Devil's Move: A Thriller (Political Terrorism Technothriller)

by Leslie Wolfe

  Myatlev loved to party, and the state of decay of his fifty-nine-year-old body reflected that fact ruthlessly. Dark circles around his sunken eyes, swollen eyelids, and the reddish hue of the typical alcohol abuser’s nose gave him the physiognomy of a Moscow street drunk. The five-day stubble, peppered with gray, did not help improve his appearance. Neither did the relatively short, greasy, and unkempt hair, running in all directions from his receding hairline, despite Myatlev’s attempt to get it under control by cutting it often.

  His neckline was where all the street drunk resemblance stopped. From the neck down, Myatlev was dressed impeccably in high-end couture, custom-made by some of the finest tailors in Paris and London. Myatlev took trips twice a year to get his wardrobe refreshed, and he placed no limit on what he was willing to spend to achieve the look he wanted.

  Kurhaus Baden-Baden was one of Myatlev’s favorite stomping grounds. The massive building, featuring neo-classical interiors lushly decorated with elegant chandeliers and exquisite paintings, was very well suited to the image he wanted to present. The Kurhaus staff was efficient to the point of reading his mind, or so he believed. In fact, most staffers were quite good at reading the body language of their clients, and they rushed to satisfy any need, even before Myatlev acknowledged or formulated his desire. Any need whatsoever. The Kurhaus was very accommodating, ensuring each stay was going to fulfill his every wish.

  This time Myatlev was there for business, not pleasure. He was there to make the acquaintance of Dave Vaughn, American billionaire from Texas, with interests similar to his in oil, gas, and energy. The encounter had to appear serendipitous to Vaughn, but that was no issue; Myatlev was good at setting such things up, thanks to his KGB upbringing. A well-compensated bellhop had been watching for Vaughn to make a reservation. Once that had happened, Myatlev was on his way too. The same bellhop had texted him that Vaughn was at the blackjack high-roller table, so that’s where Myatlev went, directly after his arrival at Kurhaus, without even bothering to checkin.

  He headed for the high-roller tables, separated from the rest of the casino by tinted glass windows and lavishly decorated walls. Each high-roller table had its own private room. Minimum bet 500 Euros, no high limit at the table for selected clientele. Dedicated staff for every room, waiters in white shirts and black vests assisted by lovely young ladies, keeping the players nourished, hydrated, and slightly buzzed.

  Myatlev toured the high-roller area, looking to pinpoint his target, Vaughn. There he was, in a blackjack high-roller suite, just as his favorite bellhop had said. Right next to Vaughn’s table, an empty one waited for him, courtesy of the same bellhop. He took it and was greeted warmly by the room staff, all old acquaintances from his previous trips.

  He started playing double-deck blackjack, half-focused on the game while keeping an eye on his next-door neighbor. Catching his eye at the right moment, Myatlev raised his glass toward Vaughn and made an inviting gesture with his hand. The American nodded, accepting the invitation. He entered Myatlev’s room with his hand extended.

  “Dave Vaughn, nice to meet you,” he said, then took a seat at the table.

  “Vitya Myatlev, or V for short,” the Russian said.

  “I think I’ll stick with V.” Vaughn laughed.

  “I think we’ve crossed paths before around here, yes?”

  “Most likely,” Vaughn confirmed. “You do look familiar, and we do seem to like the same game.”

  “Do you want to join forces?”

  “Sure, why not?” Vaughn made a hand gesture, indicating the change in play. The dealer added two more decks to the card-shuffling machine.

  The American liked his Scotch, and Myatlev kept them coming discreetly, while making sure the vodka martinis he was downing were more and more virgin as the night advanced. He needed to think sharp and be on top of his game. It was time to move in for the kill.

  “Ah, I think I have had enough for tonight,” Myatlev said, right after Vaughn had scored several hundred thousand in a winning hand. “Want to join me on the terrace for some fresh air and a cigar?

  “Absolutely,” a happy and tipsy Vaughn replied.

  “Excellent game, thank you for joining my table; it was an honor.”

  “Pleasure was mine, all mine,” Vaughn said, slurring a little and lighting his cigar with moderate difficulty.

  “It’s amazing what we can do if we join forces, isn’t it?”

  “Right, right.” Vaughn puffed some smoke toward the moonlit sky.

  “Makes me wonder if we couldn’t join our forces outside the blackjack table, what do you think?”

  The American did not answer. Myatlev continued his sale.

  “We’re both in oil and energy, we have common interests; we care about little more than our respective businesses, yet we compete instead of being allies. Can you imagine the things we could do as allies?”

  “An alliance with a Russian?” Vaughn blurted out, his typical diplomacy diluted by the Scotch.

  “Who cares about that kind of stuff anymore? It’s all gone, right?” Myatlev laughed, patting the American on his shoulder.

  “What do you have in mind?” Vaughn was trying to focus, the effort to regain use of his thinking brain creasing his forehead in the process.

  “We could make more money working together, dividing areas and markets, building new distribution channels and new markets, taking all our competitors by storm.”

  “Interesting,” Vaughn said, thinking hard. “Yes, I guess we could become stronger against Arab oil, suffocate the bastards a little.”

