by Mark Greaney
The young minders around Court could not understand his English, but from the foreigner’s angry and aggressive tone they moved closer to him and looked to their master for guidance. He stayed them with a raised hand, then wiggled his fingertips at them, as if brushing them back into the corners of the room. They complied. Court could hear their retreating footsteps behind him.
Sidorenko did not take his eyes off of Court. Instead he slowly backed up behind the desk and sat down. He sipped purple tea from a gold-leaf glass. Court thought the man to be intimidated, but the next words out of the Russian mob boss’s mouth came forth calmly and with no discernible tremor.
“Have you ever seen a man boiled alive in a tub of acid?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“A colleague of mine.” Sid held out a hand as if to allay his guest’s fears. “I did not do it. It was shortly after the auctioning off of state-owned enterprise; ninety-three, I think it was. I was with a team of accountants and lawyers working for a mobster in Moscow. He was no oligarch, no great genius either. But he loved money above all, and he strong-armed his way into several department store chains and then scared off or killed off the co-owners. Anyway, he decided one of his employees had been siphoning funds from his legitimate holdings, and he brought us all to a meeting at his dacha in Odessa. There, waiting for us, were some very hard men: Spetsnaz paramilitaries moonlighting as henchmen for this cretin. We—there were nine of us—were all taken to a barn, stripped naked, and shackled to railroad ties. We were beaten and sprayed with cold water for two days. It was October. The oldest man, an attorney, died that first night. During the second night our employer entered the barn and told us that if one of us confessed, he would, by doing so, save the lives of the others. No one spoke. The beatings continued for another twelve hours.”
Court looked around the room while Sidorenko spoke.
“On day three another man was dead. I can’t remember his face, a regulatory affairs expert, if I’m not mistaken. Our employer returned again and made the same offer as before. Again, no one confessed. I was certain he would kill everyone, but fortunately for the rest of us, the oligarch had a deep-seated mistrust of Jews. He noticed, lying there in the muck and blood, that one of us was circumcised. Natan Bulichova. He took him for a Jew, decided he was the deceitful one, and had a wooden water trough brought in from outside. It was filled with a solvent used for stripping lead-based paint, powerful stuff, and Natan was thrown on the ground next to the trough. For nearly an hour our Spetsnaz tormentors used shovels to splash the acid on poor Natan as he writhed on the straw. He turned red, and then the skin began to bubble and pop off him, leaving him covered in the most brutal sores. The rest of us were forced to watch. Finally, because the men with the shovels grew tired of the work, they grabbed hooks used to lift bales of hay, and they pierced them into Natan’s arms and legs. They threw him right into the acid bath. The rest of us, Natan’s friends and colleagues, willed him to hurry up and die, for both his benefit and ours. He screamed a scream I will never forget, until finally his melted face went under the liquid and did not emerge. It was a horrifying experience.”
Court recognized that Sid enjoyed telling the story. He did not know what to say, so he said, “Sounds like stealing from this man was not a good idea.”
Sid shrugged, reached for his tea as he replied matter-of-factly, “Oh, Natan was perfectly innocent. I am the one who embezzled the money. Used it ultimately to go into business for myself. Our employer let the rest of us leave. He himself was killed in ninety-four, shot in the back while getting fitted for a suit in Moscow.”
Court sighed. “Is there a point to this story? Because if there is, I don’t get it. Or am I just supposed to be frightened by it? Because I am not.”
SEVEN
“The point is, I want you to understand who I am. I can be your friend. I want to be your friend. But if you come into my home and speak to me as you have just spoken to me, if you show me no respect, I can be your enemy. Do not let my pleasant regard for you allow you to think you can disrespect me in my home. I am a man who has evolved into where I am. I did not begin like this. To be a success in Russia, you need equal measures of two things: brains and brutality. This mobster I spoke of, he was a brute. Killing a man like that was effective, but then to go out by yourself to buy a suit and get shot . . . surely he did not have the brains to understand the consequences of his brutality. Other men, accountants like me, for example, they have become involved in crime because they have the brains for success, but in this vicious environment of competition and institutional corruption and the bloodthirsty hunt for money at all costs . . . the accountant criminals were swept from the chessboard even faster than the brutal fools.
“I realized there was no one who had both the brains and the stomach. Someone with the brains for business and the stomach for violence could survive and thrive in the new Russia like no one else. I had the brains . . . this I knew. But the stomach? That took a while to develop.”
“So, do you throw your employees in acid?”
“No, my employees are treated well by me. They are National Socialists, if you had not yet guessed. They beat immigrants for fun. They think you are from the Caucasus from your complexion and hair . . . so they are no fans of yours. No, I do not threaten them; I let these young men live as they wish, give them free run of my home, and I pay them extremely well.”
“In gold chains?”
Sid laughed, genuinely amused. “Ha. No, not in gold chains. In euros. Used to be in dollars but, well, time marches on. You can come here, angry as you are, and you can tell me you do not want to work with me any longer. But, Mr. Gray, I promise you, I am the best that there is for what you need.”
On the wall to Gentry’s left and Sid’s right was a huge painting in a massive gilded frame. In the smoky light of the room, the square face and penetrating eyes of Joseph Stalin stared back at Court.
