fingered her own neckwear for a moment.
“Yuri Federov is probably one of the most dangerous men in the world,” Cerny said. “And certainly no friend of the United States.”
“Where was the picture taken?” she asked.
“Paris. A night club somewhere near the Place Pigalle where he had interests.”
“When?”
“Late last year. December.”
“Who are the others in the picture?” Alex asked. “Are they important too?”
“Since you inquired,” Cerny said, “the one on the left is Marko Marchenko. The one on the right, a man named Michael Kozlov. A couple of gangsters. You don’t have to worry about either of them.” He paused. “Former business partners of Federov. They disappeared, and now he owns full interest in the club. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Thanks. I will. But I’m sure you have more details.”
“Kozlov’s remains were found in an industrial furnace in Toulon, in the south of France. Marchenko was found in the River Seine outside of Paris. He was in sixteen feet of water, but his feet had been wired to a diesel engine block. According to the autopsy, he had been alive when he was dumped from a bridge. Then again, apparently Marchenko had been alive when he was shoved into the furnace.”
She handed the pictures back. Cerny placed them in the files he was giving her.
“Federov,” Alex asked. “Is he Russian mob or Ukrainian?”
“He’s a blend of both. Worst aspects of each. Ethnically he’s Russian, socially he’s a Uke. Maybe if you can get close enough you can ask him that question. We wouldn’t mind knowing what he considers himself.”
“How close am I going to get?”
“As close as you can,” Cerny said. “And I should warn you. This guy knows how to turn on the charm. For whatever reason, a lot of women find Federov irresistible.”
She laughed. “An over-steroided gangster isn’t exactly my dream date.”
If Cerny was amused or encouraged, he wasn’t showing either.
“Yuri Federov owes the United States government about ten million dollars in personal taxes,” Cerny said, “and that’s just the beginning of it. Then there are the corporate taxes and a long list of criminal activities just since we last deported him.”
“And?” she asked.
“He has agreed to meet with a representative of our government to discuss the issues,” Cerny said. “That’s where you come in. One of the most dangerous men in the world. Federov is your assignment.”
ELEVEN
I n Rome, an American couple known as Chuck and Susan were looking for a taxi. They had stumbled out of a late-night watering hole in the medieval neighborhood of Trastevere shortly after 3:00 a.m. on January 8.
It had been quite an evening, starting with “ladies night” at Sloppy Sam’s, a popular pub on Campo dei Fiori. In front of the commemorative statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno, who was condemned to death by the Catholic Church for heresy in 1600, beefy shirtless male bartenders had served up discounted shots of Sambucco. Susan loved to sit at the bar, knock back the Sambucco, and ogle the guys, while Chuck worked the room for single women. Then Susan and Chuck had moved on to the Zeta Lounge around the corner. There a reveler could have all one could drink for one low price, and usually did. The Zeta was also well known as a pick-up joint for couples looking for a special sort of excitement.
Giordano Bruno, the philosopher, would have had much to ponder if he could have seen his old neighborhood and the debauchery that took place there nightly. But there wasn’t much old Giordano could do about it, other than roll in his grave for another few hundred years.
There was a taxi sitting down the block from the Zeta Lounge when Susan and Chuck emerged. The cab’s meter was off, the driver with a mobile phone to his ear, talking furtively.
Secrets. Chuck and Susan had plenty of secrets.
First off, it was the secretive nature of their work and the European nightlife Susan
“Yuri Federov is probably one of the most dangerous men in the world,” Cerny said. “And certainly no friend of the United States.”
“Where was the picture taken?” she asked.
“Paris. A night club somewhere near the Place Pigalle where he had interests.”
“When?”
“Late last year. December.”
“Who are the others in the picture?” Alex asked. “Are they important too?”
“Since you inquired,” Cerny said, “the one on the left is Marko Marchenko. The one on the right, a man named Michael Kozlov. A couple of gangsters. You don’t have to worry about either of them.” He paused. “Former business partners of Federov. They disappeared, and now he owns full interest in the club. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Thanks. I will. But I’m sure you have more details.”
“Kozlov’s remains were found in an industrial furnace in Toulon, in the south of France. Marchenko was found in the River Seine outside of Paris. He was in sixteen feet of water, but his feet had been wired to a diesel engine block. According to the autopsy, he had been alive when he was dumped from a bridge. Then again, apparently Marchenko had been alive when he was shoved into the furnace.”
She handed the pictures back. Cerny placed them in the files he was giving her.
“Federov,” Alex asked. “Is he Russian mob or Ukrainian?”
“He’s a blend of both. Worst aspects of each. Ethnically he’s Russian, socially he’s a Uke. Maybe if you can get close enough you can ask him that question. We wouldn’t mind knowing what he considers himself.”
“How close am I going to get?”
“As close as you can,” Cerny said. “And I should warn you. This guy knows how to turn on the charm. For whatever reason, a lot of women find Federov irresistible.”
She laughed. “An over-steroided gangster isn’t exactly my dream date.”
If Cerny was amused or encouraged, he wasn’t showing either.
“Yuri Federov owes the United States government about ten million dollars in personal taxes,” Cerny said, “and that’s just the beginning of it. Then there are the corporate taxes and a long list of criminal activities just since we last deported him.”
“And?” she asked.
“He has agreed to meet with a representative of our government to discuss the issues,” Cerny said. “That’s where you come in. One of the most dangerous men in the world. Federov is your assignment.”
ELEVEN
I n Rome, an American couple known as Chuck and Susan were looking for a taxi. They had stumbled out of a late-night watering hole in the medieval neighborhood of Trastevere shortly after 3:00 a.m. on January 8.
It had been quite an evening, starting with “ladies night” at Sloppy Sam’s, a popular pub on Campo dei Fiori. In front of the commemorative statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno, who was condemned to death by the Catholic Church for heresy in 1600, beefy shirtless male bartenders had served up discounted shots of Sambucco. Susan loved to sit at the bar, knock back the Sambucco, and ogle the guys, while Chuck worked the room for single women. Then Susan and Chuck had moved on to the Zeta Lounge around the corner. There a reveler could have all one could drink for one low price, and usually did. The Zeta was also well known as a pick-up joint for couples looking for a special sort of excitement.
Giordano Bruno, the philosopher, would have had much to ponder if he could have seen his old neighborhood and the debauchery that took place there nightly. But there wasn’t much old Giordano could do about it, other than roll in his grave for another few hundred years.
There was a taxi sitting down the block from the Zeta Lounge when Susan and Chuck emerged. The cab’s meter was off, the driver with a mobile phone to his ear, talking furtively.
Secrets. Chuck and Susan had plenty of secrets.
First off, it was the secretive nature of their work and the European nightlife Susan
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