The Grand Salon of the Volkov estate was rarely used for anything other than large, intimidating political summits. Tonight, however, it was softened. Instead of the usual cold, sterile lighting, the room was bathed in the warm, diffused glow of strategically placed uplights. A single, small table was set in the center, adorned with crystal glasses and a bottle of expensive, non-vintage Armenian brandy—a nod to my heritage.

I stood by the vast stone fireplace, waiting. I had just finished ...