  “Yes, yes,” Myatlev said, “and much more.”

  “Like what?”

  “We could influence things for each other. For example,” he said, carefully watching Vaughn’s reactions, “you could become the supporter of the democratic candidate for president in the United States.”

  Vaughn didn’t seem bothered by the idea. Good. Maybe not all Texans were republicans. That just made it easier.

  “Do you know what that would do for you and me?”

  Vaughn did not respond, so Myatlev continued. “The republican candidate will most likely put protectionist sanctions in place, or that’s what he said, anyway. That will bring taxes and limitations for you even more than for me. That guy is trouble. Bobby Johnson, on the other hand, is open-minded and malleable, is pro-globalization, and is willing to listen to big business before making policy. He’s the man you want in the White House. Trust me, he’s the one.”

  “I know; you’re right. I like Johnson. I think he’ll be less trouble than the republican, Krassner.”

  “Right, so go for it, help the guy a little; put your own guy in the White House.” Myatlev laughed, patting Vaughn on the shoulder again.

  Hopefully, all that Vaughn would remember the following morning would be that he had a good time, made a new friend, won a small fortune at a card game, and decided to support Bobby Johnson’s run for president.

  ...28

  ...Saturday, January 16, 7:17AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)

  ...Robert Wilton’s Residence

  ...Washington, DC

  This is pointless, Robert thought, giving up the night-long effort to catch some shuteye in favor of letting Melanie sleep undisturbed. All he’d been able to do this past night was toss and turn, fall asleep for brief periods of time, then wake up startled and start tossing and turning again.

  He sat on his side of the bed, careful to not wake her. He looked at her and felt a knot climbing in his throat and his eyes moisten. Her face was shedding the sickly gray complexion bestowed by the congestive heart failure. She was sleeping well, eating well; she was regaining her old energy and passion for life. It was worth it, Robert reflected, she was worth it. Anything.

  Yet his conscience wouldn’t let him find his peace. Maybe it was his upbringing, an upbringing that had instilled solid moral values, in a family where right was right and wrong was wrong, with no room for gray areas in the middle. Born to a middle-class, Mid
western family in Iowa, Robert had benefitted from the undivided attention of an intelligent, patient, principled, yet strict mother. A single child, Robert had been encouraged to think before acting and to evaluate the moral value of all decisions.

  His mother had taught him to analyze before acting and to refrain from pursuing actions or deeds with a negative moral value. Not from a religious point of view though, despite her Catholic convictions. Although she was a faithful woman, she was not obsessed with religion, but she did find moral guidance in Catholic principles whenever in doubt. She had taught him to analyze actions from a logical perspective, and she had explained the meaning of right and wrong by reason. Her definition of a moral code had been about determining the set of guiding principles that would keep Robert out of trouble with the law, would make him successful in life, would make him feel good, even proud about his actions and how he conducted himself, and would help him find peace with his conscience. There was no peace to be found now. A month had passed since Melanie’s surgery, and his conscience bothered him more and more.

  His mother had always encouraged him to fix things when they were broken. Robert had lived his entire adult life on these moral principles and had built a remarkable career for himself by doing the right things, fixing what was broken, and taking assertive action when needed. Something was definitely broken now, and Robert knew only one person who could, maybe, be of some help. Or at least offer some advice.

  He stood quietly, gathered his cell phone from his nightstand, and left the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. He got dressed in a hurry, putting on some crumpled jeans, a shirt, and a parka. In a hurry, he scribbled “out shopping” on a sticky note and slapped it on the fridge door, then closed the garage door behind him.

  Climbing into his car, he took a deep breath, holding his face in his cold hands. Although new to him, this gesture was becoming more and more common.

  “May God help me do the right thing,” he murmured and turned the key in the ignition.

  Almost an hour later, just an anonymous figure in the crowded Walmart parking lot, Robert unwrapped a burner cell with trembling hands. He verified that it worked properly, then dialed a number, holding his breath.

  The phone rang for a while.

  “Hello?” a sleepy voice greeted.

  “Sam? It’s Robert, Robert Wilton. Sorry to call so—”

  “Hey, Rob, long time no see,” Sam interrupted. “Almost didn’t pick up, didn’t recognize your new number. How have you been?”

  “It’s a burn phone,” Robert clarified, skipping past pleasantries and jumping into the core of the problem.

  Thick silence ensued. Sam Russell, retired CIA operative and lifelong friend of Robert’s since their paths had crossed in Vietnam, reacted instantly to the words indicating that his friend was facing some predicament.

  Silence broke with some fumbling noises, as if Sam were touching phone keys or attaching hardware to his phone.

  “Line is secure now, Rob, you can spill it. What’s up?”

  Robert unloaded the entire story in one breath, one long phrase that made little sense.

  “I’m in serious trouble, Sam. I fucked up,” he concluded. “And I don’t even know what kind of trouble. People are dead. I need to call the cops, but I need you to protect Melanie.”

  “OK, slow down. Let’s take this one step at a time; let’s start over,” Sam said in a reassuring tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Together. Like old times.”

