“Are you concerned I might be wrong in my theories?”
“No… I’m afraid you might be right.”
…6
Vitaliy Myatlev enjoyed the crisp winter air and the fading sunshine on his home’s terrace. Bundled up in a long astrakhan fur coat and matching hat, he sat on the lounge chair smoking his cigar and drinking vodka, impervious to the frigid air.
He loved the feeling that the terrace gave him. Offering a great vantage point, he could see in all directions for miles, while enjoying privacy and peace when lounging on the imported patio furniture. It was this terrace that had tipped the scale and made him fork out almost seven-hundred-thousand dollars for the villa. The colonial-style, two-story, white mansion had six bedrooms, four baths, a sauna, and a Jacuzzi suite, and the fantastic terrace spread out over almost two-thousand square feet.
His staff took great care of the terrace. The snow was removed promptly as soon as it fell, the patio furniture cleaned and dried, and gas patio heaters imported from America had been installed in the appropriate spots. That was where Myatlev liked to sit and think about the important things in his life.
He felt comfortable there, whether night or day. He felt on top of the world, unperturbed, untouchable, superior, and that sat very well with his ambitious nature. One of the richest men alive, Myatlev was a true Russian oligarch with global interests in banking, gas, oil, and whatever else he could think of.
A former foreign intelligence KGB officer, and now a talented businessman, Myatlev knew how to seize opportunity and put it to work, and he had done that aggressively since the day Russia had started to turn from communism to capitalism. Self-made and uncompromising, he had the innate talent to spot favorable circumstances or events and to construct the fastest, most profitable, business enterprises exploiting such circumstances.
Decisive, fast, unscrupulous, and ferociously ambitious, Myatlev was never satisfied. He forged ahead in quick bursts, building enterprise after enterprise and launching initiative after initiative, amassing wealth at a stunning rate.
Yet not everything was perfect in his world. Unaccustomed to defeat, Myatlev still ground his teeth, thinking of the recent failure he had suffered. His plan had been perfect, majestic. The execution had been spot on, carefully monitored by him personally, step after carefully planned step. It should have never failed, yet it did, and the unknown reasons behind that failure kept him up at night. That ill-fated failure could still get him killed.
That’s why Myatlev appreciated a place where he could unwind, put his thoughts in order, and prepare for new challenges, new opportunities. His Kiev villa offered that perfect spot, unique among all his other properties. He was never going to sell the villa.
He signaled his bodyguard, Ivan, for some more vodka. Ivan topped his glass promptly, adding several ice cubes to it. He took a sip, inhaled the harsh alcohol vapors, and took another sip.
His cell phone came to life and caused Myatlev to frown. He took it out of his pocket and, seeing the name on the display, his frown deepened as he cussed under his breath before picking up.
“Gospodin prezident, what a pleasure!” Myatlev managed to sound sincere.
“Vitya, yes, it’s Petya; you recognized me!” Russian president Piotr Abramovich sounded glad to hear him, almost cheerful, which could prove even more dangerous than the alternative.
They exchanged pleasantries for several minutes in typical Russian fashion when old friends catch up. They recounted their recent holiday meals and guest lists, recommended new exotic foods to each other, and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. Then Abramovich switched gears abruptly and got to the point.
“Vitya, I want you to come visit with me. We need to talk.”
Abramovich sounded very determined. Myatlev felt his blood freeze in his veins.
“It will be my pleasure, Petya,” he managed, “just give me a few days to wrap things up here. I’m in the middle of something big, you know.”
“Ha ha, aren’t you always,” Abramovich laughed. “All right, but don’t make it too long. I need to see you.”
Myatlev ended the call with trembling hands. He had been a fool to think that if he moved to Ukraine he could escape Abramovich. He had failed his mission, and Abramovich was not a forgiving man. His epic defeat had caught up with him. There was nowhere on Earth where he could hide from the fallout.
He gulped the remaining vodka in his glass and decided to go inside. He needed to come up with a plan.
Holding the door open for him, Ivan asked, “Are you OK, boss? You look pale.”
…7
Vernon Blackburn rarely left his office at 5.00PM sharp. He felt uncomfortable busting through the gates among the masses of blue-collar, younger employees. Most engineers rarely went home on time. He felt almost embarrassed making his way through security at the exit and waiting in line after several exempt employees, but today he just had to get out of that office. He couldn’t breathe in there… He’d tried to open the window, dropped the thermostat setting to 68 degrees, but nothing helped. He had to get out.
As he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep Grand Cherokee he took a deep breath, the first deep breath he’d been able to take in more than an hour. He was ready to go home.
He started the slow commute, lined up behind several other cars crawling out of the parking structure in the five o’clock rush. A few minutes later, he picked up speed, driving eastbound on Virginia Beach Boulevard. Then he approached the stoplight at the corner of Virginia Beach and 460. If he took a right turn, that would lead him to I-264 then I-464, on the road to his home in Chesapeake. A left turn would take him to his favorite bar on Lafayette, the 1700 Somewhere. Nope, he was going to go home this time, he promised himself. He preselected for the right turn and set the blinker on, waiting for the light to turn green and letting his mind wander.
The car behind his Jeep honked twice, startling him. The light had turned green and cars were zooming past him. On an impulse, without any thought or concern for the fast-moving cars coming from behind, he cut all lanes and made a left turn, pedal to the metal, among screeching tires and a concert of angry honks. Once he made it out of the intersection he slowed down, resuming his normal, calm driving demeanor and rubbing his forehead furiously. All right, just one drink, just one, he promised himself again. Maybe this promise he could keep.
His watering hole of choice was a bar aptly named 1700 Somewhere. The owner, retired Navy, had rebranded to military time one of the world’s most famous excuses for a drink. This time it was 1700 right here where he was, and he needed no excuse. The blue light of the bar’s neon sign looked inviting in the darkening dusk.
He parked his Jeep on the side of the building and went straight inside. Vernon was a regular; the bar was almost empty, and the bartender didn’t wait for any order. He filled a glass promptly with double bourbon on the rocks and placed it on a napkin in front of him.
Vernon liked this familiarity, this sense of belonging that comes from being a regular in a place, any place. It almost felt like home in a twisted kind of way for the mentally weary, exhausted man in search of a break between work and family.