Venison juice dripped down the Russian’s goatee. His dark brown hair was plastered back against his skull. He lifted a set of prolific eyebrows and poked his fork at Kline. “Yoo Americans always want someting beegger and bedder.”
“I’m not American.”
That drew a loud guffaw. “Yoo’re as American as…apple pie! And yoo assume that Roostam can help yoo, eh?”
Rustam Egorov. A gluttonous arms dealer and a liar. Kline had historical documents to prove both.
“I have a high degree of confidence.”
“What yoo’re asking for is a very yoonique, high-doollar item.”
“Name the price.”
“Again, yoo assume I have it.”
Kline leaned across the table. “Name the price.”
“I don’t know how yoo got my name. But, if yoo think the CIA is going to get deir hands on a device like dat, den yoo have been meestaken, comrade.”
Kline burst out laughing. He placed both elbows on the table.
“I am no more CIA than you are supermodel,” said Kline. He glanced at the bodyguards located on either side of the table. “I am, however, interested in purchasing two spider nukes. You have them. So name your price, comrade.”
Rustam bristled. Bridled rage swirled through his pupils. But he calmly picked his teeth and then tapped his ring on his wine glass. It was obviously a signal that he was done talking. Kline had pushed too hard. The bodyguards beside the table both took a step toward Kline. Rustam leaned forward and growled.
“I don’t have any nookes, spider or odderwise. Tell the CIA to dooble-check their facts.”
Kline pushed his chair back, slung his jacket over his forearm, and headed for the exit. The doorman bowed as Kline left the restaurant. Chill night air burned through Kline’s chest and cut his lungs. He pulled a beanie over his head. Two men on the other side of the street sauntered toward him. Kline reached for his pistol. It was missing. The two men drew guns. Kline knelt and grabbed the silencer strapped to his ankle. Before Rustam’s men could fire, Kline pulled the trigger. The Russians crumpled to the street as Kline jogged to a nearby alleyway while engaging his communicator.
“The Russians aren’t selling. I had to use lethal force. I’m moving to plan B.”
