Richard Herman
Edge of Honor
For all the cadets
who made the journey through the Sally Port
at New Mexico Military Institute.
Epigraph
Dwell on the past and you’ll lose an eye;
forget the past and you’ll lose both eyes.
PROLOGUE
The archangel Michael loved heights.
Mikhail Vashin was sure of it as he stood at the big window on the top floor of his three-story penthouse apartment high above Moscow. Not that he was religious, far from it. But lately, he was feeling a special relationship with the celestial deity he was named after. Perhaps, it was because of the weather. The mild winter had aided in the construction of his new skyscraper complex looming on the skyline three kilometers away. Six more months, he told himself, finding consolation in the speed of construction.
And it was perfect weather for the funeral. The sky was bright and clear for early April and the temperature cold enough to keep the snow from turning to slush. But not too chilly for the orchestra, or the girls, to perform outside.
Mikhail Vashin looked to the south, still gazing at the Towers, as he went over the funeral arrangements in his mind, checking off each item in the complex scenario. The heavy bulletproof glass in the window distorted his short, chunky frame and made him look even heavier. His $4,000 Savile Row suit — Vashin detested the current Italian style popular with his contemporaries — draped perfectly over his barrel chest and thickening waistline. He rubbed his chin and sighed. His barber had given him a close shave two hours earlier but his five o’clock shadow was already showing.
A loud crack echoed across the big room and the three men sitting on the luxurious brocaded couches fell to the floor. Mikhail Vashin never flinched. Stoically, he had quit counting attempts on his life when the number reached his age. He laughed as the men picked themselves up off the floor. “There,” he said, pointing to the glass chip on the outside of the bulletproof window. The fresh half-moon indentation made by a bullet was aligned with his forehead. “I want the shooter.”
“He’ll be dead by tonight,” one of the men promised.
Vashin snorted. They didn’t understand. “Such accuracy. The range had to be at least six-hundred meters. Hire him.”
The men nodded with murmurs of “Da.” It was one more brick in the legend surrounding Russia’s wealthiest man. At thirty-six, Mikhail Vashin controlled 8 percent of his country’s gross domestic product — his goal was 15 percent — and he was one of the richest men in the world. When asked by a Newsweek reporter in a recent interview what he wanted, Vashin had declined to answer. Instead, an aide had answered for him. “Mikhail Vashin wants more.”
The funeral of Boris Bakatina was a major step in that direction.
The tall and stunning blond who served as Vashin’s personal assistant appeared at the door. She was holding a leather folder with a stopwatch and chronometer clipped to the cover. “It’s time, Mikhail,” she said in English. Geraldine Blake’s accent was decidedly British upper class. Even though his English was very limited, he nodded. Geraldine spoke into her personal telecommunicator, this time in Russian, and punched the stopwatch, setting events in motion.
Tom Johnson, who had been trained by the United States Secret Service and had stood post for a United States president before seeking more gainful employment with Vashin, spoke into the whisper mike under the cuff of his shirtsleeve. The elaborate security mechanism that surrounded Vashin sprang into action as he descended in the elevator from his lofty perch.
Mikhail Vashin was pleased and allowed a rare smile. He had found Geraldine and Johnson on the Internet and hired them on the spur of the moment. Yet, both had worked out beyond his wildest expectations. Not only was Geraldine superefficient as his personal assistant, she gave his organization a touch of class, which it desperately needed. And Johnson had rebuilt the security system that protected him. The bulletproof-glass window in his penthouse and security zone that floated around him was proof of that. Together, Geraldine and Johnson insulated him from the vor, the Honorable Thieves of Russia.
The irony of it amused Vashin. He was the most powerful of the godfathers of the vor, and that made him a target. Yet two foreigners, bought and paid for with hard currency and dependent on him for their own survival in Russia, were his most loyal supporters. He loved the Western ethic that made money, honestly earned, the arbiter of fidelity and morality.
Geraldine Blake reviewed her notes in the elevator. Her lips drew into a thoughtful pout. “Mikhail, I know it’s distasteful, but you must be among the first to kiss the body. Otherwise…” She deliberately did not finish the sentence. For Vashin not to kiss the forehead of Boris Bakatina would be an admission of guilt. Although the patsani, the young and unruly street thugs who made up the bulk of Russian crime, collectively called the Mafiya, knew that Vashin had ordered the assassination of his partner.
“You English are too sensitive,” Vashin told her. “The embalmers are the best. Bakatina is cold wax.”
“And nothing but wax,” an aide added. “They couldn’t find his head.”
Mikhail Vashin’s face was impassive. That too, was part of the arrangements.
The seven-car convoy, with Vashin’s silver Bentley sandwiched in the middle, arrived at the cemetery on schedule. The other automobiles drove past the entrance while Vashin’s car drove through the ornate iron gates. The black limousine bearing Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation, was right behind him. The order of arrival was a message being sent to the CIA agents recording the funeral with their long-lens cameras more than a kilometer away. Geraldine twisted in the seat beside Vashin to look at Kraiko’s limo. She glanced at the chronometer on her clipboard. “At least the filthy sod is on time,” she groused. “The girls know he’s coming. It cost us extra. They wanted sables.”
“It’s nothing,” Vashin said. “Besides, the furs will keep them warm.” He found the topic distasteful and changed the subject. “Where did you place the orchestra?”
“Next to the trees behind the grave,” she answered.
“And they know when to begin the 1812?”
“On my signal,” she answered.
“Good,” Vashin replied. “All must go smoothly. I don’t want to upset Natalya. Losing Boris has been an ordeal for her and the children.”
“Natalya,” the dropping of the widow’s married name another signal, “is most appreciative for the funeral and sends her thanks.” She gracefully uncrossed her legs and prepared to make a smooth exit from the car. In public, style and grace were everything to Vashin.
Vashin waved a hand, his blunt fingers flashing an impeccable manicure. “It is the least I could do for my sister.”
Tom Johnson was riding in the front seat and frowned as the Bentley coasted to a stop. An obscenely long Mercedes-Benz limousine was pulling away in front of them. He spoke into the intercom. “The Cossack is here.”
Color drained from Geraldine’s face. “I was assured Gromov had agreed to the arrangements,” she said nervously. Yegor Gromov was the chairman of the Federal Counter-Intelligence Service, the old KGB in democratic sheep’s clothing. When the Soviet Union had collapsed, Gromov had given the KGB a facelift and masterminded the KGB’s rape and pillage of the Russian economy. In the process, he had become Russia’s new Caesar.
A flick of Vashin’s hand. “It’s nothing.” Geraldine breathed easier as an aide opened the rear door and Vashin stepped out. A line of toadies lined the walk leading into the cemetery. Vashin’s eyes narrowed when he saw Oleg Gora, the contract killer who would, with Vashin’s help, someday rule the second-largest family of the Russian vor. Gora bowed his head in respect.