Vashin proceeded slowly up the path to the grave site. At one point, he stopped and waved to the large crowd hanging on the wrought-iron fence surrounding the cemetery. “Give them money in Boris Bakatina’s name,” he ordered. “One-hundred-dollar bills, U.S.” Behind him, Viktor Kraiko, the president of the Russian Federation, also waved to the crowd. He was booed for his efforts. Behind Kraiko, the lesser lights of the Russian government and vor were arriving to pay their last respects. They were a seamless mix of comrades who understood each other perfectly and, for the most part, worked together with little friction. Especially now.
Most of the mourners had been standing in the snow since early morning, claiming a ringside vantage point for what had to be the funeral of the decade, an extravagance even by vor and Mafiya standards. They watched in silence as Vashin approached the open gold-and-crystal coffin resting on top of the freshly dug grave. What happened next would determine so much. Those nearest the grave saw the tears flow down Vashin’s cheeks as he bent over and kissed the recently deceased on the forehead. A long and sustained murmur of relief swept over the collected heads of the vor as they repeated Vashin’s gesture before lining up at the lavish buffet tables. The quantity of food, vodka, caviar, and champagne spread out before them had not been seen at a public banquet since the days of the last czar.
More than a few of the knowledgeable breathed in relief when Vashin embraced the father of Boris Bakatina. A bloody civil war among the Honorable Thieves would not rage in the streets of Moscow.
Vashin spoke quietly to his sister before strolling past the banquet tables. His progress was slow as everyone wanted to speak to him and gain his patronage. He worked the crowd for an hour and finally broke free when the Moscow State Orchestra returned from a break and took their seats. He asked where Viktor Kraiko was, knowing the answer. The president was back in the trees with the girls, the expensive prostitutes who worked Moscow’s most famous nightclub, Le Coq d’Or. The girls had agreed they would only wear leather boots and the sable fur coats as they reaffirmed, with any guest privileged to be invited to the funeral and who was so inclined, the act glorifying the life force.
“Tell Viktor Kraiko it’s time,” Vashin said to Geraldine.
A worried look spread across her smooth and perfect features and she made a helpless gesture. “Perhaps it’s too early.” She didn’t want to be part of the parade of women servicing the randy satyr who had captured the Russian presidency after Boris Yeltsin. Kraiko may have been loony-as-a-fox and a fascist, but he appealed to a large percentage of the Russian populace who harbored a nostalgia for the security and glory of the Soviet Union.
“It’s time,” Vashin repeated. This time, Geraldine did not hesitate and spoke to the orchestra before walking up the path leading into the trees. It was an occupational hazard that went with the business. Vashin spoke to an aide. “Please tell Yegor Gromov that I would like to meet.” The aide was stunned. For Vashin to ask for a meeting with the old KGB general was an admission of subordination. Vashin turned and walked into the trees, heading for the meeting place while the orchestra played the low opening refrain of Tchaikovsky’s Overture 1812. The seven most powerful godfathers of the vor who made up the Circle of Brothers followed him.
A few minutes later, Yegor Gromov marched into the small clearing with twenty-six bodyguards. The absolute power that went with being the KGB’s master for twenty years had become part of his nature and age had not diminished his military bearing or sense of command. He stared at Vashin and the godfathers.
“Thank you for joining us,” Vashin said deferentially.
Gromov jerked his head in acknowledgment and said nothing as seven of the eight men who made up the government’s Security Council were escorted into the clearing by their bodyguards. Only Vitaly Rodonov, the minister of defense and Gromov’s principal ally, was absent. Gromov calculated the order of battle. His bodyguards outnumbered all the others combined. It puzzled him why Vashin had so few of his own. Gromov jutted his chin at the politicians. “Why are they here?”
“Merely as a courtesy,” Vashin said, his voice oily smooth. Kraiko came out of the trees with Geraldine. A flick of Vashin’s hand and all the bodyguards withdrew out of earshot and formed a security cordon at the edge of the trees. Geraldine joined the cordon as she rearranged her hair and dusted snow off her clothes. She wished she could hear what was being said.
Vashin turned immediately to business. “Yegor Sergeyevich,” he began. Gromov stiffened. Only his friends and allies dared use his patronymic. He turned to leave but Vashin reached out and grabbed his arm. “It is best to listen.”
“Is this why you begged for a meeting?” Gromov replied. “To assault me?” He brushed Vashin’s hand aside. Without looking, he knew his bodyguards were flying across the clearing. Vashin was already a dead man.
“It’s time to retire,” Vashin said.
Gromov snorted. Vashin didn’t deserve a reply. Where were his bodyguards? He looked around. Only the torpedo Oleg Gora was walking across the snow. Gromov’s bodyguards had switched allegiance and were merely witnesses to the proceedings. Gromov turned and faced Vashin, the politicians, and the Circle of Brothers. Now it all made sense. Vashin and the godfathers were standing side by side with Kraiko and the Security Council. The vor and the political establishment had openly merged. He was the last major obstacle in Vashin’s path to absolute power and only Minister of Defense Rodonov remained in his way.
“So this is more,” Gromov said. He heard the crunch of Gora’s footsteps in the snow. The orchestra reached the finale of the 1812 as its crashing cannons and pealing bells swept over the clearing. Gora flipped a wire garrote over Gromov’s head, pulled it tight, and twisted. Gromov kicked twice before he passed out. But he was still alive when Gora dropped him into the snow. The torpedo flicked open a large knife and cut into Gromov’s neck, cleanly separating his head above the thoracic vertebra.
Vashin evaluated Gora’s skill with professional interest: the businessman demanding performance for his investment. “Send Gromov’s and Bakatina’s head to the Poles,” Vashin ordered.
Kraiko bent over and was sick in the snow. “Why?” he gagged, his face spattered with vomit.
“I want to send them a message.”
As Vashin expected, Kraiko did not understand. But the Security Council and the Circle of Brothers did.
PART ONE
ONE
The phone call came just after four in the morning. At first, Matt Pontowski ignored it and buried his head deeper in the pillow. Most likely, it was for Sam and she would answer it. But Samantha Darnell wasn’t there. The phone rang a fourth time and he rolled over, reaching for the offending instrument. “Pontowski,” he muttered. He never used his rank, brigadier general, when answering the phone.
“General Pontowski, would you please hold for the superintendent of NMMI.” It was a male voice he did not recognize and suddenly, he was fully awake. The empty feeling left in Sam’s wake was engulfed by a rogue wave of panic.
He clenched the telephone as he waited and the grisly images that haunt parents when their children are away from home came out of the shadowy recesses of his subconscious. Little Matt is just sick, he told himself. But would the superintendent of New Mexico Military Institute personally call for that? Probably not. It had to be bad news, very bad. Get a grip! he raged to himself. You’re obsessing.