No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

Serge spent nearly two days at the Principe di Savoia without leaving his suite. In reality he hid only from himself because he knew he would have to answer immediately if the Prime Minister called. Of course, he had Penelope to think of as well. She suffered from a mild concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Duccio had instructions to keep her at the villa to recuperate. Serge didn’t suffer from guilt over her injuries. After all, she knew the risks of a relationship with him. No, he simply wanted to avoid being around her in her wounded condition. Finally, he considered Anya Kovich. In his mind she had admitted her incompetence and he had every right to treat her as aggressively as he had. Then, she left the hotel and betrayed him leaving no doubt. Perhaps he had not gone far enough with the traitorous bitch. The thought fanned the rage in him as well as his sexual appetites. With a twisted smile he went into the bath and showered but not before calling for a massage.

  His phone rang as the masseuse arrived. He answered and received an update from his agent in Nice. The yacht Khamsin continued to cruise aimlessly off the coast while Ivan and an unimportant young Italian woman had a suite at the Hotel Imperator.

  “Good. Report to me immediately if anything changes.”

  “Of course.” The sinister man signed off.

  Serge’s mood deteriorated as he realized he still had no plan for dealing with the Prime Minister other than killing Ivan and abducting Ilya from the Sheik’s hospitality. A tempting thought, but messy and difficult to conceal. He needed the password mechanism. After that they could all go to hell.

  The masseuse finished putting a crisp white sheet on the portable massage table and smiled in greeting. She had been here before. Serge let his robe drop and stretched out. Between his own delicious rage and her skilled fingers perhaps he would find some release from the nauseating headache pulsating inside his skull. Maybe then things would be clearer to him.

  For her part, Lisel, the petite Austrian masseuse didn’t let him down and forty minutes later Serge climbed back into a hot shower and a better mood. He’d tipped the girl generously for her services and for her silence and sent her on her way. As he slipped into a fresh silk dress shirt and tailored trousers Serge finally realized that without the Rusikovs, Anya became his sole means of getting control of Thor's Hammer. She may be the only one capable of reproducing Ilya’s program for generating the passwords. Either he had to have her back or he had to track down Ilya. As for the Prime Minister, well, he would have to lie to him. Always a dangerous strategy with someone as wily as his former master, but claiming the Rusikovs were the ones who betrayed him might gain him enough time to retrieve Anya. With her under control the balance would again tip in his favor. If successful, his client may manage to forgive or at least tolerate his fumble. Afterwards those self centered, unreliable twins became expendable and he hoped to kill them himself. The bastards! If he realized they no longer had any value the Sheik might get rid of them himself. Either way, the Rusikov brothers were headed toward an early end.

  Serge picked up a phone he dialed from memory.

  “Call me on my private line when you are free to speak.” He hung up without waiting for a reply then poured another generous glass of champagne. His cell buzzed.

  “Yes.”

  “How may I be of help?” Serge heard the fat man lighting a cigarette. A filthy and potentially fatal habit for someone in poor physical condition.

  “I want to report a missing person.”

  “Excuse me?” Geisler issued a choking cough as he spoke.

  “My highly valued associate, Dr. Anya Kovich has gone missing. I am concerned and I must find her. Can Interpol help?”

  “I will investigate and call you.”

  “Do so quickly. I fear she has been abducted and she must be returned safely and immediately. Do you understand? I need her returned to me immediately.” Serge caught himself as his voice rose in agitation.

  “Yes.” The toad hung up.

  Malroff downed the champagne and threw the fragile flute at the fireplace. Small splinters of glass exploded from the corner of the hearth. He picked up the phone and called for someone to clean up the mess and took the bottle out on the terrace where he sat looking blankly at the Milanese skyline. Serge Malroff had finally created a scheme that couldn’t be resolved solely with cash and that realization did not comfort him.

  A few hours later, a Gulfstream V from Bermuda arrived at le Bourguet. From two vantage points sequestered figures observed in silence as the elegant jet taxied to a stop in front of the Legacy Aviation hangar. Each one held an infrared scope at the ready waiting for the pilots to shut the taxi lights off. As they did so both observers scanned the cockpit. Neither the pilot, a youthful, pudgy-faced man nor his co-pilot, a handsome Frenchman, was the man they sought. There was a third crewmember on board, probably a steward, who operated the door. As he descended from the plane the stalkers realized he was not the assassin they called 'Habu'.

  A chauffeur stepped from a waiting limousine and the crewman handed him two Louis Vuitton carry on bags. The plane’s only passenger strode down the stairs revealing herself to be a well dressed and regal strawberry blond of about forty and not a target of their surveillance.

  Both of the spooks had the unhappy duty of reporting to their masters. Their intelligence was wrong. Habu had not arrived contrary to what field intelligence reported earlier. The calls did not go well and the men hastily vacated their hiding places as they scurried off to regroup.

  Meanwhile, as the ground crew came out to service the Gulfstream, the woman walked casually to the Mercedes S550 in the company of her chauffeur.

  “Welcome back to Paris, Lady Hartwell.”

  “Thank you.” As she got into the car, she added, “By the way, Marcel, I’ve reserved a room at the Crillon this trip.”

  “Very well.” He closed her door without questioning why she chose to not use her own elegant townhouse. In moments the big sedan departed the tarmac. Elisabeth, Countess Hartwell sat back in the comfortable seat and looked out the window. She loved Paris and always delighted in visiting, even on business. Life on Bermuda was beautiful, but one could tolerate Paradise only for so long. As she sat sipping a bottle of water she toyed absent-mindedly with her single piece of jewelry. A twenty-carat emerald in a heavy pendant hanging on a solid gold chain. The magnificent stone once belonged to a Russian princess and it still did. Before her marriage to a British peer Lady Hartwell had been known as Princess Ekaterina Yusupov, survivor of a line of aristocrats that included one of Rasputin’s killers.

  As the S550’s taillights faded from view the man handling the fuel lines to the jet worked the buttons on his cell phone then returned quickly to his duties.

  Following an uneventful drive into the city Elisabeth registered at the Crillon in a room reserved under the name “Dr. B. Franklin”. She had an omelet and a half bottle of decent wine then made a short phone call before going to bed. Tomorrow, she imagined, would be a busy day.

  28.