by Ward Larsen
“A boat?”
“That’s option one, but it introduces other complications. Thanks to the wind, any small boat would have been rocking hard—the seas were five to six feet that night. Even Cassandra would have been gyrating on swells like that. Which means the shooter would have been facing a grossly unstable platform, a target that was moving in two dimensions, and severe winds between the two. Not a realistic scenario. And besides, you heard what Giordano said—the closest boat was two miles away.”
“Okay, strike the boat. What’s the other way?” she asked.
“That’s even more impractical. Imagine somebody using scuba gear to approach Cassandra. It fails on a number of levels. Six-foot seas alone would kill the idea—it would be like trying to shoot from inside a washing machine. And of course you’d have to cover two or three miles underwater to get close enough to have a chance. Two or three miles lugging a fifty cal through the ocean—it would be like hauling an anchor.”
The sun touched the horizon, descending into its daily oblivion. The lights of Capri glimmered in the dusk, and to the left the Amalfi Coast was a deepening thread of amber.
“So where does that leave us?” she asked.
Slaton half turned and looked at her. “Absolutely nowhere.” He blew out a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, but the facts as we know them—they make no sense. It’s like somebody threw a stone and hit the moon.”
“So this kill … you couldn’t have done it?”
“Under the given circumstances—not a chance.”
“But somebody did. Somehow.”
Silence ensued, and Slaton looked once more over his shoulder at the island. He rubbed his chin and felt the coarseness of two days’ stubble—he hadn’t shaved since the Strait of Messina.
Sorensen watched him intently. “What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing. We’re done here.”
She frowned. “I hate to give up on this.”
“Who says we’re giving up? There’s more we can work with.”
“Like what?”
“You tell me. You said your people back at Langley were doing research. You told me there was more to Ivanovic’s death than meets the eye. I still don’t understand why the CIA is so interested in an uber-rich Russian getting blown off his yacht. Square that in my mind, and maybe I’ll see another angle. Something neither of us has thought of.”
“Okay. The basics go like this. About a month ago we got some solid intel on a meeting in which Ivanovic joined up with three other men. We identified two right away: Vladimir Ovechkin and Alexei Romanov.”
“I’ve heard the names,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, they’re big-time oligarchs, guys in Ivanovic’s league.”
“Correct. The three of them are part of a very exclusive club—the friends of President Petrov.”
“The chosen few who get rich while most Russians try to keep food on the table and stay warm in the winter.”
“It’s nothing new, but the divergence has been accelerating. Corruption in Russia has effectively been institutionalized—it’s based on the model Petrov developed during his KGB days. State assets are stripped and handed over to a small group of kleptocrats. They cash out over time using various schemes, then move the money abroad. A portion is eventually ‘gifted back’ to the regime, most of which disappears into pockets. When anyone falls out of line, or in the rare instance when a private company actually succeeds on merit, the state intervenes. Everything is seized, and the whole cycle begins again.”
“Wash, rinse, repeat,” Slaton said.
“Pretty much.”
“But this has been going on for decades. Three guys like that having a meeting? It hardly sounds like an intelligence coup. Which tells me it’s the fourth person who’s got your hackles up.”
“Correct. But in order to explain the rest, I’ll need to brief you on a few things. And to do that I need secure comm.”
“Back to the embassy?”
“Back to the embassy.”
“Good. My son gets cranky when I don’t tuck him in.”
Sorensen cocked her head quizzically.
“What?” he asked.
“You surprise me.”
“How?”
“Well, the first time I saw you, during that mission in Lebanon, I’d never have figured you for the domestic type.” Sorensen almost said something else, but then held back.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “To tell you the truth … neither did I.”
TWELVE
If the early onset of winter was lamented on the Isle of Capri, it was received far more enthusiastically in certain enclaves to the north. Among the beneficiaries were some of the very same clientele whose hillside Anacapri estates were then being entombed with shutters and coverlets, wealthy individuals who had migrated to their winter chalets as predictably as any seasonal bird. Chief among the destinations was Davos, Switzerland.
The freak October storm that had stirred the Tyrrhenian Sea on the night Pyotr Ivanovic was killed was born of an anomalous polar weather pattern, an agitated air mass that gave rise, five days hence, to a second storm that buried the Swiss Alps in twelve inches of snow. Delighted ski resort operators sprang into action, and none more eagerly than those of Davos. Snow-making equipment was employed to deepen the base, and a handful of runs were quickly groomed for action.
Unfortunately, before webcams could be linked to broadcast word of an early opening, the town’s chief, and only, meteorologist, a thick-skinned and dour Alpiner whose methods relied more on local lore than science, issued his glum follow-on forecast: temperatures would moderate quickly, and by the end of the week the mountain would be topped with nothing more than a foot-thick blanket of slush. After considerable hand-wringing, the hopeful resort operators relented, realizing that to open for a day or two, only to close again for a matter of weeks until winter took a firmer grip, would set an awkward precedent. It was announced that the resort would remain closed, although the ski patrol was given license to train for as long as the snow lasted. Within hours of that decision, Vladimir Ovechkin and Alexei Romanov sensed a unique opportunity.
