“You have heard much, my American friend. And what are these standards of the Chechen people?”
“I have been told that in a world of degeneracy the Chechens still abide by their code of honor; that they pay their debts, the good and the bad.”
There was tension from the three men behind Monk. Was the American making fun of them? They watched their leader. Gunayev nodded at last.
“You have heard correctly. What do you want of me?”
“Shelter. A place to live.”
“There are hotels in Moscow.”
“Not very safe.”
“Someone is trying to kill you?”
“Not yet, but soon.”
“Who?”
“Colonel Anatoli Grishin.”
Gunayev shrugged dis
missively.
“You know him?” asked Monk.
“I know of him.”
“And what you know, you like?”
Gunayev shrugged again.
“He does what he does. I do what I do.”
“In America,” said Monk, “if you wished to disappear, I could make you disappear. But this is not my city, not my country. Can you make me disappear in Moscow?”
“Temporarily or permanently?”
Monk laughed.
“I should prefer temporarily.”
“Then of course I can. That is what you want?”
“If I am to stay alive, yes. And I would prefer to stay alive.”
Gunayev rose and addressed his three gangsters.
“This man saved my life. Now he is my guest. No one will touch him. While he is here he will become one of us.”
The three hoods were all around Monk, offering their hands, grinning, giving their names. Aslan, Magomed, Sharif.
“Has the hunt for you begun already?” asked Gunayev.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then you must be hungry. The food here is foul. We will go to my office.”