Dmitri Volkov leaned back in the leather chair, his scarred knuckles drumming against the mahogany desk. Across from him sat three nervous businessmen in expensive suits, and beside him, as always, perched Oliver Pembroke with his notepad and perpetually concerned expression.
"You tell them," Dmitri rumbled in his thick accent, gesturing with a hand the size of a dinner plate, "I am make very generous of offer. They take, or they can be go fuck themselves to hell."
Oliver closed his eyes briefly. "Mr. Volkov says he's prepared to make you a very generous offer. He hopes you'll give it serious consideration."
"Da, serious. Very serious." Dmitri's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I am buy their warehouse. Give good price. Everyone happy, nobody is getting hurt."
"He's offering fair market value," Oliver translated smoothly. "The transaction would be mutually beneficial."
One of the businessmen cleared his throat. "We're not interested in selling. That property has been in my family for—"
Dmitri's fist slammed on the desk before the man finished. "Warehouse is shit! Falling down! I do favor for taking this garbage!"
Oliver maintained his calm expression. "Mr. Volkov believes the property requires significant renovation. He's willing to take that burden off your hands."
"Oliver," Dmitri said, turning to his translator with genuine confusion, "why you always change my words? I say clear thing, you say different thing."
"I'm conveying your meaning, sir. Just with more... diplomatic phrasing."
"Diplo—what? I speak English perfect. You make me sound like pussy."
Oliver sighed. "Mr. Volkov, we've discussed this. In business, tone matters as much as content."
Dmitri waved dismissively and turned back to the businessmen. "Listen good. My English is not so fancy like Oxford here, but I am speak truth. You sell warehouse. I pay good money. Or next week, maybe warehouse has accident. Maybe electrical fire. Very sad. Insurance take forever for pay, yes?"
Oliver's jaw tightened. "What Mr. Volkov means is—"
"I know what I mean!" Dmitri interrupted. "I mean warehouse burn if they not sell!"
"Metaphorically speaking," Oliver added desperately, "market conditions could become unfavorable."
The middle businessman, a portly man with sweat beading on his forehead, spoke up. "Mr. Volkov, we understand you're a serious buyer, but this is our family's legacy. My grandfather built that warehouse in 1952. Surely you can appreciate—"
"Grandfather, grandfather," Dmitri interrupted, making a dismissive gesture. "Everyone has grandfather. Mine was shoot by Stalin. Life is hard, business is business." He leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow across the desk. "Your grandfather build warehouse good, yes. But now is old. Roof leaking. Foundation cracking. You pour money into hole. I take hole, make something useful."
Oliver interjected smoothly, "Mr. Volkov recognizes the sentimental value, but from a practical standpoint, the building requires extensive capital investment that might strain your current resources."
"This exactly what I say!" Dmitri exclaimed, slapping the desk. "Why you use so many words?"
One of the businessmen stood up shakily. "We need to discuss this with our lawyers."
"Lawyers!" Dmitri laughed, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "Oliver, you are lawyer, yes? You go to Harvard?"
"Oxford, sir."
"Same shit. All smart boys with big words and small balls." He pointed at the departing businessmen. "You have three days! Then Dmitri loses of patience!"
The men practically fled from the office. As the door closed behind them, Dmitri's secretary Yana, a severe woman in her fifties with hair pulled back so tight it looked painful, entered with a stack of papers.
"Boss, you have meeting with alderman in one hour. Then dinner with Kozlov brothers at eight."
"Kozlov brothers?" Dmitri's expression darkened. "Those idiots still owe me money from card game."
"They say they have proposal for you," Yana replied in Russian.
Dmitri responded in rapid Russian, clearly annoyed. Oliver, who had studied Russian for three years specifically for this job, caught enough to understand Dmitri was less than pleased about the meeting.
"What he say?" Yana asked Oliver in her own broken English, a smile playing at her lips. She enjoyed testing the translator.
"He said the Kozlov brothers couldn't find their own asses with both hands and a map," Oliver replied dryly.
Dmitri roared with laughter. "See! He understand Russian good! Not just pretty face with fancy words."
After Yana left, Oliver loosened his tie. "Sir, you can't explicitly threaten arson in a business negotiation."
"Why not? Is working. They scared, they sell."
"They're scared, yes, but they might also call the police."
Dmitri pulled out a bottle of vodka from his desk drawer and poured two glasses. "Police is friends of mine. Here, drink. You need relax."
Oliver accepted the glass reluctantly. "I went to Oxford to interpret international law, you know. Not to sanitize death threats."
"Is not death threat! Is arson threat. Completely different." Dmitri clinked their glasses together. "Besides, you are best translator I have. Last one, Igor, he was shit. Translate everything exactly word for word. Got me arrested twice."
"I can imagine."
"No, you cannot imagine. Igor translate 'I break your legs' as 'I break your legs.' Very stupid man. You—you make sound like gentle suggestion. Is art." Dmitri downed his vodka in one gulp and poured another. "You know why Igor is no longer working for me?"
