Moscow would be beautiful this time of year, and the thousands of glittering diamonds that filled the black valise at his side would fetch at least double their U.S. prices in the Russian capital. So the half-billion-dollar heist would actually be a billion-dollar job when all was said and done.
He liked the word “billion.” He knew that soon, the long overdue distinction would be his: his wealth would be measured in billions. Tens, no hundreds of billions. Popov had never spoken the words, but this deception could easily make him richer than a dozen Bill Gates.
He flashed angry when he thought of how Bennings had nearly ruined everything with the rigged EMP weapon. And the major must have somehow tracked the device through the GPS guidance signal, which probably required the assistance of Yulana Petkova. Using Bennings had been one of the biggest mistakes in his life, a mistake made just when he was on the threshold of his biggest success, of fantastic riches. Was it self-sabotage on his part? Did he subconsciously choose to work with the American knowing it would bring on disaster? Was he unconsciously trying to punish himself for the thousands of misdeeds that comprised his life of crime and killing?
It wouldn’t be the first time Viktor had shot himself in the foot, so to speak. The pattern had existed throughout his life, of being on the brink of some great achievement but then finding a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and do some stupid thing that ruined everything. It was only pure ruthlessness that had allowed him to become a KGB general; somehow, he hadn’t sabotaged that aspect of his life.
Bennings! Why did he have to walk into my life three months ago? If the major hadn’t shown up in Moscow, the deceptions would have proceeded using Rodchenko’s bomb, a bomb that Viktor now knew worked just fine.
Hopefully, Dennis had made him suffer before killing him. And that whore, that gryaznaya shlyukha, filthy slut, the scientist Yulana Petkova obviously didn’t love her daughter or she wouldn’t have helped the Americans. So… so her daughter, much as he hated to think about it, would be disappeared. He’d deal with that later, in Moscow, after things settled down.
Thinking of Petkova’s daughter reminded him he must call Lily Bain from the Citation jet and tell her to kill Bennings’s sister and dispose of the body in such a way that it wouldn’t be found.
Time to start tying up loose ends, which is why Dr. Rodchenko and his team were right now being driven to the Citation. They would accompany him as far as Havana, where they would perish in a tragic boating accident while enjoying a few well-deserved days in the sun.
Movement to his left caused Viktor to turn his head, and he was startled to see…
…another helicopter flying dangerously, crazy dangerously, close to his port side, the left side! The cockpit lights were on, and he clearly saw Kit Bennings holding the cyclic stick between his legs with one hand, while the other hand held a submachine gun nosing out of a small window opening. Orange muzzle flashes erupted from the gun, and, while he couldn’t hear them, Popov knew the bullets were ripping into his R66.
He jerked the cyclic right, and his copter veered sharply starboard as he pushed the collective down with his left hand, sending the bird into a steep descent.
So, it’s up to me, thought Viktor. Okay, I flew helicopters before you were born. Let’s play.
He made a radical descent, leveling out just fifty feet above Las Vegas Boulevard—the heart of the Strip—as thousands of pedestrians gaped in awe, thinking it was some kind of free show.
Yulana tried to grab a handhold that wasn’t there.
“What are you doing?” she said, louder than necessary.
“I’m trying to follow him.”
“But shouldn’t we be in the sky?”
There was no argument from Kit on that point. As they zoomed over the Strip at 140 knots, Popov suddenly banked left just north of Harmon Avenue and threaded his way between two towers of the Cosmopolitan.
Bennings went clammy as he focused every ounce of concentration on closely following the R66, but hopefully not into a casino high-rise.
Popov emerged over the Bellagio’s front pool just as the computer-controlled fountains erupted in an orgasm of white froth to the sounds of “Viva Las Vegas.”
The R66 flew so low it sliced through the columns of water, and Kit had no choice but to do the same, electrifying the tourist throngs. The helicopters banked hard right, crossed the Strip, and threaded the narrow space between the half-scale replica Eiffel Tower at Paris Las Vegas and the hotel’s high-rise tower.
They continued to bank hard right, splitting between more buildings before cutting back south over the Strip and then into the gracefully curving concrete and steel canyons created by the crescent-shaped high-rises of Aria and Vdara. They flew so close to the structures, Kit felt certain his rotors would chip window glass.
And then, the Strip went dark.
“No!” screamed Yulana, covering her eyes.
The world outside the cockpit went black as a dungeon. All lights flicked off, save for car headlights on the streets below. Kit instantly backed off the throttle and maintained the mental picture in his mind of the building in front of him, until…
…Backup generators kicked in all along the Strip and threw enough light for him to avoid slamming into a tram station stop. At a much slower speed, he gained altitude, carefully, but there was no sign of Popov in the R66.
Popov had flown a few blocks from Aria when two chip lights came on in the R66’s instrument panel—indications of imminent catastrophic failure of both the main gearbox and the engine. Oil pressure was plummeting, and the controls felt sluggish in Popov’s hand. Bennings’s gunfire had done damage. Viktor had to put the bird down right now.
So he fought the controls and made a rough landing onto the roof of the closest building, and one of the tallest buildings in Las Vegas—the Palazzo Resort Hotel Casino. He shut down the helicopter and looked out. The electricity was off, but cell towers operated with four hours of battery backup, so he pulled out his cell, and made a quick call.
“There he is!”
Yulana spotted the black copter on the all-white roof of Palazzo, just below them. As Kit descended, they saw the cockpit door open and Popov climb out holding the black valise.
“Jen, Popov landed on the roof of Palazzo. We’re going in after him,” said Kit into his headset boom mike.
“Look, he has a black case,” said Yulana.
“He’s got the stolen goods, Jen. Notify Metro, and then you better clear out of the hangar, PDQ.”
“Roger that,” said Jen.
“We copy, too,” said Buzz. “We’ve got the RT-Seven. It landed in a soft, sandy area that was wet, probably from a leaking water main, so it’s fairly intact.”
“Roger and out,” said Kit, concentrating on his landing. Careful to avoid rooftop clutter from air-conditioning units, crane booms, or antennae, Kit set the MD 530F down. Hopefully, the roof would support the weight, but it was too late to worry about that now.