The two Russians had been in Davos much of that month, and were spotted regularly about town in the aimless pursuits of the wealthy, albeit rarely in one another’s company. Romanov was a fixture in the nightclubs, at the tennis resort and spa, and had been seen preparing diligently for the annual winter polo match in St. Moritz. Ovechkin kept a notably more low-key itinerary. In the afternoons he was often seen in the company of his exotic-looking young wife, frequenting the jewelry shops and clothiers along Promenade. In the evenings he’d settled into a rotation among his three favorite restaurants, often in the company of bankers and lawyers.
How either of them spent the rest of their time was left to speculation, and the locals knew better than to inquire. In what soon would become legend, however, the mismatched pair of Russians saw opportunity in the ski resort’s brief and accidental window of uncertainty. They recognized a chance to do something their peers might never match: to rent a mountain for a day.
It was of course Romanov’s idea. An avid sportsman still in his prime years, he relished a good downhill run, and the idea of having an entire mountainside to himself, even if only for thirty hours, was nothing less than a dream realized. Notwithstanding the marginal conditions, there would be no need to suffer crash-prone beginners or packs of spike-haired snowboarders. Ovechkin fell in with the idea, more out of ego than adventure, suckered into writing a check by Romanov’s final prodding question: How many of our friends can say they’ve had their own mountain?
It was early evening when they got their first crack at the hill. Bundled in parkas and with ski gear in hand, the two men trundled to the lift station as the gondolas began moving under slopeside lights. The first car arrived, slowing beneath the massive cable, and a lone attendant ushered them inside. Ovechkin fumbled one of his poles getting into the gondola and it clattered to the metal floor. “S
orry,” he said.
Romanov picked it up and held it until the rotund Ovechkin plopped onto the opposing bench. The gondola was built for six, leaving each man a wide seat on which to sprawl. When the door slid shut they were alone for the five-minute ascent.
Romanov handed back the pole. Ovechkin took it, but only at the cost of dropping a glove.
“Why has your wife not joined us?” Romanov asked.
“I invited her, but she had other plans.”
“Sounds expensive.”
“Yes, she does enjoy keeping the sales associates busy.”
“Either that or she is having an affair with her masseuse.”
“Go to hell. You should marry, Alexei, settle down a bit.”
“Settle down? Is that what you call it? You’re on your third wife.”
“Estrella will be the last.”
Romanov chuckled and looked out across Davos. The township sparkled in light, and tendrils of smoke curled from the occasional chimney. He glanced at the red gondola behind them. Five of his security men were inside, and six of Ovechkin’s had bundled into the one behind that. “We’re getting paranoid,” he said. “In three minutes you and I will be alone at the top of a mountain, no one else within a vertical mile.”
Ovechkin bunched his thick lips, a distinctly Slavic gesture. “I have survived a long time by being paranoid.” In an obvious attempt to redirect things, he said, “Did you hear from Argos this afternoon?”
“The usual report. She is on schedule.”
“What of the other two?”
“Tasman Sea and Cirrus are running as planned. Stop worrying. MIR Enterprises is running precisely as intended. And with military precision,” he added, his voice rich in sarcasm.
Ovechkin worked his helmet into a more comfortable position. “Tell me, Alexei … do you trust the colonel?”
“Zhukov? What does it matter? We are married to him, for better or for worse.”
“I have seen his new dacha outside St. Petersburg. It’s not the kind of place a man buys on an army officer’s salary.”
Romanov laughed. “You of all people? Indignant over corruption?”
“My point is that we cannot forget who he works for. It is a departure for us to have someone between us and the president.”
“That can only be in our favor. It makes us untouchable. The order of the world is changing, my friend. Russia is foundering, and no advantage can be left untapped to right the ship. I for one find it encouraging. In this new way of doing things, you and I have risen to the forefront.”
Ovechkin sighed heavily. “Maybe you are right.” A thin smile then etched his face.
“What is it?” Romanov asked.
“I was thinking about a conversation the colonel and I had during my last visit to Moscow.”
“What was it about?”
“Mostly business—this mission, how to maintain secrecy. Yet seeing his dacha, I mentioned to Zhukov that if he had any money, I might know a few things about where to keep it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He tried to convince me that he has nothing squirreled away—it was like talking to an old Soviet field marshal.”
“Don’t worry, after our upcoming venture he won’t be able to deny it. Zhukov is no different from you or me. He was only invited late to the party.”
“God help him, then,” said Ovechkin.
Romanov’s gaze turned thoughtful. “What would you have told him if he did have money to hide?”
Ovechkin chuckled, a rumble that came from deep in his chest. “Now there is the Alexei I know! The newest strategy is Cook Island trusts.”
“I’ve heard of them. Tell me how it works.”
“It is similar to the other shell companies our lawyers build, but with a wonderful legal twist. Anyone who wishes to file a lawsuit, or even inquire about your assets, can only do so in a Cook Island court. They have to be present for every filing.”
“And where are the Cook Islands?” Romanov asked.
