“Make the interruptions brief and the high-priority pile small, Thimio, and you can schedule a session for yourself after work — on me,” Minister Solis said. He started to flip through the messages that needed answers before the eight o’clock meeting. “Anything in here that I need to look at right away?”
“Yes, sir — the call from Pavel Kazakov, Metyor IIG.” Minister Solis rolled his eyes and snorted in exasperation, his mood already darkening. “He wants to schedule a meeting with the Office of Petroleum Resource Development, and he wants you to set it up. He says they will not cooperate without your help.”
“They will not cooperate because Pavel Kazakov is a lying, eating, thieving, murderous back-stabbing pimp,” Solis retorted. “He thought he could bribe his way through the government to get approval to build his pipeline to Vlore? I threw him out of my office once, and I will do it again if need be.”
“He says he expects to start construction of the Burgas to Samokov section of the line through Bulgaria within three months, and win approval of Samokov, Bulgaria, to Debar, Macedonia, within two months,” the aide said, reading the lengthy message from the communications center. “He says he feels your office’s lack of cooperation is unfair and biased, and will negatively impact the perception of the project to his investors.”
“Thimio, you can stop reading his ranting — I’m not interested,” Solis said. “Who in God’s name has ever heard of a drug dealer building an oil pipeline? It must be a scam. Contact the Bulgarian and Macedonian development and see if what Kazakov says is true.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide produced an ornate leather-wrapped box. “The message came with this.”
“Was it scanned by security?”
“Yes, sir, and examined personally.” Solis opened it. It was a gold, pearl, and platinum watch with ruby numerals, a Rolex knockoff, but a very expensive one.
“God, will he never stop? Get rid of it,” Solis said disgustedly. “I won’t accept it. Turn it in to whatever agency is supposed to regulate foreign gifts, or keep it yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide said enthusiastically. He knew the minister could get in trouble for accepting foreign gifts — but rarely did — but aides could not. “Sir, the message goes on.”
“Go on to the next item, Thimio.”
“I think you should hear this, sir,” the aide said. “Mr. Kazakov says that he will look most harshly on any refusal to facilitate negotiations with the government on completing the pipeline. He emphasizes ‘most harshly.’ He further says—”
“He has the balls to threaten me?” Solis shot up from his seat and snatched the message out of his aide’s hand. “Why, that motherless bastard … he is! He’s threatening me with retaliation if I do not expedite the approval process for his pipeline. He is actually saying ‘You will live to regret any inaction, but the government may not.’ How dare he? How dare he threaten a minister of the Albanian government! I want the National Intelligence Service on his ass immediately! I want the Foreign Ministry and State Security to contact the Russian government to arrest and extradite Kazakov for openly threatening a foreign minister and a foreign government in an attempt to force us to cooperate with him!”
“Sir, he may be a criminal, but he is reputedly a powerful Russian and international Mafia boss,” the aide warned. “All of the actions you mentioned are legal and proper responses. Kazakov will follow no such legalistic protocols. If we lash out, he may just follow through on his threats. Someone will get hurt, and Kazakov will probably remain on the loose, protected by the government officials that he bribes for protection. Don’t fight this weasel. Stall him, pretend to cooperate, and let the bureaucratic wheels grind away on him. Once he finds Albania uncooperative, maybe he’ll reroute to Thessaloniki, as he’s threatened to do before, or up through Kosovo and Montenegro to Dubrovnik or Bar.”
“A Russian oil pipeline through Greece? That’ll be the day,” Solis said, then grimaced. “Well, stranger things have happened. Besides, who would want to build a pipeline through Kosovo or even Montenegro? They would have to spend billions to try to guard it, or billions in rebuilding it every year. Those provinces will never be stable enough to make that kind of investment as long as the Serbs are in charge. Even Pavel Kazakov can’t bribe all the warring factions.
“No, he wants his pipeline to go through Albania, and Vlore is the logical spot — a sheltered harbor, easy access to the Adriatic and Italy, good transport infrastructure, docks, storage, and refineries already in place,” Solis went on. “But the last thing we want is a monster like Kazakov to establish a foothold in Albania. If we stall him, express our anger, and throw up enough roadblocks, maybe he’ll take his drug money and sell his pipeline interests to some American or British oil conglomerates. That would be ideal.”
“So I should have the staff draft a letter in response—”
“Politely acknowledge receipt of his message, but wait until he’s complained at least three times before sending the response,” Solis said, with a smile. “Then have it sent to Kazakov by ground post — in due time.”
“Very good, sir,” the aide said. “And should I initiate a hostile foreign contact report with NIS and Minister Siradova of State Security?”
“Don’t bother,” Solis replied casually, as he began flipping through the morning messages once again. “Kazakov is a murderous punk, but he’s only dangerous in Russia. If he even dares try to step foot inside our borders or tries any strong-arm tactics with us, we’ll nail his rotting hide to the wall.” He looked at his aide and winked. “Enjoy the watch, Thimio.”
Zhukovsky Air Base, Moscow, Russian Federation
Pavel Kazakov had never really known his father. Gregor had spent far more time with his soldiers and his duties, first in the Red Army, then the Russian Army, than he had at home. He had been little more than a distant memory, a stranger to his family as much as he had been a hero in Russia.
At first Pavel had known him only through the letters he would write to his mother. They would sit around the dinner table mesmerized as their father related stirring stories of military life, adventures overseas or on some deployment or exercise. He’d then issued disembodied orders to his three children from the field-study harder, work harder, volunteer for that project or this work-study program. His orders had never failed to have the same dire level of consequences if not followed, even though he was hardly around to enforce them. Later, Pavel had known his father mostly through word of mouth on post or in newspaper accounts of his adventures across Europe and southwestern Asia. He’d certainly been larger than life, and men at every post and every city had had enormous respect for him.
But even as his legend had grown, Pavel’s respect for him had dwindled. It was more than just being away from home all the time: Pavel began to believe that his father never really cared for his family as much as he did his uniform. It became much more important for Pavel to see how far he could go to twist the old man’s ass than to try to earn the respect and love from a man who was never around to give it. Pavel found out too quickly that he could buy — or force others to give-love and respect cheaply on the street. Why pursue it from a living legend who was never around when it was so easy to get everywhere else?