JET, no. 3

by Russell Blake

  In his favor, there was still no sign that anyone knew about the oil find. That put him far in front of anyone else in the region. Information was power, and he had all of it at present. The current administration had rebuffed his tentative explorations to buy favor, but that could well have been a price issue – in truth, he had been cheap, figuring that there was no reason to leave money on the table if the locals didn’t know about what they had. Perhaps it was time to push a few more chips into the pot and raise the stakes. The clock wasn’t his friend on this, and every day that he didn’t have a deal in place was another day that one of his competitors could slip in ahead of him and eat his lunch.

  He’d considered a number of scenarios before deciding that a bold strike to take out the current government would be his most promising. One of the possibilities had been to lobby for the government to sign his group to act as the de facto national oil company, winding down its arrangements with any prospecting groups. That kind of unilateral action from the government would encounter a number of significant hurdles, not the least of which would come from the American companies that would want a shot at earning that business, so he had erred on the side of stealthy violence and subterfuge.

  Perhaps that had been a strategic mistake.

  Yuri had been gung ho about the military strike, arguing that destabilizing the country would result in a more pliant administration moving forward. Once he had his deal in place, they could trumpet the find, and the government would be heroes – it would add billions to the balance sheet over just a matter of a few years, wiping out the entire national debt and rendering the little banana republic relatively prosperous. Of course, Grigenko would see eighty cents on every dollar for his role in providing the necessary infrastructure and support, but then again, he was doing all the heavy lifting. There would be plenty of money to go around, and his company would go from being a virtual non-player in the Americas to a heavyweight, overnight.

  He poured another jolt of spirit into his glass and swallowed it, swishing it around in his mouth to better appreciate its nuance.

  This was a setback, but one he could recover from. He just had to keep his head and be clever.

  The first thing he would need to do was hire a new security group. Whatever had happened with Yuri, these kinds of mistakes couldn’t be tolerated – first the debacle in Trinidad, then the failed execution in Israel…Yuri had obviously either gotten sloppy or had lost his touch. It didn’t really matter which. Grigenko couldn’t afford to have second-rate talent working for him. Yuri had been the best at one point, but no longer, and it was time to retire him. If he surfaced, a bullet to the back of the head in a Moscow alley would permanently terminate their relationship.

  He sat down heavily and sighed.

  What should have been a week of triumph had culminated in his greatest defeat.

  That couldn’t stand.

  It was time to get off the mat and start swinging again. He had delegated too much responsibility to Yuri, and the man had failed him. There was an important lesson in that. If he wanted something important done right, he needed to attend to it himself and not hand it off to underlings. There were no shortcuts.

  Thinking through his next steps, he flipped open his rolodex and pulled out a card, then put his feet up on his desk and leaned back as he dialed a number.

  “Andrei. It’s Mikhail Grigenko. Yes, yes. It has been too long. My friend, I think today is your lucky day. Can you come over for lunch?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tom wiped sweat off his face as he rounded the bend to the single lane bridge in the optimistically-named town of Hopeville, just north of Punta Gorda. The damned Nissan was running rough again, either because of the crap gas he’d been getting or something wrong with the fuel system. It coughed and protested as he crept over the water, and he mentally committed to changing the fuel filter tomorrow no matter how unpleasant the weather was.

  He made a left onto the dirt road that led to his tiny house, and the old truck shuddered, wheezing like an asthmatic in a dust storm.

  “Come on, baby. Just a little farther,” he coaxed, stroking the dash hopefully, as though his encouragement would make the difference in the vehicle making it or not.

  The engine died with a gasp, and the headlights dimmed as it continued rolling from the momentum. He pulled onto the grass at the side of the road and cursed, then got out and began walking to his house, just a hundred yards up the road.

  Even at ten at night, the heat was oppressive, and he swatted at mosquitoes that quickly found him as he wearily trudged home.

  The single silenced bullet caught him in the back of the head as he passed his front porch. He tumbled face forward, dead.

  His killer approached from behind. Nudging Tom’s inert form with his foot, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and made a call.

  “Problem solved. Get someone to drop him into the ocean – let the sharks take care of him. We don’t need any questions being asked.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “I’m out of here.”

  Chapter 29

  A stunning young blonde with aggressively-styled short hair, wearing a black leather jumpsuit that clung to her like a second skin, stood at the roulette table in the Salon Europe of the world famous Grand Casino de Monte Carlo, playing five thousand dollars at a spin. She had arrived an hour earlier and was now up – she had two hundred thousand dollars of chips in front of her after starting the evening with a hundred and fifty. A small gathering of admirers, mostly male, watched as she won and lost, her outfit drawing as much scrutiny as her winning streak, all shiny, supple surfaces and chrome zippers. Her bronze skin accentuated the captivating almond shape of her eyes, and even in a venue that was no stranger to beautiful women, she was a stand out.

  Jet pushed more chips onto black and nodded to the croupier, who watched as other players made their bets before he closed the gaming and gave the wheel a spin. She sipped her mineral water with a lime twist, the pink of her tongue darting seductively out of her mouth to catch a stray droplet on her bottom lip. A collective pause in the breathing of the spectators accompanied the slowing of the wheel, and a muffled exclamation greeted her winning yet again.

