Page 44 of Violent Possession

“…I just panicked, okay?” His voice comes out sharper than it should, and Ivan notices. “The Volkov guy in the same place as our only witness? It was obvious they were going to get him. I sent Vladimir to handle it. Silence them.”

Ivan never tolerated his own failure; he’s accustomed to being useful, to being the arm that executes the impossible. In the absence of that usefulness, he’s a cornered animal.

“You know what it means to have a missing port manager?” I say, my voice low. “Do you have any idea how big a hole that opens in the supply chain?” I don’t wait for an answer. Ivan is good with small numbers, scales, and bags of concrete, not with logistical abstractions. “Why the hell didn’t I know someone so sensitive was alive?” I drag out the phrase, intentionally. He shrinks further.

“It wasyour brother,” he fires back. “He said you have a hot temper for this, that you’d want to eliminate the guy and he needed to make sureyouwouldn’t mess up the plan.”

It’s unbelievable how much my younger brother can manipulate Ivan decades away, instilling obedience somewhere in his frontal cortex.

He continues, “Vasily said to keep it just between us. But... but now I’ve lost control. They’ve disappeared, Lyosha.”

Of course. Both are dead.

(Rest in peace, Vladimir. You really were loyal to the wrong man.)

“…Your witness disappeared?”

Ivan nods slowly. “Vladimir went after the Volkov guy to deal with the witness later. Then… nothing.” He rubs his temples. Then, the explosion comes. It was taking too long. “It’s all Vasily’s fault!” he growls, slamming his fist on the table. “With his crappy little secrets. ‘Strategic asset,’ what the hell kind of asset? He was just a shit manager. If he’d let me handle it in Odessa, the right way, none of this would have happened.”

“And what would the ‘right way’ be, Vania?”

“A shot to the back of the head! End of story!”

Ivan’s initial fear begins to be replaced by something else, buried under hundreds of layers of hatred—a ruminating resentment, a desire to fix or, if impossible, todestroywhoever put him in this situation. He looks at me, seeking approval for the next step, whatever it might be.

I imagine that’s what Vasily delights in. Ivan is easy to direct.

“Why did Vasily really want to keep Kirill alive?” I say. “What do you think he was going to do?”

Ivan shrugs, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck Vasily was thinking! He probably wanted to use the guy for some blackmail, screw someone over. He always has a hidden card. And now look at the shit it caused.” He takes a deep breath, leaning forward. “And you used Karpov? Did you manage to get to that metal-armed fucker? That idiot Karpov... Letting a Volkov agent fight in our territory. He should have his head on a stake for that shit.”

I allow myself a minimal smile. I ignore the threat. “More than that, Vania.”

“What do you mean?”

“I made contact.”

Ivan straightens in his chair. “Already? Damn, Leshy... So? What did he say? Where is he? This is our chance to wipe the son of a bitch out.”

“No. In fact, we’re going to meet him for dinner—he’s just another proof that the Volkovs don’t know how to hold onto their agents properly.”

“What?”

“He’s willing to beouragent, Vania. Everyone has their price.”

Honestly, if it were anyone else, this story wouldn’t stick. An agent who turns so easily against his contractors, so conveniently. But Ivan will accept anything that frees him from guilt and moral panic, that makes him believe one of the dangers has been overcome.

Ivan’s expression is great. First, the confusion that always comes when he tries to process complex new information. Then, disbelief. And, when the penny finally drops, a tsunami of relief.

“Damn! How did you...?”

“Talking,” I lie. “In exchange for some protection, at some level. It just took a little pressure and he gave in.”

I didn’t pressure anything. Griffin doesn’t even know how to recognize a Malakov. But Ivan needs a narrative of effort to feel a deserved victory.

“That’s it! This is the chance. We’ll use the fucker to find out if Vladimir?—“

“No, Vania,” I cut him off.