“No, you just got lucky with me—and we all got lucky with Yulia,” Peter says, smiling. His expression is relaxed, his steely gaze warm as he looks at me. If he didn’t tell me five minutes ago that he intends to force a child on me, it would’ve been easy to pretend that we’re a normal couple having a nice dinner with a group of friends.
Everyone digs into the food, complimenting Yulia with every bite, and it’s not until we’re halfway to being stuffed that the discussion turns to business. As it turns out, Peter knows quite a bit about illegal arms dealing, including all the key players, and I listen in fascination as he and our host discuss deals in which insane sums of money trade hands—some to the tune of billions.
I had no idea arms dealing was so lucrative, or that my own government was sometimes involved.
“Did you ever figure out that manufacturing constraint with the undetectable explosive?” Peter asks, reaching for a puff pastry stuffed with a shiitake-camembert mix—one of the most popular dishes among his men. “That was quite in demand, as I recall.”
“It still is, and no,” Kent replies as Yulia ladles a spoonful of crab salad onto his plate. “The base material is so unstable you have to have highly trained chemists supervising the manufacturing process every step of the way. And even if we could amp up the production, Uncle Sam doesn’t want that. As you can imagine, the Americans are quite content buying up every batch we produce, whenever we produce it.”
“Of course.” Peter snags another pastry for himself before the Ivanov twins can decimate the entire platter. “Frank still there for you guys?”
“He retired a few months back,” Kent says and reaches over to play with Yulia’s hand, interlacing his big, sun-browned fingers with her slender ones. “We have a new CIA contact now—Jeff Traum. He’s tough, though. Hates Esguerra’s guts and only works with us under duress.”
“How come?” Yan asks, looking keenly interested. “You guys do something to him?”
Kent shrugs. “Not really. We threw the Israelis a bone with some intel a couple of times, so I think that played a role. And that thing with Novak didn’t help.”
Peter’s eyebrows rise. “The Serbian arms dealer?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” Kent releases Yulia’s hand, his mouth tightening. “He’s been interfering with our business, and we had to retaliate. Unfortunately, the CIA was in the middle of a sting operation when we struck, and we blew up a few agents. Not on purpose, mind you. But Traum is still pissed, because that operation was his baby.”
“You know, I heard something about that,” Peter says thoughtfully. Turning to Anton, he says, “Remind me… the shit show that our hackers were talking about in August—was that in Belgrade?”
“That’s right,” Anton says, nodding. “Two warehouses full of C-4, fifteen armored trucks, and a factory near that village. Was that your doing, Kent?”
Our host’s smile is sharper than a blade. “Indeed. We had to impress our seriousness on Novak. Undercutting us on prices is one thing, but breaking into our Indonesian facility and killing all the staff? That crossed a line.”
Listening in horrified fascination, I steal a glance at Yulia to see how she’s reacting to all this. Could one get used to dinner conversation revolving around staff killings and blowing up of factories?
Sure enough, Kent’s wife is eating calmly, seemingly unruffled. She either has no problem with her husband’s violent business, or she’s an excellent actress. For some reason, I suspect it’s a little of both, which makes me wonder about Yulia’s background. Has she always been in the restaurant industry, and if not, what did she do before? How did she and her husband meet?
In general, how does one encounter a man from this world if one’s husband doesn’t have the misfortune to be on an assassin’s revenge list?
Driven by curiosity, I get up to help when Yulia starts clearing away the dishes. She tries to wave away my assistance, but I insist on helping her carry everything into the kitchen, leaving the men to discuss whatever went down in Belgrade. It’s important that I get close to Kent’s wife, and not just because I want to learn more about her.
If I’m to stand a chance of getting away before Peter returns, I’ll need her help.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask as she takes several desserts out of a restaurant-sized fridge. “You speak perfect English, but your name…”
“It’s Ukrainian,” she explains, smiling. “Though it could just as easily be Russian. The name is common in both countries. If it’s hard for you to pronounce, you can call me Julia—that would be the English equivalent.”
I smile back and start rinsing dirty dishes. “I think I can pronounce the real thing. Yu-lee-yah, right?”
She looks pleased. “You got it. Some Americans have trouble, which is why I’ve been letting them do the Julia bit. Your pronunciation is really good, though—better than most.”