Makar Alesnarovich Savenkov.Įvgeny gave a tight smile, took the man’s offered hand.
A shadowed figure rose from one of the chairs and tugged the edge of his suit coat over the gun at his side. A few cheap pieces of art blighted the walls, and several chairs clustered around a scarred coffee table. The door gave a mechanical click, and he pushed the door open to reveal a small waiting room. Hollow beeps echoed, harsh in the still of night as he thumbed the code into the keypad. The gray block structure nearly melted into the night, save for the flickering light standing guard over the entryway. THE MOSCOW WIND, HOLDING a cool touch of autumn, brushed Evgeny Yurlov’s face as he jogged up the steps of the average two-story building.
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