Raised by the Mafia

27. You Better Be That Good (Mila)

Ironically, with sex-life out of the equation, Ryan and I made great allies. We arrived to Sochi without any trouble from the customs, American authorities, Russians or the mafia.

This isn't enough proof of our mettle for our Russian liaison Gleb Paliashvili.

"You better be that good," he repeats ad nauseam while we're planning our op.

"We are," I say for the third time, and a crease deepens between my brows. My word--a Nazarevich's word!--isn't sufficient to shut Gleb's neurotic giggles.

Gleb's appearance matches his reedy laughter: a tiny man with shifting oily eyes, bad breath and a wispy beard. Shorties can be ridiculously strong. Some of them can cross the Death Valley on half-a-cracker and a sip of water. Gleb ain't one of those.

He's a crook not a gangster, a middleman who pitched against Tangorello for reasons he won't disclose.

Ryan spent his every waking minute since we'd landed in Sochi trying to worm the truth out of Gleb. If he succeeded, he didn't share his mark's secrets with me.

One thing is clear, however. Gleb has something vital riding on this deal, or his slouching back would have disappeared in the distance already like a billowing sail on the ocean.

He sticks around though, and thank goodness. We need him to lead us across the neurotically defended Russian border to a location Ryan forbids me to disclose. There, we'll be in the thick of a broiling conflict. The entire Caucuses region is rife with them, and that's just how we like it (again, Ryan's words, not mine).

"We are that good," I say again, and Gleb giggles. "We'll see, we'll see."

The man is an idiot.

The plan Gleb sold us on is mad enough to succeed, and I feel good about it today.

I enjoy the view through the scope of my rifle. It has to rank among the most beautiful ones in the world, for sure.

Before me, the deeply cut valley makes a turn around a sheer beige cliff, skirted by scree. It's the last week of February, so no tropical extravaganza in every shade of green yet. It's just uniform saturated color, pregnant with things to come.

The clearing to the side hides a burned-out carcass of a mansion. At a guess, someone got rich fast, then died before the buildings were finished. Ruins like that litter these mountains from the ancient times to the decadent era of the post-Soviet hangover.

I don't know if the helipad was part of the original design, or the new management hastily bulldozed it from the debris, but the chopper with the Tangorellos' goods sits there. The guards are what you'd expect them to be in a place like this: brutal, with nothing to sell besides ferocity. Luckily for them, there is no demand for soldiers overburdened with intellect or sensitivity. Never was. Never will be.

I shift in my hiding spot, rub my hands for warmth, then sight down the barrel again. Left, then right... One frustrated sigh after another steams chilly air. I shouldn't fret about not finding Ryan among our enemies. It means all is well.

I peer through the scope again.

No sign of Ryan by the helipad.

Fuck.

I'd give half of this purported treasure for the two-way radio to hear Ryan scold me in the ear-piece right fucking now. 'Naz,′ he'd say in his typical even tone, 'Naz, what are you doing? We can't risk an intercept.'

Yes, yes, yes, fucking yes! Scali is not a fool, and this Gleb? I trust him as far as I can throw him. And still I'd give Nazarevich's treasure to talk to him right now or even just hear his voice.