He held the glass with both hands, playing with it and making the ice cubes clink in the liquid as he swirled the glass gently. He cherished this moment, the furtive moment when he still had a drink in front of him, still having something to look forward to before resuming the dullness of his daily existence.
He looked at the familiar walls, decorated with identical clocks showing the time in various places of the Earth, labeled neatly as if the bar were some kind of special operations room at the CIA.
The walls wore the patina of time gracefully. Still showing traces of the era when smoking was permitted indoors, those walls were a living memory of the times when people were allowed to gratify their senses with more than just alcohol.
He almost didn’t notice the woman taking a seat to his left at the bar. He felt her scent first, a fine, expensive hint of French perfume. He decided it was French, but he wasn’t really sure. That’s what French perfumes smelled like in his mind: discreet, classy, and almost arousing.
Vernon turned to look at the woman, making eye contact with her for a split second. She wasn’t the typical barhopper looking for action. She was neatly dressed in a tight skirt and silk blouse, and her high-heeled shoes looked expensive.
She didn’t shy away from the eye contact; he did. But before looking away he had noticed the beginning of an inviting smile on the woman’s perfectly glossy lips.
She touched his arm gently to get his attention.
“Hi,” she said, almost whispering. “I’m Michelle.”
He turned to look at her, surprised. In the rare occasions he had started conversations with women in bars, he had initiated them, not the other way around.
He was relatively attractive, in his early forties, wearing his six feet even quite well and enjoying the artistic looks given by his brown hair, almost at shoulder length, and a neatly trimmed beard. Most people took him for an artist, actor, or musician rather than an engineer, a laser electro-optics engineer no less, holding a PhD in laser applications.
Vernon enjoyed his bohemian appearance a lot and cultivated it carefully, ever since that day in junior college when Samantha, a long-legged dazzling blond two years his senior, had invited him to take a hike because, according to her, nerds never got laid. He let his hair grow that fateful, abstinent summer, combing it back and growing a beard that gave him an early air of maturity. Samantha acknowledged the improvement the following fall by becoming the second notch in his belt, standing proof that artists got laid a lot, even if nerds didn’t. After all, his looks got him all the action, not his student ID card.
“Vernon,” he replied, turning toward the stranger. They shook hands. “What can I get you?”
“Whatever you’re having,” she murmured, smiling and touching his arm again.
He gestured the bartender who executed promptly, placing new drinks in front of them.
They clinked their glasses and laughed quietly, in an unspoken greeting.
She looked at his left hand holding his glass.
“I see you’re married,” she probed, pointing at his wedding band.
“Yes, I am,” Vernon said.
“Will your wife be joining you later?”
He almost groaned loudly. He didn’t need any of this shit.
“Listen,” he said in a rigid tone of voice, “I’m not exactly asking you what you’re going back home to, all right? I’m actually not asking you anything whatsoever.”
“Fair enough,” she replied unfazed, touching his thigh. She squeezed it gently, a couple of inches above his knee, in an unmistakable invite.
He looked her straight in the eyes, searching for a confirmation. She didn’t blink, didn’t avert her eyes. He waved at the bartender, gave him a twenty to pay for the drinks, and grabbed Michelle’s hand. She followed him without hesitation as he took her behind his SUV, parked on the darkest side of the parking lot. He slammed Michelle against the wall, hidden from view by the Jeep, and searched her eyes again. She smiled.
He kissed her passionately, almost angrily, holding her with one arm and gently caressing her breast, almost in contradiction with the strength of his kisses. She replied, searching for his belt buckle with probing fingers. He pulled her skirt up and lifted her on his hips, pushing her against the wall, and she responded, clasping her hands behind his neck to hold on. Then he ripped her panties and penetrated her with an urgency he hadn’t expected to feel for a complete stranger.
A few minutes later, Vernon set her down and zipped up his pants. He avoided her eyes, focusing on his boots instead.
“I’m sorry…” he mumbled. “You probably deserve much better than this.”
“Vernon,” she said, reaching out to touch his face.
He turned and left, ignoring her call. He hopped in his Jeep and drove away, managing to avoid any eye contact with Michelle.
“Damn fool,” he admonished himself bitterly as he took the highway to Chesapeake to go home.
…8
Vitaliy Myatlev sat in front of his computer, in the comfort of his home office housed in the Kiev villa. Almost two weeks had passed since Piotr Abramovich had called and invited him for a visit to the Kremlin. Almost two weeks of anguish, of sleepless nights, and careful planning.
Abramovich was famous for throwing people in the depths of Siberia for lesser shortcomings. Myatlev knew he couldn’t hide forever in his Kiev fortress, and there was nowhere else he could go. Abramovich had already run out of patience and had called him again, reminding him in a firmer tone of voice of his standing invitation. He had continued to sound friendly on the phone, but that friendliness could change on a dime. The Russian president was notoriously unpredictable and easily offended.
Myatlev had spent the past weeks moving assets, waiting for bank transfers to complete, organizing his vast operations to be led from outside Russia, and preparing for the worst-case scenario. He hoped Abramovich hadn’t learned of his activities, but Myatlev was no fool. Abramovich’s internal state security, the all-feared FSB, was everywhere, and even Myatlev’s Kiev residence was not as secure as he liked to believe.
Myatlev had a long history of facing terrible odds fearlessly and coming out of dire situations unscathed. The KGB in his earlier career, followed by his years of service as an intelligence officer, had taught him how to sense danger and prepare for it. Then he had applied all he had learned in the emerging post-glasnost capitalist economy, building his fortune. Business had proven to be just as treacherous to navigate as foreign intelligence had been. That’s why he always had a back-door exit built into his plans. He always prepared for the worst-case scenarios, and he always survived.
This time he wasn’t so sure. He was missing critical information. What if Abramovich had his home in Moscow under surveillance, waiting for him to show up? The FSB could arrest him the moment he’d walk through that door. What if the FSB had already raided the place, opening his safe and turning his secrets into incriminating evidence, enough to put him away for the rest of his life? There was only one way to find out.
“Ivan?” Myatlev called his bodyguard and assistant, who came promptly.
“Boss?”
“I need you to help me with something.” He paused, thinking what amount of information would be safe to share with Ivan at this point. The less he knew, the better off he’d be.
“Yes, sir,” Ivan acknowledged.
“I need you to go to the house in Moscow and bring me some documents.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to trust you with some very critical information, Ivan, I hope you will not disappoint me.”