Blake looked at them both, and said nothing. For him, waiting must have been the hardest.
Lou stuck his head through the open door and said, “Come on over, guys, we have passenger manifest analysis data ready.”
They all followed Lou into the den, where Alex and Steve were talking satellite deployment.
“One of the satellites is a loaner, it’s already launched, it just needs to be redeployed to that area,” Alex said, pointing at the map, right above the Russia — North Korea border, a tiny sliver of black line perpendicular to the coast of the Sea of Japan. “The other one is being launched tomorrow at 4:00AM local time. It will need a few hours to deploy. By tomorrow afternoon, they should be both operational and scanning. We’re looking to secure a third loaner today, leased from CNC News. We’ll see how that goes.”
“Do you have deployment patterns figured out?” Lou asked.
“Not yet. We’ll work on that right after this. What do you have?”
Everyone had taken a seat, except Steve, who leaned against the back wall of the room.
Lou searched everyone’s eyes, a little hesitant in saying what he needed to say. Alex felt a chill down her spine, but nodded an encouragement to Lou. Whatever it was, they needed to know, so they could deal with it.
“The passenger manifest deep background analysis is completed, and you’re not going to like it.” He cleared his throat a little, and then continued. “There’s a prevalence of accountants and salespeople on that flight, but somehow I doubt that the hijacking was about sales or taxes. A relatively large number of scientists who were onboard XA233, nine to be precise, represents the third most significant data cluster in this analysis. The scientists were on their way back from a pharma conference, the biggest one in the industry. They are a varied group of researchers — neuroscientists, neurologists, psychiatrists, a psychopharmacologist — all touching the field of neuropharmacology.”
They all fell silent for a little while, processing what they had just heard.
“Oh, my God…” Alex whispered.
“You might have been right about your third scenario,” Lou said. “This could be about chemical weapons.”
“What are you saying?” Blake asked in a high-pitched, trembling voice.
There was no way she could sugarcoat that. Alex looked him straight in the eye and replied, “Some kind of nerve agent.”
…32
The days were getting longer, and the air was filled with the summer warmth, making it a lovely afternoon to hunt bear. Clear sky, calm wind, and a balmy temperature, just perfect. Now let’s hope we find and kill the damn bear fast, so we can all go home and call it a night, Myatlev thought, grabbing his rifle from Ivan. His back and stomach still hurt, but if Abramovich wanted to hunt bear with his best friends, he got to hunt bear with his best friends. Motherfucking food chain and distribution of power in this world…
Myatlev joined Dimitrov and Abramovich near the cars, and exchanged hugs and traditional kisses on the cheeks with the other two. They had quite the entourage trailing behind them. They all had at least two bodyguards, dog handlers holding hounds on six-foot leashes, drivers, and aides. Abramovich even brought his personal chef, and a small team to prepare a hot meal, if finding a bear proved challenging.
God, I hope that won’t be necessary, Myatlev thought, giving the confused chef a critical glare.
Abramovich’s aide waited for the three of them to get ready, offering a tray with vodka on ice in small, cut crystal glasses, and bite-sized snacks: pâté de foie gras on thin toast, and tiny cheese crackers.
“Ura!” Abramovich cheered, raising his glass.
“Ura!” Myatlev and Dimitrov responded, meeting their glasses with his.
They gulped the vodka, then put the glasses back on the tray, and started walking toward the forest.
“Show me what you have there,” Abramovich said, pointing at Myatlev’s gun.
“Ha!” Dimitrov laughed. “That’s why I don’t like hunting with this bozo anymore. He always humiliates me with his fancy hardware. I’ve been hunting with the same rifle for the past five years.”
“That’s your way of admitting that mine is bigger than yours?” Myatlev quipped.
Abramovich laughed. “Good one, Vitya, you tell him,” he said.
Myatlev showed his rifle to Abramovich, offering it to him as if on a tray, held horizontally with both his hands.
“Here you go,” he said. “Try it out. It’s a Holland & Holland bolt action magazine rifle, a .375.”
Abramovich handed his own rifle to his aide, and took Myatlev’s Holland & Holland. He handled it expertly, aimed at a virtual target, then let out a whistle of appreciation.
“I still have the Cottonmouth you gave me last year,” Abramovich said, with a hint of regret in his voice. “Great rifle.”
“I’ll trade you if you’d like,” Myatlev offered. “I’ll hunt with the Cottonmouth, and you can take the H&H. Keep it, if you like it.”
Abramovich’s face lit up. One of the most powerful men in the world, and he was so susceptible to gifts and bribery it was pathetic. Yet Myatlev was grateful for knowing which buttons to push with the highly unstable Russian president. Any advantage when dealing with that lunatic was a gift from God.
Abramovich came to Myatlev and hugged him, then added an enthusiastic smooch on his cheek. “You know how to make your friend happy. Thank you!”
Dimitrov threw Myatlev a discrete, all-knowing smirk, while the president was busy playing with his new gun.
They continued walking toward the forest, as the light became heavier with the hues of dusk.
Suddenly, Abramovich ordered their aides to fall behind with a quick gesture.
“What’s new with Division Seven?” he asked, as soon as the other men were out of earshot.
“We’re making progress,” Myatlev replied, and Dimitrov nodded. “We have deployed several key assets in the field, and they’re recruiting left and right with the help of a newly formed cyber unit.”
“I see…” Abramovich sounded unconvinced, impatient, and frowned a little. Not good.
“We are grabbing all kind of intel from our enemy. Soon we’ll be caught up with the latest military technologies, weapons, systems, everything we need.”
“Ah… this is nothing,” Abramovich replied, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Give me something concrete, something I can sink my teeth into, and see the doom of our enemies coming.”
Myatlev hesitated a little, thinking. Maybe it wasn’t too soon to share this with him, despite a worried, warning glance Dimitrov had just shot his way.
“All right, how’s this? I’ve formed a research unit in the far east, to develop controlled violent behavior.”
“That’s interesting,” Abramovich replied, turning toward Myatlev. “Tell me, what do you use? Drugs?”
“Yes, drugs, and I knew you’d be interested, knowing your background with psy ops. I have a team of researchers, some of the best in the world, working on the perfect drug mix to induce and control violent behaviors.”
“To do what?” Abramovich asked, frowning a little.
“Just imagine, controlling the forces from within our enemy’s most sacrosanct organizations, the ones they trust the most, they depend on the most. Controlling how they react, how aggressive they are, when they start killing, and when they stop.”
The president still wore a frown on his face. Myatlev stopped talking, a little worried with his reaction.