“Special stock,” the old man said, unscrewing the cap off the bottle. “You won’t find it in your local supermarket.”
Having filled the glasses, Malinin popped a handful of pills into his mouth, and washed it down with the water.
“These damned headaches,” he said, wincing. He looked queasy, trying to steady his breathing.
The jet taxied out on the runway and halted, as if bracing itself before letting the engines peak their howl. Breezing forward, it challenged the paved strip of land, and beat it, tipping the nose skyward.
“Every revolution kills its own creators,” Malinin continued as the Cessna soared into the air. “Once the initial purpose of the revolution is achieved, it takes one person to step in and exploit the results. Assume control before another iteration starts. The Paris Commune drowned in blood and fizzled out. In the end, the Place de la Concorde had claimed Robespierre’s head as well. And Lenin’s ‘old guard’ was eradicated by Stalin. The Red revolutionaries became his enemies — he had to protect his power against them. He’d learned the lessons from his teachers in mass murder — Lenin and Trotsky. So Stalin killed them all. Along with sixty million other people…”
“But he didn’t kill Trotsky when he had an easy chance. I always wondered why Stalin had to wait until he escaped to Mexico.”
“Because he needed Trotsky. Stalin invented a brilliant conspiracy to achieve his end. He claimed that Trotsky had arranged a plot against him. Against the Revolution. So he uncovered evil Trotskyites within the Party’s ranks and eradicated them. The Great Purges needed a pretense. And Trotsky was a living symbol of counter-revolutionary menace. Yet at the same time he was powerless in exile. So at first, the Trotskyite conspiracy was a stroke of genius by Stalin, utilised against Trotsky himself.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean, at first?”
“Every action triggers a reaction. Trotsky knew that one day Stalin would get to him as well. What could he do as he watched former comrades being wiped out on conspiracy charges? Create a conspiracy for real. One that Stalin would not expect. In 1938—in Paris, amusingly — Trotsky set up an undercover organization known as the Fourth International. It rose from a group of Trotsky’s closest followers living in exile, and those still alive in Russia. At the start of the so-called Great Patriotic War, they set their plan into motion, conning one of the most powerful men in Stalin’s empire. During the evacuation, when a secret train run was taking the artifacts to safety, they pulled off the heist of the century.”
“How can you know it?”
Malinin’s lips curled in a tragic half-smile.
“Because the Fourth International exists to this day. The real Fourth International.”
This was getting crazier by the moment.
Constantine felt that his head swam. His brain was about to burst from his skull. The sensation was physical, too real but inexplicable, driving him on the verge of panic. But the pressure in his ears was something else, he gathered quickly. It was…
Descent.
Just then, Borisov announced over the intercom that they were about to touch down at the airport of St. Gallen, Switzerland.
They’d been airborne for a meager half hour. Banking over the still surface of Lake Constance, the Cessna performed a smooth landing at St. Gallen-Altenrhein, a small airfield in Switzerland’s northeastern-most canton overridden with peaks and valleys. The town of St. Gallen was among the most elevated in Switzerland.
In the VIP arrivals lounge, a border official waved them through without delay. No visas were required. Constantine demonstrated his French ID. Malinin and his bodyguard carried passports of the proud Republic of Latvia. A European Firearms Pass for each of the three pistols enabled Borisov to bring his weapons unchallenged.
Another car, a sleek Porsche Cayenne was waiting in the reserved parking lot. Borisov continued his chauffeuring duties.
Speeding away from the airport terminal, the black SUV gripped the waving road, playful as it took on the succession of rises and falls.
“What will you do next?” Constantine asked Malinin. “After you hand over those documents to me, where are you going?”
“London is the nearest thing I have to a home.” Malinin absently rubbed his eyebrow, pensive. “My bouts of headache… Eventually, they became so murderous that I had to undergo a thorough medical check-up. As it turned out, I have a brain tumor. It’s inoperable, and chemotherapy would only prolong the suffering, so the prognosis is dire, but certain.”
“Oh, my… I’m… I’m sorry.”
“What? You needn’t be. Like I said, I don’t want your sympathy.” Malinin smiled. “Back in London, I have a very good friend. He’s also a very good doctor, one who is quite flexible when it comes to the moral aspect of euthanasia. After my business with you is finished, he’ll help me commit suicide.”
The nonchalant tone of the old man’s comment sent a chill through Constantine, and ended the conversation.
On the horizon, the snow-capped ridge of the Alps was mesmerizing. Constantine watched the road, letting his mind wander — until something caught his attention.
He realized that driving southeast, along the Rhine, they were heading out of Switzerland.
10
Lodged between the Alps and the Rhine, on an area of 160 square miles, the Principality of Liechtenstein is one of the world’s smallest countries. With 5,000 inhabitants, Vaduz was large enough to become its capital.
Lacking its own army, currency and airport, the Principality relied on Switzerland to provide all of those.
But Liechtenstein’s real charm lay in something else. Liechtenstein was a financial sanctuary. What Malinin had called an alpine heaven of first-rate banking. The country’s financial sector was destined to be the main driving force of the economy, specifically attracting foreign investors. Above all, Liechtenstein knew the value of discretion.
The trip from St. Gallen had taken another thirty minutes. As they approached Vaduz’s famous banking center, the Bankplatz on Pflugstrasse, Andrei Borisov slowed the Porsche. Futuristic, curved buildings scrolled by beyond.
“Which bank is it?” the chauffeur-bodyguard asked.
“It’s not here,” Malinin replied.
“Not at the Bankplatz?”
“No, not in Vaduz.”
Borisov frowned in surprise.
“Continue along the Landstrasse, out of Vaduz. A few blocks from here you’ll see the town of Triesenberg. That’s the place we need.”
Vaduz ended before they could notice. Triesenberg was indeed a short distance away — as was everything in the Principality. The town itself was clustered around a stone church. The dome of the church peaked in the shape of an onion, so much similar in form to Orthodox churches in Russia.
“St. Joseph’s Parish Church,” Malinin said, pointing.
Malinin ordered Andrei to park the Cayenne on the square in front of the church.
“Wait in the car,” the old man said as he climbed out after Constantine.
Standing next to the Roman Catholic church, surrounded by a cloudless blue sky, Constantine appreciated the fresh alpine air.
“One of the few places on earth where what you breathe isn’t likely to kill you straight away,” Malinin said. “We’re about eight hundred meters above sea level. And we’re going up.” He motioned towards the Alps.
Constantine faced the mountain range.
“Up? Into the mountains?”
“Not into the mountains. Towards the mountains. Up a slope. Come on, we’re almost there!”