Steven Gore - Final Target

“I read about that car bomb in Tbilisi in the Herald Tribune. Helluva close call. I didn’t even know you worked in Georgia.”

“I went hunting.”

“For whom?”

“For what. Wild boars.”

“Somehow I can’t imagine you hiking through the woods trying to sneak up on pigs.”

“ Nyet. Like farm. You sit in wood hut with bottle vodka, little fish satsivi, and rifle. After time, they come walking, and boom.”

“Speaking of boom…”

“I all sorry I…” Slava paused as if he knew he hadn’t gotten the phrasing quite right. “That how you say it?”

“Close enough.”

“That guy, you know who I mean, I can’t say name on phone, tricked me to think you set me up for hit. I not realize you just want to talk about natural gas deal. It broke my heart, you know, I thinking I have to kill you.”

“You didn’t look sorry.”

“I cry on inside, really.”

Gage didn’t believe it. He found it hard to imagine that Slava ever cried, even as a baby. He let it go.

“You’re almost forgiven.”

“ Spaseeba.”

“And you’re almost welcome.”

Gage heard Slava draw on his cigar, then clear his throat. “I know you not call to talk old times,” Slava said. “What you need?”

“To see you. Just an hour or so.”

“Sure. I owe you.”

“How about tomorrow in the city by the big lake?”

“Why not?” Slava once again erupted into hacking, followed by an explosive spit. “I want to visit my money anyway.”

By eleven o’clock on the following morning, Hixons One and Two had followed Matson and Alla to Victoria Station, then to Gatwick Airport, where Two followed them onto an Aurigny Airlines flight to Guernsey.

By 2:15 Gage was walking down the long neoclassical hallway from the reception area to the restaurant in the Metropole Hotel across a wide boulevard from Lake Geneva. As he crossed the threshold, he felt the enormous presence of Viacheslav Gregorovich Akimov, aka Slava. Gage’s eyes were drawn to his right as if by gravitation. He spotted Slava sitting at a corner table with a bodyguard who carried Slava’s same weight but on a frame that was a foot taller. Slava struggled to his feet as Gage approached. He was wearing his usual black wool suit and matching turtleneck, both in enormous sizes. He stuck out a hand and Gage shook as much of it as he could, then sat down. Slava introduced his bodyguard as Ivan Ivanovich, the Russian version of John Smith.

“You want little something?” Slava asked, signaling to the black-tied waiter, who approached with a menu.

Gage glanced at the first page, then handed it back. “Just smoked salmon and artichoke soup. What are you having?”

“Page two,” Slava said, then stuffed most of a dinner roll into his mouth.

“Just one bodyguard?” Gage asked when the waiter was out of earshot.

“Here. Neutral. Meeting back in ’92. Miami. Agreement. No hits in Switzerland.” Slava laughed. “Bad to bleed on money.”

Slava sniffed a half-filled glass of fifteen-year-old Bordeaux and smacked his lips. “Ah! Only good thing about France.”

Gage watched Slava take a sip, then close his eyes and slosh the wine around in his mouth; his ruthless criminality redeemed for a few seconds-but only for a few-in his willingness to suspend himself in the pleasure of the moment.

Slava opened his eyes, then nodded. “Sveta would like this.”

“How is she?”

“Good. Good. At spa in Montreux. Keep her relaxed. Thank God.” Slava looked heavenward, then sighed. He picked up a piece of dried Grisons beef and shoved it into his mouth just ahead of a much more aggressive draw on the Bordeaux.

“Hey, I got something for your wife.” Slava wiped his hands on the white tablecloth, then reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a satin pouch. He poured a ruby onto the white tablecloth.

“Is this hot?” Gage asked, picking it up and examining it.

“Stolen?” Slava stretched out his hands, palms up. “I not give you nothing stolen. I paid. Myself. Out my own pocket.”

“And the money?”

“Money is money.”

“Thanks.” Gage set down the stone. “But I’ll pass.”

“Gage, you always too straight for your own good. But that’s why I trust you…except that once. So what you want to talk about?”

“I need to see if you can identify some guys I saw in London.”

Slava narrowed his eyes at Gage. “How come?”

“A friend of mine is in a little trouble.”

“Good friend?”

“Best. Jack Burch.”

“Burch?” Slava glanced toward his bodyguard, then toward the entrance. He leaned forward, clenching his fists on the table, his face turning crimson.

Gage realized too late that he introduced the subject in the wrong way. While natural gas was off his radar, it was still blinking in the center of Slava’s.

Slava’s voice was as insistent as a diesel rock crusher. “I not have anything to do with that. If that’s why you-”

Gage flattened his palms against the bottom of the table, ready to flip it over on them if Ivan or Slava made a move. “That’s not-”

“Nobody in gas deal touch Burch. Nobody. Not Russia. Not Ukraine. My people look. Turn everything upside down.”

Gage shook his head. “It was something else. A stock fraud. A company called SatTek.”

Slava hesitated, then relaxed his fists and leaned back. A self-conscious smile appeared on his face and he shook his head and exhaled. “I think I need vacation. Get too tense, too fast. Maybe I go to Montreux after Sveta leave.”

Gage lowered his hands to his lap. “The place not big enough for the two of you?”

“Few places big enough for one of me.” Slava grinned, then took a gulp of wine and set the glass down. “Okay. Business. What kind trouble your friend?”

“He set up some companies that were used in a fraud.”

“In States?” Slava shrugged. “I know nothing about States.”

“The stock was issued in the U.S., but the companies that bought it were in all the usual offshore tax havens.”

Gage pulled out prints of the photos he took outside the Ax Man Pub.

Slava pushed his plate away and laid them out. He picked up each in turn, inspected it, then laid it down. He took a sip of wine, then gazed out of the side window toward the landmark Jet d’Eau fountain. He then focused on photo number three, showing a blockish, square-headed, flat-faced, forty-year-old man with thin lips surrounded by ruddy skin. To Gage it gave the impression of a face that led its body up the hard way and was fated to live on for another generation in photo lineups and grainy covert videos.

“Gravilov,” Slava said. “ Vory-v-zakone from Moscow. He protect Ukraine president son. Like umbrella. You know, krysha, roof. Son in dirty stuff. Needs one of us to protect interests. Big man needs a big krysha. Gravilov is biggest in Eastern Ukraine since I left for Moscow.”

“As in the Russian Gravilov Group?”

“ Da. Does lots of paper scams. Got people in States.”

Slava examined the others. “Number six, I not know. Eleven is Velichko, Boris Vasilievich. Russian, too. Independent. Biznessman.” He turned sixteen toward Ivan Ivanovich, who grunted his professional opinion.

“Molotok,” Slava said. “Hammer. Work for Gravilov. Can’t tie own shoes.”

“Why does Gravilov keep him around?”

Slava smirked. “To stop bullet. What else?”

“And the little guy in the Rover?”

“Chechen. His name is Britva. I see him in Kiev once. Ugly.” Slava pointed toward Quai General Guisan, the tree-lined boulevard bordering Lake Geneva. “I think one time of putting contract on him to celebrate day where everybody clean streets.”

“International Earth Day.”