It's late afternoon. Sophie and I are lounging at the kitchen counter again. Neither one of us was interested in taking our plates of fish and chips into the chilly dining room. When I'd asked her if she wanted to eat there, she wrinkled her nose.
“The dining room is intimidating,” she said. “When it’s so fancy, it always makes me think I should be working. Mom and I always ate at our kitchen table at the cottage. It seems weird to eat anywhere else, it's hard to relax."
My mobile has been constantly buzzing as Sophie and I eat dinner, and other than briefly checking who's calling, I've ignored it for most of the meal. However, when Dimitri Morozov’s name flashes across the screen, I know I owe him all the time he needs.
"Sophie, I'll be in my study." She nods, picking up the plates without a word, heading towards the kitchen. No questions, giving me my space.
"Dimitri."
"Michael." Dimitri's voice is more of a growl with a sharper edge from his Russian accent. I roll my eyes, pacing the room. "Dimitri, you're forgetting that I know ye were raised primarily in New York City and ye slap on that Russian accent to impress the girls, aye? You're wasting it on me."
"You're wrong,” he says. "I also use it to terrify our American partners. I see that apparently, it doesn't work on the Scottish ones."
"I can pretend to be all feart for ye." I rub my forehead. "I owe ye that much after yesterday's debacle."
“As you can guess, the Pakhan is not happy,” Dimitri says morosely. “I'm looking forward to having some better news to give him after this call."
"Whoever did this knew how to hit where it hurts your Bratva," I say. “Your family's stance on human trafficking is very clear.”
“Yes, my father being on the Board of Directors of one of the biggest anti-trafficking charities in the world makes this an deep insult,” Dmitri says.
“We sent a team of our defense attorneys from here at MacTavish International to confer with King’s legal team. Their last update was very promising.”
“I flew up to Nova Scotia today as well,” Dimitri says. "Mason was kind enough to join me to deal with the CSIS agents.” He’s moving around, I can hear the soft clink of ice in a glass as he takes a healthy gulp of some no doubt high-octane designer vodka. “Despite the Canadian’s reputation for niceness, the King Industry attorneys are real bastards," he says admiringly. "I enjoyed watching them in action. They had the agents from CSIS apologizing by the end of the meeting."
"Xenia, our tech goddess, managed to isolate some footage from a passing weather satellite over your ship's route between Russia and Halifax Harbor,” I say. “Whoever boarded the ship physically moved the women into the shipping container after stripping it of the guns. The captives had all been drugged so they wouldn’t make any noise."
“I had a thorough conversation with the captain," Dimitri says, his tone grim. “An extremelydetailedconversation. He wasn't able to explain to me how his ship could be boarded and valuable cargo stolen.” I hear the suppressed fury in his voice. He shares his family’s sentiments about the Red Trade. “Most importantly, he could not explain how human beings could be deposited on board without his knowledge, or any of his crew.”
“Leaked encryption codes on our side, and a compromised captain on yours?” I sigh. “I’d appreciate the enemy’s attention to detail if it dinnae involve fecking up our lives.”
“They'll be fishing pieces of him out of the Atlantic for the next month or so. Roman helped me,” he says. “There were many pieces."
“I’m thinking you’re going to have a hard time convincing Roman to leave his role as Vor when you eventually become Pakhan,” I say. “Your brother does enjoy his work, aye? I canna see him settling into an executive role as your Obshchak.”
“Very inspiring,” Dmitri says sourly. “It’s easy for you, asshole. You’ve got a fistful of MacTavi happy to jump in. I haveRoman.”
“We’re Catholic,” I shrug. “I’m surprised my parents stopped at five bairns. I’m always happy to share a cousin or two.”
“Oh, good. Because Roman isn’t mayhem enough,” he says, but I hear his affection for his brother. They’d give their lives for each other without hesitation.
“The captain though…” Dmitri says, still circling the problem, trying to pry something loose. “He worked in our shipping division for nearly ten years. Clean record. My people are looking for anything that might have compromised him. Drugs, gambling debts. If we can find a reason for his betrayal, we can find who caused it.”
“Do ye need any help from us with resettling the women?” I ask. “I know that ye can sometimes reunite the bairns with their families.”
“No, with our anti-trafficking network, this is the one thing, at least, from this fuckup of epic proportions that we can handle,” he says. “They’re already being taken care of.”
“We’re working on revising the optics from the raid on your ship,” I say. “The official CSIS report will present this as a rescue, that your crew saved the women during a stop along the Northern Sea Route. Because all the goddamned guns have been stolen, they’ve got nothing to charge your shipping company with. The manifest has gone missing from their investigation.”
Dmitri whistles sympathetically. “And what did that cost you?”
“Let’s just say if the chief investigator on the case wants my liver, I’m gonna have to give it to him,” I say sourly.
The heartless prick bursts into laughter “Yourliver?Please. No decent Scotsman has a working liver left to donate.”
“Aye, and what might ye be drinking right now, ye Slavic arsehole? Dinnae ye offer me a glass ofSpirytus Rektyfikowanylast time we met? That’s 96% proof. Your liver’s no better, the poor fatty lump of gristle.”
We exchange insults for a few more minutes before agreeing to check in with each other tomorrow. I know his father Maksim, the Morozov Pakhan, has been hands off on this disaster, watching how Dmitri manages it. As for Da? He’s doing the same thing with me. The mantle of Chieftain of the MacTavish Clan feels heavy, like it’s already being laid over my shoulders.
