The Domino Game by Greg Wilson Page B

Rossiya.
    “Call it an abundance of caution,” Hartman reached around Nikolai and tugged the drapes, “but experience has taught me you can never be completely sure who’s on the other side of a lens.” He stepped away, talking across his shoulder. “Which in a roundabout way is why you are here. Correct, Mr Aven?” Hartman’s voice was soft and measured, the tone and inflection similar to that of the American bankers with whom Nikolai had worked. Educated. Assured. Refined, by American standards.
    At a guess Hartman was from the east coast – New York, or perhaps somewhere nearby. Nikolai stepped away from the shrouded window and surveyed the suite. It had originally been two rooms, joined recently it seemed in what was probably a hurried response to the demands of the burgeoning Western market. They were standing in what served as the living room. Writing desk, bar and entertainment unit. Twin leather sofas facing off across a coffee table. The American took a place on the sofa that backed the wall and poured himself some coffee, sipping it as though he were alone in the room, taking his time, regarding it, appraising it. After a time he spoke without looking up.
    “You managed to dispose of your excess baggage?”
    It took Nikolai a moment to compute the meaning. After eight years working for an American company his English was almost perfect, but he still wrestled with the euphemisms. He smiled briefly, more out of politeness than amusement.
    “My partner had it taken care of for me.”
    Hartman allowed himself a subdued grin. “Vari’s good at that sort of thing. We’ve known one another for quite some time, I suppose he told you. I like Vari. He’s always been straight with me.”
    Nikolai considered the words. “Did it ever occur to you, Mr Hartman, that being straight with you probably required him to be deceptive with others?”
    Hartman shrugged. “It’s not a perfect world, Mr Aven, you should know that by now. But it’s a free one, more or less.”
    Nikolai stared at him a moment. “More for you. Less for us.”
    The American smiled, acknowledging the bleak humor. “What I meant was, we make our own choices.”
    “Indeed,” Nikolai drew a breath. ‘so I’m learning.” He took the other sofa. Looked at the coffee service then back to Hartman. “I think I’ve changed my mind.”
    “Be my guest,” Hartman gestured. He settled back against the leather cushions and swung one leg across the other, watching Nikolai pour. “So… what do you have, and what’s the price?”
    Nikolai flinched. So that was how they regarded him: another Russian hustler looking for his chance. He set the cup down deliberately and regarded the American with a cool stare.
    Hartman pursed his lips a moment then responded with a diffident smile. “I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily blunt. Let’s start again. Vari told me that you have a wife and a small daughter and that as a result of the situation you find yourself in you have concerns for their safety as well as your own.” He paused, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. “For what it’s worth, Mr Aven, he also told me that you are the most principled person he has ever known.”
    Nikolai’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “A questionable description, I would have thought, for someone who is prepared to trade what he knows to a foreign power. But then given the kind of company Vari keeps, one could argue that his judgment is probably of dubious merit.”
    The implication wasn’t lost on the American. He laughed lightly to himself and the creases that radiated from the corners of his mouth etched deeper. Nikolai studied him, trying to measure what lay beyond the expressionless, river-gray eyes. He knew nothing about this stranger but either he had to take the chance and trust him, or get up and walk out of this room right now. He let go a resigned breath and stayed where he was.
    Hartman seemed to be reading his thoughts. He held his smile and played the timing,