by Leslie Wolfe
He’d been fearless ever since he’d started amassing wealth at unprecedented rates. He had everything. He had numerous prosperous businesses in various countries, some of which offered no extradition, just in case he’d ever need that some day. Myatlev was one of the richest men in the world, having broken into Global Fortune 50 a few years back. He had good health, with some minor issues, of course, but still he was doing all right. And he had the same insatiable lust for power and achievement that had propelled him to where he was, and continued to fuel his unrivaled drive.
Only one man could crush all that in seconds, and that man was Abramovich. Myatlev hated how he felt about Abramovich and the power he had over him. He’d heard somewhere that genuine power is held by the person who can destroy what you value the most. How true.
At times, Myatlev had thought of killing Abramovich. It would be so easy. Thirty-five years of friendship didn’t mean much to Myatlev, who hated being vulnerable more than anything else in the world. He also knew that, if the right circumstances would align, the same thirty-five years of friendship wouldn’t hold Abramovich back from sending Spetsnaz after Myatlev with an order to kill on sight.
Then why not beat Abramovich to it and take him out? Myatlev let out another smoke-engulfed long sigh thinking about it. Yes, it was about money. Lots of it. With a favorable, at least for now, Russian president watching over his interests, and with Dimitrov as defense minister, money kept flowing in from all directions. Tax exemptions, official or unofficial. Countless privileges. Government contracts, military and civilian, they all came his way. In turn, he shared the cash with his two friends, and agreed to help Abramovich and Dimitrov rebuild Russia.
But there was a catch, a wrinkle in this fantastic arrangement. It kept Myatlev awake at night, despite almost being in an alcohol-induced coma every night before his head fell on his pillow.
He’d committed to deliver masterful plans in intelligence and covert operations, to acquire weapons and technologies through a wide net of foreign-based assets, most of which were deployed in America. His unrivaled imagination had delivered strategies that, at a global level, could shift the balance of power in the world in Russia’s favor, almost overnight. He had the audacity to deploy foreign intelligence asset arrays in a manner seen only in computerized big data models. He’d crafted unexpectedly innovative solutions to all of Abramovich’s frustration with the Americans, and to Dimitrov’s military needs.
The problem that was fueling Myatlev’s gastritis-soon-to-become-ulcer and his growing fear of Abramovich’s retaliation was that his most recent plans had failed to deliver the promised results. No doubt, Abramovich was becoming frustrated with his delivery. No matter how carefully he had planned every single detail, no matter how closely he’d been involved in managing every aspect of the plans—and he hated that—they still failed. It was almost as if he had an unseen enemy out there, one who understood what hid in the deepest corners of his mind and could think ahead of him, taking away the advantage of surprise.
He had thought, at some point, that his identity might have been exposed, that he’d been compromised. No one knew, outside of a very few carefully selected people, that one of the world’s richest magnates held a permanent office in the Russian Ministry of Defense. Except that inner circle of trusted friends and appointees, no one knew that he led foreign intelligence, espionage, and military strategy operations instead of focusing on his business empire. No one knew, outside of Dimitrov and, of course, Abramovich, that he was sometimes using his own cash, rerouted carefully though several countries, to fund covert operations on foreign soil. He paid that price to ensure no one associated Russia with terrorism, and, of course, the top two Russian leaders paid him back tenfold in contracts and favors.
But, if his identity had been compromised, why was he still alive? Myatlev wasn’t fooling himself; he knew very well that he could become a target the moment the Americans learned who he really was and what he did with his time. Yet the adrenaline rush and the financial windfall were strong motivators for him to continue playing this game.
It felt like a game, and he knew the Americans had no sense of humor; they would have taken him out by now. He actually expected it to happen any day, fueling his adrenaline rush and his growing paranoia. Yet he continued. His ambition couldn’t take defeat, then call it quits just because the game had become too dangerous; that was not who he was. Myatlev lived to win, in business or in the service of his country; it didn’t matter. Winning was all that mattered. Conscience hadn’t bothered him ever in his choice of weaponry or tactics; there was no limit to what his mind could conceive.
