Valerian, however, had other plans. One day, Dimi went on a run with Popov and his band of merry men, in which they did nothing but sit and wait, Dimi thought grimly—until, that is, a man across the street approached a car. When he got in, Dimi saw Popov press a button on a remote control. The car exploded, and Popov drove slowly away.
“What the hell was that?” Dimi asked Valerian. “Look, you need me to find a job, fine, I can give tennis lessons or English lessons. But I want no part of this.”
“But you do not understand, Dimitri Alexandrovich,” Valerian said. “This is the job. It is not that this supports tennis. But rather tennis is the cover for this.”
“You mean all these years of training and travel have been to make me a third-rate mobster like Popov?”
Valerian brought his fingers
