The Witness

made a note of the day’s take, then strode for the door.
    He enjoyed, too, the communal breath of relief behind him as he stepped out the door.
    He’d been born for power, and wore it as naturally as his favored Versace suits.
    He walked out of the apartment building to his waiting car. Heslipped into the back, said nothing to the driver. As the SUV pulled away from the curb, he texted his mistress. He expected her to be ready for him in two hours. Then he texted his fiancée. He’d be late but hoped to be finished with his meeting and other business by midnight.
    The car pulled to the curb again outside the restaurant, closed tonight for a private party.
    His father insisted on this face-to-face meeting every month, though, in Ilya’s opinion, so much could have been accomplished more efficiently through Skype and conference calls.
    Still, Ilya saw some value to the personal connections, and there would be good food, good vodka, and the company of men.
    Inside, he handed off his cashmere topcoat to the pretty, sloe-eyed brunette. When time allowed, he’d like to fuck her while she wore those black-framed glasses.
    His father already sat with several others at the big table set in the main dining room. Sergei’s smile spread wide when he saw his son.
    “Come, sit, sit. You are late.”
    “I had some business.” Ilya bent down, kissed his father’s cheeks, then his uncle’s. “I have the numbers for the Fifty-first Street operation. I wanted to give them to you tonight. You’ll be pleased.”
    “Very good.” Sergei poured Ilya’s vodka himself before lifting his glass. At seventy, he remained robust, a man who enjoyed life’s pleasures and rewards to the fullest.
    “To family,” he toasted. “To friends and good business.”
    They discussed business while they ate, and always at these meetings ate traditional Russian food. Ilya spooned up borscht as he listened to reports from brigadiers and trusted soldiers. Out of respect, he asked questions only when he received his father’s nod. Over braised spring lamb, Ilya reported on the businesses he oversaw personally.
    Problems were discussed—the arrest of a soldier on drug charges, a whore who’d required discipline, the interrogation and dispatch of a suspected informant.
    “Misha will speak,” Sergei announced, “on the business of our people inside the police.”
    Ilya pushed his plate aside. Too much food in the belly and he wouldn’t enjoy his mistress fully. He looked at his cousin as he sipped his wine.
    “Pickto says he hasn’t yet been able to find how the information on some of our business is being fed to the FBI.”
    “Then why do we pay him?” Sergei demanded.
    “Yes, Uncle, I asked just that. He has warned us on some occasions in time for us to take steps to protect our interests, but he can’t identify the contact within the Bureau, or the method of information. He believes the contact is one of three people, but they keep a tight lid on this. He asks for more time, and resources.”
    “More money.”
    “For bribes, he says.”
    Misha, now the father of four, continued to eat with gusto. Ilya knew his cousin didn’t have a mistress to satisfy. “I don’t question his loyalty, but I begin to think he, and the two others we have in place, aren’t high enough on the food chain to meet our needs.”
    “We will look into these three people. Ilya, you and Misha will take this business. Whoever this FBI police is, whoever the informant, we will end it. This costs us money, men, time. And offends.”
    Now Sergei pushed aside his plate. “This brings me to old business. We don’t forget Elizabeth Fitch.”
    “There’s no contact with her mother,” Ilya began. “None with the police that we have ever found. If she continues to live, she lives in fear. She’s no threat.”
    “As long as she lives, she’s a threat. And again, an insult. This Keegan, we pay him, and he’s useful. But he doesn’t find her. The others, they cannot find her. She is one woman.” He banged his fist on the table. “How can we hold our pride if we are defeated by one woman?”
    “We won’t stop looking,” Ilya assured him.
    “No, we will never stop. It’s a matter of honor. Yakov?”
    “Yes, Uncle.” The years sat lightly on Korotkii, as they did on a man who enjoyed his work.
    “Speak to Keegan. Remind him why this is important. And speak to Pickto as well. Money is motivation, yes. So is fear. Make them afraid.”
    “Yes,