Of course, there was a price to pay for all that, like his presence here, in his Ministry of Defense penthouse office. He, out of all people, held a regular day job… the thought of that made him cringe. But no one could say no to Abramovich and live to see the light of tomorrow. Abramovich might have been his friend, but that friendship survived, like with most sociopathic narcissists, just as long as Myatlev did what he was told, and obeyed wholeheartedly. Famous for his unpredictable mood swings, Abramovich could turn on a dime and decide to throw him to the depths of Siberia, or just kill him on the spot. Abramovich was the only man on earth who held the power to destroy Myatlev.
But there was a bright side to his unofficial role in the Russian government. Myatlev enjoyed power more than anything else in the world, even more than he enjoyed money. He also loved his country. He was sincerely committed to serve Russia and help restore its lost greatness.
He was deeply, wholeheartedly grateful to Mother Russia. In service to his country he had gained the skills, knowledge, contacts, and money to get him started on his way to business success; he never forgot that. Plus, he thought with a crooked smile, there are fortunes to be made when rebuilding an empire.
He and Dimitrov weaved ambitious plans to help restore Russia’s long lost greatness and rebuild the decrepit military and technology infrastructure. Dimitrov’s military instinct set the vision, the strategy, the ideal. However, Myatlev had an uncanny talent; he manipulated people into doing what he wanted. No matter how complex or diabolical Dimitrov’s vision, he found ways to build incredible plans and orchestrate their execution. Most of the times, he was highly successful.
There was mutual benefit from their partnership, and Myatlev made sure the benefit stayed just as mutual as Dimitrov liked. If Russia’s defense needed a couple hundred new helicopters, the contract would go to one of Myatlev’s companies, and an incentive would find its way into Dimitrov’s cash vaults. Then the business genius that was Myatlev would buy a helicopter manufacturer, build the choppers, then sell the plant at the height of its capitalization glory. That was, of course, if no other choppers were needed by the Russian Army.
And that’s how the world turns, Myatlev thought, filling a glass with vodka and some ice, slapped carelessly in the cut crystal glass with his chubby fingers.
At 59, Myatlev’s physical appearance told the honest truth about the abuse his body had taken throughout the years. He had telling bags under his eyes, and he had lost most of his hair. His skin hung around his jaws as if he were a bulldog, and his eyes were always bloodshot. Vodka was a constant presence in his life, and so were fine cigars and expensive foods. His gastritis was giving him some trouble lately, and the latest sip of vodka immediately bore a hole in his stomach.
“Ivan,” he called, summoning his aide and lead bodyguard.
Ivan, a well-built ex-Spetsnaz, walked promptly through the door.
“Boss?”
“Get me something to eat.”
Ivan reappeared in the doorframe within seconds, carrying a tray with beluga caviar on ice, surrounded by tiny squares of thin, white toast.
“Thanks,” Myatlev said in a rare acknowledgment, chewing with his mouth open. Then he tapped his finger on the empty glass, and Ivan promptly refilled it.
“Dr. Bogdanov is scheduled to arrive in a few minutes,” Ivan said. “Do you want me to cancel that?”
“Argh… no, I need to talk to him,” he replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation.
Myatlev wiped his mouth with a napkin and lit a cigar. He opened the window and took in the aroma of spring with his cigar smoke. Bogdanov… If this was the best that VECTOR Institute had to offer, the country was in trouble.
VECTOR, the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology, somewhat the Russian equivalent of the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention or CDC, was home to Russia’s most advanced medical research. Some of that research, like in any field for that matter, found its way into military applications, hitting Myatlev’s radar.
Myatlev had been laying the ground for his most recent plan, but his plan required real talent, finesse, genius. He saw none of that in Dr. Bogdanov. Yes, he was a well-educated and highly recommended medical researcher, but he was spineless, a coward trying to read Myatlev’s mind and serve him what he wanted to hear, instead of working with him, sharing his vision, and making it happen. But, alas, Bogdanov was the best VECTOR had to offer. Bozhe moi…
A tap on the door, and Ivan announced him.
“Dr. Bogdanov to see you, sir.”
Myatlev turned toward the door, not leaving his favorite spot by the open window.
Bogdanov stepped through the door, pale, staring at his feet. He held his hands tightly clasped together, probably to keep them from shaking.
“So?” Myatlev asked. “How did it go?”
“The… the results were… umm… less than we expected,” Bogdanov started, clearing his throat with difficulty, and swallowing hard.
“What happened?”
“They were… uncontrollable. Once they started, we couldn’t stop them, and—”
“So the test was a failure, another one,” Myatlev said, slamming his palm against the windowsill. “After all this work, we have nothing, that’s what you’re saying?”
“Umm… I guess we could say that—”
“Enough with the bullshit,” Myatlev cut him off angrily. “Grow some balls and admit you have nothing, or tell me what you have.”
“Y — yes, sir, we have nothing. We need to go back to the drawing board.”
“Your researchers aren’t worth much, are they?” Myatlev asked in a threatening tone. “Why can’t you find me better ones? Do I have to solve all your problems for you?”
Silence fell for a second. This time, Myatlev expected an answer.
“No, sir,” Bogdanov replied weakly.
“I need to have this done already,” Myatlev continued just as angrily as before. “Why is it so hard to get a controlled response in people? The entire goddamned pharmaceutical industry does exactly that, gets controlled response to chemicals in people. Yet you and your idiots can’t. What kind of doctors are you?”
Bogdanov stood quietly, not sure how to respond to that.
“You had the perfect environment for this test. An oilrig, in the middle of the ocean, a contained, remote environment with male test subjects of about the same build. Still you fuck it up. Why the hell is it so hard? All I am asking of you is to fix me a drug mix with controllable results. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Myatlev turned his back to Bogdanov, leaving him standing there, not sure what to do, afraid to break the silence and ask. After a while, Bogdanov found the courage to leave Myatlev’s office, quietly closing the door behind him.
Myatlev heard the door click shut and whispered to himself, “Fucking impotent idiots… all of them.”
…3
Chief Ramsay looked at the men seated next to and across from him. They had the same expression, curiosity mixed with concern, and the determination one sees on a soldier’s face before going into battle.