In moments like these, when he allowed his mind to wander, he wanted more than anything to find out who was playing games with him. Who was behind the lackluster delivery of new weapons technology through his newly deployed array of agents on American soil? How the hell did the Americans catch his best asset handler so damn fast?
It felt personal; it felt that whenever he had a grandiose plan, his unseen enemy would step in and foil that, but otherwise let him operate. He was sure that the enemy existed; but if he did in fact exist, Myatlev wasn’t sure why his enemy hadn’t killed him already.
He flicked the cigar butt out the window and turned his attention to the matter at hand. He opened a file folder left on his desk and started reviewing the information it contained.
Doctor, fucking, lame Bogdanov. Not such a gift from God after all, Myatlev thought, referring to the meaning of the man’s last name. The file showed the background of a studious young man coming from a solid family with good political connections, who had worked his way though medical school and had graduated top of his class from Lomonosov Moscow State University, then had chosen to become a researcher and had been accepted at the VECTOR Institute immediately. Then he’d proven himself at VECTOR, becoming one of its best researchers.
Myatlev just hated the guy; there was no other word for it. Gutless, spineless little prick, he called him. He could deal with his demeanor better if Bogdanov could bring him some results, but the two months Myatlev had been working with him had been an exercise in frustration.
“Ah…fucking Bogdanov,” he said, slamming the file folder on his desk. “Ivan?” he called.
“Yes, boss?” Ivan replied, entering the office promptly and stopping in the doorway.
“Get Bogdanov in.”
Ivan stepped aside, making room for cowering Bogdanov to step in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Myatlev,” Dr. Bogdanov said in a hesitant voice.
Myatlev didn’t respond. He gave Bogdanov a quick look, then said, “You’re going to set up operations near Sakhalin, on the mainland.”
“Sir?” Bogdanov said, as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sakhalin was an island near the extreme far east of mainland Russia, just a few hundred miles from Japan. It was literally at the other end of the world.
“You’re going to pack everything you need to build a full research facility and move it to the new location. Ivan will make sure you get everything you need. You have 48 hours to get ready.”
Bogdanov clasped his hands together, rubbing them anxiously. “But, sir, how would—”
“You’ll load everything on a military cargo plane. Tell VECTOR to call Minister Dimitrov if there are questions. Take everything you need, you won’t find anything there on-site.” Myatlev paused for a second, measuring the man from head to toe. “This is your last chance, you hear me?”
“Y–yes, sir, but what’s going to…what are we—”
“Bogdanov, it’s enough that I have to fix your problems for you. Don’t be a bigger idiot than you already are. This is your last chance to get me the results I need. If you fail again, you won’t be coming back from there.”
Bogdanov turned pale and didn’t say another word. Myatlev waved him away, and Ivan took him outside, closing the door quietly behind them.
Good, he thought, let’s hope this time it works. How hard can it be to create a new drug?
With the Bogdanov issue taken care of, all he needed was lunch, a good, soothing meal that would ease the pain gnawing at his stomach.
...7
...Wednesday, April 27, 6:57PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Flight XA233—Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
...East-Northeast of Japan
Andrew Klapov checked his watch nervously, for the third time within five minutes, then checked the cockpit instrument panel again. Everything was normal on their flight to San Francisco. Altitude, 36,000 feet and holding. Vector 062, as per the flight plan.
Captain Gibson had switched the aircraft to autopilot soon after takeoff, and was flipping through the pages of a magazine, reading quietly. Gibson rarely engaged his copilot in idle conversation. Klapov had always suspected Gibson despised him, particularly because of his numerous flings with flight attendants. But Gibson and his opinions were about to become irrelevant.
