The alderman was waiting in the conference room, his polyester suit slightly rumpled, his receding hairline damp with nervous perspiration. Councillor Martin Hayes was a small-time politician with big-time debts—mostly gambling, from what Oliver had gathered—and he'd been on Dmitri's payroll for the better part of a year.
"Mr. Volkov," Hayes said, standing too quickly and nearly knocking over his briefcase. "Good to see you. I hope I'm not imposing by arriving early."
"Imposing!" Dmitri boomed, striding forward with his hand extended. "No, no. Is always pleasure to see friend. Sit, sit. Oliver, get Councillor Hayes drink. What you want, Martin? Whiskey? Vodka?"
"Just water, thank you," Hayes said weakly.
Dmitri's face showed clear disdain. "Water. Of course. Englishman and his water." He muttered something in Russian that Oliver chose not to translate, though it roughly compared Hayes to a nervous rabbit.
Oliver poured water from the crystal decanter and took his seat, notepad ready. He'd learned to always have documentation of these meetings, carefully edited documentation, of course.
"So, Martin," Dmitri said, settling into his chair like a bear claiming territory. "You come early, you look worried like man who step in dog shit. What is problem?"
Hayes glanced at Oliver nervously. "Perhaps we should speak privately?"
"Oliver is like priest. He hear everything, say nothing. Speak."
Hayes pulled out a folder with shaking hands. "The permits for the riverside development—the planning committee is asking questions. They want to know about the environmental impact studies, the funding sources, and... well, there's been talk."
"Talk?" Dmitri's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "What kind of talk?"
"People are saying the project is a front for money laundering. There's a journalist sniffing around—Rebecca Chen from the Guardian. She's been filing Freedom of Information requests, interviewing committee members."
Dmitri's knuckles whitened as he gripped the armrests. Oliver could see the volcanic temper building and intervened smoothly. "Councillor Hayes, surely these are routine inquiries? Large developments always attract scrutiny."
"That's what I told them!" Hayes said gratefully. "But Chen is persistent. She's been investigating organized crime connections in property development across the city."
"Organized crime?" Dmitri exploded. "I am legitimate businessman! I build apartments, create jobs, pay taxes—well, some taxes. This reporter, she is problem that needs solving."
Oliver's stomach dropped. "Mr. Volkov means, of course, that we should address these concerns through proper legal channels."
"No! I mean she is problem! We make her go away!"
"Through information," Oliver added firmly, shooting Dmitri a warning look. "We make the problem go away by providing comprehensive information that addresses her concerns. Transparency, Mr. Volkov. Remember our discussion about transparency?"
Dmitri glared at him but subsided slightly. "Fine. Transparency. We show her we have nothing to hide, even though we have much to hide."
"I don't think that last part is helpful," Oliver muttered.
Hayes looked like he might vomit. "The thing is, Mr. Volkov, I need to protect myself here. If this journalist finds something, if there's an investigation... I have a family. I can't go to prison."
"Prison?" Dmitri leaned forward. "Martin, Martin. You insult me. You think Dmitri Volkov let friend go to prison? No. If there is problem, we fix problem. If you go down, I go down. We are like..." he gestured vaguely, searching for words.
"Mutually assured destruction," Oliver supplied.
"Yes! Like nuclear weapons! We both have button. Nobody push button, everybody safe."
"That's perhaps not the most comforting metaphor," Oliver said.
Hayes wiped his forehead. "There's something else. The committee wants to meet you directly. They want you to present the project yourself at next month's public hearing."
Silence filled the room. Dmitri stared at Hayes, then at Oliver, then back at Hayes.
"Public hearing," Dmitri said slowly. "With cameras? With other people asking questions?"
"Yes. It's standard procedure for projects of this size. You'd need to answer questions from committee members and concerned citizens."
Dmitri stood up and began pacing, his heavy footsteps making the floor creak. He unleashed a torrent of Russian profanity that made even Oliver, with his limited vocabulary, wince.
"Mr. Volkov is concerned about his schedule," Oliver translated diplomatically.
"I am not concerned about schedule! I am concerned about standing in room full of people asking stupid questions while I try to not threaten anybody!"
"That is a valid concern," Oliver admitted.
Hayes interjected nervously, "I could try to delay it, but that might raise more suspicion. These journalists, they love when developers avoid public scrutiny."
Dmitri stopped pacing and pointed at Oliver. "You. You will write speech for me. Beautiful speech with fancy words that make me sound like... like... who is rich respectable man in England?"
"The King?"
"Yes! Like King! But King who build apartments." Dmitri's expression turned calculating. "And you will be there, yes? To translate my words to better words?"
"That's not really how public hearings work, sir. You're expected to speak for yourself."
"Then you teach me! We practice. Every day. I learn to speak like Oxford man, not like Russian thug."