“Cute picture,” Court said as he sat down in an uncomfortable wooden high-backed chair in front of Sid’s desk.
Sidorenko regarded the portrait as if he had only just noticed it. “Yes. I respect the authority that it conveys.”
“You don’t strike me as one of the old guard.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“A commie. I thought all of you billionaire mobsters were capitalist pigs like the rest of the civilized world.”
Sidorenko laughed with his mouth open and a high gurgle in the back of his throat. “Oh yes, I am a pig, but not an ideological one.” He stared at the portrait as he said, “He was a terrible man, yes, but Uncle Joe said perhaps the most brilliant words ever spoken. He said, ‘Death solves all problems’—”
Court finished the quote. “‘No man, no problem.’”
Sidorenko smiled appreciatively. “Of course you would know this. It is your own personal mission statement, is it not?”
“It is not.”
Sid shrugged. “An operational credo, then?” He did not wait for Court to answer. “Stalin, the Romanovs, the Great Patriotic War, the current skinhead Russian nationalist phenomenon. I have, you see, an affinity for terrible, terrible things. I am a fan of the power of cruelty. A man who has the ability to inflict death and misery on his fellow man is more powerful than the rich, the famous, the good.”
“Your operational credo?”
“Not really. A pastime, nothing more. Most of my business interests are rather benign: prostitutes, money laundering, stolen cars, credit cards, drugs . . . money-makers, yes, but money is not my true passion. There is, you see, nothing to me so fulfilling as to be a player in the industry in which you ply your trade. I am speaking of the industry of death. I am Russian. Our history is gloom and destruction. There are many sufferers and only a few dealers in suffering. I chose to be one of these. Awful, but preferable to the alternative, yes?”
Court said nothing. He was accustomed to working for, with, around, and against total nut jobs. This Russian freak was ju
st par for the course on which he played.
Sid continued, “You are my instrument. You are my tool.”
“If I choose to be.”
Sidorenko smiled. “Yes. If you choose. Which is why I brought you here today.”
“I thought you brought me here to intimidate me.”
“Are you intimidated?”
“Not in the least.”
Sid smiled. “Ah, well, good thing I have another reason. I have a job.” He took another long sip of his purple tea and leaned forward on his desk as if to get down to business. “If you could kill anyone in the world right now, who would it be?”
“Greg Sidorenko.”
Sid laughed. Court did not. Sid’s levity chilled and morphed into a slight smile. “The best assassin on the planet wants to kill me. I should be frightened. But I’m not, because once I tell you who your new target is, you will thank me, and you and I will be the best of friends.”
Court stood and turned on his heel. Quickly the four men by the door behind him pushed off the wall and moved closer. Court said to Sid, “I’m leaving. These guys try to stop me, and they will get hurt. I get the impression that you might get off on watching that, but you’ll have to find yourself a new crew of hoodlums.”
“President Bakri Abboud,” Sid shouted the name, the name echoed in the long hall, and the Gray Man stopped dead in his tracks. He did not turn around immediately.
Court said, “I don’t mind difficult, but I insist on the possible. He is an impossible target.” He began walking again.
“Normally, yes, it would be so. But I have a way in, I have his schedule, I have access to him, and I have a way out.”
Court chuckled derisively. “Then do it yourself.”
“I did not say it would be easy. But you . . . you can do it. Just listen to my plan. You may still walk away, of course, if you do not like it. But I am sure you will be satisfied.”
Court turned and took a few steps back to the desk. “The president of Sudan knows he is a wanted man. There is a warrant for his arrest by the International Criminal Court in The Hague for the genocide in Darfur. A hunted man who is surrounded by bodyguards, controls a national police force, an intelligence agency, an army, an air force, a navy . . . who rules an entire fucking nation? One man cannot get to him.”
Sid sipped his tea again slowly. “Nine days from now a Russian transport plane will depart Belarus with military equipment for President Abboud’s army. The aircraft’s destination is Khartoum, the capital. It is a secret flight. No manifest, no customs, no problems. Four days after that is April 10, Abboud’s birthday, which he always spends in his hometown of Suakin, an ancient port city with no military garrison and no major government installations. He will travel there with his close protection detail, two dozen or so men, but that is all. His farm will be well-guarded, to be sure, but he will go to the local mosque three times a day while he is there. In the morning, at dawn, the president will perform the muezzin’s call to prayer himself from the minaret of the mosque. Suakin is also surrounded by ancient ruined towers and buildings from the time of the Romans. A competent man equipped with a sniper rifle could find many good places to position himself, yes?”
“I don’t know,” said Court, an affectation of annoyance in his voice, but he was listening.
“Mr. Gray, I can put two million dollars into your bank account tomorrow. I can put you on that transport plane into the Sudan in nine days, and I can arrange for you to slip out of the airport facility without being detected. I have a man who can drive you to Suakin. One week after this, presuming you accomplish your mission, I can similarly arrange for you to get back into the airport with no trouble from the locals, and fly back to Russia on a Russian jet. Once home, you will find two million more dollars in your account.”
