“What the general here says is very true,” Iashvili admitted with a tolerant shrug. He grinned widely, revealing a worn set of tobacco-stained teeth. “But then I have my poor living to make, and they have theirs, eh? We each prosper in our own way.”
“So I hear,” Kirov agreed.
“But now to business, correct?” Iashvili said expansively. “Do not worry, Oleg. I think you and your friends will be very pleased by the quality of my merchandise.”
“Will we?” Fiona said carefully, eyeing the clutter around them with barely concealed disdain.
Iashvili chuckled. “Ah, Babushka, there you misunderstand the nature of my business.” He waved a dismissive hand at the bric-a-brac scattered around his shop. “These things are largely for show. They are only a hobby, something to deceive the curious policeman or the occasional nosy tax inspector.
Come! I will show you my true passion!”
With that, the burly Georgian swung round and ushered them through another door at the back of his shop. It opened into a storeroom piled high with the same mix of genuine antiques and useless junk. Off in the far corner, a steep flight of stairs led down into the basement. This staircase ended at a locked steel door.
Iashvili unlocked the door and pushed it open with an extravagant, sweeping gesture. “Take a look for yourselves,” he said grandly. “Here you see my studio, the little temple of my art.”
Smith and Fiona stared around them in wonder. They were standing in a large, brightly lit chamber. It was filled with expensive photography equipment, computers, several different types of color laser printers and photo- copiers, engraving machines, and rack upon rack containing what appeared to be almost every imaginable kind of paper, inks, and chemicals used to artificially age documents. One whole side of the room was set up as a photo studio, complete with different backdrops, a wash basin with soap, shampoos, and towels, and a privacy screen.
With another broad grin, the Georgian patted himself on the chest.
“Speaking with all due modesty, of course, I, Lado Iashvili, am the very best in my chosen profession ? certainly in Moscow, and perhaps in all of Russia. The general here understands this fact, which is why he has brought you to me.”
“You are definitely a gifted forger,” Kirov agreed tersely. He shot a glance at Smith and Fiona. “In the old days, the KGB held a monopoly on Iashvili’s rather unique services. But now that he’s branched out into the private sector, he has proved himself quite the entrepreneur.”
The Georgian nodded matter-of-factly. “I do have a wide range of clients,” he admitted. “Those who would like to leave their unfortunate pasts behind for any number of reasons have learned to rely on me for help.”
“Including members of the Mafiya?” Fiona guessed. Her face was expressionless, but Smith could hear the anger in her voice. She had no love for anyone who aided members of Moscow’s criminal underworld.
Iashvili shrugged. “Who knows? It may be so. But I never ask awkward questions of those who pay me.” He smiled drily. “For that, I think you two should be grateful, eh?”
Fiona looked back at Kirov. “How far can we trust this man?” she asked bluntly.
The Russian smiled coldly. “Quite far, actually. First, because he is a man whose livelihood depends entirely on his reputation for absolute discretion.
And second, because he values his own skin.” He turned toward Iashvili. “You know what will happen if news of the work you’re going to do for my friends leaks out?”
For the first time, the effusive Georgian seemed at a loss for words. His fleshy face turned pale. “You will kill me, Oleg.”
“So I will, Lado,” Kirov said quietly. “Or, if I could not, there are others who would do it for me. In either case, your death would not be quick. Do you understand me?”
Iashvili nervously licked his lips. He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, I understand.”
Satisfied, Kirov dumped the canvas duffel bag he was carrying on a nearby table and began quickly removing items from it. Within moments, the table was covered with shoes and sets of clean, stylish clothing in sizes that would fit the two Americans, different-colored wigs and hairpieces, dyes, and a kit containing other items that would help them alter their appearance in any one of several ways.
“And you still want all of the documents we discussed earlier?” Iashvili asked tentatively, watching the growing piles of clothing and gear through narrowed eyes.
Kirov nodded. “My friends will need new foreign passports … Swedish, I think. Also, photocopies of appropriate business visas and immigration cards?ones issued at St. Petersburg would probably be best. Plus, they’ll need paperwork confirming their employment by the World Health Organization.
They’ll also want a set of local identity papers as a fallback, documents with good, solid Russian names on them. Will any of that present a problem?”
The Georgian shook his head rapidly, beginning to recover his customary poise. “Not a bit,” he promised.
“How long will you need?”
Iashvili shrugged. “Three hours. Maybe four at the outside.”
“And the price?” Kirov asked.
“One million rubles,” the other man said flatly. “In cash.”
Smith whistled softly. At the present rate of exchange, that came to more than thirty thousand U.S. dollars. Still, it was probably a fair price for the high-grade forged papers he and Fiona Devin would need if they were stopped at a militia checkpoint.
Kirov shrugged. “Very well. Half now.” He pulled a large stack of Russian bank notes out of the duffel bag and handed them to Iashvili. “And half later, when the work is finished to my friends’ satisfaction.”
While the suddenly much-happier Georgian forger took the money upstairs for safekeeping, Kirov spoke quietly to Smith and Fiona. “Join me when Iashvili is done here. The rest of his money is in the bag,” he said. “Ill wait for you in the bar in the Hotel Belgrade, just on this side of the Borodinsky Bridge.” He grinned at them. “With luck, of course, I won’t recognize either of you.”
“You’re not staying?” Fiona asked in surprise.
Kirov shook his head regretfully. “I have a rendezvous I must keep,” he explained softly. “A private meeting with another old friend. A man who may have some of the answers we need.”
“An old friend in uniform?” Smith guessed.
“Perhaps from time to time, Jon,” the other man agreed with a slight smile.
“Though senior officers in the Federal Security Service often prefer a simple business suit for social occasions.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was well after ten at night when Smith and Fiona Devin entered the Lobby Bar at the Hotel Belgrade, but the place was still hopping. Men and women in business attire, mostly Russians, though with a scattering of foreigners, occupied most of the booths and tables or stood elbow-to-elbow at the bar. Soft jazz played in the background, but the music was almost completely drowned out by the clamor of loud conversation. Although the Belgrade was a big, boxy hotel without much architectural charm, its convenient location, close to the Metro and the Arbat, and its reasonable prices kept its occupancy rates high even in the winter.
Oleg Kirov sat by himself in one corner of the noisy room, silently smoking a cigarette. Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the table in front of him. He had a pensive look about him.
Together, Smith and Fiona made their way over through the crowds. “May we join you?” Jon asked in accented Russian.
Kirov looked up at them with a grave, welcoming nod. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.” He stood up, pulled out a chair for Fiona, and then signaled a waitress to bring fresh glasses. “Shall I ask your names? Or would that be considered rude on so brief an acquaintance?”
“Not at all,” Smith answered smoothly. He sat down and slid his new Swedish passport across the table. True to his boasts, Iashvili had done superb work. The forged passport looked as though he had carried it around for several years and it included entry and exit stamps for a number of different countries. “I’m Dr. Kalle Strand, an
