“People are tired of living scared.” Arthur gave a cold smile. “In this world, the strong take and the weak give. That’s how it’s always been.”
“Paul Rostov gets a cut and doesn’t complain.” “Rostov doesn’t know how you operate. Think he’d approve if he did?”
Arthur stiffened. “You planning to run to Rostov?” “I’ve got proof of everything happening here.
Recordings, photos, statements. If it reaches Rostov, your protection disappears.” Arthur stood up fast.
“You threatening me? In my office? Here’s my offer.”
“Walk away from this neighborhood. Leave these people alone. And the proof goes nowhere.” Arthur laughed, mean and sharp.
“That may be the boldest thing anybody’s ever said to me. Then it’s war. I’ll send everything to Rostov’s people, and you’ll be on your own.”
Arthur stepped toward the door. “You’re not leaving until we settle this.” Michael didn’t flinch.
His hand stayed in his pocket on the backup phone. They stood in silence for a full minute. Then Arthur stepped back.
“You’ve got three days. Either you take your evidence and disappear, or the war starts. And I’ll start with your vendors.”
Michael nodded, walked out of the office, got his phone back, and left the building. Outside he called George. “All good. Pull your people back.”
In the car he told George about the conversation. “Three days isn’t much,” George said. “Not enough time to get proof to Rostov.”
“Then tomorrow I call Tony Baton.” In the morning Michael found a pay phone away from home and dialed the number. A low, rough voice answered.
“Who’s this?” “George Gray gave me your number. I’ve got information for Paul Rostov.”
“What kind?” Michael laid it out in three minutes. Arthur, the extortion, using Rostov’s name as cover.
“I’ve got proof. Recordings, photos, statements. I’m ready to hand it over.” Tony was quiet for a moment.
“Serious subject. If it’s real, Rostov needs to know. Come to the capital tomorrow.”
“Two p.m. Café Old Town on Central. Alone. No tails.”
“I’ll be there.” Michael went home and got ready. Time was running out.
He had to make it to the capital and back before Arthur’s deadline expired. That evening Mr. Grayson stopped by, looking worried. “Mike, people are talking.”
“Arthur’s planning something big. His men are threatening the vendors.” “Tell them to hold on two more days.”
“Then things will change.” “You sure?” “I’ve got a plan.”
Michael barely slept that night. At six in the morning he left the apartment, caught a shuttle to the bus station, and bought a ticket to the capital. Twelve hours on the road.
Arrival at eight that evening. There were maybe fifteen people on the bus. Michael sat by the window with the bag of documents on his lap and never let go of it.
Fields, woods, little towns rolled by outside. At one stop he noticed a black SUV with tinted windows. He tensed, but it drove off in another direction.
He reached the capital on time. Got a cheap room near the station, took a shower, shaved, and lay down on the bed. But sleep wouldn’t come.
His mind kept running through every version of tomorrow’s meeting. At two p.m. Michael walked into Café Old Town. Nice place. Leather booths. People in business clothes.
In the corner sat a man around sixty with gray hair. Black turtleneck. Gold watch. Calm, steady eyes…
