Page 54

Aware that he hasn’t answered my question, I go on. “I understand that asking about your family may seem intrusive. Please be assured my questions have no political or legal motivation, and that anything you tell me will remain confidential.”

“You may have been born Russian, but you clearly weren’t raised there.” Volkov studies me over the rim of his glass with a hint of amusement. “We Russians are not so eager to share our family histories, particularly with strangers. Such topics can be... dangerous.”

“Ah.” I stretch in my chair, putting down my tea and wishing he had something stronger on offer. Lately, I’ve found myself reaching for the vodka bottle more often than I probably should.

Then again, it’s either that or the boxing ring, and if I take down any more of Alexei Petrovsky’s men in training, hemight reconsider my position as head of the task force and send me back to Roman in Spain.

“I hope you’ll forgive my lack of manners, Mr. Volkov.” I smile at him. “I’d blame it on my American youth, but I’ve lived in Spain so long that excuse doesn’t really cut it. The truth, if you’ll allow me to be blunt, is that your history has been so thoroughly scrubbed that ascertaining your actual background is next to impossible.”

Again with the slightly raised eyebrows, but still no answer.

You really are a cool one, aren’t you, Volkov?

“The fact is I don’t care who you work for. I have only one job here today, and believe me when I say it has nothing to do with your politics. I need to ascertain whether or not you are the sole remaining member of a particular family line. I believe you are that person, but I would prefer to hear it from you.”

Volkov steeples his fingers and regards me over them, eyes as inscrutable as they have been since I walked in. “I wonder, Mr. Stevanovsky, if it is too early in the day for you to consider something stronger than tea? I find that any discussion of history, family or otherwise, is better done over vodka.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

And you just became a whole lot more likable, Volkov.

“Besides,” I say as he goes to a sideboard and takes out a bottle and two glasses, “I’m still jet-lagged, as I said. It’s vodka o-clock back in Miami.”

“Excellent.” He unscrews the lid, and I conceal my surprise at the label.

Graf vodka?

Leon Volkov just became the most likely candidate to be exactly who I believe him to be.

“Za tvoyo zdorov'ye.” He touches his glass to mine, the faint edge of amusement still lurking behind his eyes.

“To your health.” I return the greeting as we toss off the first glass, as is tradition. “Nice choice.” I nod at the bottle. “It’s a rare brand. Hard to get in Spain.”

“Hard to get even here in London, which is strange, considering the Russian oligarchy has made our city their second home.” Volkov pours us both another shot and lights a cigarette, offering one to me.

I take one and close my eyes with pleasure as I inhale.

Christ, that’s good.

Since Abby left, I don’t really see the point in resisting cigarettes.

Or worrying about driving a little too fast.

Or drinking a little too much.

Or hanging up on Roman before he’s finished speaking.

Let’s face it, since Abby left, living dangerously has kind of become my thing. And for a guy who has spent a lot of his life being shot at, that’s saying something.

“Since we’re talking about history, I wonder if you’re familiar with the story of Graf vodka?” Volkov’s tone is light, and he doesn’t look directly at me as he speaks.

Oh, you really are a clever bastard, aren’t you?

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“It’s quite fascinating.” He sips his vodka, looking as relaxed as if he were on a beach somewhere. “Graf vodka was originally developed by some guards from a Russian gulag, adapted from a recipe made by the prisoners themselves in the 1950s. For years it was imported to Europe. Its real value, however, lay not in the vodka itself, but rather what it was created to conceal. Reputedly, a vast fortune in pre-revolutionary Russian treasures left the country packed amid the straw and bottles of Graf vodka, including some of the most exquisite pieces ever made by Karl Peter Fabergé.”

Given that it was Roman’s and Darya’s fathers who developed Graf vodka and smuggled the pieces out of Russia, none of this is news to me. But I can’t help admiring Volkov’s subtle way of telling me that he knows exactly why I’m here.