by Roddy Wix
The plane carrying Anne Fitch had not yet crossed the east coast of the United States when Serge Malroff received a phone call from a familiar Swiss number.
“Yes.”
“Your employee has gone.”
“Please give me information I do not have, imbecile.”
“Insults are not productive.” Rudy had sprouted a pair of balls.
“Then tell me why you are calling at this hour.”
“I told you the woman passed through Merignac Airport. Now I understand the man you sent to investigate is dead.”
“He was an idiot!” Serge held his fury in check, but only with great effort.
“Even so, my investigation led me to believe she left on a plane bound for Bermuda.” Rudy enjoyed having the upper hand but with a guy like Serge it was dangerous to feel comfortable.
Bermuda. The mere word stung him. He knew Katya Yusupov had entrenched herself in the safety of her late husband’s estate there. Lady Hartwell indeed. Ever since the meddling bastard Frank Beretta took her from him she managed to remain just beyond his grasp. How he regretted not killing her when he had the chance. Insufferable bitch.
“Do you know or are you guessing?”
“Suspicion, guess, instinct? Who cares? Did KGB teach you nothing?” Once again Geisler dared to insult and Serge’s temper flared.
“Alright! Your point is made. Where is Anya Kovich?”
“On her way to the United States, I imagine, if she hasn't already arrived.”
“I want her!” Serge began to lose control.
“I cannot help you. Since 9/11 I have not ventured across the American borders. You are on your own.”
“On my own? On my own, you son of a bitch? How dare you? I own your ass you fucking fat pig!” Rudy hung up but Serge ranted on.
The bastard's insolence inflamed him and another tantrum ensued. The rage abated only after he had flung everything off his elegant desk and dropped into his tufted leather chair. A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.
With the Rusikovs dead and Anya gone his prospects grew dim. If Geisler’s intel proved correct, the CIA now had control of Anya. Perhaps a bargain could be struck. Insolent or not Geisler had it right about the level of paranoia and chaos in the American intelligence community. Serge needed someone with the cunning and, if need be, brute force to get him what he wanted and he knew the time had come to call on a true professional. Known to him only as 'GraveRobber', he believed the man to be even more loathsome than Rudy Geisler.
Stress aggravated the wound Beretta left him with decades earlier and now these nosebleeds plagued him. Serge limped across his office to discover he had hurled a heavy ashtray into the bar and broken the crystal decanters of liquor. A rare single malt scotch soaked into the wood veneer of the cabinetry and dripped onto the inlaid floor. He opened the door and screamed into the villa’s capacious grand hall.
“Duccio! Duccio! Come to my office. Now!”
The master’s resounding summons reached Duccio in his far off office adjacent to the kitchen. He set off to find out what troubled his belligerent boss, only too aware of the name the rest of the staff called Serge. Ogre. Perhaps they had it right.
While he waited for his faithful servant’s arrival Serge withdrew a cell phone from his pocket and dialed an international number from memory. A dozen rings later he heard a booze tainted, slurred Louisiana accent. Serge visualized its owner festering in a seedy backwater dump and not the luxurious Pensacola condo where the call was being taken. Hardly a way for a warrior to end up Serge mistakenly assumed.
“Yo.” Some kind of grating music played in the background. Zydeco.
“Are you in a position to talk?”
“Standin’up. Good enough for ya?” A hoarse laugh followed.
Even Serge knew better than to mince words with the former Gunnery Sergeant.
“Alright. Do you recognize my voice?”
“Yep.”
“Do you remember our last conversation?”
“Yep.”
“Are you able to deliver the package I told you I may one day need?”
“Yep.”
“Are you sure?”
Those poorly chosen words dangled in front of the man like a red flag before a bull. He lashed out at Serge.
“Lissen, asshole, and lissen real good. Maybe I am drunk and they say I’m crazy, but I’m not fuckin’ stupid and I’m not fuckin’ dead. So, yes, asshole, I’m goddam sure.”
Before Serge could open his mouth to speak the weather beaten soldier returned to his sanguine, short questions.
“When?”
“Immediately.”
“Where?”
“I’ll communicate as we agreed.”
“OK. How much?”
“Your lucky day. I’m offering a bonus. One million if you deliver in less than forty-eight hours. Half a million more if you can perform in less than twenty-four.”
“Plus expenses?”
“Yes.”
“Done, motherfucker.” The man hung up leaving Serge to wonder if he'd made a deal with a professional or a lunatic. The answer would come minutes later when Serge’s desk phone rang. Geisler. He picked up immediately.
“Yes.”
“GraveRobber is in motion.”
“Are you certain? I talked to him less than five minutes ago.”
“As sure as I am of my own name.” Asshole! “He called for the information you instructed me to give him.”
“He didn’t sound sober enough to walk five feet.”
“Guy doesn’t drink a drop. He has his cover pretty well perfected don’t you think? He fooled you.” Geisler hung up.
“I don’t care what he does so long as he delivers.” Once again Serge Malroff was talking to himself. He threw his cell phone on the floor.
“Duccio, bring me a bottle of scotch!” Serge slammed the door behind his departing servant but then, as an afterthought, opened it again and bellowed,
“Duccio! Where is Penelope Goldman?”
53.
