by Tim Tigner
Pushkin’s eyes moved quickly from Guryev to Max, where they stopped and scanned with partial recognition.
Max was banking on the flip of a coin, the hope that Pushkin had not seen his old roommate for years. “Good to see you, Igor.”
“Arkady Usatov,” Pushkin said, appraising him with a look that definitely wasn’t pleased to see you.
Max struggled to retain his best poker face, which of course wasn’t his face at all. His real face was practically a mirror image of the one staring back at him.
Pushkin poked two fingers into Max’s chest. “I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again!”
Chapter 101
One Ping
Black Sea Coast, Russia
AS THE MERCEDES pulled away from the helipad, Achilles flirted with the idea that the head wound he’d received back on Nuikaohao was more serious than he realized. Why else would he be making a move against one of the best-protected men on the planet, on his home turf, armed only with audacity and a few electrical tricks?
Fortunately, an acceptable answer came quickly. He’d promised his president. That and a lack of alternatives. And revenge for Senator Collins. And to settle an old score. And finally, because he could. This was his calling.
Achilles wondered how Katya was doing at that very moment. He wished he’d been able to size Wang up before sending Katya after him. Max had assured him that the Chinese spy wasn’t the violent type, and since Zoya was equally involved in the chase, Achilles took him at his word. Still, as the extortion twist had shown, operations were unpredictable.
The Mercedes zipped past Seaside’s grand entrance, just as Max had predicted. Shortly thereafter, they descended into a semicircular underground portico reminiscent of a fancy city-center hotel.
Large men waited there with solemn faces and security wands.
Achilles and Glick each got their own greeter. “Welcome to Seaside. Please raise your arms.”
Achilles clutched his phone and complied. “We’re here on Korovin’s invitation.”
“Obviously.”
The guard got friendly when Achilles’ belt buckle hummed. Achilles held back an impulsive quip, and a second later the search was over. The FP1 hadn’t registered. Hans was a man of his word.
Glick’s guard pointed them up a bifurcating marble staircase. They ascended into a domed atrium whose frescoes could have been painted by Michelangelo. Under normal circumstances, Achilles would have been in awe, but today all he saw was a battlefield.
Up top, the guard again took the lead, guiding them down a hallway the length of a football stadium and the style of an art museum. The further they walked down its white marble floor, the more blood drained from Glick’s face. The sight reminded Achilles of an observation he’d made many times in the field: courage wasn’t linked to rank.
Back in Switzerland, Glick’s wealth and position made him as much a demigod as the Greek statues they were passing. And no doubt, given his financial acumen, some of that was deserved. But here at Seaside, the successful Swiss banker clearly realized he was but a flea on the big dog’s back. Easily rubbed out, if Korovin wanted to scratch.
The guard opened an arched door on the side of the hall. He gestured Achilles into a wood-paneled room resembling a gentlemen’s club. “You can wait here. There’s satellite TV, espresso, and cigars. Or feel free to help yourself to something stronger if you’d like.”
Achilles’ feet didn’t respond to the gesture. “I’ll be sticking with Severin.”
“No, you’ll be doing as you’re told and waiting here. Korovin’s only scheduled to meet with Glick.”
“We’re a team.” Achilles turned to the banker, placing the ball in his court. While Glick blinked like a computer stuck processing, Achilles brought his hands behind his back and peeled the rubber pads from his palm and fingertips, exposing the FP1 electrodes.
Glick finally snapped to. “Yes, we’re a team. I’m sure the schedule means the Glick party, which includes Mr. Azarov.”
“If the president wants him, I’ll come back.”
Fear straightened Glick’s spine, and he snapped into haughty banker mode. He spoke nothing further, but his expression said plenty.
The guard stared back for a few silent seconds, then broke. “Follow me.”
As their footsteps echoed off the polished marble, Achilles felt his phone vibrate. Once. Only once. Bad news.