“That is the beauty of it. They are deep in the Southern Pacific, thousands of miles from any place you or I have ever heard of. I’ve never had the occasion to visit the place, but I keep thirty or forty million there.”
“Give me the name of your local attorney. I should look into it.”
Ovechkin’s expression froze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing … it’s only that Pyotr said precisely the same thing last week when I explained it to him.”
The two exchanged an unsettled look. It was the subject they’d both been avoiding. This was their first private moment together since Ivanovic had been killed, and the undercurrent was undeniable. If there was one thing more important than money, it was staying alive long enough to enjoy it.
“His death,” said Romanov, “it couldn’t have had anything to do with MIR. Our ships haven’t even played their part yet.”
Ovechkin hesitated to respond. He found himself inspecting the interior of the gondola. His chalet was swept regularly for listening devices, but he and Romanov had entered dangerous new waters. “Could it have been the settling of an old score?” he wondered aloud.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” agreed Romanov. “No one can reach the heights we have without finding a few enemies. Pyotr admitted to me that he crossed a mafioso in Kiev. It was two years ago, maybe three.”
“The one who tried to shoot a grenade through the sunroof of his limousine?”
Romanov laughed. “Then we have heard the same story. I think it was bullshit.”
“He did enjoy his stories. But you are right. What happened to Pyotr … it was something from his past. He got careless.”
Ovechkin looked up and saw the summit lift station approaching. He got his gear in order, and was soon panting from his exertions—the top of the mountain was more than nine thousand feet above sea level. When he’d first come here twenty years ago it had been as a fit young man, and even then he’d taken a day or two to acclimate. Today, having been in Davos for a month, he was as breathless as the day he’d arrived.
“You are going to have a heart attack,” goaded Romanov.
“It’s the damned altitude.”
“You should take better care of yourself … for my sake.”
“What do you mean?”
“With Pyotr’s passing, you and I now own half of MIR. But that also increases our stake in whatever trouble it brings. I’d rather not face that alone.”
“We knew what we were getting into. As did Pyotr.”
The gondola reached the top of the mountain, and above them a huge wheel turned the cable back downhill. The door popped open and Romanov stepped outside. Ovechkin spilled out behind him in a tangle of skis and poles. The wind at the top was sharp, cutting through their thick parkas.
“It feels like Russia up here,” Ovechkin spat.
Romanov laughed. “You are talking to a man from Norilsk. In Siberia this would be a lovely spring day. Now come, Vladimir, race me to the bottom!”
Ovechkin grunted as he jammed a boot into a binding. “Do that, and I will end up like Pyotr, only in more pieces. Go ahead—I will meet you there.”
A victorious Romanov moved toward the slope.
Behind them, the two contingents of security men stood huddled in their respective groups. They stomped their feet to keep warm, gazes shifting between their principals and one another. When Ovechkin waved his men away, Romanov did the same. None of them had ski gear, so they all shuffled back to the lift station to go down the way they’d arrived—in the warmth of a gondola.
Romanov kicked off downhill, quickly gained speed, and was soon little more than a blur of blue on the floodlit slope. Ovechkin took a moment to gather himself. He was a decent skier, but didn’t enjoy the slopes at night—the sharply angled light tended to play tricks on his eyes, not illuminating every trouble spot.
He looked out across Davos a mile below, now a pond of amber flickering in the bowl-like val
ley. It was a playground birthed generations ago by a privileged few, royal families and scions of Western industry. Now it had transformed into something else entirely. Realtors spoke Chinese and Arabic, and the Russians had all but invaded. They brought their money and their entourages, and made deals behind closed doors. Each January, during the World Economic Forum, the truly wealthy left for a month, receding into the shadows. They rented their homes for exorbitant prices to economists and politicians whose governments footed the bill, and to lesser industrialists whose companies they might soon target.
Romanov is right, Ovechkin thought. The game is changing yet again. He considered the three ships, and the ill-disguised soldiers who were on them. Was that really the future?
Ovechkin had no illusions—he himself was something of a legacy. He had risen under Yeltsin, and was one of the few who’d remained in favor when Czar Petrov took charge. He’d stood by quietly while languishing state companies, originally handed off to old Soviet cronies, were reclaimed by the state. Petrov issued them to new owners who wrung them for cash, and who paid one simple but unending price—absolute fealty to the new Russian president. Recently, however, under the burden of falling energy prices and a stagnating Russian economy, this new model of kleptocracy too was failing. In its place a new strategy was rising, one that went for the first time beyond Russia’s borders. One that fused the country’s lagging business interests with its last remaining strength.
Filling his chest with frigid evening air, Ovechkin pushed off and started downhill. He carved slow and sure turns with as much control as he could muster. Romanov was nowhere in sight.
* * *
Two miles away, at the base of the mountain, a young man stood in the shadow of a darkened ski school. He watched both skiers with a practiced eye, noting their form, which was divergent to say the least. More importantly, he noted their respective lateral tracks—how much of the mountain each man used from side to side. The observer was average in height, and a black ski parka made him look thicker than he was—the wiry frame beneath was the product of years of punishing exercise, augmented by the furnace-like metabolism of an active twenty-seven-year-old.
