The problem that was fueling Myatlev’s gastritis-soon-to-become-ulcer and his growing fear of Abramovich’s retaliation was that his most recent plans had failed to deliver the promised results. No doubt, Abramovich was becoming frustrated with his delivery. No matter how carefully he had planned every single detail, no matter how closely he’d been involved in managing every aspect of the plans — and he hated that — they still failed. It was almost as if he had an unseen enemy out there, one who understood what hid in the deepest corners of his mind and could think ahead of him, taking away the advantage of surprise.
He had thought, at some point, that his identity might have been exposed, that he’d been compromised. No one knew, outside of a very few carefully selected people, that one of the world’s richest magnates held a permanent office in the Russian Ministry of Defense. Except that inner circle of trusted friends and appointees, no one knew that he led foreign intelligence, espionage, and military strategy operations instead of focusing on his business empire. No one knew, outside of Dimitrov and, of course, Abramovich, that he was sometimes using his own cash, rerouted carefully though several countries, to fund covert operations on foreign soil. He paid that price to ensure no one associated Russia with terrorism, and, of course, the top two Russian leaders paid him back tenfold in contracts and favors.
But, if his identity had been compromised, why was he still alive? Myatlev wasn’t fooling himself; he knew very well that he could become a target the moment the Americans learned who he really was and what he did with his time. Yet the adrenaline rush and the financial windfall were strong motivators for him to continue playing this game.
It felt like a game, and he knew the Americans had no sense of humor; they would have taken him out by now. He actually expected it to happen any day, fueling his adrenaline rush and his growing paranoia. Yet he continued. His ambition couldn’t take defeat, then call it quits just because the game had become too dangerous; that was not who he was. Myatlev lived to win, in business or in the service of his country; it didn’t matter. Winning was all that mattered. Conscience hadn’t bothered him ever in his choice of weaponry or tactics; there was no limit to what his mind could conceive.
In moments like these, when he allowed his mind to wander, he wanted more than anything to find out who was playing games with him. Who was behind the lackluster delivery of new weapons technology through his newly deployed array of agents on American soil? How the hell did the Americans catch his best asset handler so damn fast?
It felt personal; it felt that whenever he had a grandiose plan, his unseen enemy would step in and foil that, but otherwise let him operate. He was sure that the enemy existed; but if he did in fact exist, Myatlev wasn’t sure why his enemy hadn’t killed him already.
He flicked the cigar butt out the window and turned his attention to the matter at hand. He opened a file folder left on his desk and started reviewing the information it contained.
Doctor, fucking, lame Bogdanov. Not such a gift from God after all, Myatlev thought, referring to the meaning of the man’s last name. The file showed the background of a studious young man coming from a solid family with good political connections, who had worked his way though medical school and had graduated top of his class from Lomonosov Moscow State University, then had chosen to become a researcher and had been accepted at the VECTOR Institute immediately. Then he’d proven himself at VECTOR, becoming one of its best researchers.
Myatlev just hated the guy; there was no other word for it. Gutless, spineless little prick, he called him. He could deal with his demeanor better if Bogdanov could bring him some results, but the two months Myatlev had been working with him had been an exercise in frustration.
“Ah… fucking Bogdanov,” he said, slamming the file folder on his desk. “Ivan?” he called.
“Yes, boss?” Ivan replied, entering the office promptly and stopping in the doorway.
“Get Bogdanov in.”
Ivan stepped aside, making room for cowering Bogdanov to step in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Myatlev,” Dr. Bogdanov said in a hesitant voice.
Myatlev didn’t respond. He gave Bogdanov a quick look, then said, “You’re going to set up operations near Sakhalin, on the mainland.”
“Sir?” Bogdanov said, as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sakhalin was an island near the extreme far east of mainland Russia, just a few hundred miles from Japan. It was literally at the other end of the world.
“You’re going to pack everything you need to build a full research facility and move it to the new location. Ivan will make sure you get everything you need. You have 48 hours to get ready.”
Bogdanov clasped his hands together, rubbing them anxiously. “But, sir, how would—”
“You’ll load everything on a military cargo plane. Tell VECTOR to call Minister Dimitrov if there are questions. Take everything you need, you won’t find anything there on-site.” Myatlev paused for a second, measuring the man from head to toe. “This is your last chance, you hear me?”
“Y — yes, sir, but what’s going to… what are we—”
“Bogdanov, it’s enough that I have to fix your problems for you. Don’t be a bigger idiot than you already are. This is your last chance to get me the results I need. If you fail again, you won’t be coming back from there.”
Bogdanov turned pale and didn’t say another word. Myatlev waved him away, and Ivan took him outside, closing the door quietly behind them.
Good, he thought, let’s hope this time it works. How hard can it be to create a new drug?
With the Bogdanov issue taken care of, all he needed was lunch, a good, soothing meal that would ease the pain gnawing at his stomach.
…7
Andrew Klapov checked his watch nervously, for the third time within five minutes, then checked the cockpit instrument panel again. Everything was normal on their flight to San Francisco. Altitude, 36,000 feet and holding. Vector 062, as per the flight plan.
Captain Gibson had switched the aircraft to autopilot soon after takeoff, and was flipping through the pages of a magazine, reading quietly. Gibson rarely engaged his copilot in idle conversation. Klapov had always suspected Gibson despised him, particularly because of his numerous flings with flight attendants. But Gibson and his opinions were about to become irrelevant.
Klapov pushed away the coffee cup delivered earlier by Lila, and took a small thermos from his case. Who knows what that bitch might have spiced up that coffee with? He wasn’t going to risk it. Some of these broads never understood their role in the grand scheme of things, and had the temporary delusion that they somehow mattered. Strangely enough, Klapov found himself entertained by Lila’s bitterness, almost flattered. Ha! If she only knew, she’d probably stop trying to do whatever she was trying to do with her snide remarks and snotty attitude. There was no way in hell he was ever going to care about anything she did or said. In his mind, women were single-use, consumer goods, and he was an insatiable consumer with an eclectic taste. He enjoyed the hunt more than even the sex, and once a woman had fallen prey to his charms, she simply ceased to exist, as he moved on to his next target.
Klapov checked his watch again; two more minutes had passed. It was about time. He checked the horizon line, and this time he saw it. Small, barely visible at first, another jet was approaching.