Suki held his gaze a moment then looked down as if caught at something naughty. "Maybe it does," she said. She sipped a little wine.
"Why?"
"Oh I don't know. Maybe just the boldness of it. The daring."
The word echoed in Lazslo's loins. Ill-advisedly he swigged some beer. He said, "Daring, yes. Especially when you consider the constant fear that Russians lived with."
"Turning to crime," said Suki, a little breathlessly— "it's like a crazy but perfect facing down of that fear, the final rebellion against the control—"
"The control," said Lazslo, "that was giving even ordinary people a million daydreams of revenge, of breaking loose." He'd swiveled toward her now, his knees far apart, a hand on one ankle.
"And," said Suki, "the sheer scale of what they're doing over there—"
"Ha!" said Lazslo. "Americans can't even begin to understand the scale."
Suki said nothing, just reached for her glass next to the vase of extravagant flowers, and sipped some Chardonnay.
"What Americans don't get... " said Lazslo. "Look, American criminals—even your big bad Mafia—all they do is nibble around the edges. Skim a little here, break a little piece off there. In Russia, we ... What they've done in Russia is go to the very heart of the wealth. You understand?"
Suki only looked at him. Her lips were slightly parted, her shoulders rounded toward him.
"You say daring?" he went on. "Your tough Americans, they rob a drivethru teller in a shopping mall. Russian Mafia, they cruise right into the treasury. They steal history. Old Church ikons. Jewels left over from the tsars. Famous paintings. Even military hardware."
"Military?" Suki said.
"You forget your own propaganda?" Lazslo said. "The Soviets put guns before butter—isn't that what you were taught? The masses starving while the generals get fat? So where else is more wealth?"
Suki reached toward her wine then stopped her hand. Lazslo widened the angle of his legs and savored her discomfiture.
"Military, yes," he went on. "Why not? Renegade scientists and highly placed bureaucrats—why couldn't they steal guns? Missiles? Nuclear material? Daring enough for you, Suki?"
Suki licked her lips. Her hands were bundled in her lap. She couldn't speak.
Lazslo was titillated by victory; he gloated. "So now you are shocked. Crime excites you and now you are shocked."
Suki sipped some wine, took a moment to collect herself. "Well yeah," she admitted. "Sort of. But all that wealth— where does it go? What good does it do you in Russia?"
Lazslo swigged some beer. "In Russia? No good at all," he said. "It has to travel. Say you have church art—you open up a shop in Moscow? No, you go where the collectors are. Paris, New York, Hong Kong. Say you have something for which there is a great demand in Libya, Iraq—"
"Iraq?" said Suki. "Libya?"
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, slid toward her on the sofa. With difficulty she held her ground.
She murmured, "What would they want in Libya, Iraq?"
Weirdly, Lazslo laughed. It was a barking laugh with lust and recklessness and maybe a hint of secret fear in it. "What," he said, "would feed their pathetic fantasies of destroying the West someday? Yes, the wealth has to travel. And you know what? That kind of travel is very, very tiring. So after that, the money needs vacation. Someplace sunny. Relaxing."
"Weapons, Lazslo? Are you saying bombs?"
"Someplace easygoing. Full of beautiful women who don't ask so many questions."
"Lazslo, do they smuggle bombs?"
He snorted. "Bombs? No one's that crazy ... Spare parts, maybe. Useful ingredients perhaps."
"Ingredients?... Ingredients?"
He studied her. Her eyes were wide, her chest was heaving. He chose to see arousal rather than horror. "Enough ingredients to make Chernobyl look like a weenie roast, okay? You have a strange idea of foreplay, Suki."
"So your uncle," she said. "The shops—"
Lazslo hushed her with a hand raised like a traffic cop. He leaned very close, arched over her. Heat pulsed off him and his breath was sour with hops and barley. "Mafia excites you," he whispered, "you must be very ready."
Ready to throw up, she thought.
"No ... I'm not," she said. At a measured pace intended to reveal no panic, she began to slide away from him along the sofa.
He groveled after her, put a damp hand on her breast.
She brushed away his fingers and got her legs unfolded. She smoothed her blouse and started standing up. "I've had a lovely evening, thank you, but now I'm going home."