Klapov pushed away the coffee cup delivered earlier by Lila, and took a small thermos from his case. Who knows what that bitch might have spiced up that coffee with? He wasn’t going to risk it. Some of these broads never understood their role in the grand scheme of things, and had the temporary delusion that they somehow mattered. Strangely enough, Klapov found himself entertained by Lila’s bitterness, almost flattered. Ha! If she only knew, she’d probably stop trying to do whatever she was trying to do with her snide remarks and snotty attitude. There was no way in hell he was ever going to care about anything she did or said. In his mind, women were single-use, consumer goods, and he was an insatiable consumer with an eclectic taste. He enjoyed the hunt more than even the sex, and once a woman had fallen prey to his charms, she simply ceased to exist, as he moved on to his next target.
Klapov checked his watch again; two more minutes had passed. It was about time. He checked the horizon line, and this time he saw it. Small, barely visible at first, another jet was approaching.
Then his satellite phone rang, a first ever in all of Klapov’s flight hours with Captain Gibson.
“What’s that?” Gibson asked, surprised.
“Just my phone,” Klapov replied, then picked up the call. “Hello?”
Gibson frowned, and Klapov turned slightly toward him, keeping a close eye on every move the captain made.
“Yes, I can see it, I’m ready to proceed,” Klapov said, before ending the call.
“Proceed with what?” Gibson asked, frowning.
“We have traffic,” Klapov said, instead of replying to Captain Gibson’s question, and pointing toward the approaching Challenger.
Gibson turned to observe the approaching aircraft, and didn’t notice Klapov pulling a silenced gun.
“I’ll call it in,” Gibson said, and reached for his comm.
“No, you won’t,” Klapov replied, and then pulled the trigger twice, in rapid sequence.
Gibson’s head fell on his chest, but he remained strapped in his seat, held back by his harness. Blood started dripping from the two bullet holes in his chest.
Klapov took the Boeing 747-400 off autopilot and, with smooth maneuvers, aligned it with the Challenger, as the other aircraft flew in position right above the Boeing. Klapov changed vector to 070, turning slightly southeast and leaving the assigned flight path. Then he took out a small, encrypted radio.
“Challenger, do you read?”
Static crackled for a second, then a strongly accented voice confirmed.
“Read you clear.”
“Maintain course and speed, and wait for my signal to switch transponders,” Klapov instructed.
“Copy that.”
He put the radio down, and called the flight attendant. Before he could do anything, he had to deal with the passengers.
Lila put in her code and opened the cockpit door, then froze as soon as she saw the blood pooling at Gibson’s feet. She gasped.
“You bastard,” she said, “what did you do? What did you fucking do?” The pitch of her voice climbed as she spoke.
“Lila baby, you have two options,” Klapov said, patting the handle of his gun. “You can go to pilot heaven with dear old Gibson, or you can do your job and keep the passengers safe. What will it be?”
She clenched her jaws and pursed her lips, staring at him with eyes glinting with pure hatred. The bitch’s contempt was entertaining.
“What do you want?” she finally asked.
“I want you to tell the passengers we’re detouring a little to avoid some turbulence, maximum delay 30 minutes or so. I want them strapped in their seats, quiet, off their fucking sat phones. Flight attendants too. Let’s try to avoid more people being shot as part of today’s flight plan, all right? Can you do that for me, baby?”
His charm wasn’t working on her any more, that was obvious. She would have probably killed him on the spot if she caught a chance. Somehow, despite the job he had to do, the thought of Lila trying to kill him gave him an erection. He almost smiled.
“Why are you doing this?” Lila asked. “What are you doing?”
“Just taking a little detour, nothing more,” he said, grabbing hold of his gun and releasing the safety.
Lila flinched. “All right,” she said in a trembling voice, “I will tell them. Then what? You’re gonna kill us all? I knew you were a prick, but this?”
“Then you keep the fuck quiet and keep everyone calm, seated, buckled, and safe,” he said, patronizing her.
Sheesh! Women and their entitled questions, he thought. “Remember, I don’t really need you to do this job,” he added, liking her reaction to his threat.
