by Jeff Abbott
“And the Morozovs spread the word that was you taking revenge. The Black Widow.”
“Of course not. You cannot have murders so closely connected to a country’s leader.” She touched his jaw again, soft as silk. “They needed me. And it was an insult to some of the Chechen leaders that a woman could hunt them down. If I could have I would have. But I wouldn’t have killed their wives and their children.”
“That happened?”
“That happened. They began to whisper that it was me, and the whispers turned to fire. No charges would come and Sergei was avenged.”
For a moment he thought of kissing her. He didn’t even know why. She looked at him and said, “Thank you for tending to me.”
“I’m sorry he hurt you. Are you sure you don’t want to see a doc—”
She kissed him. He held perfectly still for a moment then kissed her back, gently. Her lips nibbled his as he pulled away.
“You just took a blow to the head,” he said. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Old Russian cure for headache,” she said. Reaching for him, kissing him.
“Vodka?” he asked, laughing.
“No,” she said. “This.” And she kissed him again, pulling him toward the bed.
An hour later, he heard the soft hum of a shower running, and he looked inside the duffel bags while Irina was in the bathroom: stacks and stacks of hundreds, nothing smaller. If they were all hundred-dollar bills, and each bill weighed around a gram, then a million dollars would be a bit north of twenty pounds. This might be four million total here. The thought made him dizzy.
He joined her in the shower, and afterward they dried off and dressed. They carried the bags out of the condo. He watched her lock the door and slip the passkey into the outer pocket of her small purse.
They walked past the guards and the partygoers of Sunny Isles. The party was louder, more crowded. No one seemed to notice them. He did not see Rolan. They loaded the bags into the boat.
“I wish we could stay here longer,” she said. “Just the two of us. There are no ghosts here.” Her voice was low. She gave a little laugh, because it was impossible to stay. She touched his jaw again and he kissed her hand.
For a moment he wished it as well, but then he thought: She has her own agenda.
He brushed a windblown strand of red hair from her face. “On the yacht…” he said.
“I can’t appear to be distracted by a romance,” she said. “Not now. I am always on duty.”
“I know the feeling,” he said. “I understand.”
“When this is over…the summit…when you’re spending time in Moscow, or when Katya comes to New York to open the Tsar Lounge there…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
He kissed her again, for two reasons. First, he wanted to. Her fingers tangled in his hair again. His hands ran along her ribs, her waist, and gathered her to him for a few delicious moments.
They broke apart. He waited until she turned away to guide the limousine tender out from the marina to stuff the key he’d lifted from her purse into his pocket—the second reason for the kiss.
No one stopped them. He kept expecting for a Coast Guard chopper to swing low over them, bathing them in headlights, but the sky stayed dark. Twenty miles out was the Svetlana and all her lights were ablaze.
The Vikal tender was brought aboard the Svetlana. Two of Irina’s men took the duffels and left. Irina handed them an access card from her purse and told them to bring it back when they were done. The card key had a purple tag on it. Like the card key lock on the restricted door in the server room.
The room he couldn’t get into. The money’s there.
Sam and Irina, still dressed in their party finery, went up to the deck. Aft stood Yuri Kirov, watching them, face blank.
Sam watched him. You are collecting the money to pay my brother to kill Morozov. Maybe you want him dead so you can be president soon. You would risk war for your own greed. You look frail and drunk but I think that’s an act, Mr. Kirov. Tonight, when everyone’s asleep, you’re going to tell me how to contact my brother. We’re going to call him. And you’re going to fire him from this job.
Sam knew he couldn’t open the tender garage while the yacht was moving. He remembered there was a small Zodiac tender stored up on the sundeck, used by the crew when needed. That would probably be easier. He needed a plan. Because he was going to kidnap Yuri Kirov right off his own boat.
45
Nebo, Russia
STEFAN STUDIED FIGURES on his computer, then slept for the last part of the flight.
Eventually, Danny slept, too. Mila watched him; his slumber was a mark of confidence. Because he knew at that moment she could do nothing to him. If Danny knew her husband…did he, in turn, know who she was? Surely not. Jimmy had kept his life so compartmentalized. But she had made two cracks about family, letting her emotion trump her judgment. She hated Danny. For what he had done to his brother, who deserved so much better. For being the leverage that she had to have.
Mila thought: Maybe Danny thinks you’re here on Jimmy’s behalf. Or maybe Danny will try to kill you as soon as you’re alone with him because anyone who can expose him is a threat.
Mila closed her own eyes and slept, surprisingly, and she awoke as the plane began its descent. She looked out the window at the compound. Ten large estates, all extraordinarily grand, a couple of them ridiculous, built like miniature castles. They all sat along a long, winding loop of road. At the end of the oval was the grandest: the Morozov house. Each house sat on smaller acreage than you might think—as if they wanted to be closer together. Additional buildings were along the perimeter—other slightly smaller grand houses called kottedzhi, for visitors and support staff, a helipad, a conference center, a stable and riding center, an enclosed swimming pool, a spa, and more. Dense, untouched forest divided many of the houses from each other, giving privacy, and from the three runways.
