At his feet lay three miniature pinschers — Athos, Porthos, and Aramis — which Mironov had named after The Three Musketeers, his favorite childhood novel. The canines appeared peaceful as they slumbered up against one another, but the slightest sound would rouse them into a barking fury.
The glow from the heat lamps revealed Mironov’s dark brown hair, which was combed straight back with copious amounts of gel. Although in his early fifties, the Russian was in good shape. His large, fit frame bulged underneath his tight wool sweater.
Very few people had ever met the billionaire tycoon, and he had rarely been photographed. A internet search of his name would only turn up a few distant or fuzzy shots, most of them taken as he climbed out of his Mercedes limousine and darted into a building.
Mironov lifted the cigar to his lips and took a long draw, causing the tip to glow red. One of the pinschers awoke, and his head turned quickly toward his master. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, the dog lowered its head and closed its eyes again. The billionaire opened his mouth and allowed the aromatic smoke to slowly escape before throwing his head back and blowing the remainder up toward the brilliant half-moon.
The chalet was located about three-quarters of the way up the mountain at the end of a winding private road. No other houses were located within a kilometer of the property, and more than a dozen security personnel patrolled its perimeter. Four were located at the gated entrance at the base of the mountain, and the other eight were scattered along the perimeter.
By using multiple layers of shell companies and paying hush money to realtors, Mironov had made sure his presence on the mountain would be unknown to the vast majority of locals. When he and his entourage arrived, it was usually in the dead of night and always without fanfare. The black Mercedes S-Class sedan would quickly turn off the main road, pass through the guarded gate, and then wind its way up through the dense forest.
Mironov frowned, troubled, and he pressed a button at the bottom of a wand that was lying in his lap. Almost immediately, the silence was broken by the sound of a door sliding open behind him, and after that came a mechanical whine from the balcony.
The min pins awoke on cue, barking ferociously and baring their fangs. As the noise grew nearer, the dogs began to jump up and down, their anger reaching a fever pitch. But despite the display, they knew not to rush forward and attack.
“Comrades, comrades, enough,” Mironov ordered. The dogs barked and whined a few more times before sitting back on their haunches. Despite their reluctant obedience, all three continued to glare in the direction of the door.
Soon the noise stopped, and a figure appeared. From afar, she looked like a woman of Asian descent. However, a closer inspection would reveal skin that was too smooth to be human and eyes that remained fixed in one direction. In reality, she was a masterpiece of robotics, a humanoid more advanced than any other thing built by the hand of man.
The lips on the figure moved, their movements roughly matching the sound that came forth. “Good evening, sir,” she said in perfect Russian. “May I help you?”
“Yes, Keiko,” Mironov replied. “Please bring me a drink… Kir Royale.”
“Yes, sir. Your favorite, sir.” One of the pinschers gave a low growl at the sound of the humanoid’s voice, which caused her head to turn in its direction. “And shall I put the dogs away, sir?”
“No, not now, Keiko.” Mironov took a draw on his cigar. He was pleased that the advanced emotional programming was working. The bot was showing irritation, one of the dozens of emotions that had been entered into her system over the last year. With each passing day, the differences between her and her distant human relatives were growing smaller and smaller. She was smarter and stronger than the average man or woman on the street, and her personality was blurring the lines even further.
“As you wish, sir,” she said with a slight bow.
The humanoid then turned and walked back into the chalet, her movements fluid. Just as she was about to enter, the man spoke again. “Keiko?”
The mechanical whine stopped. “Yes, sir?”
“Do we have any word from Jorg? He’s late.”
Keiko returned to the man’s side. She looked down at him, and her mouth started to move, but then — as if hearing some undetectable sound in the distance — she turned her head slightly and stared down the slope of the mountain. As she did so, her eyes changed. The iris and the pupil disappeared, and both eyes glowed with a soft aqua-blue light that extended out like beams into the darkness.
As she stared down the mountainside, her head turned left and right. After a few seconds, she said, “Sir, there is an automobile approaching.” A low whir came out of her head, much like the focusing of a camera, and the aqua of her eyes changed to a deeper blue. “I have identified a car coming up the mountain, sir. They are the lights of a BMW 740i sedan. Current year model.”
No sooner had the words come out of her mouth than headlights suddenly appeared through the fir trees on the slope below. The lights moved back and forth as the car made its way up the mountain. The min pins, hearing the noise of the engine, ran to the edge of the balcony and began to bark aggressively.
Keiko watched the dogs. There was almost the subtle look of irritation written on her face as her eyes transitioned from blue to red. “Shall I pull the dogs away, sir?”
“That won’t be necessary. Please bring my drink.”
“Yes, sir. Kir royale. Your favorite, sir.”
When Jorg Koehler finally stepped out of the elevator onto the fourth floor of the chalet, he was gripped by a rare emotion: fear. Mironov’s curt instructions to return to Switzerland meant that the billionaire wasn’t happy about how events had unfolded over the last couple of days. And whenever he wasn’t happy, someone paid the price. Koehler’s goal was to reassure the Russian that despite appearances, things were under control. Anything that hinted otherwise could jeopardize his position in the organization, or even worse.
As the German walked out onto the balcony, Keiko gestured toward an empty chair. After Koehler took his seat, Keiko moved to his side and leaned forward. “May I get you something to drink, Mr. Koehler?”
“I’m fine,” he replied curtly. He despised the humanoid and always felt humiliated when forced to speak to her. Koehler was Bavarian, and Bavarians didn’t speak to machines. But he knew that she was Mironov’s crown jewel and kept those feelings to himself.
“Very well, sir,” she replied.
“You’re late,” said Mironov after a long and uncomfortable silence. Koehler looked over, hoping to read the Russian’s expression, but it was too dark. The only thing that stood out was the glowing red orb of his cigar.
“I apologize. Our flight was late.”
“I told you to always take an earlier flight so that any delays wouldn’t disrupt my plans. Make sure you do that next time. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Koehler clenched his jaw in the darkness. Mironov was the only person who had ever triggered anxiety inside of the German. It was not just the man’s penchant for violence, or his ties to the Russian mafia; there was something else that was hard to quantify — an evil, not bound by any moral authority or ethics. Just being in Mironov's presence was unsettling.
Koehler himself was greatly feared across the European continent. As a younger man he had served in the German Special Forces, the KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte. His rare combination of mental prowess, physical strength, and fearless demeanor put him on the fast track, and he soon rose to the top of his elite unit. Along the way, he gained a reputation as being one of the most ruthless fighters in the world. One astute observer had noted that the German’s body seemed chiseled out of one of the mountains in his native Bavaria.