Oliver highly doubted this was possible, but the desperate hope in Dmitri's eyes was almost touching. "We can certainly prepare you for the hearing."
"Good, good." Dmitri turned back to Hayes. "You tell committee I am happy to speak. I have nothing to hide. I am model citizen."
"Model citizen might be overselling it," Oliver murmured.
Hayes gathered his papers with trembling hands. "I'll let them know. The hearing is scheduled for the fifteenth of next month. That gives you six weeks."
After Hayes left, Dmitri slumped in his chair and poured himself a large vodka. "Six weeks. Is not enough time to make me sound English."
"We'll focus on the key points. You don't need to sound English, you just need to sound competent and legitimate."
"I am competent! And legitimate! Sort of." Dmitri drained his glass. "Problem is, when people ask questions, I get angry. And when I get angry, I say things like 'I break your face' instead of 'I respectfully disagree.'"
"We'll work on that."
"And this journalist. Rebecca Chen. We need to deal with her."
"Legally," Oliver emphasized. "We deal with her legally and transparently."
"You and your transparency. In Russia, we have better way to deal with nosy journalists."
"Yes, and that's why you left Russia, sir."
Dmitri grunted. "Fair point." He stood up and walked to the window again, looking out at the darkening sky. "You know what is funny, Oliver? In Russia, I am nobody. Small criminal in big pond. Here, I build empire. But empire built on... what is word... illusion? I speak bad English, so I need translator. I do bad business, so I need legitimate face. Everything is pretending."
"Most successful people are pretending something," Oliver offered. "That's just called professionalism."
"You are pretending too?"
"Every day. I pretend this job doesn't terrify me. I pretend I'm not helping a criminal organization. I pretend the money doesn't matter as much as it does."
Dmitri turned from the window, genuinely curious. "Why it matter so much? You have debt?"
Oliver hesitated. He'd never discussed his personal life with Dmitri beyond superficial details. But there was something about the vodka and the dim light and the honest confession that loosened his tongue.
"My father has Alzheimer's. He's in a care facility that costs more per month than most people make in a year. My mother can't work anymore—she spends all her time visiting him. My sister has three kids and a teacher's salary. So yes, the money matters."
Dmitri was quiet for a long moment. "This care facility—it is good? They treat him well?"
"The best in the country. He doesn't know who I am anymore, but he's comfortable. Safe. That's worth more than my conscience."
"Your father, what he do before sick?"
"He was a vicar. A minister. Very proper, very moral. He'd be horrified if he knew what I do." Oliver laughed bitterly. "Actually, he'd probably pray for my soul."
"Maybe his prayers working. You keep me from doing very bad things many times." Dmitri walked back to the desk and pulled out a checkbook. "This care facility. What it cost per month?"
"Sir, I'm not asking for—"
"I not offering charity. I am making investment." Dmitri scribbled something and tore out a check, handing it to Oliver. "This is bonus. For keeping Dmitri out of prison. Consider it payment in advance for next six months of me not threatening to kill people in public hearings."
Oliver looked at the check. It was enough to cover his father's care for three months. "I can't accept this."
"You can and you will. Because tomorrow, we start training for hearing. And I will be terrible student. I will yell, I will say wrong things, I will make you want to quit. This money is so you not quit." Dmitri's expression softened. "Also, I know what is like to lose father. Mine was dead before I could make him proud. You still have chance to make yours comfortable. Take money."
Oliver folded the check carefully and put it in his pocket. "Thank you, sir."
"Now go. Go see girlfriend before she think you are dead. Tell her you work late for demanding Russian boss. Is not even lie."
As Oliver gathered his things, Dmitri called out, "Oliver? Tomorrow, we meet at eight in morning. Bring coffee and patience. We have much work to do."
"Eight in the morning? Sir, you've never been here before noon."
"Public hearing is serious business. Must start taking seriously." Dmitri grinned. "Also, Kozlov brothers come at nine. Want you there to translate when I tell them to fuck off about their stupid proposal."
"Ah. There's the real reason."
"Of course. You think I become morning person? Is still me."
Oliver laughed despite himself and headed for the door. As he reached it, Dmitri spoke again, softer this time.
"Your father. Even if he not know you anymore, you are good son. He would be proud. Not of job, maybe, but of why you do it."
Oliver nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and left.
Outside, the London evening was cold and damp. Oliver pulled out his phone and texted Emma: Free for dinner. Sorry for being absent. Let me explain over wine?
Her response came immediately: You'd better have a good story. Meet you at Angelo's in 30.
As Oliver hailed a cab, he thought about how he'd explain the unexplainable. How he'd become the voice of a Russian mobster, translating violence into business speak, threats into negotiations, chaos into something almost resembling legitimacy.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, he'd have dinner with Emma, drink too much wine, and pretend just for a few hours that he was a normal legal consultant with a normal job.
The pretending, he was learning, was the easiest part.