He fell a half pace back and snuck a peek at the screen to confirm that he hadn’t missed the second ping. He hadn’t. Max was having issues with security.
Life was about to get complicated.
Chapter 102
Two Fingers
Black Sea Coast, Russia
MAX LOOKED DOWN at the colonel’s fingers as they poked into his chest, and felt Guryev tense beside him. It will be a pleasant surprise, he’d promised. A fight between the old best friends was not a scenario Max had considered.
Exposing the electrodes on the side of his right hand and tips of his left index and middle fingers would take a good three seconds. He couldn’t do it haphazardly or he’d risk knocking himself out. And he couldn’t do it while under direct observation. Too conspicuous. He’d have to charm his way through this situation.
Max met Pushkin’s eye. “That was a long time ago, old friend. Let’s not allow one bad event to overshadow all the good. I apologize, most sincerely.”
If it weren’t for the chance of his electrodes being noticed during this moment of intense scrutiny, Max would hold out his hand at this point. Instead he remained still. Very awkward.
Pushkin stared back at him.
Max thought Pushkin’s eyes were much crueler than his own, but the color sure looked the same.
Pushkin tilted his head down the hall. “I was about to get some coffee.”
“Coffee’s good,” Max said, feeling his diaphragm relax. “But I have a better idea.”
Both men turned to him.
Max rapped his knuckles on his chest. A resonant metallic thunk-thunk came back. “Viru Valge vodka. A gold medal winner from Estonia. A gift from their ambassador to Mr. Glick, who was kind enough to share. What could be better than old friends and fine spirits on a quiet Sunday afternoon?”
Pushkin cocked his head. “Estonian, you say? I do like their women. I guess I could give their best vodka a try. What do you say, Gura? You up for a little trip to Tallinn?”
Guryev placed his palm back on the scanner, opening the guardroom door.
The audacious plan Max and Achilles had devised was full of risks, gambles, and suppositions. As professional spies, that was business as usual for both of them. But Max was still holding his breath as the door swung open. He was going to have to neutralize everyone in the suite, so he was praying it wouldn’t be a crowd.
Like everything at the palace, the security office was grand. Sixteen laptop-size screens surrounded a large central display. All were angled to be easily observable by a single guard. That guard ignored them, keeping his eyes on his work, strictly following protocol with his boss in the room.
Also on the wall before the guard, a dedicated box hosted a big red button and a smaller yellow one. Both begged to be slapped. A siren and a silent alarm, no doubt. Next to them, Max saw a keyhole rather than a green button. If the op went to hell, he’d be powerless to silence the alarm.
Max took a second to study the big screen over the guard’s shoulder. It showed the president with his feet up on an ottoman and his face glued to the tablet in his hand.
Glick and Achilles had yet to arrive.
Pushkin followed his gaze. “The large screen always shows the president. The smaller ones either jump to new motion or shuffle at six-second intervals according to some fancy algorithm designed to maintain vigilance.”
“I’m impressed,” Max said, while his mind worked the problem. He had three men to contend with. Three was one too many for his hands, but better than it could have been. In the best of worlds, he’d orchestrate a simul
taneous two-handed zap. Drop Guryev and Pushkin before either knew anything was happening. Now he had to wage a three-on-one assault against men wearing ear-mikes and guns while Achilles waited anxiously for the all-clear signal, a double vibration on his phone.
Max walked over to the seated guard. “Vanya, I heard you might have an allergy pill to spare?”
Vanya reached over to the drawer on his left and extracted a bottle without looking away from his charge. Surely he wasn’t this disciplined when Pushkin was out of the room? “Help yourself.”
Max dumped two tiny white pills into his hand and dry swallowed them. “Thanks.”
With one potential disaster averted, Max decided it was time to get clever. He pulled the copper flask from his breast pocket, and turned back to Pushkin. “I don’t suppose you have any ice handy?”
“Vanya will get us some.”
The guard spun around and jumped to his feet. “Right away, Colonel.”
