Buvchenko stepped toward Wells, barked something in Russian. Then spat a gob at Wells’s feet. “I tell you, Idi na khuy. Means, go to the dick. Eff yourself.”
“See, we both learned something new today.”
“You aren’t going to shoot that horse.”
“You had any brains, you wouldn’t let me near that Kord.”
Buvchenko smirked. “It’s locked down.”
He turned toward the horse, raised the pistol over his head, fired twice. The horse whinnied wildly and reared in panic. It dragged the stake out of the ground and turned and galloped back toward them. Buvchenko raised both pistols and fired a half-dozen times, pumping his arms forward and back, a parody of an old-school gunslinger, used rounds littering the ground around him.
Flesh and bone exploded off the horse’s chest. It screamed, the only word for the sound, not a whinny but an oddly human cry of pain, and turned and galloped parallel to the firing line. Buvchenko kept shooting, and three geysers of blood erupted from the horse’s flank. It reared up. Then its back legs sagged and it fell forward, not all at once but slowly as its strength ebbed. Its scream became a low moan as it looked at the men on the firing line. Its tongue flopped out, and it slumped over, blood coursing over its belly and pooling on the frozen ground, wisps of steam rising from the black puddles.
“You showed him,” Wells said.
“To the dick with him. Like all of us,” Buvchenko said. He shouted in Russian, and one of his men walked onto the range and shot the horse in the head.
Buvchenko tucked away his pistols and clapped a massive hand on Wells’s shoulder. “He would have had a much easier time if you’d taken care of it.” And without waiting for an answer, “Come. Let’s have dinner.”
Dinner was traditional Russian, plates of blinis with sides of caviar and sour cream and smoked sturgeon. The boiled meat dumplings called pelmeni followed, with butter, horseradish, and vinegar. Then grilled salmon and shashlik, marinated lamb skewers. Buvchenko ate with relish and without irony and hardly spoke as the courses came and went. Wells pushed the horse out of his mind and forced himself to eat. The food was delicious and beautifully presented, served on robin’s-egg-blue china, with crystal glasses, sterling silver knives and forks, and a lace tablecloth. Buvchenko might be a gangster in every other way, but he ate like a nineteenth-century Russian noble.
A bottle of Stolichnaya vodka sat on ice in a silver champagne bowl at Buvchenko’s elbow. As the meal started, Buvchenko poured shots for them both, but he didn’t push when Wells declined. “More for me,” he said. Maybe he figured he had made his point on the firing range. My horse, my men, my mansion, my city, my country. Be glad I let you live.
After ninety high-calorie minutes, the waiters swept away the last of the dishes. Buvchenko burped mightily. “What do you think?”
Wells wasn’t surprised that the vodka had lessened rather than thickened his host’s accent. “Excellent.”
“My chef comes from the Four Seasons in St. Petersburg. Down here there isn’t much. Even the best whores wind up in Moscow. I wanted decent food, anyway.” Buvchenko poured two fresh shots, offered one to Wells. Wells shook his head.
“Pierre says you’re Muslim.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand this, but also I don’t care.” Buvchenko downed both glasses. A faint flush rose in his cheeks. Spit moistened his lips. He’d had at least a dozen shots over dinner. “So you came all this way to see me, you showed stupidity and courage both with the horse, we’ve eaten, you are a guest under my roof, you know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“You know my business. So I speak frankly to you. I supply weapons and soldiers. I don’t care who you are, what you want them for, that’s your business. If you can pay, I give them over. I have helicopters, BMPs, up to two thousand infantry, the planes to take them anywhere in Africa or Asia. Trained men who obey commands, don’t make a mess with civilians. Unless that’s what you want. Mines, SAMs, antitank. Jets and tanks are harder. I may be able to arrange those, but I can’t guarantee. My prices are high, but they’re fair. When Putin decided to go into Ukraine, I don’t mind telling you I supplied that first wave of men.”
“You’re good with Moscow.”
“If not, I would be in exile in London or in jail in Siberia. One doesn’t anger the tsar. And you? Who pays you?”
“Once, I worked for the agency. Now I freelance.” The answer was true as far as it went.
Buvchenko poured himself another shot. “Pierre didn’t tell me what you wanted. So, please, ask whatever questions you like. Be direct, I tell you, before I’m too drunk to answer.”
The offer seemed too good to be true, but Wells didn’t plan to argue.
“Suppose I wanted to buy plutonium or HEU.”
“A nuclear bomb.”
“Not a bomb’s worth. Just a kilogram or two.”
“And who do you represent? Who wants this?”
“Let’s say it doesn’t matter. But I have the money.”
“How much?”
“As much as I need.”
“I don’t understand. This is a real offer, or a test?”
“Real.”
“And you have the money, you say?”
“I can get it.”
Buvchenko shook his head. “Still, I don’t think it’s possible.”
“What about the depots in Chelyabinsk?” Where the Russians stored their nuclear weapons. A few years ago, a terrorist had stolen two weapons out of Chelyabinsk and barely missed blowing up Washington. The story remained a highly classified secret in both the United States and Russia; Wells knew only because he’d helped find the nukes.
“No. Security there is tight now. Even I don’t have those connections, and if anyone did, it would be me.”
“There’s nothing loose floating around? Someone must know. In Moscow, wherever. Even for a clue, I can pay.”
“I would gladly take your money if I had something to tell you. But why do you ask?”
Wells decided to give Buvchenko a two-sentence version of the story. “Someone’s trying to trick the United States into invading Iran. The HEU in Istanbul isn’t Iranian.”
“You mean the American president is lying?” Buvchenko wagged his finger. “Mr. Wells, I am ashamed you say such a thing as this.” His accent thickened. Meester Wheelles. A natural ham. He should have played dinner theater.
“Not lying. Fooled.”
“And now set this deadline for war. A red line like Syria, but this time I think he has no choice but to go forward.”
“Yes.”
“And who do you think has done this? Not the FSB.”
Wells hesitated. But maybe Duberman’s name would shake loose a connection in his host’s vodka-soaked mind. “An American billionaire named Aaron Duberman. He owns casinos.”
“Duberman?” Buvchenko rolled the name out: Dooobermannn. “A Jew, yes? And you say we Russians are anti-Semites.”
“I don’t care if he’s the Dalai Lama.”
“Yet you are Muslim. And here claiming this Jew tries to make the United States go to war.”
Wells shook his head. He was guilty of a thousand sins, but prejudice wasn’t one.
“All right, that is between you and your Allah. So what is your evidence for this?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Buvchenko leaned across the table to Wells. “Meaning you don’t have any?”
“Some.”
“But not enough.”
“Not yet.” Somehow the Russian, despite all the vodka, had turned the questions back on Wells. “What about North Korea?”
“I don’t think so. I won’t do business with them. They can’t be trusted.”