  Sam’s reference to their shared Vietnam tribulations had a grounding effect on Robert. Sam had been a POW in a camp liberated by Robert’s unit at the end of the Vietnam War. Robert’s skinny, grimy face had been the first American face Sam had seen in months. Getting to safety had not been easy for the two of them. They’d had no food or water, and Sam had been malnourished and tortured for months. Robert gave him every bit of food he could get and carried him when he couldn’t walk anymore. During their endless, exhausting march through the jungle, they had saved each other’s lives more than once and had become closer than brothers. They had been through worse and still made it home in one piece. Maybe there was hope.

  “Let’s start over; let me get the facts,” Sam said. “So, they declined Melanie for the heart transplant, right? When was that?”

  “Yes, that’s right. MedStar Georgetown University Hospital declined her at the beginning of December. They said it was because of her DUI.”

  “Then this guy approached you? What was his name?”

  “Helms, that’s what he said. Not sure if it’s real.”

  “Probably not. Then he offered you a transplant in return for your influencing an outsourcing or offshoring decision? That seems like a lot of trouble to get a contract. What kind of money are we talking about with this contract? What’s it for?”

  “It’s the...” Robert hesitated, thinking of the confidentiality he was sworn to maintain. “It’s for the e-vote overhaul, Sam.”

  “Oh, fuck me...” Sam said, letting several seconds of silence say the rest. “Then what happened?”

  Sam’s voice had dropped to almost a whisper.

  “Then two of my employees died—one in a car crash in Nevada, the other from a heart attack here in DC.”

  “That could be a coincidence, Bobby; have you thought of that?”

  “They were the only ones opposing the offshoring of this contract. They were not going to let it go. And I don’t know how, but somehow he knew. That guy, Helms, knew.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then we awarded the contract to the company Helms was pushing. They were the strongest offshore vendor anyway, so I didn’t have to do anything.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No, Helms appeared again, told me I can’t pull out of the contract or they’ll kill Melanie. He said the contract must run its entire course or she’s dead.”

  “OK, so what do you want to do?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve got to call the cops. They’ll throw me in jail, I know, but there’s no other way. People are dead, Sam, and e-vote? Out of all the contracts in this world? I have a gut feeling this isn’t about money or that Indian CEO’s ego. This is about the next president, Sam. It must be.”

  “Here’s what we need to do. You need to give me a couple of days to look into some options.”

  “No.” Robert snapped. “No, we have to call the cops, the feds, or you tell me who to call, who handles stuff like this.”

  “If you do that, Robert, you go to jail most likely for the rest of your life, Melanie’s life is in danger, and whoever is doing this will go underground and will never be caught. They’ll strike again, who knows when and how. How is that better?”

  Robert couldn’t think of an answer. Sam was right.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hold on to that burn phone. Keep it handy and make sure it has minutes and the battery is charged. I’ll be in touch in a day or two with options. And Bobby?”

  “Yes,” Robert managed to say.

  “Hang in there. We’ll fix this somehow.”

  ...29

  ...Saturday, January 16, 10:00AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)

  ...Flash Elections: Breaking News

  ...Nationally Syndicated

  Phil Fournier’s greeting opened the newscast on a background of red, white, and blue. The background shifted to show the portrait of Vice President Sheridan.

  “A surprise announcement came today when Vice President Mark Sheridan revealed that he will not be pursuing his candidacy for the US presidential elections. His decision comes as a shock to everyone, including the Democrats. Everyone was sure that Mark Sheridan would succeed President Mason and continue the democratic top-level presence in the White House. With President Mason by his side when he made the announcement, the vice president claimed health and family reasons for his decision to step down. At the end of his mandate as vice president, he will retire completely from the active political arena.”

&
nbsp; The background shifted again, displaying the image of Senator Bobby Johnson, Democrat from Illinois and presidential candidate.

  “In the wake of VP Sheridan’s announcement, the spotlight moves to Senator Bobby Johnson’s bid for president. Most likely he will now be granted Democratic support for his candidacy. With VP Sheridan in the run this support would have never been granted. Consequently, his ratings have gone up, but not by a lot. His support is currently at 22.8 percent, and he will need to do a lot better that that to have a chance to enter the White House as our next president. The low support for Johnson is attributed largely to his perceived indecisiveness.

  “A moderate with open yet hesitant views of what America’s role should be in the world, Johnson is failing to convince the public that he has what it takes to revive the economy, address the burning issues in our immigration legislation, and stabilize healthcare. Johnson appears undecided about how to tackle poverty and illiteracy in our country, while stating he strongly believes the economy will make a comeback, which will address at least some of these issues.”

  The background image changed again, cueing footage filmed on the streets of New York City.

  “Let’s hear a few reactions to today’s surprise announcement,” Phil Fournier announced before the filmed interviews expanded onto the entire screen.

  “I am a Democrat at heart, so I don’t care whose candidacy they decide to support. I am voting for him,” a young man responded, his face partially hidden by the hood of a down parka.

  “Johnson’s lame, that’s what he is. He could bring this country to ruin. This one bends in the wind; that’s what he does. No backbone whatsoever,” remarked a man in his fifties, bracing the windy New York City winter in a business suit and hurrying to get out of the wind.