Quietly, two men walked in. Wiry and rugged-looking, they wore identical black overcoats. Genti looked up.

“Artur? Nikolai?”

One of them stepped forward until he was ten feet from Prek. “I’m Artur,” he said, and gestured back to his companion. “That’s Nikolai.”

Prek looked back and across to Genti, who nodded. These were the names he had been given: Artur Zakoyev and Nikolai Dudaev.

“This is a lot of money you’re asking for,” Prek said in Russian.

“This stuff isn’t easy to get,” said Artur. “If it’s easy to get, why do you need us? What do you want this for, anyway? You making a big boom somewhere?” Artur grinned. He was referring to the fact that the substance could be used to make triggers for nuclear weapons.

Prek winced. He’d seen better teeth on a mule.

“What we do with it is our business,” said Prek. “How do we even know it’s genuine? It needs to be good, not some old shit you had lying around in a warehouse.”

“You have to trust us. That’s why you pay us. You have the money?”

Prek looked down at the bag and kicked it toward Artur. Prek glanced at Nikolai standing behind his boss and to his right. That’s the second time he’s looked at his watch, Prek said to himself. Artur stepped forward and went down on his haunches, his hands in front of him. Everyone knew the drill: they kept their hands down and in plain sight by their sides. Artur unzipped the bag and pulled out a brick of hundred-euro notes and flicked through it with his thumb. Prek saw Nikolai glance at his watch again.

He’s waiting for someone, thought Prek. He looked at Genti, who was watching Artur counting money. He’s waiting for someone and they’re late.

“Now you have to trust me,” said Prek. He was in a hurry. “The money’s all there so I’ll take the merchandise.”

Artur stood up and held up his hands.

“Okay, okay.” His right arm still aloft as if he were taking an oath, Artur reached into his right coat pocket with his left hand and pulled out a small object. Prek rocked forward and back on his heels—he’d had no time to react but he knew Genti could shoot both Chechens in the head in a second. This wasn’t a gun—it was a small aluminum vial about three inches long and an inch around. Prek moved forward, took the vial, and put it in his pants pocket. Nikolai said something Prek didn’t understand and without another word, the Chechens turned and were gone, Artur clutching the bag with the money.

“Come on,” Prek said in Albanian.

When he reached the doorway, he turned left, the opposite direction to the way they’d come in and where the Chechens were now headed.

“The car’s back there,” Genti said, but Prek was running now, heading to a stairway on the far side of the building. They could hear loud voices echoing up from the other stairway and the sound of hobnail boots on cement. This was who the Chechens were expecting, and it wasn’t the chamber of commerce coming to thank the Albanians for their business. Fortunately, Russian timekeeping hadn’t gotten any better since the fall of Communism.