Anyone who’d spent time drinking with Russians knew the difference between cultural insistence and true offense, but an American kid whose entire experience with Russia was limited Hollywoodized tropes wouldn’t.

Jack had backed himself into a corner on that one.

He tossed back the alcohol and helped himself to pickled herring.

Bottle touched glass in yet another pour.

The man in the suit said, “Now you make toast.”

Jack tipped the glass forward. He said, “Cheers.”

The man growled. “This is not toast. For what we do drink?”

Jack waited until silence begged for interruption. “Truth,” he said. “We drink to truth.”

The man in the suit nodded appreciatively. “Yes, this is reason to drink.”

Jack brought the alcohol to his lips and paused.

He said, “Answer me a question.”

“Drink.”

“One question first.”

The boss man emptied his glass, followed alcohol with a pickle, exhaled, and said, “What is question?”

Jack returned the untouched liquor to the table. “Why?” he said.

The suit man laughed. “Why is very big question. Make smaller.”

“There’s a man,” Jack said, “a Russian man. He has a woman, an American woman. She gets pregnant but leaves the country before the baby is born. The man doesn’t know where to find her. Time passes. The man learns the woman birthed twins, a boy and a girl. He searches for them, but they are gone. Years later he gets news. His grown children have been located. He asks them to visit. They make the trip at his invitation, but when they arrive, they discover another person has taken his place. Why?”

The man in the suit pushed a plate in Jack’s direction, and when Jack didn’t respond, took a canapé for himself, ate it slowly, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and said, “This is the story, you think?”

Tone earnest and honest, Jack said, “I don’t think. I know. The part where the story gets hazy is at what point you got involved.”

“Is good question. Is all good question.” The man nodded toward the untouched vodka. “Drink.”

Jack answered with silence.

“Okay,” the man said. “American boy wants to talk American way.”

Jack raised the glass in salute. “A toast to business.”

The man said, “What are you called in America? Your name.”

The question had no right answer, so Jack gave him the truth insofar as any name was truth, and offered what the man most likely already knew.

“John,” he said. “Jonathan. Smith.”

“Smith. Is nice, simple name, yes?”

“Bland. Boring.”

“Easy to be invisible. Is good name.” The boss man reached for the pouch, opened it, retrieved a packet, and tossed it across the table. He snapped for the bodyguard’s attention, and motioned to Jack. “Prinesi vody,” he said.