Steven Gore - Final Target

Ninchenko turned toward Gage. “But we didn’t come here to discuss history and literature and culture.”

Gage smiled. “I think we did.”

Ninchenko shrugged, not at all embarrassed to have been found out. “Apparently I’m not as subtle as I thought.”

“I get your point: Matson needs to be stopped before he turns over the technology.”

“But you came here to do more than that.”

“I think I may be trying to do too many things. Clear my friend. Recover the money. Expose Gravilov. Stop the sale. And snagging Matson would be the linchpin for doing it all.” Gage shook his head slowly. “There isn’t time to do everything.”

“What is there time to do?”

Gage turned toward Ninchenko. He not only wanted to hear Ninchenko’s answer, he wanted to see it-for the city tour could end in the infamous State Security dungeon.

“How much of a risk are you willing to take?” Gage asked.

Ninchenko kept his eyes locked on Gage’s, but pointed once again toward Chernobyl. “My older brother was a police officer. Among the first on the scene of the fire.” His eyes moistened and his voice quivered, but he didn’t look away. “He died within hours.” Ninchenko tilted his head at the church. “We had his memorial here. You know what my mother asked the government representative? She asked him what was the half-life of grief-and he just turned away, pretending he hadn’t heard her.”

A gust of wind rattled the frozen leaves at their feet.

Only then did Ninchenko glance away, back toward the Cabinet of Ministers in the distance. “I despise those people as much as they despise us.” He then folded his arms across his chest. “What do you need?”

“You have a place I can stash Matson?” Ninchenko didn’t flinch at Gage’s words. “We need to grab him, Alla, and whatever he brought with him.”

“And then what?”

“Get them out of Ukraine.”

Ninchenko’s gaze swept north and west. “Poland, Russia. Too hard to cross the borders.”

“We need to get him to a NATO country,” Gage said.

“Romania or Hungary or Slovakia. But those are also difficult borders.”

“What about Istanbul? By boat across the Black Sea from Odessa.”

“I’ll see if Slava is willing to set it up.”

Ninchenko made the call as they drove down the hill.

“He agrees,” Ninchenko said, after he disconnected. “But says that we better snatch them tonight. He just found out that they made plane reservations to Dnepropetrovsk tomorrow morning. Hadeon Alexandervich owns an electronics factory there. Slava thinks that’s where they’re going to test the devices. He wants Matson stopped before that happens.”

“He wants Matson stopped? I thought politics was just a form of business to him.”

“Remember what I said about Ukrainians being the Jews of the Soviet Union? Slava isn’t a figurative Jew, he’s an actual one. Aboveground, he travels on an Israeli passport, and he doesn’t want any more weapons falling into the hands of Israel’s enemies.”

Ninchenko dropped Gage off at the apartment. He packed a few things to take on the boat, then made a cup of tea and imagined Faith lying in bed, on his side, where she always slept when he was away. He called their home number and pictured her reaching over to pick up the handset.

She answered on the first ring. “Graham?”

“How do you always know?”

She laughed. “When you’re in love, the ring sounds different.”

“You okay?”

“Other than worrying about you, I’m fine.”

“No need to worry. I’m almost done, but I’ll be traveling for a few days through an area without cell service.”

“Going where?”

“I better not say.”

He thought for a moment, searching for a way to reduce the uncertainty he knew she felt. “You recall what I had delivered to Jack in the hospital?”

“Let me think…in the hospital…” She laughed again.

He smiled to himself as they both said the word silently to themselves: Turkey.

I think they finally made up,” Gage said to Ninchenko, as Matson and Alla walked arm-in-arm from the entrance of the Lesya Palace Hotel to the waiting Mercedes. “It’s a good thing. I wasn’t looking forward to them squabbling all the way to Istanbul.”

Gravilov’s enforcer, Razor, trailed Matson in a security car. Ninchenko’s driver followed them from two blocks behind and let the other two surveillance cars work the perimeter.

Matson’s driver wound his way east, northeast, then northwest to Artema Street, a mixed-use boulevard of offices, apartments, restaurants, and car dealerships.

Gage’s cell phone rang as they drove. It was Slava.

“I talk to Alla Petrovna father in Budapest,” Slava said. “He say he not have daughter. What you call disown. Look like she follow in father business, but not follow father.”

“Maybe it’s genetic. She must have a crook chromosome.”

Ninchenko chuckled.

“What chrome zome?” Slava asked.

“I’ll have Ninchenko explain it later.”

“Maybe American humor not translate.”

“Afraid not. Is everything ready for the happy couple?”

“ Da. Nice room. No view.”

Ninchenko’s driver pulled over as they approached the end of Artema Street, then pointed toward the Madison Restaurant, a casual New York-style steakhouse and bar. Matson and Alla were walking in. Razor had parked his car on a street to the west of the building, and Matson’s Mercedes had swung in behind.

Gage directed the driver to position the van on the opposite side of Artema, with a view of the entrance and the long row of restaurant windows. Ninchenko then ordered his two chase cars to bracket Razor’s and the Mercedes, ready to freeze them in place while Gage and Ninchenko grabbed Matson and Alla as they left the restaurant.

“Are they too close?” Gage asked Ninchenko, tilting his head toward the chase cars.

“No. Many of the patrons bring security. Razor’ll think our men are merely comrades suffering in the cold while the bosses eat in comfort. He’s too arrogant for his own good. He shouldn’t have let himself get boxed in.”

Ninchenko handed binoculars to Gage.

Gage scanned the restaurant interior. Matson and Alla sat in an oversized leather booth in the wood-paneled restaurant. Down lighting from recessed ceiling coffers illuminated their table.

A wine steward approached to take Matson’s order, then entered the glassed-in circular wine vault. He made his selection, then returned to Matson’s table.

Matson swirled the wine, then tasted it and nodded.

“Matson thinks he’s a real charmer, a debonair man about town,” Gage said. “Look at his little pinky sticking out, like a society matron…He looks ridiculous.”

The wine steward filled Alla’s glass, then added to Matson’s.

Gage watched Alla’s face brighten as she reached across the table to clink glasses. She smiled, then slid around the table so that she was next to Matson and her back was to Gage.

The waiter approached to take their dinner orders and moved Alla’s place setting. She lowered her menu as if to defer ordering to Matson, then reached her arm through Matson’s and snuggled close.

“Suppertime,” Ninchenko said, retrieving a bag from the floorboard and handing Gage a sausage sandwich and a Coke.

After Matson and Alla’s dessert dishes were removed, Ninchenko signaled his chase cars. The four occupants exited the Ladas, two taking positions against the building out of the wind and lighting cigarettes, while the others simply stretched, then stamped their feet on the icy grass, their breath rising in swirling clouds that quickly condensed into invisibility. One walked up to Razor’s window and offered him a cigarette. Another approached Matson’s driver, holding out a flask of vodka.