Gambit

by David Hagberg

  “That’s okay; I have replacements,” the doctor said, glancing at the passports. “But you didn’t get rid of these. Why not?”

  “It would have been a shame to destroy such works of art.”

  “Bullshit, but of course I agree with you,” Buerger said, and he looked up. “One million euros. Each.”

  “No,” Taio said, and he held out his hand.

  “Pay him,” Li prompted.

  “It’s too much. We’ll go elsewhere.”

  “No one is better.”

  “True, but where we’re going, the officials don’t look too closely.”

  “Verdammt, I’m not asking for the moon. And you came to me, which means you know the best and can afford the best.”

  “Two hundred thousand euros—one hundred for each of us.”

  Buerger didn’t hesitate. “Let me see the money.”

  Taio pulled a wad of euros out of the bag and handed it to the doctor. “Here’s five thousand.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Neither of us can trust the other. But I want the work done and believe you’ll do another good job. And you need the money, and it’s here in this bag, along with some other currencies.”

  “Let me see.”

  Taio pulled out a stack of American one hundreds. “Here’s five thousand U.S.”

  “I’d take American dollars.”

  Taio put the money back in the bag and zipped it up. “When you’re done.”

  Buerger pocketed the euros. “Who’s first?”

  “Li,” Taio said.

  The doctor practically licked his lips. He nodded toward the dentist’s chair. “Disrobe, my dear, just like before, while I get my things.”

  “This time, you’ll be professional about it,” she said. “I’m not a piece of meat.”

  “Naturlich.”

  * * *

  Buerger kept his word. Starting with Li’s back, including her neck, he sprayed on the tanning solution, which almost immediately colored her skin. Working down, he did her buttocks, without lingering, her dancer’s legs, and even the soles of her feet and the backs of her toes.

  It took less than ten minutes for the solution to sink into her skin and completely dry, before the doctor had her turn over.

  “Close your eyes, please,” he told her.

  She looked at Taio, who nodded, and she closed her eyes.

  He used a tiny aerosol sprayer to do her face, careful around her eyes and nostrils and completely avoiding her lips.

  “You may open your eyes now, but do not touch your face,” Buerger said when he was finished. “Now once I’m finished with your arms and hands, I’ll have to touch certain parts of your body to make sure the spray gets to the natural folds and creases in your skin. You may be uncomfortable, but if you want a first-rate job that would stand up even to a gynecological examination, if it comes to that, you will pass.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes again. “Quickly,” she said.

  He was finished in fifteen minutes and had her lie there for another ten to allow the solution to completely dry before he let her up, and Taio took her place in the chair.

  In the meantime, the doctor had laid out their contacts, Taio’s glasses, and the wig for Li. He changed the solution in the sprayer to lighten Taio’s already light skin a shade more, taking the same care to make certain the job was just as well done as it had been for Li.

  “You’ll need to shave your head every couple of days.”

  “I understand,” Taio said.

  * * *

  The entire process took less than two hours. When it was done, and they had examined their bodies and especially their faces in the full-length well-lit mirror, Taio turned toward the doctor.

  “Very well done, and I expected it would be,” he said.

  “Well enough for a bonus?” Buerger asked.

  “I think so,” Taio said, and he nodded to Li, who had come up behind the doctor.

  Before Buerger could turn around, Li took his head in both hands, and with a knee jammed into the base of his spine, she made a quick, very sharp twist, and the man’s neck broke.

  He slumped to the floor, his eyes wide as he slowly died.

  “He does nice work,” Li said.

  “And so do you, my dear,” Taio told her.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Hammond and Susan flew back to Geneva, and once they had taxied across to his private hangar and the hatch had been opened to a warm early evening, he gave the flight crew the week off, transportation and all expenses anywhere in the world they wanted to go.

  His pilot, John Davies, a relatively short, well-built man in his early forties with blond hair and blue eyes and the same good looks as Paul Newman had at that age, had been a fighter pilot for the air force before Hammond hired him. He was a no-nonsense man, married with two young children back in LA, and flying all over the world in just about every imaginable weather. He was a safety nut.

  “I’ll take the plane back to LA—she’s ready for her annual—and spend the time with Meg and the kids, if you don’t mind. I can have it done and be back here in seven days.”

  “That’s fine, but I’d like you to do one thing for me when you get home.”

  “Sir?”

  “Take your family somewhere exciting. Over the top, you know what I mean?”

  “Maybe we’ll just stay home and soak in the pool.”

  Hammond was slightly irritated, but he didn’t let it show. “Whatever you want, it’s on me. You’re a hell of a good pilot. I wouldn’t care to lose you.”

  “No chance of that, sir.”

  Once their bags were stowed in Susan’s Bentley, which their driver, Tommy Doyle, a Londoner in his fifties who’d been a race car driver when he was younger, had brought down from the villa, they took off from the airport.

  “Would you and the miss like the top down, sir?” Doyle asked.

