She trotted with confidence on the jetway, boarded the plane, and tucked her wheelie in the staff closet. She popped her head briefly into the cockpit, greeting Captain Gibson and completely ignoring the dick in the first-officer seat.
Then she signaled the gate crew to start boarding, and took her spot in the first-class cabin, ready to greet the passengers.
They started boarding quickly, first class followed closely by the rest of the passengers, some chatting excitedly about a conference or something like that. The conference travelers were scattered throughout the plane, but they seemed to know one another fairly well.
As soon as a third or so of the passengers had made their way on board, she picked up the microphone and made her announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Universal Air flight XA233, with nonstop service to San Francisco. Today’s flight will be almost full, so please be considerate when stowing your carryon luggage. Your smaller bag should fit under the seat in front of you. From the flight deck, Captain Gibson and First Officer Klap welcome you aboard Flight XA233. Thank you for flying Universal Air; we appreciate your business.”
She hung up with a wicked smile, happy with the pun she’d made by calling the bastard Klap instead of Klapov, in reference to the sexually transmitted disease. She couldn’t resist turning her head to see his reaction.
The bastard didn’t seem to care, but Gibson frowned gently in her direction, like a disappointed parent. It made her sad. She pulled shit like that and it felt great for a second, then it ruined her life. Reckless, that’s what she was. Reckless in her choice of men, and reckless again in how she dealt with the consequences of her own mistakes.
She stood and filled a few glasses with champagne, the traditional welcome for the first-class passengers.
The woman in 1A had already taken her seat, tucked everything out of sight, and was reading a magazine. She accepted the champagne with a smile and a whispered thank you.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Bernard,” she replied.
Lila, like all flight attendants who worked the first-class cabin, was required to know the names of their passengers and greet them by name. She only had four on this trip, so it wasn’t that hard. This passenger’s name seemed strangely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Adeline Bernard… an actress, maybe? She definitely looked like one.
She moved on to 2B, where one Darrell Maldonado was loud on his cell phone. She offered him the champagne and he took it without skipping a beat in his heated phone conversation. She touched his arm gently to get his attention, and said, “You will need to end that call in a minute, sir, and switch your phone to airplane mode.”
He dismissed her with a hand gesture, as if she was a bother of sorts, a mosquito buzzing him, or some other form of pest. In his dialogue with the other party on the phone, he inserted casually, “Oh, no, I’m still here, I got time. I just got irritated by something, that’s all.”
Asshole. Maybe there should be an airline just for them. They already had the right pilots for that.
She heard her colleague announcing roll call and crosscheck, and then she started demonstrating the safety features of the Boeing 747–400. She did one more quick round in the first-class cabin, ensuring 2B was off his phone, then sat on the jump seat and prepared for takeoff.
…6
Vitaliy Myatlev ignored the loud growling in his stomach announcing the buildup of hyperacidity, and washed it down with his third shot of vodka for that morning. After providing a few seconds of deep satisfaction, the alcohol started burning what was left of his stomach lining, causing Myatlev to fidget uncomfortably and cuss under his breath.
“Tvoyu mat,” he swore in his mother tongue, “this job is going to kill me.” He leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket and putting the palm of his hand on his bloated stomach, in an effort to soothe the pain. Maybe a smoke would help.
He opened a new box of Arturo Fuente Opus X cigars, taking his time removing the clear packaging, and inhaling the scent released by the unsealing of the humidor. Then he chose one cigar, and carefully removed its wrapper, stopping at times to inhale the smell of the exquisite Dominican tobacco. That box of cigars had set him back thirty grand… he wasn’t going to let a stupid stomachache stop him from enjoying one.
He clipped the tip with a golden cigar clipper engraved with his initials, a gift from an old business partner. Then he lit the cigar, taking his time, holding the tip above the open flame of his torch lighter, and puffing a few times. Then he let out a long sigh, together with some bluish smoke, but not even that calmed his pain.
He opened the window and let in some fresh air, then took in the cityscape of downtown Moscow, with the massive Kremlin a little to the left, and numerous government buildings crowding the central area of the city.
He used to like this game, but not anymore. For the most part, he still liked playing God, more than anything else, and did so every opportunity he got. But he hated being so close to his friend and unpredictable sociopath, President Abramovich. He hated feeling vulnerable, at Abramovich’s whim.
He’d been fearless ever since he’d started amassing wealth at unprecedented rates. He had everything. He had numerous prosperous businesses in various countries, some of which offered no extradition, just in case he’d ever need that some day. Myatlev was one of the richest men in the world, having broken into Global Fortune 50 a few years back. He had good health, with some minor issues, of course, but still he was doing all right. And he had the same insatiable lust for power and achievement that had propelled him to where he was, and continued to fuel his unrivaled drive.
Only one man could crush all that in seconds, and that man was Abramovich. Myatlev hated how he felt about Abramovich and the power he had over him. He’d heard somewhere that genuine power is held by the person who can destroy what you value the most. How true.
At times, Myatlev had thought of killing Abramovich. It would be so easy. Thirty-five years of friendship didn’t mean much to Myatlev, who hated being vulnerable more than anything else in the world. He also knew that, if the right circumstances would align, the same thirty-five years of friendship wouldn’t hold Abramovich back from sending Spetsnaz after Myatlev with an order to kill on sight.
Then why not beat Abramovich to it and take him out? Myatlev let out another smoke-engulfed long sigh thinking about it. Yes, it was about money. Lots of it. With a favorable, at least for now, Russian president watching over his interests, and with Dimitrov as defense minister, money kept flowing in from all directions. Tax exemptions, official or unofficial. Countless privileges. Government contracts, military and civilian, they all came his way. In turn, he shared the cash with his two friends, and agreed to help Abramovich and Dimitrov rebuild Russia.
But there was a catch, a wrinkle in this fantastic arrangement. It kept Myatlev awake at night, despite almost being in an alcohol-induced coma every night before his head fell on his pillow.
He’d committed to deliver masterful plans in intelligence and covert operations, to acquire weapons and technologies through a wide net of foreign-based assets, most of which were deployed in America. His unrivaled imagination had delivered strategies that, at a global level, could shift the balance of power in the world in Russia’s favor, almost overnight. He had the audacity to deploy foreign intelligence asset arrays in a manner seen only in computerized big data models. He’d crafted unexpectedly innovative solutions to all of Abramovich’s frustration with the Americans, and to Dimitrov’s military needs.