As Vanya left the room, Pushkin gestured toward the monitors he’d just vacated. “This is just the passive civilian stuff.” He pointed to the opposite wall, which boasted six computer stations. “We’ve got active military defenses like you wouldn’t believe. Radar. Sonar. Air, land, and sea defensive systems. The Kremlin has nothing on Seaside.”
Max was impressed, but not overly so. After all, he was there. “Where is everybody?”
“Korovin likes it quiet. This is his place to get away from the Moscow beehive. And frankly, nothing ever happens here. We’re too isolated.”
“An old drunk guy showed up once,” Guryev said. “Some kids from the nearest town let him off at the foot of the drive as a prank. I choppered him to Novorossiysk and left him there. Figured if he didn’t come back, it would stoke a legend.”
Pushkin half-smiled at the memory.
Max found that an encouraging sign. He unscrewed the flask’s lid and took a sip. He’d gotten used to room-temperature liquor while drinking baijiu with Wang. “It’s pretty good at any temperature.” He handed the vodka to Pushkin.
Pushkin ventured a sip. “Smooth. I’m sure those Estonian distillers are of Russian heritage.” He took a longer swallow.
While Pushkin handed the flask to Guryev, Max put his hands behind his back and carefully peeled the rubber pads off the electrodes on his palm and fingers. As the electricians would say, he was now hot.
“What’s the symbol on the flask?” Guryev asked after nodding his approval of the taste. “Is that also Estonian?”
That was Max’s cue. “This is the coolest flask you’ve ever seen. Got it from a Swiss metallurgist.” He leaned in and spoke conspiratorially. “Screw the lid on and lay it on the table. I’ll show you something cool.”
As Guryev began screwing, Achilles and Glick appeared on a side monitor. They were outside the lounge where Max had met with Ignaty. They were less than a minute from Korovin’s parlor.
Max was out of time.
The big steel door clicked open and Vanya walked in with four plain white coffee mugs full of ice.
Max ran his hand over a pocket and gave his clicker a single tap, signaling Achilles not-yet.
They’d both be improvising now.
The tightrope was getting higher.
Every second would count.
“There we go,” Guryev said, emptying the flask between the mugs.
As the four men each grabbed one, Max waited for the right moment to strike. He’d only get one chance.
Pushkin gave his chilled vodka a sip, and nodded approval. Normally Russians would slam shots of chilled vodka, straight from the freezer. But military men also learned quickly to adapt to circumstance. “So you’re living in Switzerland now?”
“Yeah, Zurich. Flying birds for the bankers. It’s not as nice as your gig, but I can’t complain.”
The men each took another sip.
Guryev held up the empty container. “What were you going to show us?”
“Wait till you see this. Lay the flask on the table,” Max said, willing Achilles to keep things under control for just a few seconds more.
Guryev laid down the flask.
Max pressed the index and middle fingers from his right hand down on one corner. “Now do this. Everyone at once.” He pulled his hand back.
The men looked skeptical, but complied.
This time Max reached out with his left hand. Positioning his hot fingers an inch above the fourth corner, he said. “Press down firmly, like you’re trying to bend it.” When he saw their fingernails turn white, he pressed down as well.
Nothing happened.
Chapter 103
Perseus
Black Sea Coast, Russia
ACHILLES HAD NEVER SEEN a room as grand as the parlor at President Korovin’s seaside home. Certainly not in a private residence. With the nervous Swiss banker by his side, he tried to take it all in as his feet propelled him toward the enormous picture window dominating the far wall. Between the ornate garden in the foreground and the white-capped waters of the Black Sea beyond, Korovin enjoyed an ever-changing view reminiscent of great gallery canvasses.
“Ever own a pet python?”
The curious query hit them from behind. The voice was familiar and anticipated but jolting nonetheless. They whirled about to see Korovin gliding toward them with the grace of a jungle cat.
