In the cold wind of the Moscow winter night, the black sedan glided silently away from the estate surrounded by high walls and bare birch trees, like a slippery fish.
Fine condensation clung to the car window, slicing the passing streetlights into blurry spots of light.
Song Heping leaned back in the soft leather seat, eyes closed, appearing to rest, but his mind was racing.
He was replaying every conversation, every glance, every meaningful pause within the manor.
Dealing with seasoned "Siroviki" like Petrovich required extreme caution; every word needed careful consideration, balancing showing value without appearing too eager, and stating positions without making the other side feel threatened.
The driver, one of Petrovich's men, was silent as a stone.
The only sound inside the car was the faint hum of the heating system.
Song Heping could feel the driver's scrutinizing gaze in the rear-view mirror, but he didn't care.
