Looks like it's time to send the two little guys to go gilding," Jason muttered and found a taxi after walking out of the hotel.
"Sir, where are you going?" The driver was a standard middle-aged Russian, with the usual Russian indifference on his face.
"425 Leningrad Street," Jason said with a cold snort, ignoring his tone.
"Oh, sir, now is not the best time to watch dancing. I advise you to wait until after six o'clock." The driver glanced at Jason through the rearview mirror and said sarcastically.
Jason naturally knew what the driver meant, because the destination he mentioned happened to be an underground dance venue—the meeting place he and Baranov had agreed upon in advance.
"Really?" Placing the suitcase by his side, Jason took out a banknote and handed it over. "Unfortunately, I just like watching dance in the sun. Drive."
The driver took the banknote, shrugged comically, and drove off as instructed.
Despite being the third largest city in the Soviet Far East, the inner city of Blagoveshchensk was especially rundown. There were no modern skyscrapers, and even mid-rise buildings were rare. Most structures were old-fashioned European-style, surrounded by large, weed-filled lots—but at least there were no traffic jams.
About ten minutes later, the old car pulled up to the destination. Jason stepped out, suitcase in hand.
"Monaly Bar." Jason smirked as he looked at the inconspicuous shop, its door shut tight and walls covered in graffiti. In Russian, "Monaly" meant "orange"—an odd name for a dance bar. Even odder were the two guards out front, dressed in snow camouflage and carrying AK-47s. What would you think seeing that outside a bar?
"Mr. Guo?" One of the soldiers tossed away his cigarette and walked over quickly.
"Yes," Jason grunted. "Where's Baranov? And the others?"
"Come with me. Comrade Baranov has been waiting. You know how much he hates lateness." The soldier smirked.
"Really?" Jason pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket, slid it into the soldier's upper pocket, and smiled. "Well, I think he'll be pleased soon. Don't you?"
"Of course," the soldier's face softened. "Though Comrade Baranov hates tardiness, you're his best friend. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."
Jason shrugged and stepped into the bar.
Behind the door, a narrow staircase led down into darkness, lit only by pink bulbs on the walls. Following the soldier, Jason descended. At the bottom, a spacious hall opened up.
Clearly a dance venue, a one-meter-high stage stood in the center, where a slender girl in nothing but a thong twisted seductively. Her curves, especially her firm chest, were impossible to ignore.
Unfortunately, the audience was sparse. Besides Jason and the soldier, there were only seven others—four hostesses, two guards, and an officer seated near the stage.
The officer—Baranov—was Jason's contact. As Jason entered, the soldier whispered in Baranov's ear.
"Jason!" Baranov stood and boomed. "You're late. You know how I feel about lateness."
Despite the neon lights, the silence in the room made the words crystal clear.
Jason carried his suitcase over, hugged Baranov warmly, and smiled. "Sorry, Comrade Major. I hate being late too, but Blagoveshchensk isn't exactly taxi-friendly."
"Sit." Baranov gestured to the seat across from him. "So, my friend from China, what do you need this time?"
"I like your directness," Jason said, opening his suitcase and placing four packs of Marlboros on the table. "But we're old friends—no need for formalities. Here's a gift. Like it?"
"American?" Baranov examined a pack. "For me? Free?"
"Of course. No strings."
Baranov finally smiled. He grabbed all the cigarettes. "You Chinese are crafty, always blurring the line between business and gifts. But fine. A gift is a gift. Let's keep things clear."
"Do I look like someone who'd trick you?" Jason asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Hmph. We've only done one deal. Can't be too careful." Baranov grinned. "Anyway, enough chit-chat. Let's talk business."