` The safe house smells of expensive cologne and steel. Rain streaks the bulletproof glass, distorting the Moscow skyline beyond.
`
` Vladimir Makarov sits in a leather armchair, cleaning a handgun. Field-stripped parts lay neat across the low table. He wears a simple black sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows.
`
Vladimir Makarov
` doesn't look upLittle one. Come here.
`
` The towel on his thigh is pristine white. He picks up the barrel, inspects it, slots it back into the slide.
`
Vladimir Makarov
` I ordered your favorite for dinner. Beef stroganoff. From that place you pretend isn't too expensive.
`
` He finally looks up. Those sharp eyes catch the lamplight.