  By any standards, the casino was opulent, filled with the wealthy from all over Europe, Russia and the Middle East, a favorite of the rich and famous for generations. The building exuded old money and prosperity, and boasted a reputation that had been carefully groomed for over a hundred and fifty years. Made famous to the general population after featuring in several James Bond films, it was a staid playground for the well-heeled in a country where one needed a minimum income of approximately five hundred thousand dollars a year to reside.

  She threw her head back and laughed at a flirtatious comment from an extremely handsome Swiss gentleman in his forties, who had whispered in her ear by way of congratulation. Her eyes sparkled in the light cast by the overhead chandeliers as she wagged her finger at the prospective suitor, who was as taken with her as the other men who had decided to pause from their gambling near her table.

  Round and round the wheel spun, meting out its rewards and punishments dispassionately, the croupier acting as the master of ceremonies in a never-ending celebration of Lady Luck’s fickle tango.

  Her phone vibrated in her hand. She glanced at the text message before deleting it. Two words that signaled the real start of her evening.

  [He’s here]

  Samuel Terin was a Hollywood legend, an iconoclastic director who rubbed shoulders with an entourage of A-list celebrities and who was frequently connected to one beautiful starlet or another. His last three films had set box office records, and his distinctive long hair and week-old growth of beard made his still ruggedly handsome fifty-something-year-old face instantly recognizable the world over. No stranger to the casino, he was considered one of the more eligible bachelors prowling the Euro corridors – whenever he wasn’t knee-deep in making a movie, he routin
ely spent his spring and early summers at his villa on the outskirts of nearby Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, a stone’s throw away in the South of France.

  She knew from the newspapers, as well as the dossier that David had received from his American contact, that roulette was his favorite game of chance – just as she knew that his reputation as a lecherous playboy was well-deserved, and that he secretly favored bondage, discipline and S&M play – sometimes so rough that it had taken considerable financial incentive to keep delicate matters out of the public eye. He favored young women, preferably blond, athletic and intellectual, the more exotic and alluring the better. And he seemed to have a weakness for dominant ones, but not Germanic, mannish domination – more eclectic and stylish than that, his taste running to French and Dutch when in Europe.

  Her entire appearance had been crafted to attract him. The leather outfit, the hair, the high-rolling bets, the intoxicating perfume that was one of his favorites – the dossier had been remarkably thorough, as good or better than any she’d been given while with the Mossad. David’s CIA contact had come through for him on this, and also by obtaining a set of blueprints that was as closely guarded a secret as any nuclear device.

  Grigenko was the sort of new money that enjoyed the proximity of the kind of fame only Hollywood could deliver. He counted as his friends a long list of movie stars, producers and directors, one of whom was the enfant terrible of the film business, the always newsworthy and shocking Samuel Terin. And tonight, Grigenko was staging a soirée on his 258-foot mega yacht, moored in the closest slip to the mouth of the harbor a mere four hundred yards away. Rumor had it the guest list included not only Terin, but also a world-famous singer whose career was in hyper-drive, and the winner of last year’s academy award for best actor; both occasional guests on the Russian’s floating crown jewel, Petrushka.

  Security on the ship was likely to be airtight, with Grigenko’s customary contingent of marine bodyguards, as well as a detail of police on the wharf – even a billionaire like Grigenko had to be discreet in a foreign country where the locals frowned upon heavily armed guards brandishing their weapons. His was by no means the largest yacht in the harbor that night, nor was he the wealthiest owner – some of the Middle Eastern royalty who frequented the principality spent the equivalent of Grigenko’s entire net worth on partying every year. And they expected their security forces to be subtle, so an unruly Russian upstart wouldn’t receive preferential treatment beyond a certain point. In Russia, his men could parade around with machine guns, but not in Monaco, where civility was prized.

  Which wasn’t to say that they weren’t armed. The weapons were merely concealed in an attempt to be unobtrusive – Grigenko’s cocktail guests were unaccustomed to men equipped for war. The security detail wore black tie and carried pistols in inconspicuous shoulder holsters, looking no less lethal for their formal dress.

  Samuel was wearing a black silk jacket with a blindingly white shirt and a jaunty blue and red cravat – a famous affectation of his that he insisted upon regardless of the continent or the weather. His bodyguard and two guests followed him as he ambled through the casino, looking for a little stimulation before arriving fashionably late for Grigenko’s fête.

  Another soft sigh escaped the crowd when Jet’s now larger twenty thousand dollar bet slid onto red, and a young olive-skinned prince pushed his matching wager next to hers, followed by a hirsute cousin of the Sultan of Brunei. The croupier announced his trademark, “Les jeux sont faits,” and the wheel began its dizzying rotation anew, all eyes now on the stunning blonde and her big money-winning streak.

