inlaid with gold and pearl. On the wall behind the desk was a stylized logo that depicted a military fur hat crossed by an unsheathed saber. Printed in Cyrillic letters under the symbol were the words: ATAMAN INDUSTRIES. Seated at the desk, talking into a telephone, was Mikhail Razov, president of Ataman.
Although Razov hardly spoke above a whisper, his seemingly gentle tone couldn't mask the cold menace in his voice. His pale white face could have been carved from Carrara marble, but no one would mistake the hard-edged profile as the work of a Renaissance sculptor. It was a face that countless victims had seen with their dying breath.
Two lean, white Russian wolfhounds lounged at his feet. When the tall man approached, they began to whimper. Razov hung the phone up and shushed the dogs, who crawled under his desk. Razov underwent an astounding metamorphosis. Unexpected warmth came into the slate gray eyes, the cruel lips widened in a smile and the rough-hewn features softened. Razov could have been anyone's favorite uncle. Career criminals like Razov become accomplished actors if they live long enough. Razov had cultivated his natural chameleon's talent under the tutelage of professional actors. In an instant, he could transform himself from a murderous thug into a hard-driving businessman, a charming host or a charismatic orator.
Razov's powerful shoulders and muscular thighs offered a hint of humbler beginnings. Born on the steppes of the Black Sea, the son of a Cossack horse breeder, Razov had ridden from the time he was big enough to climb into a saddle. He'd had a keen mind and quickly saw the disadvantages of the brutal farm toil that had killed his mother and was ruining his father's health.
He ran away to the city and put his muscle to work as an enforcer for a gang of extortionists. Razov's skill as a bone crusher and killer earned him top wages. He had forgotten how many times he had put a bullet into the kneecap of a recalcitrant merchant or the head of a tardy loan customer. He'd lost count of the wayward prostitutes he had strangled. In fact, he'd used his newfound wealth to buy a house of prostitution for himself.
Soon, by eliminating his former employers, he gained control of a network of brothels. He protected his investment with a private army of ruthless thugs and branched out into gambling, drugs and loan-sharking. With generous bribes and strategic killings, Razov put himself beyond the reach of Soviet authority and became a multimillionaire. He'd become the quintessential Soviet mobster, and it seemed as if he would go on until a more aggressive rival surfaced.
The bearded man came over and stood in front of Razov's desk, hands clasped in front of him. "You called for me, Mikhail?”
"Boris, my dear friend and advisor. I'm sorry if I disturbed your meditation, but there's important news."
“The test was a success then?"
Razov nodded. “The early damage reports are most impressive, considering the small scale of the experiment." He hit a button on the desk and an orderly appeared, as if by magic, with a tray, two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Razov poured the glasses full and handed one to Boris. Dismissing the orderly, he indicated a chair, took a seat opposite and raised his glass in toast.
Boris's large Adam's apple bobbled as he noisily slugged his drink down. He drained the glass as if the contents were no stronger than herbal tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. "How many dead?" he said, hardly able to control his eagerness.
"One or two," Razov said, with a shrug. "Apparently, there was a warning."
The monk's strange eyes blazed with a killing anger. "An informer?"
"No, it was completely unanticipated. A fisherman warned the townspeople, and the harbor was evacuated."
"A pity," Boris said, with genuine sadness in his voice. "We must be sure next time that there is no
Although Razov hardly spoke above a whisper, his seemingly gentle tone couldn't mask the cold menace in his voice. His pale white face could have been carved from Carrara marble, but no one would mistake the hard-edged profile as the work of a Renaissance sculptor. It was a face that countless victims had seen with their dying breath.
Two lean, white Russian wolfhounds lounged at his feet. When the tall man approached, they began to whimper. Razov hung the phone up and shushed the dogs, who crawled under his desk. Razov underwent an astounding metamorphosis. Unexpected warmth came into the slate gray eyes, the cruel lips widened in a smile and the rough-hewn features softened. Razov could have been anyone's favorite uncle. Career criminals like Razov become accomplished actors if they live long enough. Razov had cultivated his natural chameleon's talent under the tutelage of professional actors. In an instant, he could transform himself from a murderous thug into a hard-driving businessman, a charming host or a charismatic orator.
Razov's powerful shoulders and muscular thighs offered a hint of humbler beginnings. Born on the steppes of the Black Sea, the son of a Cossack horse breeder, Razov had ridden from the time he was big enough to climb into a saddle. He'd had a keen mind and quickly saw the disadvantages of the brutal farm toil that had killed his mother and was ruining his father's health.
He ran away to the city and put his muscle to work as an enforcer for a gang of extortionists. Razov's skill as a bone crusher and killer earned him top wages. He had forgotten how many times he had put a bullet into the kneecap of a recalcitrant merchant or the head of a tardy loan customer. He'd lost count of the wayward prostitutes he had strangled. In fact, he'd used his newfound wealth to buy a house of prostitution for himself.
Soon, by eliminating his former employers, he gained control of a network of brothels. He protected his investment with a private army of ruthless thugs and branched out into gambling, drugs and loan-sharking. With generous bribes and strategic killings, Razov put himself beyond the reach of Soviet authority and became a multimillionaire. He'd become the quintessential Soviet mobster, and it seemed as if he would go on until a more aggressive rival surfaced.
The bearded man came over and stood in front of Razov's desk, hands clasped in front of him. "You called for me, Mikhail?”
"Boris, my dear friend and advisor. I'm sorry if I disturbed your meditation, but there's important news."
“The test was a success then?"
Razov nodded. “The early damage reports are most impressive, considering the small scale of the experiment." He hit a button on the desk and an orderly appeared, as if by magic, with a tray, two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Razov poured the glasses full and handed one to Boris. Dismissing the orderly, he indicated a chair, took a seat opposite and raised his glass in toast.
Boris's large Adam's apple bobbled as he noisily slugged his drink down. He drained the glass as if the contents were no stronger than herbal tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. "How many dead?" he said, hardly able to control his eagerness.
"One or two," Razov said, with a shrug. "Apparently, there was a warning."
The monk's strange eyes blazed with a killing anger. "An informer?"
"No, it was completely unanticipated. A fisherman warned the townspeople, and the harbor was evacuated."
"A pity," Boris said, with genuine sadness in his voice. "We must be sure next time that there is no
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