The Backup Asset (8 page)

Myatlev saw the familiar structure appear against the gloomy sky after the driver had turned left off Tverskaya Street and onto Mokhovaia. The Kremlin. The name brought yet another shiver to Myatlev’s spine.

“We’re here,” he said. “Are we ready?”

“
Da
, Vitaliy Kirillovich, we’re ready,” Ivan answered promptly, checking his holstered weapon.

Myatlev checked his new watch again, just to make sure it was still there. The Breitling had a beacon function, an emergency feature he could activate if things were to go badly during his meeting with President Abramovich.

Everything was set. Ivan looked confident and ready. The three ex-Spetsnaz mercenaries, armed to the teeth and keeping their finger on the MP5 triggers, looked apt and fearless. The two Mercedes G-Wagens following closely behind them held four more ex-Spetsnaz each, all ready to storm into the Kremlin and rescue Myatlev, if that beacon went active.

The Bentley drove through the Kremlin wall portal and pulled in front of the presidential quarters entrance, greeted by two guards. Myatlev was expected. The limo’s heavily tinted windows hid Myatlev’s personal escort really well, and Ivan took additional precautions when he opened the door for his boss. Instead of holding the door open while stepping aside to make room for Myatlev to climb out of the Bentley, he stood right between the open car door and the guards, blocking their line of sight to the mercenaries inside the limo. It was unusual, but no one seemed to notice.

Myatlev approached the Kremlin entrance walking calmly, projecting the confidence and power expected for someone of his status. He didn’t feel that confident, but there was no turning back. Soon enough he would know to which side his luck had turned. Wherever President Abramovich was involved, that was always hard to guess.

“
Dobroye utro
, Gospodin Myatlev,” the Kremlin guards greeted him.

He waved his hand and nodded slightly, passing them by on his way in. A uniformed aide escorted him directly to Abramovich’s office, where he was allowed to enter immediately.

“Vitya,” Abramovich greeted him cheerfully, “so good to finally see you!”

Abramovich approached him with his arms wide open and offered a strong hug followed by the three traditional welcome kisses on the cheeks.

“Petya, good to see you too! You look better than ever. You have to tell me what you do to stay so young,” Myatlev offered.

“Ahh . . . just this,” Abramovich responded, pouring vodka in two glasses and handing one to Myatlev. “Drink with me.
Vashe zdorovye
!”

“
Vashe zdorovye! Ura
!”

They downed their vodkas in one gulp, and Abramovich refilled their glasses.

“You took long enough to come see me, Vitya. It made me wonder if you still value our friendship,” Abramovich said bluntly.

Myatlev swallowed hard, his right hand touching the Breitling instinctively.

“I am very sorry, Piotr Ivanovich, work got the best of me. You blink, and a month’s gone by. Business has been challenging lately. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I remain now and always your loyal friend; count on me!” Myatlev raised his glass in an unspoken toast, and Abramovich met him halfway. They clinked their glasses loudly, gulped the second shot, then slammed the empty glasses on the table with a satisfied laugh.

“Ha!” Abramovich said, “I hope I can count on you, Vitya, because I want you to be my new defense minister. What do you say?”

Myatlev’s mind went into high gear. He’d thought of every possible scenario and had prepared for all, except this. He needed to buy himself some time. He put his right hand over his heart and said, “What an honor, Piotr Ivanovich, what an honor! But why choose me? I have failed you.”

“Next time you won’t fail,” Abramovich said. “Your plan had greatness, a strategic ability I need in my new defense minister. So you failed once, you learned from it, you won’t fail next time, da?”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Piotr Ivanovich, and I promise you I will make you proud. You have my utmost commitment to your cause, our cause.”

“Great, that’s what I wanted to hear. I need you to take us where we need to be, I need you to show us how we become great again, how we put the West in its place and make the bastards sorry they ever disrespected us the way they did.”

Myatlev listened quietly, encouraging Abramovich with supporting nods.

“My predecessors were weak,” Abramovich continued, “tame dogs licking the West’s hand and showing no pride, no spine, no guts. Lame men have stood in this office, bringing shame to it, and humiliation to Mother Russia. No wonder the West thinks it can kick us around as if we’re tail-wagging bitches. How disgraceful . . . They thought they could leash us? It’s time we take our greatness back!”

“Ura!” Myatlev responded with a shout of victory, gulping down his third shot and hoping he’d be able to stay sober enough to survive this conversation. Abramovich was a resilient, long-haul drinker.

