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open, dimly lit storage area. Rays of sun managed to sneak through the dusty, grimy side of overhead windows. Three other men were congregated behind a long, battered table. They stood up from their chairs, postures filled with bravado. From the diversion of eyes, Nevsky knew whom he’d be talking to behind the table. He was also the best dressed of the seven, wearing a rich silk shirt hanging over imported jeans. The only part of the shirt tucked into his jeans revealed a polished automatic pistol.
    The guard with the Uzi walked over to Silk Shirt and whispered in his ear. He then returned to his position on Nevsky’s flank, along with Heckler & Koch.
    Silk Shirt raised an arm, motioning behind Nevsky. “So where are your trucks of merchandise?”
    “Close by,” Nevsky coolly answered.
    “So you represent our friend from Sverdlovsk?”
    It had been a long journey. Rain-soaked days and nights, bumpy roads, less than stellar sleeping arrangements, risks around every corner, and now this. Nevsky glanced around the mostly empty storage area.
    “You expecting someone else?”
    Silk Shirt accepted the observation with a smile. “No. In fact, we cleared the place out just for you.”
    “Good. Then you’re ready to house the trucks.”
    “I’d like to and will,” Silk Shirt said, bowing his head before raising it triumphantly. “That is, as soon as we finish our negotiation.” His hand inched slightly closer to his gun.
    Nevsky noted the position of the armed men and then his own. He let out a sigh. “I’m not aware that any part of the arrangement is open-ended. I was told this was a done deal.”
    “It’s a long way from Sverdlovsk to Gomel. Things change. Inflation kicks in. Have you not seen that the economy is in the crapper? We have unexpected overhead. As the Americans say,” he searched for the words, “life is a bitch.”
    Nevsky laughed softly. “I’ve heard that one.” Everyone produced a smirk. The storage area’s ambiance became more noticeable as things got quieter. There was a dull hum of air conditioners. From an unseen office, a radio could be heard. The storage area smelled of dampness and stale cigarettes. Nevsky was aware that the seven men began to shift their stance.
    He directly addressed Silk Shirt. “So, how exactly have things changed?”
    “In addition to what you have in the suitcase … our accountants and financial advisors calculated that we need an additional five million rubles.”
    “Whew,” Nevsky whistled. “That’s quite a change.” He gave his men a hand signal that went unnoticed by the seven. He then made a move to the inside of his jacket.
    “Well—” A millisecond or two behind where they should have been, hammers were shifted into place and the seven men all had their weapons carefully trained on Nevsky and his crew. A surprised look surfaced on Nevsky’s face before he slowly withdrew his hand from a breast pocket. In it was a cell phone. “I’m not the one who can authorize five million rubles. A call has to be made.”
    With gun in hand, Silk Shirt motioned Nevsky to continue. “Go ahead. We are in no hurry here.” He looked affirmatively to his men as if to say, I told you so. They all relaxed a little.
    Nevsky had an anxious look as he waited for the call to be answered. After several rings, someone did. “It’s Dmitri. We have a slight problem. An additional-five-million-rubles problem.” After listening, he removed the phone from his mouth for a second. “You are Petrov?” he asked Silk Shirt, who nodded in turn. Nevsky returned to his conversation. “Yes, Petrov.” He continued to listen, filling in a mumbled response as he did.
    Nevsky tried to reassure Petrov, producing a pained smile to indicate this wasn’t going to last much longer. “Yes … Yes … I understand. Not to worry.” At last he ended the call and returned the phone to his breast pocket.
    Nevsky placed the briefcase on the table as he took in his counterpart. At