“These researchers, who are they? How come they’re working for us?”
Myatlev swallowed hard, clenching his jaws, while thinking of the best way to explain it to the unpredictable Abramovich.
“Nine top-notch researchers were on their way back from a conference. They boarded their flight more than a week ago, but never made it to their destination. That was flight XA233.”
He stopped talking, letting Abramovich process what he’d just heard.
“What?” he growled. “You took flight XA233? You?”
Abramovich drilled him with his stare.
“Y — yes, that was me, us.”
Abramovich stared silently at Myatlev, making him wonder if he was going to survive the day. The Russian president had made people disappear in the depths of Siberia for far lesser offenses.
Unexpectedly, Abramovich grabbed Myatlev by the shoulders and kissed him on his cheeks, three times, in customary Russian style.
“You got balls the size of trucks, Vitya, but you’re a reckless idiot,” he finally said. “Did you stop to consider the consequences of what you have done?”
Myatlev shrugged, speechless. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at Dimitrov for some guidance, but Dimitrov only shrugged.
“Jesus Christ, Vitya, if the world finds out about that plane, they could completely blockade us, roll out full sanctions. Hell, they could even invade us! You reckless fool! Genius, but reckless,” he ended his tirade signaling his aide for drinks.
“Since when do you care about what the world has to say, Petya?” Myatlev asked, mustering his courage. “We’re patriots, we’re mercenaries in the service of Mother Russia, and we have no other supreme goal than to see her glorious and victorious again!”
Myatlev swallowed hard; tension was still crackling in the air.
The aide brought their shots, then disappeared discreetly.
They grabbed their glasses and raised them, but before they could clink them together, Abramovich said, “Yes, be bold, my friend, but don’t be stupid. Where the hell is that plane now?” he asked, then gulped down the alcohol without the usual cheers.
Myatlev frowned slightly.
“It’s hidden, buried under a hill, at an abandoned air base in the east.”
“Put some PVV explosive on it and blow it to hell. It never existed. Never happened. And those people can never be found, you understand me? None of them can ever see the light of day again. Once they finish what you have them do…”
He ended his phrase making a gesture with his hand, running the tip of his fingers against his neck, in the centuries-old gesture that signified decapitation.
“Not a single one, you hear me?”
“Da, gospodin prezident,” Myatlev replied, turning formal all of a sudden to illustrate his commitment.
They resumed walking quietly toward the forest. No sign of any bear anywhere, and the dogs were barking playfully thirty yards behind them.
“You know, all I really want is my war,” Abramovich suddenly said, a cloud of concern shadowing his eyes. “Neither of you are delivering that to me. You keep coming up with these crazy ideas, most of them don’t even work, when all I want is to drop a nuke over New York, another one over San Francisco, then watch the Americans squirm. Why can’t I have that? It would be simple, clean. They’d go into a nuclear winter so deep and dark, they’d beg me for food and aid for decades. That’s what I want. To see them begging, defeated.”
“That’s not that easy to do, gospodin prezident,” Dimitrov finally spoke. “We can’t just shoot missiles toward those cities; their early detection systems would catch anything we throw their way. Even if we do nuke them, then what? We annihilate the entire planet. You see, that’s the real problem with nuclear war. Once radiation is out there, it can go anywhere, and a simple change in the wind direction could kill more Russians than Americans. We need to be smart about it. That’s what we’re trying to do.”
Abramovich looked at them both with an expression of deep disappointment.
“Neither of you has the balls for what I need,” he finally spoke. “Was I so wrong about you?”
They had stopped walking, and stood facing each other in a small circle, all engulfed in their conversation.
“I will give you what you want,” Myatlev said, “we both will. We just need a little more time to finish what we’ve started building. You want them to pay for the sanctions, for their arrogance? They will, I swear to you, here where I stand, on my life! If it’s a nuclear attack you want, that’s what you’ll get, but we have to be smart. They can’t see us coming, and they have to be weakened from within first. Controlled. By us.”
Abramovich nodded, pursing his lips, probably wondering what to believe, what to expect. Myatlev fell quiet, giving him time to think.
The voices of their aides sounded louder now, and he could almost distinguish a yell. He looked back at them, and saw them gesturing desperately and running toward them with their guns drawn. Then he turned toward the forest and saw it.
A brown bear, huge, was forging ahead, running fast, and approaching them in big leaps.
“Bear,” he screamed, and readied his rifle.
But Abramovich had already fired, his bullet grazing the bear’s right shoulder, making it roar as it stood on its hind legs. The bear’s roar was deafening, echoing strangely in the silence of the forest. Slobber dripped heavily from its open mouth, its teeth bared, and lips curled with anger. Then it fell back on all fours and resumed its attack, not even limping from the bullet wound.
Dimitrov had sprung to the left and was fumbling with his weapon, unable to fire.
“Jammed,” he yelled, then started running farther, still holding his useless weapon.
As in a dream, Myatlev took a few steps to the right, leaving Abramovich alone on the path of the charging bear. Calmly, he readied his Venom tactical Cottonmouth, feeling a hint of recognition handling the exquisite weapon that used to be his.
Abramovich, who had taken his second shot but missed, walked backward, as in slow motion, unable to take his eyes off the attacking monster. The hounds had caught up with them and charged the bear from all directions, but they didn’t slow its attack.
The bear was thirty feet away from Abramovich, advancing in big leaps, roaring, and baring his formidable fangs. Then Myatlev fired one shot, calmly reloaded, and fired another.
Both shots hit their target, one entering the bear’s massive skull through its ear canal, and the other hitting it in the neck. The bear fell heavily, its dying groan terrifying, the momentum pushing its lifeless body farther on its path. As it fell, it took Abramovich down with it, landing with its massive head and front paws on the president’s legs.
Myatlev approached calmly and extended his hand to the pale, round-eyed Abramovich, as his aides moved the bear’s head and paws away from the president’s body. Abramovich grabbed his hand with gratitude, grasping it firmly.
“And this, my dear Petya,” Myatlev said while pulling the president off the ground, “is how you get your enemy. You attack where he least expects, where he doesn’t see it coming.”
…33
There he was again, sitting sideways on his favorite lounge chair, head bowed, hands clasped tightly together, as he rocked almost imperceptibly back and forth.
Alex cringed thinking how Blake must have felt. Ten days since XA233 had fallen off the radar, ten days of anguish, not knowing if his wife was still alive. No, she corrected herself, he knew she was still alive. Blake believed that to be true with every fiber in his body, and he wanted her back.