He eyed the plate of carefully arranged beef stroganoff before him, the aroma enticing after his shower.
"Now," Ilya said, his voice low and measured, "tell me everything about this situation in Odessa. And Fyodor... leave nothing out."
Fyodor's playful demeanor faded slightly. He put down his fork and leaned in, matching Ilya's serious tone. The soft fabric of his pajama sleeves rustled against the polished wood of the table.
"Well, it all started when our contact at the port noticed something unusual," Fyodor began, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.
Fyodor leaned back in his chair, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his water glass. "Our contact at the port, Dmitry, noticed an unusual increase in security around Pier 7. At first, we thought it might be related to that shipment of electronics we're expecting next week."
Ilya nodded, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. "But I take it that wasn't the case?"