  “No, just get us home,” Hammond said a little sharply. He was angry, but he didn’t really know why, except that he was goddamned tired of arguing with people. Antonio, who wanted to talk him out of the new yacht; Sophia, the designer who overrode Susan on just about every choice of styles; Davies not wanting to do anything on the boss’s nickel; and now Doyle, who didn’t know how to leave someone in peace.

  Susan squeezed his arm, but he ignored her, delving into his own thoughts. He wanted the Chinese assassins to kill McGarvey, and yet he didn’t want it. He was afraid and yet flying high with the game he’d set in motion.

  If McGarvey survived this round, it would be the next to the last. Two lone assassins had tried and failed, and if the Chinese Scorpions were taken down as well, Hammond knew he wouldn’t be able to go deep enough to survive without finishing the business. His and Susan’s public personas were just too large for either of them to hide. The only recourse, then, would be to send an overwhelming force to do the job.

  Something like a SEAL Team 6 or Spetsnaz hit squad.

  They wouldn’t be cheap, but this had never been about money. In his mind, it simply came down to survival—his or McGarvey’s.

  Hammond’s cell buzzed, and it was Tarasov. “I’m at your house having a drink of some very good vodka—Russian, of course. I assume that you’ve spent an appreciable amount of money ordering your new yacht.”

  “You’re having us watched,” Hammond said, even more irritated than just a couple of minutes ago.

  “Of course I am, but I assure you that we’re only interested in your whereabouts, not your love life, nor your drinking or eating habits.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, my business partners in Moscow and Washington. We have a vested interest in you.”

  “I thought you worked alone.”

  “None of us ever do, though we like to make the world believe we do. Even you, Thomas, have your partnerships—me included.”

  “I’ve set everything in motion, so now what the fuck do you want?”

  “I want you to listen to a cou
ple of recordings, and then there is a letter of intent to be signed.”

  “Bullshit,” Hammond said, but Tarasov was gone.

  “What is it?” Susan asked.

  “Mikhail is at the villa waiting for us.”

  “Goddamnit. Turn around and take me back to the airport. I want to get out of here.”

  “Sorry, but it’s too late for that.”

  Susan flared. “I can go any fucking place I want to go, whenever I want. I’m not one of your fucking employees.”

  “No,” Hammond said, almost sorry that he had dragged her into this mess. “You’re not an employee, you’re a partner. And a woman I happen to be in love with.”

  Her face sagged. “A woman with blood on her hands. And now that Russian wolfhound is at the house. His goons have to be following us.”

  “They are.”

  “Why?”

  “I think that he wants to protect his investment.”

  “What investment? What else have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Gazprom wants some natural gas pipelines into Western Europe, and they want to use my contacts in a blind deal. The government is to be at arm’s length. It’s supposed to be nothing more than an investment on my part.”

  “How many millions this time?”

  “Not millions,” Hammond said. “Five billion.”

  Susan sat back. “Jesus,” she said softly.

  They were on the corniche, only a couple of miles away from the villa now.

  “I agreed to at least try to work the deal, but in return, I wanted a special favor from him and his friends in Moscow.”

  “To find assassins willing to take out McGarvey.”

  “Yeah.”

  “They want McGarvey dead, but they don’t want Putin to be blamed. You’ve become their patsy because of some fucking game you want to play.”

  Hammond couldn’t look away from her. He nodded.

  “Let’s just walk away while we still can.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “If you’re worried about the Chinese couple coming after us, just tell them to drop the assignment, but pay their entire fee. It’d be a win-win for them. They get the money but don’t have to take the risk.”

  “Unfortunately, we’re past that option.”

  * * *

  Peter Wallace, their chef du villa, was waiting for them when they got off the elevator. “Welcome home, sir, miss,” he said. “I’ve placed your guest on the veranda.”

  “You’re fired, Mr. Wallace. I want you gone from this property within the hour.”

  “Sir?”

  “Rule number one: loyalty. Never let someone into your employer’s house without first asking for permission.”

  “But, Mr. Hammond, the gentleman has been here quite often over the past year. He spoke of you as an old friend. I only assumed that he was a favored guest.”

  Hammond was taken aback. But it explained one thing about Tarasov’s knowledge. He’d installed bugs in the villa.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. It definitely was my mistake. I’ll just get my things and be gone.”

  “Wait,” Hammond said. “I didn’t realize who you let in, and you were absolutely right to do so. You made no mistake, I did. I can only offer you my apology and ask you to remain as chief of my house staff.”

  Peter nodded. “Your apology is accepted, Mr. Hammond, and I’ll carry on, if I may.”

  “Please do.”

  “A bottle of Krug is on ice for you and the miss.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tarasov was sitting at a table on the veranda sipping a small glass of iced vodka as he looked toward the lake, his back to the french doors from the house. He was dressed in his usual dark blue blazer, a white shirt, and khakis. All very American.

  Hammond, Susan at his side, stopped at the doors for just a moment. He’d tried to keep Susan out of this meeting, but she’d insisted that since she had become a part of it—her hands bloodied—she would remain in 100 percent.

  “Welcome home, you two,” Tarasov said without turning. “This is a lovely spot.”

