It takes nearly an hour, ten different appetizers, and half a bottle of vodka before Buschekov gets to the point of the meeting. The only reason I tolerate this is because it takes about this long for my feet to defrost from the sub-zero chill outside. The traffic on the way to the restaurant was so bad that Lucas and I ended up getting out of the car and walking eight blocks, freezing our asses off in the process.

Now, however, I’m finally able to move my toes—and Buschekov seems ready to talk business. He’s one of the unofficial officials here: a person who wields significant influence in the Kremlin, but whose name never comes up on the news.

“I have a delicate matter I’d like to discuss with you,” Buschekov says after the waiter clears off some of the empty platters. Or, rather, our interpreter says that after Buschekov says something in Russian. Since neither Lucas nor I understand more than a few words of the language, Buschekov hired a young woman to translate for us. Pretty, blond, and blue-eyed, Yulia Tzakova looks to be only a couple of years older than my Nora, but the Russian official assured me that the girl knows how to be discreet.

“Go on,” I say in response to Buschekov’s statement. Lucas sits next to me, silently consuming his second serving of caviar-stuffed blinis. He’s the only one I brought with me to this meeting. The rest of my men are stationed nearby in case of any difficulties. I doubt the Russians will try anything at the moment, but one can never be too cautious.

Buschekov gives me a thin-lipped smile and responds in Russian.

“I’m sure you are aware of the difficulties in our region,” Yulia translates. “We would like you to assist us in resolving this matter.”

“Assist you how?” I have a good idea of what the Russians want, but I still want to hear him lay it all out.

“There are certain parts of Ukraine that need our help,” Yulia says in English after Buschekov answers. “But, world opinion being what it is right now, it would be problematic if we went in and actually gave that help.”

“So you would like me to do it instead.”

He nods, his colorless eyes trained on my face as Yulia translates my statement. “Yes,” he says, “we would like a sizable shipment of weapons and other supplies to reach the freedom fighters in Donetsk. It cannot be traced back to us. In return, you would be paid your usual fee and granted safe passage to Tajikistan.”

I smile at him blandly. “Is that all?”

“We would also prefer it if you avoided any dealings with Ukraine at this time,” he says without blinking. “Two chairs and one ass and all that.”

I assume that last statement makes more sense in Russian, but I understand the gist of what he’s saying. Buschekov is not the first client to demand this from me, and he won’t be the last. “I’m afraid I will require additional compensation for that,” I say calmly. “As you know, I don’t usually take sides in these types of conflicts.”