CHAPTER TWENTY
Washington, DC
December 5
Harlan Musgrave stared out the front window of his Capitol Hill brownstone. A stretch limousine idled at the curb. He turned and grabbed his overcoat, muttering, “Fucking Federov. Why can’t he just show up in an Escalade like a normal mobster?”
Musgrave knew better than to keep the man waiting. Aleksi Federov was soft-spoken with a kind smile, but the stories of his brutality were well-known in the criminal underworld. Federov never spoke of the Bratva, but Musgrave had met him once at his home gym and seen the star tattoos that marked his shoulders, designating him not only as a Vor but as the head of a family.
Lifting his collar against the biting cold, Musgrave hurried down the steps and into the limo. It pulled away from the curb as he shut the door.
Federov was in his late fifties, with thick, dark hair, a lantern jaw, and the physique of a much younger man. Under a cashmere overcoat with a fur collar, he wore a custom three-piece, pin-striped suit. A diamond clip held his purple tie in place. The man did like a bit of flash.
“Our nation's capital during the holidays, is there a more beautiful city?”
Federov always started with small talk. It was cultural. He could be planning to put a bullet in a man's brain, but he would always ask about family or the weather first.
“Your wife is well?” Federov inquired.
“She's in Florida. Our daughter just had a baby.” Musgrave replied.
“Congratulations.” Federov said, then repeated it in Russian, “Pozdravleniya.”
They drove down Constitution Avenue while Federov poured vodka into two large shot glasses and passed one to Musgrave. The Russian toasted the air and downed the shot. Musgrave followed suit.
“You need a man. I have a man,” Federov said.
“It's a very delicate matter,” Musgrave insisted.
“He's a specialist.” The Russian poured himself another.
“In what?” Musgrave asked.
“Delicate matters.”
Federov spoke in clipped Russian to his driver. The car turned onto 16th Street and pulled smoothly up to the curb in front of the Hay-Adams hotel.
Before the doorman could approach, a debonair man walked out of the lobby and across the covered portico. Musgrave noted that the driver had stepped out to open the car door, a courtesy he had not been afforded. The man slipped smoothly into the opposing seat and shook Federov's hand.
“Aleksi, it's been a while,” the man said.
“Two years at least. You are well, I take it?” Federov replied.
Musgrave bit his cheek to endure the pleasantries.
“Harlan,” Federov brought him into the conversation. “This is Caleb Cain. Cain, the honorable Senator Harlan Musgrave.”
Federov was clearly enjoying Musgrave's discomfort. Caleb Cain, however, revealed nothing. Stifling his annoyance at the use of his name and title, Musgrave extended his hand.
“Senator. Your reputation precedes you.” Cain spoke without inflection.
Musgrave chose to take the words as a compliment, though he wasn’t quite sure. He cut to the chase. “There is an item I need to acquire.”
“Not a problem.” Cain sipped the vodka Federov handed him.
Musgrave retrieved some of his bravado. “Son, it's not snatching a necktie from Macy's.”
It was Federov who replied. “Do you see this ring?” The mobster extended his hand to reveal a massive jeweled pinky ring Musgrave had never noticed before. “It traces back to the Romanovs. It was stolen from my family by the Bolsheviks over a hundred years ago. Cain reacquired it for me.” He took a long swallow of his drink. “From the Hermitage.”