  The counter-spun ball bounced and rolled, and finally came to rest on 36 red – another winner. A murmur rippled through the throng like a current, and the croupier pushed a considerable stack of chips to her, and then to the other two lucky players. She took a thousand-dollar chip and flipped it to the croupier as a thank you, and a few of the admiring men clapped lightly in approval.

  She smelled Samuel’s cologne before she saw him. He inched next to her as though he had known her for years, and murmured in her ear.

  “Well played. It seems you have a fan club cheering you on.”

  Her eyes danced with amusement, and she brushed his cheek with her lips when she whispered back.

  “Thank you,” she said, her accent lightly tinged with French.

  Jet placed forty thousand dollars onto red again, drawing a sharp intake of breath from the spectators and a stray admiring titter. She pretended to ignore Samuel, as she was ignoring the young prince, and the wheel again made its round, Samuel’s matching forty thousand dollar stake next to hers.

  The croupier called out number eight, black, and a collective sigh emanated from the gathering. The tension in the atmosphere was palpable as he raked the chips into the house coffers. She sensed Samuel leaning into her again.

  “Bad luck, that.”

  She offered a dazzling smile, her eyes glittering the promise of better fortunes to be had.

  “You know what they say. Easy come…” She slid her hand on top of his and patted it, as though reassuring a child whose favorite toy had broken, then pushed sixty thousand dollars onto red again. Samuel followed suit.

  The croupier watched with practiced eyes as the assembled players placed their bets, and then he spun the wheel, holding the ball overhead so all could watch as he tossed it with aplomb onto the spinning dial. Several of the floor managers had now taken up station near the table, watching the action, and watching Jet. When a young woman turned up with a purseful of cash and the money involved got beyond a certain point, the management suddenly paid attention.

  Samuel inclined toward her a third time.

  “If we win, you come have a cocktail with me on my friend’s yacht in the harbor at what promises to be the party of the season, okay?” he ventured.

  Her lips brushed his ear.

  “Do I really look so bored? I thought I was doing a good job concealing it,” she purred with an agreeable pout.

  The croupier’s voice increased in volume as he called out the number.

  “Number seven, red! The lovely young lady wins again!”

  She felt Samuel’s hand on her arm.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here and grab a drink,” he said smoothly, this time foregoing the whisper.

  She turned and appraised him, looking him full in the eyes. He didn’t flinch, but she could see the hunger there, the desire, as well as the anticipation of a new conquest – or conqueror.

  “You really need to be taught some manners, don’t you?” she cooed, raising an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly, then she returned her attention to the croupier, signaling that she was done playing with a motion of her hand. An attendant materialized at her side to carry her trays of winnings to the window, and she tossed another thousand-dollar chip to the house as a final tip. Everyone clapped, this time with chuckles and muttering. Jet had made an impression on her appreciative audience.

  “I’ll be right back, mister brash,” she said to Samuel, then went to the window, returning a few minutes later after getting her funds credited to her account, memorialized on a plastic card with a magnetic strip. Samuel watched as she wandered back to the table and then turned back to the wheel for the result of his final play. Black. He had bet red again.

  “Seems like my luck went to shit once you left,” he complained with a grin.

  “Remember that,” she said. “So what’s your name, mister brash American? Bill Gates? Donald Trump?”

  He chuckled. “No. It’s Sam. Samuel Terin. I make movies.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she teased.

  “No, really. I’m a director. Some say a decent one.”

  They began walking to the front entrance of the casino, his entourage having disappeared into the fray, eager to play before a night of bacchanal on the Russian’s boat. Samuel had waved off his bodyguard, who now followed at a twenty-yard distance.r />
  “I’m sorry. I don’t watch the movies,” she said with a shrug. “Are you wildly popular? Famous?”

  “Depends on who you ask. Many seem to think so.”

  “Ah, then that explains the approach.”

  They walked side by side, and then Samuel slowed.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “We are all alone. Tonight, I’m alone, except now, apparently, for you. So we are now alone together, yes?”

  He studied her perfect profile, increasingly intrigued as their interaction progressed.

  “Well put.” He resumed walking. “And what’s your name?”

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. Sylvia. Sylvia Tronqué, Mister Samuel, the occasionally renowned director, depending on who you ask…”

  Samuel took her hand and kissed it. “Enchanté.”

  “Ahhh. So the sometimes famous Samuel has, how do you say, game? Perhaps tonight will be less boring than I’d feared.”

  “I like the way you say my name.”

  “I know.”

  They exited, and Jet fixed him with a quizzical expression.

  “So now where, Samuel?”

  “To the boat.”

  “You really have a boat here? Isn’t that a little cliché?”

  “Even worse. I have a rich Russian friend who has a really big, extremely garish and decadent boat. The ultimate cliché.”

  They both laughed together, hers musical and light.

  “Decadence is in the eye of the beholder, no?” she said.

  “Touché.”

  As they walked to the marina, she slipped her arm through his and pulled close to him, looking to all the world like lovers. She could feel Samuel flexing his muscles to appear more fit. Men were so funny.

  “So what do you do, Sylvia?”

  “A better question might be what don’t I do?” She laughed again. “I’m a writer.”

  “A writer! You’re kidding.”