“How long have you been in Russia?” Korman asked.
“Almost six months, sir.”
“Still have all your fingers and toes, then?” he asked, with a smile.
“Yes, sir. So far, so good,” Tess replied.
“Please, call me George. I spent thirty years as a field officer where I went by more aliases than I can remember. Then I got a new job where everyone called me either Sir or Ambassador. My adult kids call me Dad, to the grandchildren I’m ‘Pop Pop,’ and my dear sweet bride calls me ‘Porgie.’ It’s nice to hear my real name from time to time.”
“George it is, then,” Tess said, sweetly. And, son-of-a-bitch, she actually blushed.
George turned to me. “Stepped into some of that Red Chaos I warned you about?”
I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”
“Because we’re in the back room of the Lucky Dragon, which means you’re smart enough to have figured out who I am, but in the shit deep enough to need my help. It also means you’ve run out of local allies or you’ve been burned.”
“Not burned but we’ll be marked for death if we can’t convince someone of our affiliation with a certain Company asset.”
Korman’s eyes widened. “Sounds like proper spy work to me.”
“What do you say, George? Ya feel like suitin’ up for the game again?” I asked.
“Who says I ever stopped wearing the suit?” he replied with a wink.
“I think I’m engaged to the wrong spy,” Tess said.
“How can I help you two?”
“I’m not sure how much you know about Ilya Petrakov,” I started.
“Quite a bit, actually. Our careers ran in parallel for many years. Both of us climbing the ranks of our respective fields around the same time. I must confess, I don’t follow his operation as closely as I did while on the job, but old habits die hard, so I try my best to stay up to date. It’s why I took a keen interest in you, Boy Scout.”
“Thank you again, for your time and your help. We’re working undercover as black-market art brokers and newly engaged couple Eleanor Finch and Noah Beck.”
“If fine art’s your game, Sasha Fedya’s your man,” George said.
“He is our man, indeed.”
“Most importantly,” Tess interjected. “He’s the man my boss would like to spend some quality time with.”
“I see,” George said. “He’d be a good catch, that’s for sure. The only problem is—”
“Ilya Petrakov,” Tess said.
“I don’t get it,” I admitted. “There wasn’t much information in my brief about Ilya Petrakov’s relationship with Fedya, so I only know what I know,but what makes this fence so bulletproof? We know he’s a criminal, and I understand why we can’t simply turn him in to the Russian Police, but why not give him to Interpol or grab him ourselves? Hell, if the US hates him so much, why send us and not a sniper and a spotter?”
“Because Sasha Fedya is far more than a fence,” Tess said. “He’s become an integral part of Ilya’s operation. Through his work as a middleman for the past twelve years, Sasha has opened up all kinds of new channels for his boss. Channels that have made the Petrakov family hundreds of millions of dollars. Taking down Sasha is too big a move against Ilya right now. It would make too much noise. The Deputy Director told me himself. We’re not prepared to engage in open warfare with the Petrakovs. That’s the whole reason I’m here. Go as deep as possible in order to gather the intel needed to move forward.”
“Forward with what, exactly?” I asked.
George leaned forward. “The removal of Ilya Petrakov, along with several key Oligarchs.”
“So, what does black-market artwork have to do with taking down the Oligarchy?”
“Nothing,” Tess said. “But Deputy Director Forrester thinks Sasha Fedya is sheltering, laundering, and moving the wealth of many of Russia’s richest and most powerful. Some of these riches include artwork, heirlooms and artifacts once owned by Jewish families, that were taken from them during World War II. If we can uncover how Sasha is doing this and for who, we can exploit whoever is on the other end of it.”
“Wouldn’t something like this normally be handled by the FBI?” I asked.
