Smolin stood and saluted his soon-to-be former boss.
“Maxim Sergeyevich, it’s been a privilege.”
“Good luck. Make us proud!”
Smolin closed the door gently behind him as he left Markov’s office. Then he allowed himself to smile, a wide smile filled with excitement.
…11
Sylvia Copperwaite wore a pink halter dress, very little jewelry, and her blond hair tied in a simple ponytail. Her green eyes were focused intently and her forehead showed lines of strain as she evaluated her hand. Two kings, a jack, a ten, and a six. She could have used better luck.
She checked the other players briefly. The skinny guy at her left had a satisfied hint of a smile in his eyes. He had something. The swine across the table, the overweight, sweaty asshole who had made lecherous comments the entire evening looked worried. The guy in the blue shirt at her right showed nothing; he was impassible, apparently not even paying attention. Blue Shirt was dangerous.
She checked the diminishing pile of chips in front of her and took a leap of faith.
“Three, please,” she asked the dealer, holding on to the kings and ditching everything else.
“Two,” Blue Shirt asked.
“I’m good,” said the skinny guy at her left. He was served, as they say in poker, which meant his hand had been strong from the start.
“Give me a slice of that,” the swine said pointing at her, “and two great cards.”
Sylvia flashed an angry glare across the table. She could always leave, but she wanted to play a couple more hands, that’s all.
The dealer ignored the first part of the swine’s request and delivered the two cards.
“I’m out,” Blue Shirt said and folded.
“I’m in,” declared Skinny, and threw a few chips in the pile.
Sylvia hesitated. Skinny Guy hadn’t asked for cards, which in many cases meant he had a flush or full house. She checked her new cards. Another king and two nines. It was worth a shot, but she was gonna try to play it safe. She added a few chips and said, “Call.”
A minute later the swine raked in the entire pot, brought to him by a full house aces high. He smiled at her and asked, “Would you care for some of this back, honey? There are a few ways I can think of.”
“Yeah, like a good hand,” she snapped.
“If you’re into hand jobs, I’ll take it,” the swine commented.
“Your last warning,” Blue Shirt said, “we’re here to play cards, not insult each other. I will call the manager on you. We don’t have to put up with your shit.”
Sylvia blushed. Why hasn’t she stood up for herself? Why hasn’t she stood up, period? She could just leave, instead of sitting here, an easy target for the slimy worm across the table, and losing money on top of it all. One more hand, she decided, then I’ll go.
The problem was she needed a big win. She’d had a streak of losing hands lately, emptying her bank accounts, maxing out her credit cards, and leaving her stranded. She needed a big win to make it to the next paycheck. The next paycheck, seven days away, was going to bring her some relief, but until then she was screwed. She had a good job and made a six-figure income as an electromechanical engineer, but her luck at cards needed serious improvement. She held a PhD in computational modeling, but couldn’t model herself out of spiraling gambling debt.
Her next hand held a nice surprise, three aces, a seven, and a deuce. She asked for two cards, and got another ace. She went all in, not paying attention anymore to her opponents’ tells. This was her last chance. Minutes later, she was cleaned out, losing in favor of a straight flush drawn by the swine.
She stood up, a little dazed, and made for the exit. The swine grabbed her hand as she walked pass him.
“Let me help you out of your bind, you beautiful thing,” he said, licking his revolting lips. “I have a lot of money to spend. Let me make your day.”
She yanked her hand from his grip and walked out of the casino, tears welling in her eyes. She approached her car and leaned against the hood, trying to regain balance, as her sobs grew louder and a wave of nausea hit her, causing her to convulse and vomit near the front left wheel.
She didn’t feel sick because she was drunk. It was because for a split second she had considered taking the swine’s offer for another chance to sit at that green table, play a few more hands, and maybe win it all back. She needed help.
…12
Myatlev had three of his bodyguards lined up in his home office. Ivan, who’d just returned from Moscow the night before, stood half a step closer to Myatlev than the other two, reflecting his status in Myatlev’s personal security detail.
“All right, Ivan, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll meet with President Abramovich in the next few days. I’ll call his office and get an appointment. But we have to be prepared for anything.”
“Sir?” Ivan seemed confused.
“Our friend Abramovich has a reputation for impulsiveness and for destroying people. You’ll have to protect me, Ivan.”
“Inside the Kremlin? Bozhe moi … ”
The other two bodyguards shifted their weight from one foot to another, probably feeling uneasy at the thought of entering the Kremlin with guns in their hands.
Myatlev looked Ivan in his eyes. “Yes, inside the Kremlin.”
“But… How?”
“You’ll form three teams of four men each, all Spetsnaz, all strong and gutsy, in full tactical gear, armed with silenced MP5s. Pay them well, and then pay them some more. You, three others, and I will take the limo, the armored Bentley. The other two teams will take the G-Wagens.”
“But how do we enter the Kremlin armed like that?”
“You won’t. If you do, it will look like we’re there to overthrow Abramovich.”
“Huh?”
“You won’t enter the Kremlin unless it’s strictly necessary.”
“I… I don’t think I understand, Vitaliy Kirillovich.”
“I’ll be wearing that,” Myatlev said, pointing at a new Breitling watch still sitting in its opened box. The yellow packaging resembled more of a toolkit than a watch case, and had Breitling Emergency Night Mission II branded on the lid and on the black shock-absorbing interior lining. The Breitling was a serious downgrade from Myatlev’s half-a-million dollar Patek Philippe, but it came with serious advantages.
“And you’ll be carrying this,” Myatlev continued, handing Ivan a small device. “This watch has an emergency beacon built in. If I get in trouble, I’ll press the button and you and your Spetsnaz will barge in and get me.”
“And I’ll see it on this?” Ivan gestured at the locator.
“Yes, yes. If I press the button, you’ll see where I am. It works by satellite, just like GPS.”
“Oh, good.”
“But you have to move fast, Ivan. The moment you see the beacon, you storm the Kremlin, understood?”
“Y — yes.”
“You’ll be waiting outside, the Bentley in front of the entrance, and the G-Wagens around the corner, and wait for my signal. Are we clear?”
“Y — yes,” Ivan replied, still hesitant.
“What’s the problem?” Myatlev asked, impatiently. After all, it wasn’t so damn hard.
“Are you saying you want us to shoot our way inside the Kremlin to get you out?”
“In case the beacon goes off, yes. Bring lots of ammo. Do you have a problem with that?”