Mikhail looked for a long time at his uncle and then blinked. Mikhail was smart and ruthless, but he’d known too much privilege. He knew very well that he’d never had to fight for what was his; not really. And was he really going to have to fight his uncle? Because… had Viktor forgotten? This elaborate deception, potentially the greatest theft the world will have ever seen, had been his idea. Mikhail Travkin’s brainchild! The largest theft, monetarily, in the history of mankind, was within easy grasp. And the most elegant heists are those where the victim doesn’t even know they’ve been robbed!
My God, they stood on the threshold of a staggering criminal achievement, a crowning glory to Viktor Popov’s career that Mikhail had gifted to his uncle, the man who, in spite of his callous, imperious nature, had been amazingly good to him, had made him who he was today.
The names Popov and Travkin would be regarded as demigods by their fellow vor v zakone. They’d become… untouchable.
But here Viktor was now claiming the deception was his idea and not Mikhail’s. Why? Why would he do that? So he could justify not having to listen to anyone else? Holy Jesus, Viktor had become so blinded to an outcome that he couldn’t see he’d taken a wrong turn.
Perhaps his uncle had made him what he was today, but as Travkin looked at the old man, he realized it would be up to himself to make whatever it was he would become tomorrow. Decisions faced him, decisions that could not be made with a calculator or by constructing an elegant algorithm.
Mikhail’s mouth felt dry and he swallowed, but the taste was not good.
“It has always been my plan to permanently relocate back to Russia after we explode the device,” said Popov. “That won’t be so bad, considering the billions we’ll make.”
Mikhail didn’t look so sure about anything anymore. “You often cautioned me, Uncle, not to spend my money before I made it.”
Mikhail watched as Viktor stopped short and regarded him with a penetrating glare. “Perhaps your tone of caution is wise, Mikhail.” There was a long silence as the two men stared at each other. “Let us be cautious: send all of the technical people—the analysts, the hackers—on flights to Moscow immediately. Immediately! And you, your wife and children too.”
Travkin looked at Popov for a long beat. This was not the time to fight. Perhaps there was another way. “Yes, Uncle.”
Buzz squinted into the late-afternoon sun as he piloted the twin Cessna 401A on the flight toward California. Angel dozed in the right seat, while Jen sat in the back checking out the contents of her backpack.
Kit had asked them to leave the plane at a friend’s hangar at Montgomery Field in San Diego, then fly back to their homes before more trouble ensued. Instead, the three of them, once they were airborne, had decided to fly to Van Nuys Airport in L.A.’s San Fernando Valley and look into how they could track Viktor Popov through Mikhail Travkin.
As Jen inventoried her backpack, she found two of Kit’s cell phones: the one given to him in Moscow by Popov’s men (the one she had hoped to put a trace on) and Kit’s old U.S. cell phone. The batteries and SIM cards had been taken out of both phones so they couldn’t be triangulated and used to locate Kit. Bennings still had one of the new sterile phones they were all using, and he had his encrypted sat phone.
Jen, Buzz, and Angel all wore headsets so they could talk to one another in the noisy compartment.
“Buzz, what’s our approximate location?”
“Coming up on Prescott, Arizona, why?”
“I’ve got Kit’s old cell phone. If I turn it back on, maybe we could lead anyone trying to find him in the wrong direction. Then toss it out of the plane before we get to L.A.”
“Good idea.”
The intercom had awoken Angel, and he turned around and watched from the front as Jen slipped the battery into Kit’s phone and booted it up. A window popped up showing there were several new text messages, so Jen clicked to view them. The very first message she checked was the one sent from Staci Bennings in Las Vegas.
Jen’s eyes went wide as she read. “Holy cow!”
“What is it?” asked Angel.
“A text message to Kit that you’re not going to believe,” she said, handing him the phone.
Angel read the text carefully: “Vegas S of Rio/Plms nr Strip 3fl 2Russ hrry Stci. dnt rspnd.” He looked at Jen in disbelief, then read his interpretation of the text aloud. “Las Vegas, south of the Rio and Palms Casinos. Near the Strip. Third floor. Two Russians. Hurry. Staci. Don’t respond.” He handed the phone to Buzz, who quickly scanned the text.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain,” said Buzz. “Brace for a change of course.”
Buzz banked the plane sharply to the north and increased air speed to maximum.
The call to Secretary of State Margarite Padilla could have gone worse. Bennings sold her on his version of events, leaving out key facts and any mention of the participation of Buzz, Angel, Jen, or the navy SEALs. He glossed over the smoke-bomb diversion at LAX saying that no one had been hurt. He parsed his words carefully and truthfully insisted that he had nothing to do with the explosion in El Monte and that he was running for his life when the building blew. He admitted killing the men at the morgue in self-defense.
Bennings argued that facts suggested Popov intended to use a Russian-made e-bomb for some unknown purpose on an unknown target.
He urged her to convince the FBI to apprehend Mikhail Travkin at his Wilshire Boulevard condo and to raid all businesses known to be owned or controlled by Popov. Lastly, he maintained that Yulana Petkova was not a spy and that he wouldn’t be turning her or himself in, just yet, in spite of the secretary’s insistence.
He knew his revelations constituted mostly bad news and put Padilla into a tougher position than he’d already put her in. But at least armed thugs weren’t trying to shoot her dead. Padilla was a smart lady and a seasoned D.C. insider. She’d survive. He wasn’t so sure about himself. The nagging notion that he’d finally bit off more than he could chew and was on something of a suicide mission had become a thought that he couldn’t shake.
Detective Bobby Chan and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy stood in the bottom of a deeply shaded arroyo just off Carbon Canyon Road. Small pieces of wreckage from Gina Bennings’s car lay strewn around the slope.
“The front end was wedged right here,” said the deputy, pointing to an indentation in the soil.
Chan took short steps, walking slowing, scanning carefully. He used a SureFire LED flashlight like a searchlight over the dirt.
After watching Chan for over ten minutes, the deputy finally spoke up. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Whatever doesn’t belong,” said Chan.
Chan stopped and looked up. He scanned the steep bank of the arroyo leading up to the road. A patch of white caught his eye.
The deputy saw it, too. “Plastic grocery bag?”
“I don’t think so,” said Chan.
Chan climbed the grade, not the easiest thing for a heavy guy with bad knees to do. He stood over the object, then carefully used tweezers to pick up a white cotton glove. The deputy climbed up next to him.
“Would any of the first responders have been wearing cotton gloves? Or the coroner’s staff or anybody?”
“Hell, Detective, you know the answer to that is ‘negative.’ Not cotton gloves.”
“Just wanted to hear someone else say it.” Chan placed the glove into a plastic evidence bag and winced from the pain in his knees—college football injuries—as he climbed out of the arroyo into the soft light of late afternoon. Traffic ran heavy as commuters made their way home.