"My name?"
"My cousin, you can do this."
"Even if I could find a way-" Gregor broke off, hardly able to believe he was even pretending to consider the suggestion. "How do you know the men proposing this aren't agents of the FSB"-the Russian Federal Security Service, the successor to the KGB-"or the Gumo?"
"My sheikh vouches for them."
"That might be enough for you, Tajid, but I need more."
"Your neighbor Mikhail, does he still bother you?"
"Today and every day. Worthless scum. Why do you ask?"
"We'll talk soon, cousin."
A WEEK LATER, GREGOR CAME HOME to find his apartment unusually quiet. He soon realized why. No porn actresses were screeching in fake pleasure next door.
Mikhail's body was found the next day, dumped on a back road outside Chelyabinsk. He'd been shot between the eyes. Worse, he'd been stabbed over and over, his ears and tongue cut off, or so the rumors went. Gregor heard the news and poured himself a glass of vodka, waiting for the phone to ring. The call didn't take long.
"You heard what happened to your neighbor?"
Gregor was silent.
"When can we meet?" Tajid said.
"Whenever you like."
"An hour, then. At the Moscow," a rundown cafe on the edge of Ozersk.
Tajid hung up and Gregor threw back his vodka. The drink warmed his belly, but his mind was still cold. Tajid's men had proven in the most emphatic way possible that they weren't police agents. They'd also sent Gregor a lesson in what might happen to him if he didn't cooperate. Two doves with one arrow.
ALSO BY ALEX BERENSON.
The Faithful Spy.
The Number (nonfiction).