“We need change, my friend, at the hands of a feral businessman like you,” Abramovich continued. “You are a man who can’t tolerate to lose and who’d do anything to win. A man who has the balls to win this war.”

What war?
Myatlev thought. Russia wasn’t at war with any country as far as he knew. Unless Abramovich was thinking of the war he was planning to start, against his lifelong enemy, the West, the United States first of all.

“Look at the state of our Armies,” Abramovich continued. “The same old weapons, the same old people, the despicable result of decades of impotence and dereliction.”

“You want to focus on research, build new technologies?” Myatlev prompted. “Or do you agree the time has passed and it’s too late to do that now?”

“It
is
too late,” Abramovich agreed. “What do you say we do?”

Myatlev paced a little, pensively, weighing his options before answering.

“How’s Dimitrov? Is he better?”

“Yes, he’s recovered almost completely,” Abramovich answered, frowning at the change in topic.

“I tried to call him a couple of times, there was no answer. That got me worried.”

“He’s at his home at the Caspian Sea, resting. Why do you ask?”

“He was a great defense minister for you, Petya.”

Abramovich nodded, a hint of regret clouding his eyes.

“He’d make a great defense minister for you again,” Myatlev continued. “Just think about it. It would be the three of us together again, just like old times.”

“So you’re saying no to my offer?”

“I’m saying you wouldn’t be using me for what I’m good at, Petya. I’m no good stuck in political meetings all day long. I am good in executing stealth strategies, at making people do things for us, at throwing money and power behind whatever you want done. But the true strategist is Dimitrov; it was always him. I am a business strategist, yes, but you need a military strategist, and that’s Dimitrov. He’s got balls, he’s got brains, he’s got ambition like no one else in your government, and he’s cunning, devious. He’s perfect.”

Abramovich rubbed his hands together, thinking.

“I always liked Dimitrov, you know that. But I personally announced his resignation to the entire world, just a few months ago.”

“And since when do you give a fuck about the world, Petya?”

Abramovich turned toward Myatlev angrily, but before he could speak, a smile took over his face.

“Fuck them! Yeah! Let’s drink to that! You solved my problem, Petya!”

Abramovich poured another round, larger than the first few.

“Remember that bringing the old KGB back as the covert Division Seven was his idea, right?”

“Yes, and that was a great idea. A secret service hidden inside a secret service, who would have thought of that?”

“And with Dimitrov leading it, we’ll acquire everything we need to be ready, ahead of everyone else. To Dimitrov’s comeback!” Myatlev answered and drank his vodka.

“To his comeback!” Abramovich cheered.

“This brings back memories,” Myatlev started, slurring a little. “Do you remember that time when we went hiking in the mountains, the three of us, and ran out of booze money?”

“When?”

“Ahh . . . we were still in school, at Dzerzhinsky, remember?”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t remember what we did though.”

“We drank too much one night, and we didn’t have any money left. We were poor back then; those were bad times. But Dimitrov thought of something. He went into this pub, flashed his KGB ID, and told the pub owner that he had information that enemies of the people were congregating at his pub. Then he came out of there with a serene smile on his face, followed by that pub owner carrying a case of vodka.”

“I remember now,” Abramovich said, laughing hard, tears flowing on his red cheeks.

“The poor fuck even brought it to the car, shitting his pants while at it. Oh my God . . . “

They both laughed at relived memories for a little while longer, then Myatlev resumed a more serious tone of voice.

“We are where we are today because of Dimitrov, Petya. He’s got that genius strategist mind. He’s what you need to win this war.”

“Do you think he’ll accept? He had a heart attack right here, in this office.”

“I’m sure he will, Petya. He won’t be able to resist the thought of the three of us working together again.”

Vernon took another bite, absent-mindedly playing with his food. His wife was sharing some work story at the dinner table, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t follow what she was saying. His mind wandered a lot lately, escaping reality.

Two weeks had passed since he had met Michelle at his favorite bar, the 1700 Somewhere. He’d regretted the encounter immediately; that type of affair got people, careers, and marriages destroyed. Yet he’d gone back twice looking for her. No one had seen her since. Then he started avoiding the one bar where he felt like home, or even better. And that hurt. It felt like he’d lost his best friend somehow. A ridiculous thought, but that’s how he felt.

“Really?” His wife stood abruptly, pushing the chair back and slamming down her fork. “Have you been hearing anything I’ve said? Do I even matter to you anymore?”

“Madi,” he pleaded in a pacifying tone, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m just tired, that’s all. My mind wanders when I’m tired.”

“So how exactly am I supposed to reach you? Book a fucking appointment during business hours?”