She looked past him and noticed the shadow of the Challenger.
“Who are they?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go!” Klapov gestured her with his gun to get out of the cockpit.
Moments later, he heard Lila making the turbulence announcement through the PA.
Then he picked up the radio.
“Challenger, do you read?”
“Go ahead,” the heavily accented voice replied through static crackles.
“Ready to kill transponder. Fire your transponder up, on my count. Three, two, one, go!”
About two hundred miles away, a Tokyo ATC radar operator saw the beacon code for flight XA233 flicker for a second, then continue on its path across the Pacific. He thought nothing of it.
...8
...Wednesday, April 27, 12:14PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense
...Moscow, Russia
Myatlev ate seated at his massive desk. He took a couple of spoons of hot chicken soup, dressed with sour cream and feta cheese, and closed his eyes halfway in ecstasy. The soup had filled the room with its unmistakable aroma. Each spoonful took a little bit of his stomach pain away, and he mumbled his appreciation. This cook was good; he’d make sure he never leaves. He took another spoonful, savoring it, and a small bite from a slice of white bread toast with it.
Preceded by a quick tap on the door, Ivan walked in hurriedly.
He watched him walk in and frowned. Ivan needed to brush up on his skills. Myatlev hated to be interrupted from his meals, and his assistant knew better.
“Boss? Major Ignatiev wants to speak with you.”
Division Seven Major Ignatiev, one of the rising stars of the new KGB, was leading Myatlev’s operations in the Russian Far East.
He wiped his mouth and replied begrudgingly, “Put him through,” then picked up the phone as soon as it rang. “Da.”
“It’s Ignatiev, sir. Just letting you know we’re ready to receive them. I have everyone’s files, and the Challenger took off an hour ago.”
“Good,” Myatlev said. “Whatever you need, let me know. And keep that idiot, Bogdanov, in check.”
He hung up the phone, and let a cryptic smile flutter on his lips. He loved it when a plan came together, even if this particular one required him to use his own plane, and to push the envelope to unprecedented limits. Hopefully, President Abramovich would never find ou
t.
...9
...Wednesday, April 27, 7:33PM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)
...Flight XA233—Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean
...North-Northwest of Japan
Lila entered the first-class lavatory and looked at her image in the mirror. Her dilated pupils and frozen lips expressed the terror she felt. What was going on? Where the hell were they going? She swallowed a sob. They’ll find out soon enough. Oh, God…
She sprinkled a little water on a paper towel and patted her burning forehead with it, then wiped the back of her neck. Klapov was many things, a fuck-fest enthusiast and an incorrigible, selfish bastard, but he was not terrorist material. Or, at least, so she had thought he wasn’t. Some judge of character she was…Captain Gibson was dead, at the hands of a terrorist. Her opinion of Klapov, especially her ability to see who the man really was, had miserably failed. Again.
Klapov was a terrorist, by all evidence. And for terrorist attacks in midflight, there were procedures. If only she knew who the air marshal was on this flight. But no, the schmucks had to play it all undercover, refusing to identify themselves to the flight crews.
She needed to think fast and decide the amount of risk she was willing to take. She didn’t know where Klapov was taking them, how much flight time they still had left, or what his plan was. This was probably a hijacking, for money or political reasons, like freeing some other terrorist.
Then another thought froze the blood in her veins. There could be other terrorists on the plane, among the passengers, maybe even the flight attendants. No one hijacks a 747 by themselves. It never happens. The anti-hijacking training for civil aviation aircraft crews taught them to assume they don’t know who all the players are, and to behave normally. That was going to be hard.
But first, she had to follow procedure and communicate the hijacking to ground control. She opened the hidden panel behind the paper-towel dispenser and retrieved the emergency satellite phone. She dialed and waited, but nothing happened. The phone was dead. Of course…the copilot knew their procedures, and knew where everything was. All in-flight phones were controlled from the cockpit, so there wasn’t any point trying any of those.
