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“So, if I understand this situation of yours correctly, Brigadier,” the Chechen said, his voice still so deadly, despite the contempt blazing in those baleful blue eyes. “Your men, assembled here, were drinking in a bar yesterday.”
Standing around the desk, the men in question at least had the good sense to keep their heads down and their mouths shut. They had all kept silent during the refined retelling of the previous day’s events, none keen to incur the Chechen’s ire. All except Rory, who stood with his arms crossed and a sulky, petulant look that only seemed to enhance his bruising.
“Yes,” Mikhail nodded, his mouth dry around the single syllable that could so easily sign his own death warrant.
“They took a liking to one of the serving girls, an Eskimo whore,” The Chechen spat out the words, but it was hard to tell if it was because he disapproved of the derogatory terminology or the idea of the Bratva’s soldiers fucking an indigenous girl. There was a reason the phrase ‘political correctness’ did not translate into Russian.“But when they approached her, she was rude and disrespectful, so they corrected her. That should have been the end of the matter, except one patron interfered and overpowered your five men single handed-”
“It wasn’t single handed,” Rory snarled, causing the stranger to look up.
“Oh? I misunderstood? There were others?”
But Rory did not answer, though the cords along his neck stood out like creeper vines.
“He-he had a pool cue,” a voice spoke up from the gathered soldiers, just loud enough to be heard but not to determine the speaker
“Of course, that makes all the difference.” Disdain coated the Chechen’s words.
“And a pint glass,” another mumbled through the bandages that hid the marks left by one such glass.
The Chechen turned back to Mikhail. “I stand corrected. One man overpowered your five soldiers with a stick and a piece of glass.” His lips pressed into a tight, humorous line that made the Avtoritet want to drain the last of his vodka. “Then, once they recovered their wits, your men tucked tail and ran to report this offence to you, Brigadier. Whereupon you and your personal guard, along with the captain here,” he gestured to Rory, “return to the bar to question the owner. What was it you expected to learn again?”
Mikhail swallowed and hoped against hope he sounded more confident than he felt. “I needed information.”
“Well, we always need information.”
“A name, or a bank account number, even a picture of his face,” he pressed, suddenly defiant, needing to justify himself. “Anything to help me find the Englishman.”
“And instead, he found you.”
That one question was enough to deflate and humble Mikhail, and he sunk back into his seat with a shrug. The Chechen had humbugged him, and he knew it. “Yes.”
“You tried to take him, but instead he laid all your men out, barehanded this time,” the man pressed. “And even made you agree to peace.”
“With a noose around my neck, yes.” It was an insignificant point, but Mikhail thought it worth mentioning all the same. Men had done much worse on pain of hanging, and at least he hadn’t pissed himself.
“I see.” There was a note of finality to the Chechen’s words this time, as if he had come to his decision. He laid his hands flat on the table. “Please, Brigadier, enlighten me. What the fuck is wrong with you? And your soldiers?” As he spat out the word, there could be no doubting his contempt this time.
Rory had had enough. His face red, he stepped forward and bellowed. “Nothing is wrong with us! That English bitch insulted the brotherhood. He needed to be made to pay!”
“Insulted the brotherhood or you?” The Chechen scoffed, and for the first time, his perfect mask appeared to crack with irritation at the interruption. However, he ignored it this time and kept his gaze hard on Mikhail. “Tell me Brigadier. Have you read Clive Cussler or Lee Child?”
“No, I can’t say I have.” What was he about to invite him to a book club? Did he look the type to debate Bridget Jones and Tom Clancy over a glass of wine, vol au vents and caviar?
“I thought not. Based on your background, I don’t think they would interest you. They’re pulp mostly, little good for anything but wiping your arse with. The feeble imaginings of mad, drunken capitalist swine. But beneath their propaganda, there is a warning. You see, all those stories start the same. With a nobody stumbling across the villain’s plans. He knows nothing, but the villain insists on trying to liquidate him as a precaution. And when they fail, that nobody comes looking for answers and foils their plot. Yet if they had left him alone, they would have succeeded, you see?”
“I see.” Mikhail didn’t, but he didn’t see any point in arguing. “A most amusing parallel.”
“I didn’t mean it to amuse you, Brigadier,” the Chechen growled, a warning edge to his tone that demanded silence. “The Englishman, what is he? Nothing. He didn’t know who he was fighting. It was a bar fight, nothing more. He did not disrespect or challenge the brotherhood because he was unaware he was against the Bratva. He just wanted to help a girl who was being harassed by drunken buffoons. Had your men identified themselves instead, before engaging in a pissing contest with a superior opponent, this all could have ended differently.
“Then in your stupidity you go to find him, and instead he finds you, again to help this woman. This Englishman is a fool, suffering from a Sir Galahad complex, perhaps, but a fool nonetheless. A fool with some skill, that is all. And I do not wish to see the Pakhan’s entire Western hub come crashing down because we insisted on chasing after a man of no consequence. He did the Bratva no insult. He had cause for the fight that did not involve business, and what’s more, he wants peace. So he will have his peace.”
If this man spoke it, then it was as good as spoken from Alexi’s own mouth. There would be no vendetta against the Englishman.
Mikhail sighed and nodded, knowing what was coming.
Rory looked at the men at the desk in incomprehension. “But he took down several of our men. He must answer for this.”
“Yes, someone must,” The Chechen agreed and stared hard at the Avtoritet. “And the responsibility lies with you…”
