Page 23

Any memory of my mother is long faded, absorbed by the many years that have passed since she left me at a Miami orphanage when I was barely six years old and never came back.

“Your letter was intriguing.” Volkov gestures to a deep leather chair on the other side of a low wooden coffee table and seats himself in another.

The furniture, though simple and understated, is clearly of the highest quality, unsurprising given that Volkov, according to my brief, deals in high-end art and antiques.

The coffee table has a worn patina and a delicate gold floral inlay around the edges.

Beyond the familiar scent of the tea, there’s something oddly comforting about the room that I can’t quite place.

He pours tea and passes my glass across the table with a dish of sugar cubes. I place one of the cubes between my teeth before I sip, another habit I remember being taught, but not by whom.

“You’re Russian, then.”

I look up to find Volkov watching me with rather curious eyes—unsurprisingly, since I’ve clearly mentally checked out for the second time in as many minutes.

Christ, what’s wrong with me today?

Jet lag excuse aside, I’m the one who asked for this meeting.

Get your head back in the game, asshole.

“I am Russian, yes. Or at least that’s what the nuns in the orphanage told me.” I return his smile. “When I turned up on their doorstep, I only spoke Russian.”

“You were raised by nuns, then?” He sits back in his chair, balancing his tea in one hand while hitching one leg over the other with a casual grace that almost makes me smile. “Was that in Miami?”

He’s a smooth bastard. I can just imagine him lulling people into conversation, before selling them a million-dollar piece without turning a hair.

“It was, yes.”

It’s not a lie. I stayed with the nuns for six months. Right up until Yakov came to “rescue” me.

“And you?” I shift the conversation back to him, smiling easily as I sip my tea. “Have you been in England for long?”

“I’ve been in London for almost fifteen years now.” Leon definitely is smooth, his attitude as relaxed as my own. It’s only the sixth sense honed by a lifetime of reading hard men that tells me there’s more to him than the elegant veneer.

“And you deal in antiques?”

“I do.” His smile is as opaque as his eyes.

Bastard doesn’t give a lot away.

But this isn’t a bratva face-off. I don’t have anything to prove, and frankly, I’d rather get this done faster than slower, so I cut the game short.

“I understand that your mother was Irina Stenyavina?”

His eyebrows raise very slightly. He inclines his head politely and sips his tea.

This one has a poker face to rival mine.

Oddly, I don’t mind it. In fact, I find myself rather enjoying this encounter.

And Volkov certainly has style, I’ll give him that.

Everything about this house, from the ornate samovar and perfectly brewed tea to the first-edition Tolstoys and Dostoevskys bound in leather on the bookshelves screams elegant sophistication.

Or more to the point, whispers it in subtle tones.

“I wondered if you might indulge me by telling me a little of what you know of your family history?” Usually, I come into these meetings knowing the background already, since my cyber team is second to none. However, Leon Volkov proved a little more difficult than most.

Correction: the guy’s history has been so effectively wiped he might as well not exist.

Had it not been for a casual remark about his mother he let slip to a journalist in a profile piece several years ago, we’d never have found him at all.

That one comment was enough for us to establish that his family tree stacks up.

The difficulty we had in putting it together, however, told us that Leon Volkov is most definitely more than the elegant dealer in rare art and antiques that he appears.

The only question is who he’s spying for—the Kremlin, the Brits, or someone else.

Nobody but intelligence has a record that clean.

I don’t particularly give a fuck who he’s passing secrets to. I’m not here to analyze the man’s politics.

Just to make sure he’s the right recipient of the little wooden box.

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, he might 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.

“You seem to know a lot about it.” I hold my glass out as he pours.

“I deal in antiques, Mr. Stevanovsky.” He sits back, looking mildly amused.

“It’s my job to know about such things. But in this case, I have a rather more personal interest, since one of the pieces said to have been smuggled out of Russia back then belonged to my great-grandmother, Mariya Stenyavina.

An extremely valuable piece. In fact, according to family legend, the piece was almost priceless: one of the few Fabergé eggs made for the imperial family, and given to my great-grandmother in gratitude for loyal service by Tsar Nicholas himself.

” He tilts his head and blows out a stream of smoke, eyeing me lazily through the cloud.

“But that is just family legend, of course.”

“Of course.”

I really am enjoying this.