The plan was to wash it all down with plenty of ice-cold shots of Jewel of Russia vodka. However, the buzz wasn't what she was looking for as much as information. She'd yet to meet the man who could keep up with her drinking ability, though Butch Karp's colleague Ray Guma, a man she'd had a brief and forgettable fling with, was close. She knew that Russians looked at drinking as a sort of competition, and thought she'd have no trouble getting the informant liquored up and talkative.
She knew one other thing about the Black Sea Cafe. It was owned by a Russian gangster named Vladimir Karchovski and his son, Ivgeny. Brighton Beach was also home to the Russian mob in the United States. It was an interesting aside, and she'd long hoped to interview the Karchovskis, but right now it didn't matter to her who owned the restaurant as long as the dumplings were hot and the vodka cold.
Walking in the door of the restaurant was like being greeted by an old friend with the smell of borscht, the moody dark woods and leathers that made up the interior, and the haunting sounds of the balalaika. Looking around, she noted a group of men who were well into the Russian tradition of extravagant toasts. For a Russian, drinking vodka was a celebration of life in all its joy and grief as only a Russian could express it, full of melancholy and fatalism.
One of the men had just finished a lengthy toast, after which they'd all clinked their glasses and downed the contents before reaching for the zakuska-hors d'oeuvres said to bring out the flavor of the vodka. Then they filled their glasses and began another round, or charka.
Like any good journalist taking in her surroundings, Stupenagel made mental notes of the other people in the restaurant. Sitting at one table was a fortysomething couple who appeared to be either leaving or returning from a trip. Just one of them, she corrected herself, noting that they sat with a single suitcase between them.
There were also several families in the restaurant. The parents, in the relaxed way of Russians, did little to settle their children, who were running around the restaurant, diving in between the legs of servers and patrons, as if it were a playground. She'd dodged one child when she spotted the man waiting at a corner table beyond where the couple with the suitcase sat. He was looking right at her and inclined his head slightly, indicating the chair across the table from where he sat.
Stupenagel took a deep breath and walked past the table of drinking men. The man giving the latest toast stopped what he was doing and instead raised his glass to her. The other men said something in agreement and also raised their glasses. She smiled and they drank before going back to their business.
Walking up to the table where the single man sat, Stupenagel repeated the phrase she'd been told earlier. "I'm here on a blind date." She wanted to roll her eyes-secret code phrases were too Hollywood for her tastes-but this was his game and she had to follow the rules.
"Then you've come to the right place," the man said, without a trace of a smile that a beautiful woman had the right to expect from such an exchange.
This guy is all business, Stupenagel thought as she took a seat. She took a mental snapshot of his face-the crooked nose and scars around the eyes, as if he'd been a boxer, and the clear, dark eyes that were assessing her just as thoroughly.
The mutual investigation was interrupted when one of the men at the drinkers' table shouted something. He sounded angry.
"What's he saying?" Stupenagel asked.
Her companion listened for a moment and at last cracked a smile. "He said, 'When I was released from prison three weeks ago, not one of you bastards would lend me so much as three rubles… Nobody but Ivan, who is my true friend and not one of you other bastards.'"
"Sounds heavy," Stupenagel said. "But nobody seems to be taking offense."
The man shrugged. "Why should they if it's true? In Russia, we have a saying: 'The first charka is for health, the next for joy, the third for quarrel.' We are a moody people who understand that it is better for a man to get such things off his chest than to let it fester inside and someday erupt."
"What if somebody does take offense?"
"They would be in the wrong as long as he does not step over certain lines, or tell an outright lie," the man replied.
Seeing the opportunity for a segue, Stupenagel replied, "Speaking of the truth, thank you for the information you have given me."
The man held up his hand. "I am doing as my employer wishes," he said. "He's asked me to tell you more and to give you something of vital importance. But first, we eat. Are you hungry?"
"Famished." Stupenagel smiled.
"Good," the man said, and clapped his hands sharply, which brought the immediate attentions of a waiter who was obviously nervous. He said something quickly to Stupenagel's companion, who nodded.
Well, whoever this guy is, Stupenagel thought, he's got some pull at the Black Sea, and I'll bet it ain't because he's a big tipper.
"Vareniki-all varieties-and pelmeni," the man said. "And a bottle of Jewel of Russia."
Stupenagel noted that the man placed the order in English rather than Russian, which everyone else in the restaurant was speaking. It's a message to me, she thought, and acknowledged aloud what it meant. "Well, someone seems to have done his homework."
The man tilted his head to the side and gave her a wry smile. "Yes…how do you say in America, 'Knowledge is power.' My employer is aware that you enjoy dumplings and Jewel of Russia vodka. And the waiter told me he remembers you from other visits."
When the bottle arrived, the man filled their glasses and raised his with a short toast. "Prost. To health."
Tossing back her drink, Stupenagel savored its warm, smooth course down her throat but noticed that the man wrinkled his nose. "Don't tell me I've met a Russian who doesn't like Jewel of Russia," she said.
"It's dela vkusa-a matter of taste," he said, then leaned toward her conspiratorially. "To be honest, I prefer Armadale…but it's a Scottish vodka, believe it or not, and they don't serve it here. In fact, if I asked for it, I'd get my ass kicked."
Stupenagel laughed as her companion, who told her his name was Gregory, filled their glasses again. She had the sudden impression that she might have met her match and would not be drinking this man under the table that night. So she resigned herself to whatever happened and was soon happily scarfing dumplings while Gregory kept their glasses filled and regaled her with stories of his time in Afghanistan as a Red Army soldier fighting the mujahideen.
"I hope America kicks the asses of those evil bastards," he said. "These religious zealots will not be happy until every man has been collared and made a dog to their imams and every woman made chattel. I wish we could have killed them all. But we were an army of conscripts, young boys straight off the farms of Ukraine and the streets of Leningrad; we didn't have the heart of men who think they are fighting for Allah."
They polished off dinner with blintzes for dessert and a pot of strong Russian coffee. Through it all, the waiter had been attentive but made no attempt to hand Gregory a bill.
In the meantime, the restaurant emptied. Two families were left, their exhausted children now asleep or fidgeting in their seats. Only two of the men who'd been in the drinking group were left-one staring blankly up at the ceiling with tears streaming down his face, the other snoring with his head on the table. The couple was drinking coffee and waiting on their bill.
Only now did Stupenagel's companion reach inside a leather coat he'd placed on the chair next to him and produce a five-by-seven manila envelope.
"What have you got there?" Stupenagel said, hoping she didn't sound too drunkenly excited. She reached for the envelope.
But Gregory held it just out of her reach. "This is a photograph taken in Aspen, Colorado. The man who took this photograph had been asked to watch for Nadya Malovo. He spotted her and followed her to a meeting in a bar. The others at this meeting were Andrew Kane and Jamys Kellagh."