“Does the CIA know you’re here?” the man asked in rough English.

“No. Before we go on, I must tell you I’m under surveillance. I can’t tell you anything.”

“Shut up! We already removed all possible bugs in the van. Unless they somehow planted a microphone in your brain, then we’re safe.”

Derrik curled the corners of his mouth, just enough for the man to notice. Of course he really didn’t have a bug in his brain, but he wanted to keep the Russian on edge.

The Russian looked at him, though Derrik couldn’t see. “I have knowledge that the FSB is after us, specifically this branch of the Mafiya. Does your CIA have anything to do with this?” he spat.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“No.”

The Russian growled. “Don’t toy with me, Ð?мериканÑ?каÑ? шлачка.”

Derrik sucked in his breath. “Oh, that hurt,” he said sarcastically.

The man punched him in the gut.

“The Mafiya does things to prisoners you could never imagine.”

“You’ll find I have an active imagination.”