him?”
“The name, sure.” Yansky was Markov’s second-in-command, a former commander in the Spetsnaz.
“I called him this morning, gave him the comic book, the whole sad story. I said I knew your family from Beirut and that your father had been a source for me. I said that I’d recommended Helosrus to you. He wasn’t very interested until I told him that you were most assuredly stupid enough to have brought the money with you. He says he will meet you tonight at the Ten Places club but you must bring fifty thousand euros. Eleven p.m. To prove your sincerity, he said. I think he kept a straight face when he said it, but since we were on the phone I can’t be sure.”
“The Ten Places club?”
“A private place on Tverskoy. Not far from the ice skating rink where we met. Very exclusive.”
“All right.”
“You understand he may just take whatever you bring and shoot you. Or he may take you to your hotel to pick up the rest of the money and then shoot you.”
Or you may have blown my cover, and he’ll shoot me whether he gets the money or not, Wells didn’t say. Rosette was proving useful, but Wells was beginning to dislike him as much as Vinny Duto.
They walked out of the flea market. Rosette led Wells to his car, an Opel parked near the metro stop. For the next hour Rosette drove around the quiet streets of Khamovniki, the Moscow neighborhood around the flea market, practicing their cover stories: where and when they’d met, how they’d stayed in touch, the payoff that Rosette expected for setting up the meeting.
“Enough,” Rosette finally said, stopping beside a subway station and waving Wells out. “This foolishness won’t take more than a few minutes. He wants your money, nothing else.”
AFTER HE WAS DONE, Wells headed over to the Petersburg hotel for a nap. He felt refreshed and sharp when he woke. He didn’t know why, but he was sure that he would succeed tonight, convince Roman to get him to Markov. And then? Then he would do what came naturally.
But a few minutes later, his certainty faded. He understood he’d been lying to himself, pushing himself forward despite the obvious flaws in his plan.
And leave Markov untouched? Miss this chance?
Wells opened up the false compartment in his Samsonite and counted out fifty of the 500-euro bills, 25,000 euros in all, and stuffed them in his jacket. Then he taped fifty more bills to the bottom of the night table next to the bed. He left the rest of the bills in the suitcase and sorted through the other equipment he’d brought: three ballpoint pens. One was actually a tiny stun gun, capable of delivering a single massive shock. The other two hid spring-loaded syringes filled with ketamine and liquid Valium, a mix that worked as an exceptionally fast-acting anesthetic.
Wells slipped two of the pens — the stun gun and one of the syringes — into his jacket pocket, then grabbed his suitcase and walked down to the lobby and rang the front bell and shivered in the silent lobby until the mustached woman emerged.
“Can you hold this for me?” Wells lifted the suitcase. “Just tonight.”
TEN PLACES DIDN’T HAVE a velvet rope or a sign to mark its entrance. Just two massive men standing in front of a gleaming steel door, and a few unlucky would-be clubgoers standing beside them, stamping their feet against the cold. The bouncers frowned when Wells approached, but when Wells gave them Roman’s name they opened the door and waved him in. Wells found himself in a steel passageway twenty feet long. At the far end, two large men blocked another metal door. To the right, a bottle blonde sat behind a pane of inch-thick glass in a cashier’s office.
“Cover is one hundred euros,” she said.
Wells handed over a 500-euro bill. “Keep the change,” he said, earning only a small smile. A 400-euro tip didn’t go far at this club.
In front of the second door, one of the bouncers patted him down while the other ran a handheld metal detector over him. When they were done, the cashier pressed a red button and the steel door clicked open. The bouncers stood aside to let Wells pass.
Inside, the club was small, but even gaudier than Wells had expected. A half-dozen women in G-strings and pasties shimmied on a platform hoisted over the center of the room. Three more stood behind the bar, serving drinks. The dance floor was in the center of the club, only about twenty feet square, but packed. At 100 euros a head, somebody was getting rich. Rosette sat with Roman, a big man in a black leather jacket, at a table near the back. As Wells approached, Rosette stood and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Jalal,” he said in Arabic. “So good to see you.”
“Nicholas,” Wells replied in Arabic. “My old friend.”
“They don’t have clubs like this in Beirut.”
“No, they don’t. But maybe one day. When the Syrians are gone and peace comes back.”
“We hope.” Rosette nodded to the man in the leather jacket. “Jalal, this is Roman.”
Wells extended a hand and Roman enveloped it in his own giant paw. The Russian was Wells’s height, six- two, and had a boxer’s squashed nose and small ugly eyes. They sat and Rosette lined up three shot glasses and filled them from a Stoli bottle in an ice bucket beside the table.
“A toast.” Rosette spoke in Russian. When he was done, Roman laughed and the three men emptied their glasses. Wells hadn’t drunk vodka straight since college. The liquid was cold and warm at the same time and left a pleasant burn in his throat.
“What did you say?” Wells said to Rosette.
“Old farmer’s toast. I want to buy a house, but I haven’t the money. I have the money to buy a goat, but I don’t want one. So here’s to having wants and needs come together.”
“The wisdom of the Russian serf.”
“Very deep. And now I must go. I hope the marriage is happy, both families approve.”
Rosette disappeared onto the dance floor. Wells sat in silence for a minute, watching the dancers. The worldwide cult of fast money spent stupidly. The worldwide cult of trying too hard. Moscow, Rio, Los Angeles, Tokyo, New York, London, Shanghai — the story was the same everywhere. The same overloud music, the same overpromoted brand names, the same fake tits, about as erotic as helium balloons. Everywhere an orgy of empty consumption and bad sex. Las Vegas was the cult’s world headquarters, Donald Trump its patron saint. Wells had spent ten years in the barren mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan. He never wanted to live there again. But if he had to choose between an eternity there or in the supposed luxury of this club, he’d go back without a second thought.
Roman the Russian poured another shot for them.
“Drink,” he said in Arabic, rough but understandable.
“You know Arabic?”
“I was in Libya three years. A military adviser.” He raised his glass. “To our friend, the crazy Frenchman.” They drank.
“Do you know why this is called Ten Places? You’re supposed to be a billionaire to be in here. Ten places of wealth. A one and nine zeros. Of course, a billionaire in rubles isn’t the same as a billionaire in dollars, but even so.”
“I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”
“Well, then, let’s go.” Roman stood and Wells followed. They walked through the club, the dancers parting for Roman, careful not to touch him. But instead of taking the stairs to the front entrance, Roman led Wells to an exit behind the bar. They walked up a dimly lit staircase to an unmarked door.
“Go on,” Roman said. Wells pushed it open and emerged into an alley by the side of the club. Outside, a black Maybach waited, the oversized Mercedes limousine, with two men in front.
“Put your hands on the trunk and spread your legs,” Roman said. Wells did. Roman frisked him, thoroughly. “Empty your pockets.”