“Four million. Plus whatever cut you are keeping for yourself. You must have been commissioned by a party extremely interested in the termination of President Abboud.”
“Indeed I have.”
“Who?” Court sat back in the uncomfortable chair.
Sidorenko cocked his head but did not seem too surprised. “It was my understanding that you don’t normally care who the payer is, only whether or not the target is worthy of the punishment you are being paid to dole out.”
“I am not in a very trusting mood after the last contract.”
Now Sid did show genuine surprise. “Slattery? He was exactly who I said he was.”
“But the payer was not who you claimed him to be,” responded Court flatly.
The Russian weighed the comment carefully, his beady eyes nearly turning in on themselves as he thought. His pupils flickered in the light from the burning logs in the fireplace. At first Gentry thought Sid was going to argue, to feign confusion, to deny. But instead, the Russian just raised his hands in sheepish surrender, shrugged, and said, “Yes, true. I deceived you. I am sorry. But in response to your question, no less than the Russian government wants Abboud dead. They are putting up the money. They are commissioning the contract. Through intermediaries, of course.”
“You’re lying again. Russia and China are practically the only two countries who do have good relations with Abboud. Why would Russia—”
“Because Russia’s relationship with the Sudan is not as good as China’s relationship with the Sudan. Three years ago China was given expanded mineral rights in the Darfuri desert, specifically a large sector called Tract 12A. At the time Moscow did not care; it was just desert scrub land on the Chadian border.”
“But China found something,” said Court.
“Not just ‘something.’ The most powerful ‘something’ of all.”
“Oil.”
“Yes. A tremendous amount. The Chinese are running all over Tract 12A as we speak. Bringing in equipment and experts. Drilling will begin very soon. And Abboud has allowed this. But if Abboud were out of the way, powerful members of the Sudanese Parliamentary Council, people within Abboud’s own party, have made it clear to Moscow that the new leadership will throw the Chinese out on their ears and give Tract 12A to the Russians with an arrangement beneficial to both countries.”
“If the Sudanese already have an agreement with the Chinese, how can the new president just ignore this?”
Sidorenko looked momentarily disappointed in his assassin. He answered as if the man’s question was dangerously naive. “This is Africa.”
Court nodded. “And what will this new man do about the genocide in Darfur?”
“One cannot say for sure; you must know that. But it is logical that without President Abboud, the situation will improve. Abboud has a personality cult under him, his minions do his bidding, and he has no similar successor. Also, Darfur has become important for something other than eradicating a broken and hopeless people. His successor may end the genocide in order to get the UN to look elsewhere for a place to waste Western money.” Sid smiled. “And then my countrymen will come.”
Gentry said nothing, just looked off to his left, into the crackling fireplace under the portrait of Joseph Stalin.
Sid pushed. “So your act will take a very powerful and very bad man off this earth. Further, it is possible that it will go a long way to ending the genocide that has been perpetrated there for the past decade or so.”
“So you say,” muttered Court, still looking into the fire. He knew Sid didn’t give a damn about genocide or an evil man walking the earth; it was just his attempt to create excitement for the operation in the mind of his killer, a man Sid no doubt thought to be a Goody Two-shoes.
The Russian behind the desk smiled. “It would be nice if you trusted me, but our relationship is new. Trust will come with time, I feel certain. In the meantime, feel free to look into this matter yourself, do your own research. I’ll have my men take you to a nice hotel. You can spend the evening looking through material I have prepared for you, learning the players, the affiliations, studying the maps. You can come back here tomorrow morning and give me your answer. I am confi
dent you will make the right decision, so after that, we can immediately begin preparing the operation to fit your requirements.”
Court nodded slowly. He asked, “Your men . . . Am I to assume they are under orders to remain at my side?”
Gregor Sidorenko smiled, but his eyes were serious. “You may assume that, yes. Saint Petersburg is not a safe place for the uninitiated. They will watch over you.” Then he said, with eyebrows raised and a bit of a mischievous smile on his sunken face, “You will have much to do tonight, but I can provide you with companionship. You’ve been working hard; there is no shame in a little . . . shall we say, recreation, before beginning your next operation.”
“A hooker, you mean?”
“A companion.”
Court’s shoulders slumped. This was just one more thing to deal with. “Sid, don’t send a hooker to my door.”
“As you wish, Mr. Gray. I only thought it would improve your disposition.” He said something in Russian to the guards and laughed along with them when he finished. Gentry did not pick up a word of it. With a wave of his hand, Sid moved on. “Until tomorrow, then.”
EIGHT
Gentry dined alone at a Russian restaurant with no other patrons. He sat in the back, and his minders sat towards the front and turned potential customers away while the waiters sat by themselves and smoked morosely but did not complain. After his meal he was taken to the Nevsky Palace on Nevsky Prospect. The limousine pulled into a loading dock, and five of Sid’s men ushered the American through an employee entrance. A staff elevator shot the entourage to the twelfth floor, and they continued down a long, bright hall to a corner room. Court was led inside a junior suite and was told his minders would be outside the door and in the next room all night. They would wake him at seven for breakfast and then drive him back to Sid to give him his answer.
A young man with a shaved head closed the door on his way out.