She sometimes got irrationally angry, her bottled-up frustrations clouding her judgment and making her see everything in darker colors than they really were. Her eyes were throwing menacing glares, and her beautiful face reflected her internal anguish. Vernon braced himself for a long argument. Their fights were usually long and painful exercises in diplomacy and self-control. But he loved his wife. Deep down he desperately wanted to make her happy, yet he was doing stupid things like that Michelle encounter.

“Baby, you can talk to me now, I promise I’ll pay attention.” He pushed his plate away and focused on her. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“You’re what’s on my mind, Vern. You. You bring your work home a lot, and not in a good way. You’re down all the time, depressed, sour. Living with you is like driving through this endless dark tunnel. I want to feel alive. Is that too much to ask?”

“No . . . It’s just that I’m stressed out with work, baby, I can’t shake it off.”

“Well, you better figure out a way, Vern. You have a permanent frown on your forehead. I don’t even exist anymore; you don’t even see me. You come home stinking of some bar or another, and you don’t even make eye contact with me.”

“Oh, come on, can’t be that bad,” he attempted, aware that he was starting to get angry too.

“Can’t be that bad, huh? When’s the last time we went out? Did you even notice it’s been months? What’s happening to you, to us? We deserve to have some fun, to live a little.”

“It’s just the work, baby, nothing more, I swear.”

“Go easy with the swearing. Don’t think I don’t smell the stink of bar whores on you. I let it slide a couple of times, thinking it’s a phase and you’ll come out of it, but I don’t know anymore. I don’t know
you
anymore.”

He felt a wave of anger rise, triggered by guilt and shame. She didn’t deserve this . . . Yet he was pushed to the limit, backed against the wall.

“So I’m to blame for trying to make a living? Is that what you’re saying?” He stood and started to pace the room. My work is not that easy. It’s stressing me out. What am I supposed to do?

“Leave your work in the goddamn office, that’s what I do. I work, too, but I don’t get drunk every other day to forget about it.”

“Madi, you don’t get it. You don’t get how hard what I do is. It’s not your fault, but I can’t. . . I can’t extricate myself. I keep replaying things in my mind. Conversations, arguments, theories.”

“Well, you better try. You better figure it out. You’re a PhD for crying out loud. You’re smart, think of something. If I can come home with a smile on my face every day, give you a hug, treat you like you exist and live here, why can’t you? Do you think I’m not stressed out? Do you think my boss isn’t an asshole? Do you think I have it super easy at work? Everybody’s got crap going on in their lives, but some people are smart and decide to leave the crap at work. It’s a decision you need to make; it’s that simple.”

He stood by the window, looking outside at the faint city lights in the moonless night. That’s what they were, faint flickering lights in an endless pitch black night. What made it worse was that she was right.

“I wanna feel alive, Vern,” she continued, her voice turning from angry to pleading. “I want to go out with you, dance, have some fun. I want you to buy me flowers and make love to me. Do you even know how long it’s been?”

He felt another pang of anger.

“All you can think of is yourself, Madi. Jeez . . . it’s unbelievable,” he fired back. “It’s always about you and what you want! When’s the last time you cared about what I want?”

“How about today, when I asked you what you wanted for dinner, and I fucking fixed you precisely that! Or when I opened the door and let you come in, after drinking who knows where with who knows whom! You take it all for granted, don’t you? Well, I’m not your fucking servant!”

“But that’s not what I need . . . ” he said, letting his anger subside. “I couldn’t care less if you fed me tuna from the can. I need to be able to unwind at home just as I do at the bar, where no one judges me.”

“Ahh . . . you’re such an idiot, Vern, I just can’t believe it! Those people let you drink in peace ’cause they don’t give a fuck about you, that’s why. I care about you and I’m trying to help you. But you have to make a commitment to change. You need to bring your clipboard and start taking notes with what needs to happen to help our marriage survive. I have a whole damn list!”

“Oh, I am sure you do!” Vern yelled. “There’s no limit to your selfishness!”

He regretted the words the moment they came out. He saw Madison’s eyes open wide in dismay.

“Baby . . .” He reached out, trying to hold her hand.

“Don’t touch me!” She turned and started for the garage. “This is your final warning, mister, your wake-up call.”

She slammed the garage door behind her. He rushed to catch up with her.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your fucking business, not until you get your shit together.”

She started the car engine and left, screeching her tires against the pavement. Vernon stood there, speechless, unable to move, watching her brake lights disappear in the darkness. He couldn’t lose her.
Oh, God, no
. . .