The Soviet government had not just fallen; it had shattered. Even so, this was a stretch. “You mean you and your friend, you just walked in and took over the government steel mills?” Jason snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
Viktor took a sip from his glass, icy-cold vodka straight up, and nodded as though admitting to something as trivial as possession of an overdue library book. “Da! Soldiers in town not paid, either. They help.”
“But what about the administrators, mid-level managers? Surely they didn’t just walk away?”
Viktor tossed his glass back, gulping the rest of the vodka. “Some not walk, carried. Most no longer needed. Was exciting. Now not so much.”
Jason was having a hard time getting his mind around the fact that this man had simply mustered a small army and taken over the city’s steel mills. But, then, in those chaotic days following Christmas Day, 1991, anything could have happened and frequently had. Who would have opposed him? The government had ceased to exist as a functioning body, the unpaid army refusing orders. The events had proven to be the perfect breeding ground for the economic oligarchy that had budded and flowered with the death of Russian Communism. By the time some semblance of order had been restored, possession of a number of the peoples’ assets were in private hands, hands in a much better position to keep them than to take them back.
Privatization had been swift and irreversible; capitalism on steroids.
The door cracked open and a woman in a swimsuit quite modest by Saint Barts’ standards stood there, looking surprised when she saw Jason. She quickly covered her already adequate bathing suit with a beach towel. Somewhere in her mid-forties, she was plump, if not fat, plain, though not quite unattractive. Her eyes moved from Jason to Viktor as she said something in Russian. The tone of his reply in the same language sounded annoyed, if not rude.
The door shut soundlessly.
“The woman knows better than to interrupt business,” Viktor growled.
“I doubt she knew I was here,” Jason replied, feeling an inexplicable need to defend the person he guessed was Viktor’s wife.
Filling his glass again, Viktor returned to the pair of rockers, this time bringing the frosted bottle. He held it out toward Jason.
“Is, how you say, breakfast of champions.”
Jason shook his head. “More like a nightcap if I started drinking vodka shooters in the middle of the day.”
“Shooters?”
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anywhere that would accomplish Jason’s purpose in coming to Saint Barts. At this time of year, the small planes that could negotiate the island’s diminutive runway to ferry passengers to and from the major international airport at Saint Martin were booked months, if not years, in advance. If he missed his late-afternoon flight, Jason could be stuck here for days while he tried to find a boat not already employed, a craft to take him across the twenty miles to the larger island. Or he would have to admit his mistake to Momma by requesting a chartered helicopter that would draw unwanted attention
No, Jason did not have time for an etymological discussion.
“You were right: As much as I’m enjoying renewing our acquaintance and the beer, neither were my reason for being here.”
He had Viktor’s attention.
“I’m here because I’m in need of your talent.”
Viktor forgot his newly filled glass. “I do not think you wish me to operate a steel mill.”
“Correct. I’m referring to your handiness with explosives.”
The Russian grinned, again exposing a steel incisor. “You have someone you wish to be exploded?”
“Perhaps. Are you interested?”
Viktor emptied his glass in a single gulp in true Russian fashion and narrowed his eyes as he faced Jason. “You are talking money?”
Jason stood. “A lot, but probably not so much to a man like you. In fact, it was silly of me to think you might be persuaded. I mean, you have this beautiful villa on one of the world’s most exclusive pieces of real estate. You must be making money faster than you can count it, let alone spend it, not to mention a daughter. Plus a wife who would be very unhappy with you if she knew you were traipsing off to some faraway place to risk your ass for less money than you make in a month.”
He was turning toward the door. “Sorry to have bothered you, but thanks for the beer.”
Jason could only hope he had accurately accessed Viktor’s character. The two of them, American and Russian, were alike though they had served different masters. Jason had known only two types of warriors: those who turned their backs on the profession of arms as easily as they might change a shirt to follow peaceful pursuits — men who devoutly wished to avoid conflict, or at least battle — and those of intense competiveness, men who relished competition whether in business or in more deadly endeavors. These men could no more walk way from a fight than they could give up breathing. Bored by extended periods of peace and tranquillity, they became edgy, if not irritable. They could be called mercenaries, extreme thrill seekers, or simply victims of their own DNA.
Jason knew the latter well. Though he tried to deny it, he suspected the breed included himself.
The question was: Did it also include Viktor?
As his hand touched the door knob, Jason realized he had been wrong. Viktor had the means to obtain anything he might desire. The good life had extinguished the warrior spirit. Jason had wasted a precious day in a futile effort.
“Wait! Just what did you have in mind?”
Helping himself to a second Carib from the refrigerator, Jason returned to the still warm seat of the rocker to explain what was wanted. A few minutes later, he and Viktor were haggling over price. Jason had offered a fraction of what he intended to pay and was only halfheartedly letting himself be bargained upward. He was aware the argument was not really about money; Viktor had more than he could ever wish. It was a matter of pride, price reflecting the degree of respect for the Russian’s talents.
At last, they agreed.
Viktor produced another bottle of vodka from the refrigerator and placed a glass in Jason’s hand. “Is Russian custom to seal bargain.”
Jason managed to beg off after a second shot, telling Viktor he would be in touch in a few days and securing the number of an account in the Cook Islands into which he was to wire half a million dollars as an advance.
Jason checked his watch as he climbed into the battered Suzuki Samurai he had rented at the airport. He was relieved to see he had plenty of time to catch his flight. Enough time, in fact, to pause at the top of the hill behind Gouverneur, get out of the car, and admire a view of golden sand, green hills, and blue waters, all framed by the blood red of trumpet-shaped hibiscus blooms along the corkscrew road. The sense of loss that he had no means to put the view on canvas was near tragedy, assuaged only by a promise to himself he would return, supplies in hand. A few minutes later, he was treated to a different, but equally spectacular, sight as the hill dropped down into Baie de Saint-Jean. He would not have been the first visitor to the island to run off the cliff that yawned beneath each hairpin turn, too enchanted with the scenery to pay attention to the snakelike road.
The road ran flat as it briefly paralleled the beach at Saint-Jean, a strand divided by the jutting prow of a rock formation upon which perched the Eden Rock hotel, where rooms ran thousands of dollars per night during high season. That, of course, included a complimentary bottle of reasonably good Champagne upon check-in and a daily breakfast buffet. The road, already narrow, was squeezed tighter by cars more abandoned than parked by beachgoers.