A town, fifty miles from Moscow, just for Russia’s brightest and best billionaires. They called it Nebo: the Russian word for heaven.
She needed a way to get out of heaven, with Danny Capra as her prisoner. Quickly, and quietly.
The plane landed on the compound’s smaller runway. Nearby was a larger runway that Morozov had added, capable of handling the larger jets in his fifty-plus-aircraft presidential fleet.
Mila walked off the plane. Everyone stretched in the cold morning air. She stepped away from the group, scanning the massive villas of the circle. A buzz of activity at every house, even in the early morning—people, security details.
So much security. Far more than she anticipated. She saw cars with government emblems on the side. More security than the private Belinsky Global teams. Her heart sank. Getting Danny Capra away from here was going to be difficult. She had no weapon, no transportation. So she’d have to use Stefan.
“Many important guests here already,” Stefan said. “Many prominent Russians, and Western friends, for the departure party and to prepare for the summit. This is a big moment in history for us.”
You have no idea, Mila thought.
The man calling himself Philip Judge followed her. “Impressive houses,” he said.
“The first president Morozov,” Stefan said, coming up behind them, “had a nearby village bulldozed to make room for our homes. The village had been there since 1308. They had survived the Mongols, the Germans, the Communists, everything.”
“Except the billionaires,” Mila said. She smiled to soften the blow, to make it seem a joke.
Philip Judge smiled, too, and she thought that smile would soon be gone. She had to get in contact with Charity’s team here in Moscow, extract him, get him back to London.
And he wouldn’t easily walk into a trap.
Stefan laughed and started texting on his phone. “I should tell you that you can sleep for a bit, but for you, Mila, the rest of the day is meetings. Interviews. I have a full workday myself.”
“What?” Mila asked. “I thought…we�
��d go to the bar, in a couple of hours.” That was still her best way of getting Danny Capra to Charity—get him away from Nebo, where he could be grabbed off the streets of Moscow. She had zero intention of waiting around here. She put a hand on Stefan’s arm and mustered a warm, inviting smile. “I was so looking forward to us going to Moscow together.”
He gave her a smile, as if reassured that she could be interested in him. “As soon as we can; I have other meetings today,” Stefan said, in a tone that suggested perhaps she had forgotten that the Varros were investing in more than her bars. “I’m afraid any investment must go through scrutiny before being announced. Mila, our lawyers will wish to speak to you about the bar project. There will also be a detailed security check on you and Philip by the presidential security forces.” He gestured toward the security teams they could see in the distance, in perimeters around the houses. “With the president expected soon…and so many foreign dignitaries, last-minute guests like the two of you must be cleared. Also, there will be press here. You are not to speak to them without permission. You’ll be given a badge that allows you access to certain areas of Nebo—my house and the common areas, such as the conference center. It is security. You understand.”
“Of course,” Mila and her enemy said together, and then both politely laughed. Inside she fumed. She was sure her UK identity could stand the scrutiny—but what if Danny Capra was caught in that security net? He would be gone from her. He looked utterly confident.
Parked by the runway was a Dartz Black Shark, the highly armored Latvian-built, Mercedes-engined SUV the Russian elite preferred.
Stefan looked up from his phone. “OK, Philip…I’m sure we can get a meeting with my dad. And then tomorrow, Mila wants to take us to the bar in Moscow. That could be fun.”
“Fun, of course,” Danny made himself say. Of course she wanted him away from all this security. All these witnesses. He could tell she hadn’t expected the crowds here for the pre-summit preparations.
He needed Mila gone, and his brother left with no avenue to pursue him. Could he get rid of Mila at the bar? Or en route? An accident? They would be surrounded today by lawyers and security personnel. He had to find a way. “Sounds great,” he said to Stefan. Stefan was clearly interested in her. That could be a problem.
And he could use this time to figure out the security situation here. He must get close to Morozov tomorrow night, before he left. Today would give him that opportunity to find a path.
He caught Mila looking at him. He smiled at her. She was trapped, helpless, a fly in amber here. But he was not.
He had an idea. It meant she would die. Regrettable, but it would be necessary.
Mila’s stare locked on Danny. Then she turned away and climbed into the Dartz.
Stefan got in next to her, Danny on the other side. “I know you’re disappointed, Mila. But we’ll have tomorrow,” he said, trying to smooth over her unhappiness. “Your club is supposed to be fun, according to Katya. Too bad Sam isn’t here with us.”
Danny kept his face neutral at the word Sam but inside he felt his chest crack, like a shovel had powered through the bone. Actual pain. He swallowed and it went away. He felt a sudden betraying sheen of sweat on the back of his neck.
Danny stared out the window. So this is what a neighborhood of billionaires looks like, he thought, looking at the houses to push away every thought of Sam.
There had been reports that they were all planning to build an even bigger, billion-dollar compound in the warmth of Sochi. This was their one set of homes where the inner circle could easily be all together. It was their Ground Zero.
And he was going to walk into the heart of it and kill the target.
The Black Shark pulled past several security checks. The security officials—government, not a private force like Irina’s people—knew Stefan and his two bodyguards on sight, but checked carefully, more than once, the American passport of Philip Judge and the British passport of Mila Cebotari. Stefan explained more than once that Philip and Mila were friends, who had been cleared by the investigative teams at Belinsky Global. That apparently carried weight.
