Fiction by Ai La Mar

The fire in the study crackles, though it does little to warm the room. The dark wood paneling absorbs the light, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. The three men have traded the stifling cedar heat for the quiet, expensive comfort of the Russian elite—Volkov in a thick, charcoal cashmere cardigan, Grigori in a pressed but collarless linen shirt, and Anton in a dark, tactical knit that conceals the rigid line of his posture. On the low mahogany table between them sits a frosted bottle of Beluga, beads of condensation weeping down its sides. Beside it are three faceted crystal shot glasses and a silver tray offering thin slices of dark rye bread, cured salo, and pickles—the obligatory zakuski that suddenly nobody has the stomach for.

Volkov reaches forward, the heavy silence broken only by the sharp, crystalline clink of the bottle against the glasses. He pours exactly to the brim, a practiced, steady hand. He passes them out.

“To ghosts,” Volkov says softly. He does not wait for the others. He throws the vodka to the back of his throat, sets the glass down, and immediately reaches for a piece of black bread, breaking it between his fingers without eating it.

Grigori drinks and the familiar icy burn hits his stomach. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I can begin unwinding the Dubai accounts by morning. It will take three days to scatter the liquid capital into the confusion we know, but Ilya, once the body moves, the red lights will flash in Moscow. The Central Bank’s monitors will see the drain.”

Anton swirls the clear liquid in his glass, watching the firelight catch in the crystal. “Three days is a lifetime,” Anton growls. “By tomorrow night, Kumanov’s replacement will be looking for a quick win to prove his loyalty to the Don. He will look at the manifest of your rail lines. He will look at the grain shipments.” Anton finally raises his eyes to Volkov. “We do not have three days.”

Volkov stares into the fire, the flames reflecting in his tired eyes. He looks like a man who has suddenly realized the fortress he spent his entire life building had its point of failure above him.

“Then we leave the bulk of the cash,” Volkov murmurs, the words hanging heavy in the dim room. “Let them seize the Cypriot accounts. Let them take the yachts. It will keep them busy feeding at the trough while we slip out the back.”

Grigori looks horrified, his accountant’s soul recoiling. “Leave it? Ilya, it is your life’s work.”

“My life’s work is sitting in this chair, breathing,” Volkov replies.

“The Bear is starving, Grigori. If we do not leave it a heavy meal, it will chase us through the snow.” Volkov pours himself another glass. “Anton. Get the cars ready. We drive south tonight.”

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