Oliver shifted uncomfortably. "I assumed he found other employment."
"He find employment in hospital bed. Someone break his legs. Ironic, yes?" Dmitri chuckled, then noticed Oliver's pale face. "Relax, relax! Was not me. Was Georgians. They have no sense of humor about these things."
Oliver took a long drink. "It's certainly something."
Dmitri's expression softened slightly. "I know I am difficult of boss. My English is shit, my temper is shit, my business is... questionable. But you, Oliver? You are professional. I respect this. I pay you good, yes?"
"Very well, sir."
"Then stop with the sad face. Tomorrow we meet with city council about permits. I need you to make me sound like respectable businessman, not Russian thug."
"That's rather a tall order."
"Is why I am paying you big money." Dmitri grinned and poured another round. "Besides, you are getting good at this. Remember first meeting? Six months ago?"
Oliver did remember. It had been a disaster. Dmitri had been trying to secure a liquor license and had told the licensing board that he would "crush them like bugs under boot" if they denied him. Oliver had been so shocked he'd nearly translated it verbatim before catching himself and saying something about "vigorously pursuing all available legal remedies."
"You look like you swallow lemon whole," Dmitri continued, laughing at the memory. "Face all twisted up, trying to make 'I kill you' sound like 'have nice day.'"
"It was a challenging introduction to the position," Oliver admitted.
"But you not quit. Why? Most English boys, they quit after one day. Too scared, or too proud. They think is beneath them, working for Russian gangster." Dmitri's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why you stay, Oliver? You have degree from Oxford. You could work for embassy, for big law firm. Why you translate for Dmitri?"
It was a question Oliver had asked himself many times, usually at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep. The truth was complicated. Yes, the money was excellent, far more than he'd make at a law firm for years. But there was something else. Something about the raw honesty of it all. Dmitri was a criminal, certainly, but he was an honest criminal. No pretense, no corporate doublespeak. Just straight threats translated into polite English.
"The money is excellent," Oliver said finally. "And the work is never boring."
"Ha! Never boring, this is true." Dmitri stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city. "You know, when I come to England fifteen years ago, I speak maybe ten words of English. 'Hello,' 'goodbye,' 'vodka,' 'fuck you'—important words, yes? I learn more, but never good. Always sound like bear trying to speak human language."
"Your English has improved considerably," Oliver offered diplomatically.
"You are liar, but is kind lie. I appreciate." Dmitri turned back from the window. "Point is, I need translator not just for words. I need translator for... how you say... culture? I understand Russian way of business. Very simple. You strong, you take. You weak, you get taken. In England, everything is complicated. Everyone smile, say nice words, then stab you in back with lawyer papers."
"That's called capitalism, sir."
"In Russia, we also have capitalism. But more honest. If I want to stab you, I use actual knife." Dmitri grinned. "Is more clear."
Oliver's phone buzzed. A text from his girlfriend, Emma: Dinner tonight? Haven't seen you in three days.
"Problem?" Dmitri asked, noticing Oliver's frown.
"Just personal matters."
"Girlfriend, yes? Yana tell me about her. Schoolteacher? Very respectable." Dmitri sat back down. "She know what you do?"
"She thinks I'm a legal consultant."
"This is not lie. You consult on legal matters. Just for wrong side of law." Dmitri poured them both another drink. "She ask about work?"
"Sometimes. I tell her it's confidential client matters."
"Smart. Women ask too many questions. My wife, Svetlana, she never ask about business. She know better. Well, ex-wife now. She take house in divorce, move to Brighton Beach in New York. Is fine. Was too much woman for one man anyway."
There was a knock at the door. Yana entered again. "Boss, the alderman is here early. Wants to talk before official meeting."
Dmitri's expression hardened. "He come to ask for more money. They always come early when they want more money." He looked at Oliver. "You ready? Time to make me sound like businessman who is definitely not bribing city official."
Oliver drained his vodka glass and stood up, straightening his tie. "Let's call it 'facilitating municipal cooperation.'"
"See? This is why you get big salary. I say bribe, you say 'municipal cooperation.' Is beautiful." Dmitri clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Oliver stumble. "One day, Oliver, you teach me to speak pretty like you. Then I not need translator."
"Somehow, sir, I don't think that would have quite the same effect."
As they walked toward the conference room, Dmitri suddenly stopped. "Oliver. Serious question. You think I am bad man?"
Oliver considered this carefully. In six months, he'd witnessed numerous illegal activities, translated countless threats, and helped Dmitri navigate deals that would make most lawyers flee. But he'd also seen Dmitri send money to a worker's family when the man was hospitalized. Seen him personally beat up a dealer who'd been selling drugs near a school. The man was complex.
"I think you're a criminal, sir. But not necessarily a bad man."
Dmitri nodded slowly. "Is good answer. Honest answer. Now come, we go lie to alderman and make sound like truth."
"To linguistic alchemy," Oliver muttered.
"I not know what this mean, but sounds fancy. Let's go."