  “I’m a little surprised to see you here this morning,” Hammond said. He and Susan walked out and sat at the table.

  Tarasov smiled and poured champagne for both of them. “I took the liberty of ordering the wine. I thought you might want to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?” Susan asked.

  “That you two have come so far with your little game and are still intact.”

  “What are you talking about, you son of a bitch?” Hammond demanded. He was angry and shaken because he was beginning to realize where the Russian was going.

  “That Mr. McGarvey hasn’t figured out yet who’s gunning for him and come here to return the favor.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “Ah, but Ms. Patterson may have given up the clue that could help Mr. Rencke to unravel your plot.”

  “I didn’t do anything of the sort,” Susan flared.

  “But you did, my dear hedonist, by opening your mouth on camera in Seattle.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “I’m a movie star; the interview was expected of me. Had I ducked out, it would have caused all sorts of fucking speculations.”

  “You’ve bugged this house,” Hammond said.

  “Da,” Tarasov said.

  “I’ll hire people to dispose of them.”

  “They won’t be found. Nor will the others we’ve placed here and there.”

  “I’ll get someone who’s good enough.”

  “But mine are the best. You can’t imagine the people we listen to and the stories I could tell.”

  “Your friends are Russian spies?” Susan demanded.

  Tarasov shrugged. “I have many friends, my dear lady, including you and Thomas.”

  “My jet is on its way back to LA for its annual maintenance inspection. Your bugs will be found.”

  Tarasov was unconcerned. “Not unless the mechanics are looking for them.”

  Hammond sat back, resigned. “You’re here. What do you want?”

  “We’ve gone this far with our dealmaking; I merely want to take the next step with you.”

  “You have transcripts from the bugs?”

  “And from other sources. In fact, I have recordings of your hiring the two shooters who’ve failed, plus your conversations aboard the Glory with your new Chinese friends.”

  “Proves nothing, except that a Russian intelligence operation has been mounted against me.”

  “We have your banking activities as well. The gold you deposited into the Scorpions’ account, and even the millions you laid down at Codecasa’s for your new yacht. The Susan P. A beautiful name for a beautiful ship.” Tarasov sipped his vodka and smiled, the gesture almost ironic. “That is, if you live long enough to accept her.”

  Hammond was shaken.

  “Which is why I’m here, and why we’ve gone through all the trouble to help you with your little game,” Tarasov said. “It’s simply quid pro quo.” He took a single folded sheet of paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket and handed them to Hammond. “Please sign it and press your right thumb anywhere on the page.”

  “What is this?”

  “As I told you on the phone, it’s nothing more than a letter showing your intent to act as Gazprom’s agent in Western Europe.”

  “It’ll never hold up in any court of law—in the States or internationally.”

  “No matter. It’ll just point anyone interested in the direction of your collusion for financial gains to us.”

  “Something I’ve done all my life,” Hammond said. “So what?”

  “It links you with a Russian enterprise, something your President Weaver has banned under the penalty of your laws.”

  “It would also link Gazprom with a plot to kill McGarvey.”

  “No, it would simply link you to the plot—which in actuality is the truth. In fact, so far as anyone outside Moscow knows, Mr. Putin has a respect
ful if not warm relationship with Mr. McGarvey. It goes back a couple of years.”

  Hammond hesitated.

  “Come on, Thomas, you started this. We merely helped—for a favor, of course.”

  Hammond signed the letter, adding his thumbprint. He had no other choice.

  * * *

  Mary called Otto’s office and told him that she was pulling the pin early and getting out. “It’s a Friday. How about taking a girl for a drink and early dinner?”

  “Come on over. I’m working on a hunch, but I should have it settled by the time you get here.”

  “A premo?”

  “Maybe,” Otto said, and he hung up.

  The problem he had been wrestling with for several days, ever since Lou had picked up the brief interview with Susan Patterson in Seattle, was Thomas Hammond. The man was a billionaire who’d made his fortune by stealing it, which meant he had connections just about everywhere in the world, and he was a man, who, by all reports Lou had been able to dig up, held a grudge.

  Hammond had ruined any number of men, and three of them, during several wild market swings over the past ten or fifteen years, actually committed suicide because of it.

  Barron’s and The WSJ had at one time or another labeled him one of the world’s great predators. A man who wants to win at all costs and who has earned a fortune because of it.

  “Lou, I was just thinking.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can we find a connection between Hammond and any intelligence agency?”

  “Foreign or domestic?”

  “All of them.”

  “Of course the obvious connection has been the CIA between him and Mac and Pete during the Tower Down investigation. Plus, by extension, all of Mac’s connections. The SVR during the face-off incident. The MSS in China, North Korea’s State Security Department, Pakistan’s ISI, France’s DSGE, Germany’s BND, and some years back Britain’s MI6, and of course Chile’s Agencia Nacional de Inteligencia.”

  “I was specifically asking about Hammond’s connections.”

  “Hammond’s relationship with Mac has put him on the radar of all those agencies whose files include his name.”