Then, the shock.
One of the guards, talking to Stefan’s driver, mentioned that President Morozov was at Nebo, having arrived late last night. Hence the greatly expanded security. Everyone got quiet in the limo; Mila’s face went pale. Danny noted that Stefan didn’t call Morozov “Uncle” in front of the government security forces.
He’s here, Danny thought. And you have to find a way to him.
The motorcade pulled into the vast driveway of the Varro dacha. They got out. Danny was searched, as was Mila. Another guard inspected his baggage, right there on the driveway. A third guard studied the screen on his phone. Danny suspected it was an electronic report on him, probably provided by Irina Belinskaya. He stood and was careful to keep a polite, understanding smile on his face.
The searches turning up nothing of interest, the guards thanked Danny in rough English and he and Mila followed Stefan up to the dacha. A woman in a housekeeper’s uniform nodded at Mila. “Ms. Cebotari, Katerina Yureyevna asked that a room at her home be prepared for you. And then Mr. Varro’s lawyers will be here later to talk to you. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll get freshened up.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mila. Enjoy your day,” Stefan said.
Mila forced a warm, inviting smile to her face. “Tomorrow, then. Or earlier, if you change your mind.” She followed the housekeeper across the street. Two bodyguards, one male, one female, followed them.
Danny watched Mila walk away. “How soon do you think I can meet President Morozov?”
Stefan stared. “Do you need to see him? Do you know who the threat is…?”
“No. Not yet. I prefer he not know my connection to Sergei. It’s better that way. Deniability.” He needed to deal with Mila first. Then he would be free to act, as he had planned, and to walk away to his twenty million.
Stefan nodded. They went inside the Varro house. An elderly servant greeted them. A suite had been prepared for Philip Judge. He went up to it, following a manservant carrying his bag, and it was bigger than Claybourne’s loaner apartment back in Brooklyn. Stefan told him that Morozov would be at the Varro house tomorrow morning for a meeting.
“Fine. I need to see anyone here who was also on Sergei’s list of enemies. I need access to walk around the compound. Can you get that for me?”
Stefan nodded. “There’s a special pass. I’ll see you get one.”
Danny closed the door behind him. The bathroom was spectacular. All granite and marble. There was a medicine cabinet, preloaded with Russian brands of lotion, shampoos, toothpaste, eyedrops, painkillers, breath mints.
He unpacked, showered, and dressed, and then he called a number in Moscow, hung up after the third ring, waited, called again, and hung up after the fifth ring. He sat by the window. The phone rang.
“I have a job for you,” he said.
“What?”
“I am bringing a woman to Moscow tomorrow. To the Tsar Lounge, off Tverskaya. Do you know it?”
“I know that entire area well.”
“I need her dead. She’s petite, blond. She’ll be the only woman at my side. I need her shot, preferably on the street. If not on the street, inside the bar itself. One shot, dead. She cannot survive. Stefan Varro will be with us. Don’t hit me, or anyone else.”
“This is extremely short notice.”
“I’ll signal you when I know when we’re heading to Moscow.”
“Not how I work.”
“And I’ll pay you one million US.” It was exorbitant but worth it to him.
He heard a soft sigh. “I accept. Half up front.”
Danny realized he could not let his desperation show. “Fine…”
“I thought you didn’t work in Russia anymore.”
“I don’t. I’ll be in touch. I’ll e-mail you a picture of her.”
He decided to stretch his legs with a walk. He wa
nted fresh air after the long flight, and he wanted to start studying the ring of protection around Morozov.
Because he planned to make a mockery of it.
46
The Svetlana, the Atlantic Ocean
KIDNAPPING WAS HARDER than murder. A homicide could be done with a single shot—walk up to victim, kill, walk away. A kidnapping involved control of a desperate person, escape, concealment, refuge.
A kidnapping at sea, snatching one of the world’s wealthiest men, under the nose of a highly trained security team…Sam knew if he overthought it, he’d lose his nerve.
He needed a few items and he could not be found collecting them. He already had the key to the condo in Sunny Isles he’d stolen from Irina, where he thought he could take Yuri. This could be very civilized. A Yuri threatened with exposure was a Yuri who could be counted on to abort the assassination.
That afternoon he went belowdecks, announcing his curiosity about the engine room. One of the crew took him through the Svetlana’s engine room. It was all computerized and he discarded his idea to shut it down somehow, leave the Svetlana adrift as he escaped with Yuri. On the way back up, one deck up, walking alone, he found a maintenance room, unlocked. Inside he found a large roll of duct tape. It would be fine for binding Yuri’s mouth and hands.
He next needed a satellite phone. He found a loaner left in one of the business conference rooms, where the software moguls had been working on their proposals. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, turning it off in case anyone called it looking for it.
Now for the riskiest act of all. He went up to the sundeck where the Zodiac crew tender was kept. A crewman was up there, watching him. He glanced into the boat; it was an emergency tender, and so did not require a key. He realized the crewman was still watching him. Sam smiled and moved on, peering out at the sea.