Korovin continued his train of thought without introduction or pause. “I owned one once. A gift from the president of Vietnam. Named him Perseus. Kept him here at Seaside, where the staff grew rather fond of him. They kept Perseus fat and friendly on a diet of rats and rabbits and stray dogs.”
Achilles had no idea where this was going, but he found the tactic fascinating. The good news was that Korovin was burning clock, giving Max time to work. The bad news was that poor Glick might faint.
“For years, the python was a conversation piece at meetings like this, and I grew as fond of him as a man can of a snake. Then Perseus changed. For a month he ate nothing, while at the same time his length grew by nearly a meter.” Korovin held out one open palm, then the other, demonstrating the apparent contradiction. “Concerned, I called a vet. A specialist. Flew him in from Hanoi. Care to guess what the vet asked me?”
Both visitors shook their heads.
“He asked me if Perseus was free to roam the house. My parlor, my study, my bedroom. I told him yes, that was part of the fun. Where’s Perseus? became a welcome distraction.” Korovin looked left and right, his arms still spread. “Care to guess what the vet told me?”
Achilles felt Glick trembling as again he shook his head.
“He told me, ‘Mr. President, I’m afraid your pet is preparing to eat you.’ ” Korovin brought his hands together in a clap as his eyes locked on Glick.
Glick said nothing.
Achilles said nothing.
Korovin said, “What have you come to tell me, Severin?”
Glick cleared his throat. “I’ve brought your capital growth strategy, Mr. President.”
“My capital growth strategy?”
“Yes. Ten-fold growth in ten years. An annual growth rate of twenty-five percent.” Glick’s demeanor eased a little as the topic turned to his comfort zone.
The easing didn’t last.
Korovin didn’t smile. He didn’t tilt his head. He didn’t move his hands. He just stared at Glick with unblinking eyes, while Achilles waited for his phone to vibrate twice.
“Do you think that’s my primary concern? Do you think I lack for money?”
The question hit the Swiss banker like a poke in the eye, but he quickly came around. “I’m sure you have other more pressing concerns, but money is the one I’m best suited to help you with.”
Korovin shook his head. “I want to hear about the Vulcan Fisher purchase.”
“I sold off all your shares. Immediately. As we agreed last weekend in Zurich. I called in some favors and got it all done with no net loss. The error cost you nothing.”
“Cost me nothing. Cost me nothing.
” Korovin turned to Achilles, frustration writ large on his face. “Who are you?”
Anytime now, Max. Replying in Russian so Glick wouldn’t understand, Achilles said, “Alex Azarov. Mr. Glick thought it might be wise to bring a translator. Another set of ears, really, given your excellent English, just to avoid any misunderstandings.”
The president did not look impressed. “If Severin thinks I’d hesitate to swing the axe just because two heads are on the block, well, I’m afraid you’ll find he’s mistaken.”
Korovin turned back to Glick. “Did you, or did you not, think of anything new regarding the origins of the Vulcan Fisher purchase?”
Glick looked at Achilles.
Come on, Max. “Mr. Glick doesn’t want to get anyone in trouble, but there was an incident that appears suspicious, in retrospect. One that slipped his mind. On the way from the exchange with the embassy courier, he stopped at his usual coffee shop. One of the other patrons tripped and bumped into him.”
Korovin turned to Glick. “You got pick-pocketed?”
Glick had no foreknowledge of the ruse Achilles had just employed. For a second he froze, then his professional instincts kicked in. “I can’t think of any other explanation.”
As Korovin leaned in and Glick cowered back, Achilles inched into striking range. Hurry up, Max.
“Did you bring me a name?” Korovin pressed.
Glick couldn’t look to Achilles for guidance. Korovin would see right through that. “No.”
“A videotape?”
“No.”
Korovin spread his arms. “Well, in the past this would have been the point where I’d introduce you to Perseus. But since he’s is no longer with us, my security chief will have to do.”
Chapter 104
Hostile Intent
