“YURI KOVALENKO,” THE elderly man called out. He shuffled with the aid of his cane across the great expanse of tiled floor toward him.
“Pasha,” Yuri answered the aging councilor softly; the only person for whom Yuri reserved a compassionate voice. “You’re looking well.” He placed a burly arm around the old man’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t be up so late, Sovietnik.”
Pasha gave a faltering smile. “Thank you, Brigadier,” he replied. There is no need for official titles tonight. I am well, but Pakhan Anatoly is not. He is calling for you. Where have you been? You must go to him.”
“I will, Pasha, immediately. I was on business, as you well know. Receiving a shipment, as ordered.” Yuri’s face clouded with anger. “The idiots at Sheremetyevo lost three girls tonight. I should have killed Daniel
