said, “federal prosecutors know they are pissing up a rope at any chance of conviction.”
“That’s the beauty of being a politician, a ‘lawmaker,’” Santos added. “You get to write your own damn laws.”
“And what about his chief of staff?”
Garcia laughed. “Are you kidding me?”
“What do you mean? This is no joke.”
“You know, I learned way
back in boarding school that Lenin had a name for people like that. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”
“Which is?” Antonov said, ignoring the shot.
“‘Tontos útiles,’” Garcia said.
“That’s Spanish, not Russian.”
“Well, I learned it in Spanish first. The translation to English is the same: ‘Useful idiots.’”
“And when they are no longer useful, we replace them,” Santos said. “Shall we paint you a picture?”
“No,” Antonov said, after a long moment. “No picture necessary.”
—
And the manner in which Dmitri placed that box on my desk, Antonov now thought, tapping his fingertips anxiously. It was suggestive. As if it was somehow a power thing.
Antonov turned and watched the images cycling on the quad of monitors on his wall. A surveillance camera captured Gurnov carrying a casino bag out through the revolving doors.
