The big man finished his champagne and poured himself another glass, but he didn’t drink it right away. He set it on the table with the bottle. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I like to cross all i’s and dot all t’s on such deals as this.”

“You have it backward,” said Salzman.

“Excuse me?”

“You dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

Zavulon laughed. “Spasibo. Now, to be clear on deal. You will supply us with DOPS mook tekhnologiya . . .”

Salzman held up a finger. “Not the technology. Just the plans.”

“Of course. Plans for mook creation. And also, the little box. One with power to reverse the process.”

“Exactly. You’ll be the only people in the world capable of both making mooks and unmaking them.”

Zavulon picked up his champagne, took a sip, and rested it on the arm of his chair. “Explain to me. You are a mook, yes? You don’t age. You don’t get sick. You don’t get poison. Many—what is it?—flavors of magic don’t hinder you. Who knows what else? With that, why do you so much want to be alive?”

Salzman poured himself more champagne. “You try being dead and then ask me that question.”

“That I understand. No translator required.” Zavulon smiled.

Salzman wondered how much one of the armored guards could hurt him. Antimagic armor wouldn’t protect any of them from a broken neck. Still. This wasn’t the time or place to contemplate such pleasantries. There would be time for that later. He said, “You have your experts in place who know how to use the box?”

Zavulon nodded. “We study every manuscript, scroll, and book on box for centuries. My people—similar to your DOPS—are ready any time.” He laughed and pounded his chest. “We will make you strong like bear.”

“What a strange thing to say,” said Salzman.

A couple of the guards moved their rifles up a few inches. Zavulon barked at them in Russian and they lowered them.

“Their English is good,” said Salzman, wanting to kill one of them more than ever.

“Yes. Much better than mine,” Zavulon said. “Pardon my earlier joke. But is not that what most Americans think of us? Borscht, circus, onions, and bears?”

Salzman drank his champagne and nodded. “Yes. And with a vibrant and flourishing kleptocracy.”

Zavulon frowned. “I don’t know that word. How do you spell it?”

“K-l-e-p-t-o-c-r-a-c-y.”

Zavulon took out a small pad and wrote down each letter. “Spasibo. I will reference later to improve my language.”

“Are there any details you’d like to go over?”

“Not this second. I think is it. Is it? It is? Sorry. English, it all sounds the same sometimes.”

“Champagne will do that to you.”

Zavulon poured them more. “When can you deliver box?”

“I’ll have to get in touch with my contact. It should be within twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent. We will be waiting. Soon you breathe air, see with normal eyes, and die like other men.”