Bulkvadze rose and smiled as the assassin approached. Bor placed a leather satchel on the floor next to the table and grasped Bulkvadze’s outstretched hand. With his other hand the big man gestured for the waiter.
“I’m pleased to see you again, my friend,” Bulkvadze lied. “What brings you to Washington?”
“Business,” Bor replied tersely.
The waiter appeared at Bulkvadze’s elbow. The big man nodded toward Bor. “Bring my friend whatever he wishes and another vodka for me.”
“Nothing for me,” Bor said.
The waiter retreated toward the bar. Bor pulled a mobile device from his hip pocket and tapped the screen, upon which a photo appeared. He turned it toward Bulkvadze.
“This man,” Bor said.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Mike Garin. I will provide his location shortly. Upon receiving that information, you must eliminate him. Immediately.”
“Tell me something about him.”
“He is an American soldier. I worked with him once. He will be very difficult to kill. That’s all you need to know other than where to find him.”
“We have not agreed upon a price,” Bulkvadze said. “Yet you have brought a bag I assume is filled with cash. How much have you brought, if I may ask?”
“Five million US. You will, however, receive an advance of one million only. The balance will be delivered upon proof of death.”
“Very generous. But I’m afraid Nikoloz will demand ten.”
“Five million. That is the price,” Bor said with finality. “I expect you will skim one million off that total and tell Nikoloz that the price was four million. Regardless, how much you keep for yourself is your affair. What is of concern to me is results. If you fail, I will kill you and every one of your associates involved in such failure, including Nikoloz himself.”
“Have we ever failed before? There will be no failure now,” Bulkvadze said with all of the confidence he could muster. He was frightened of Bor. He knew of no one who wasn’t.
“How many men do you plan to use?” Bor asked.
“You say it will be difficult to kill him.” Bulkvadze thought for a moment. He held up three fingers. “Then I will use three.”
“More.”
The big man raised his eyebrows. “More than three, you say?” He tilted his head and looked at Garin’s photo again. “Then I will use five.”
“How many would you use to kill me?” Bor asked.
“Kill you, my friend? I would never think of such a thing. Why kill you?”
“Humor me. How many men would you use to kill me?”
Bulkvadze frowned. “But there are few, if any, like you. I say this not to flatter you, but for a man of your capabilities I would use two primary, two secondary, and three for a perimeter. So”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“to be absolutely certain, I would use seven.”
“Bring ten.”
CHAPTER 37
MOSCOW,
AUGUST 16, 6:12 A.M. MSK
The walls of the waiting room to Stetchkin’s suite of offices were covered with paintings depicting Napoléon’s retreat from Moscow. Blood, agony, cold, snow. A metaphor, Egorshin thought, for the fate awaiting those who’ve incurred Stetchkin’s wrath.
Immediately after the phone call informing him to report to Stetchkin, Egorshin had placed several calls to his uncle. There was no answer and there was no voice mail function. He wanted to impress upon his uncle the urgency of contacting the president’s chief of staff immediately. Make sure the tyrant Stetchkin didn’t do anything insane.
The event was only sixty-six hours away. He should be at his station making calculations, verifying previous calculations. It was inconceivable that a man in Stetchkin’s position would compromise its success by taking some rash action out of personal pique.
Almost inconceivable. The image of Uganov, moving past him with eyes vacant, rendered all manner of horror conceivable. Evil. That was how Egorshin’s uncle had described Stetchkin. An active malevolence.
An aide to Stetchkin sat rigidly at a large, neat desk adjacent to the wooden double doors leading to Stetchkin’s office. He had pale skin, gray eyes, and bloodless lips resembling those of a cadaver. The eyes were pitiless, like the eyes of the man behind the doors. Eyes, Egorshin imagined, that had seen countless individuals walk through those doors and walk out minutes later, their lives shattered, bodies soon to be broken.
Egorshin keyed his uncle’s number one last time, but before the cell could make the connection, the intercom on the aide’s desk came to life. It was Stetchkin’s voice, quiet and calm.
“Send him in.”
The aide simply rose from his desk without a word and gestured toward the door. Egorshin stood and walked slowly, pausing to glance at the aide, who flicked his eyes toward the door, signaling him to enter.
Egorshin turned the brass handle and opened the door into an anteroom containing a French provincial couch and chairs. A credenza to the left held an assortment of handguns and knives and a grenade, which Egorshin guessed to be souvenirs from the Afghan war. A credenza on the right held a glass case the size of a bread box in which lay an assortment of campaign ribbons and medals. The wall separating the anteroom from the office was made entirely of glass, an archway in the middle serving as the entrance to Stetchkin’s office.
Egorshin stepped through the archway and scanned the room. It was large, neat, but otherwise unremarkable and, in fact, somewhat utilitarian. A desk, two chairs, a conference table, more chairs, and a bookshelf. Stetchkin was nowhere in sight.
Moments later, a door on the right side of the room opened and the tyrant emerged from a bathroom. He strode to his desk, the pace as slow as when he had walked down the aisle in the Kremlin. He pressed a button that activated a speakerphone.
“Have my car ready in ten minutes.”
He disconnected, turned, and gazed out the window behind the desk for several seconds, his hands clasped behind his back. Then he turned and looked at Egorshin for the first time.
“Sit.”
Egorshin proceeded to the chair opposite the desk and sat on the edge of the seat. Stetchkin remained standing, staring at the young colonel for several seconds in silence. Egorshin could hear the ticking of an unseen clock somewhere behind him.
“You have defied me twice, Egorshin. Your defiance perplexes me, particularly since it is evident that you are a coward.”
“Mr. Stetchkin, I did not defy—”
“Did I tell you to speak?” Stetchkin asked calmly, in almost a whisper.
“No, I just—”
“Then do not speak unless I give you permission to speak,” the tyrant said softly.
Stetchkin walked from behind the desk to Egorshin’s immediate right and stood directly over him. Egorshin continued to look at the space just vacated by Stetchkin, awaiting permission to look elsewhere. Stetchkin didn’t speak for several uncomfortable seconds.
“I made it quite clear to you that if I needed your services for Zaslon Unit, I expected you to provide them. I was under the impression you understood me perfectly. You did not ask me to repeat myself. You did not ask for clarification. It was a simple instruction that anyone could process.”