It was a dinner meeting. The reservation was made at one of Moscow's more luxurious restaurants, which prided itself on tradition, employing only human staff who were trained to perfection.
"Professor Artyomov?" Julius leaned forward as he approached the table where a neatly dressed man sat alone.
Konstantin Lev Artyomov raised his head.
"Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov," Konstantin said, acknowledging him with a single nod. "You are punctual. Sit."
Julius took the seat across from him. A server approached, set down menus, poured water, and left without a sound.
"I have reviewed your portfolio," Konstantin began, clasping his hands. "Your analytical reports. Your simulation models. Your submissions over the past three months. Your work is very efficient."
"Thank you, sir."
"So, I have to digress," he said. "Where did a man like you come from?"
"Sir?"
