"I think that went pretty well," said Ressler. The three agents had returned to Liz's hotel room to discuss their next move. Malik sat crosslegged on the bed; Liz in the overstuffed chair next to the window; Ressler straddled a straight backed chair (exactly the position Liz had expected him to take).

"Not bad," Malik agreed, "but did you have to push him like that?"

"Todd Nichols is a pushy guy," Ressler shrugged. "I'll let you two be the diplomats. What did you think of Zhadobin?"

"He's a typical facilitator. Smooth, well-dressed, knows what he's doing. I didn't pick up a lot from him," Malik confessed. "I was too busy acting my pants off." This got a snicker out of Ressler, and Liz noted the playful grin Meela shot him. She wondered for a moment how they'd established such an easy relationship when she still had to work at staying on his good side. Ressler sent her an inquiring look:

"He looks like he's bored," she answered. "Like he's been doing this for a long time and he's tired of it."

"It seemed pretty clear that when Quicksilver says 'jump,' he says 'how high?'" Ressler answered.

"Yes. That might work to our advantage. If you two could make it to the meeting a little late tomorrow, say - ten minutes? That would give me a chance to talk to him a little more, maybe get him to open up a bit."

The next afternoon Liz took care to arrive at the square slightly early. She wandered back and forth in front of the ponderous statue in the center of the square, hoping it was not too obvious that she was waiting for someone. Mikhail arrived at the dot of three.

"Ah, Shelley. Your friends aren't here?"

"They're on their way. I left early to take pictures and walk around the city."

Zhadobin snorted. "You could have saved yourself the trouble." He waved his arm, indicating the blocky sculptures and Soviet-era architecture surrounding them. "I doubt anyone would be interested in pictures of this."

"It's all new to me," Liz replied honestly. "I don't have the chance to travel much."

"Neither do I." Mikhail sighed. "I have always wanted to see New York. So very busy, so much opportunity… they say if you are willing to work hard, you will succeed. Here you have - not much. Unless you are willing to break the law." He cocked an eye at her.

"Nothing is guaranteed in our system either," Liz answered, remembering her alter ego. "I tried the honest path. Hard work didn't bring me success until I left my job. I was just being used to make money for my company's owners. I'm sure you would enjoy seeing New York, though. I think everyone should see it at least once. Maybe when we fly back you could come along?"

"My employers would not be too happy about that. You're not the only one being used." As the words came out of his mouth, Zhadobin flinched. "Forget I said that."

For a moment Liz felt concern. What's really going on here? Then a phrase Reddington liked to use flashed into her mind: "Always make sure you're the player, not the one being played, Lizzie." She forced her empathy back, trying to analyze whether he was acting or telling the truth. The fear in his eyes looked real.

"Are you sure? Is there anything else -"

"Look, here come your friends," he interrupted her. He turned away and waved his arm to catch their attention. "Over here!" In a lower voice he added, "I can't. I just can't."

"Let me know if you change your mind," she whispered back, then turned to greet her partners. Zhadobin indicated a cafe across the street, where they quickly found a table some distance from the other customers.

"Do you have any news for us?" asked Nichols/Ressler, cutting to the point.

"He's interested, he wants to meet with you. This is a good time as he's just finishing up a project." Zhadobin sipped his coffee for a moment, his eyes roving around the cafe; then his attitude changed from leisurely to businesslike. "Right. Follow me." Leaving the table, he led them through the kitchen and up a flight of stairs located at the back of the building. Opening a door off the hallway, he led them into a dimly lighted room and waved an arm toward a man staring at a laptop, who didn't bother to look up at their arrival.

"This is the man you came to see."

"No no no, Pyotr. This really won't do." Reddington smiled urbanely at the arms dealer seated in front of him. "I told you my clients have a limited budget. You quoted me a price for this shipment and I expect you to hold to it."

"My apologies, Red. I was not expecting this any more than you were." The dealer, sharp-eyed and businesslike, sounded sincere. "The shipment ran into difficulties. Russia's government has been cleaning house, new administrators have been appointed, my old contacts are gone. Disappeared! So tiresome. I had to double my payoff to get the shipment out of the country. I have done my best for you; I cut my profit on this deal by 75 percent. But you cannot expect me to eat the entire cost."

"Consider it a philanthropic gesture. My clients are tired of seeing their women raped and their children conscripted into the army. You've heard the stories; you know what they're dealing with. They need those weapons to defend themselves."

"Indeed, I know. But still - "

"We've had a long and fruitful relationship, Pyotr. I would hate to see that come to an end." More than a touch of menace had crept into Reddington's tone. "Think of all the money I've made you in the past. A charitable donation would be good for your soul." As he spoke, Dembe quietly moved from his stance at the door to stand at the side of the desk between the two men.

"And my health as well, no doubt." Pyotr, eyeing Dembe with some apprehension, was careful to keep his hands in full view on the desk. "As you say, it would be a pity to end a partnership of such value to both of us. The price I quoted you originally is the price I will charge. I must warn you though that future orders will likely cost you more - at least until these tiresome Russian officials can be made to change their ways."

"And I expect nothing less. You've always been up front with me, Pyotr. Which is why I'm going to overlook this little misunderstanding. Life is unpredictable, these things happen." Reddington leisurely pulled on his gloves, picked up his hat and moved to the door. "Just make sure it doesn't happen again," he added with a smile that sent a bead of sweat trickling down the dealer's spine. A final nod and he and Dembe were gone.