C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

Standing now beside Jax, the Russian lit another cigarette and blew out a long stream of smoke, his gaze on October. “So tell me about the woman,” he said quietly.

Jax cast a glance at where she sat on one of the departure lounge’s hard chairs, her head bent over a Chinese textbook. “What about her?”

“She’s pretty, but she doesn’t seem like your type.”

“What’s my type?”

“Tall, long-legged. Very high maintenance.”

Jax gave a short laugh. “We’re just working together.”

“I thought you liked to work alone?”

“I do.”

Andrei’s eyes narrowed with amusement as he drew on his cigarette. “We might get further if we cooperated on this, you know.”

“I am cooperating.”

“You just forgot about the fax in your pocket, did you?”

Jax kept his gaze on the runway, where a plane was slowly taxiing in, its landing lights winking out of the darkness. “According to Anna Baklanov, the captain’s sixteen-year-old nephew was supposed to be on the Yalena. But I don’t remember seeing a boy in the militia photos of the dead crew.”

Andrei frowned. “You think the boy was cooperating with the terrorists?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. According to his widow, the captain was like a father to the boy.”

“The killers could have thrown his body overboard.”

“True. But, why him?”

“Maybe he went over the rail when he was shot.” Andrei ground out his cigarette. “Why are you so interested in this boy?”

“If he’s alive…”

“He’s not alive.”

There was a stirring amongst the assembled passengers as a uniformed woman appeared at the gate. “You’re in luck,” said Andrei. “Only an hour late.”

He stood for a moment watching Jax shoulder his carry-on bag. Then he said, “You’re going too easily, Jax. I think you found something else-something you’re not telling me. What happened to détente? Glasnost? International cooperation and the New World Order?”

“I don’t know anything you don’t know.”

Andrei glanced at October. “Are you kidding? I still don’t know why she’s here. Her Russian is better than yours, yes. But yours isn’t as bad as you like to pretend. So why is she with you?”

October shoved her textbook in her bag and stood up. “His Russian is terrible.”

“See?” Jax nudged her toward the gate. “Go.”

“I will find out, you know,” Andrei shouted as they started down the ramp. “This is what’s wrong with the world today. You Americans, you all think you’re still cowboys.”

Later that night, Rodriguez stood in the backyard of the old German house in the exclusive enclave in Mendeleevo, his legs splayed wide, his thumbs hooked in his hip pockets, his head tipped back as he watched a wind-whipped stream of clouds scuttle across the cold face of the full moon.

In the last twenty-four hours, he’d lost four men-three dead, one missing. He didn’t care about the Russians; they were expendable. Cannon fodder. But Dixon was a good kid. An American. He had a wife back home in Arkansas and a baby girl just two months old. That was tough.

He heard the back door of the house open and footsteps cross the terrace. He was aware of Salinger coming to stand beside him, but he didn’t turn. “Any word yet from Borz on the little shit?”

“Not yet,” said Salinger. He hesitated. “We just got a confirmation from our contact in Turkey. They have someone to make the hit on Kemal Erkan.”

“Good.” They had no way of knowing how much Baklanov might have told the Turk, but Rodriguez wasn’t taking any chances. He glanced at the man beside him. “We need that guy shut up, and we need him shut up fast. How much do they want?”

“The usual.”

“Tell them to move. I want Erkan dead by this time tomorrow.”

The night had turned so cold they could see the exhalation of their breath hanging like a white fog in the darkness. Salinger still hesitated. Rodriguez said, “What is it?”

“According to our contact at Aeroflot, Alexander and the Guinness woman were on the last flight to Berlin. The General’s not going to be happy we missed them.”

Rodriguez pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

Salinger said, “You think they found anything?”

“Nothing that’s going to do them any good.”

Salinger nodded. “When do we leave here?”

“When we get the kid,” said Rodriguez, and headed for the back steps.

Washington, D.C.: Monday 26 October

3:00 P.M. local time

The call from Rodriguez came through when Gerald T. Boyd was in his room at the Willard, sipping a glass of Jack Daniel’s and reading over his notes for the testimony he’d be giving to Congress over the next few days.

He listened to the mercenary’s report in a tight silence, then said, “You fucked up,” his voice as sharp and lethal as a wire twisted around a man’s throat.

“Yes, sir. The targets are on their way to Berlin. I can leave my men to finish up here and go after them myself.”

“Negative. You focus on getting this fucking kid. I need you back stateside by Friday.”

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Don’t disappoint me again, Carlos.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Boyd sat for a time, the satellite phone clutched in one tight fist. Then he put in a call to Lee.

“The representative from Washington is moving. If he’s not headed back here, I want to know where he’s going.”

There was a tense silence. “That information won’t be easy to obtain, sir.”

“I didn’t ask for an evaluation of the assignment’s level of difficulty, Colonel. I’ll expect your report first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grand Case, St. Martin: Monday 26 October

3:15 P.M. local time

James Walker strolled through the shadowy, echoing house, throwing open one set of French doors after the other to let the warm Caribbean breeze sweep through the big high-ceilinged rooms.

Walker believed in fresh air. Fresh air, fresh fruits and vegetables, and lots of regular exercise. Let the rest of the world pop the pills that earned Walker Pharmaceuticals billions. Walker himself had long ago learned the real secret to health and longevity, and it couldn’t be put in a gelcap.

He’d bought the estate on the outskirts of Grand Case, St. Martin, at the urging of his ex-wife, Catherine. But over the years he’d discovered a fondness for sun and blue skies and palm trees that would have shocked his dour New England forebears. When he finally decided marriage to Catherine was more trouble than it was worth, he’d insisted on keeping the St. Martin house, along with the houses in Miami and St. Tropez. She’d have given him anything, as long as Walker let her keep her precious daughter. Walker saw his daughter at Christmas and for two weeks in the summer, which was more than enough for both of them.

Lately, though, he’d been thinking about redoing the house in St. Martin. The place had far too much in common with his villa on South Beach: terra-cotta floors, white sailcloth-covered sofas, arcaded galleries framing achingly blue water. The architecture had seemed elegant and sophisticated when Catherine first found the place fifteen years ago. But with the proliferation of millionaires in recent years, Italianate villas had become so…common.

At one point, he’d considered building something new, something in the local style of the island, with carvings and fretwork like the old houses down in Grand Case. But no one knew better than Walker that the next few years would not be a good time to invest in expensive properties. An extraordinary number of luxury homes were about to be thrown onto the market. And there were going to be a lot less people alive to buy them.