Free The Domino Game by Greg Wilson Page B

I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m old school . They know that I know how to play the game. They assume that either I’ll shut up of my own accord or, at worst, that I might cost them a few months chickenshit salary.” He paused, weighed the plastic bag lightly in his hand, looked at Nikolai and winked. “And that, my friend, is why we want them to think that now I’m the one in control.”
    They stopped for the traffic at a cross street. Nikolai turned aside and propped against the trunk of a battered gray Mercedes parked at the curb. He drew a breath and stared at his partner.
    “You think that if we return the tapes and transcripts to Ivankov, then Larisa and Natalia are out of danger?”
    Vari shrugged. “More than likely. You too, of course.”
    Nikolai looked aside, then back again. His expression was grim with frustration. “And you’re saying that’s what we should do?”
    Vari’s eyes met his and held them. “What I am saying is that it’s an option.”
    Nikolai blinked. “And it’s the option you would take?”
    “Probably.”
    Nikolai’s eyes drifted down to the pavement but an unexpected postscript drew them back again.
    “But it’s your decision, little brother, and I’m not you.”
    The trace of a smile had crept back across Vari’s deeply etched face. Nikolai regarded his partner cautiously.
    “So, what would I do?”
    “I think what you would do, little brother,” Vari’s smile began to broaden, “is work out a way to fuck them before they fuck you. And if that’s what you decide to do, then I would be delighted to help.”
    Nikolai surveyed his partner carefully.” You said you preferred the old ways?”
    Vari thought about it. Picked his teeth a little with the edge of a nail and finally gave a shrug.
    “Maybe it’s time for a change.”
    “Think of it this way, Niko. It’s a stand-off.”
    Vari was regarding him intently across the laminate table that separated them. Just on midday and they were seated in an upstairs booth of the huge, sparkling new McDonald’s on Ulitsa Durova, the street leading from Mira into the Olympic park. Freshly mopped tiled floors, colorful vinyl padded chairs, bright fluorescents. Black and white sports photographs and a lattice of abstract steel sculptures – tennis rackets, cycles, rowing oars – mounted around the walls for atmosphere. A chunk of America dropped into post-Perestroika Moscow like a spaceship from another world, all of it coated in a glaze of pop music that trickled from the overhead speakers. The older man thumbed the last of his French fries into his mouth and pinched salt from his lips with a thumb and forefinger.
    “Let’s look at it. They know Gilmanov took the stuff. By sticking your card in the bag with his guts, they’re telling you they know he gave it to you and by now they’re assuming that you’ve got that message. But it’s Saturday, and they’re thinking that so far you won’t have had a chance to do anything with what you’ve got, so…” Vari shrugged. “… it’s a stand-off. The next move is yours.”
    He waited until he saw Nikolai’s nod of understanding.
    “If they were watching your place when I arrived – and we can assume they were – then they know I came empty-handed.” He hoisted the plastic bag onto the table between them. “Then they see us leave, with me carrying this, and they have to think this might be what they want. They see you as a crusader,” he shrugged “which you are, of course. But they’re hoping I am just an opportunist, and that right now I’m trying to convince you to give it up.”
    Nikolai toyed with the rim of his polystyrene coffee cup. “Okay. So what happens now?”
    Vari sucked his lips, regarded his partner, nodded.
    “We review alternatives.” He propped an elbow on the table and began counting on his thick fingers. “First, you can give it up like they hope.” He paused. Waited for a reaction. Got none. “Okay, so second, we can take the stuff