TWENTY-EIGHT

Moscow

Hamad Katchi threaded his way down a back alley littered with broken bottles and scraps of trash. It was right around midnight. For most people, in that particular neighborhood and at that particular time of night, it would be a hair-raising experience.

But not for Katchi. He wasn’t afraid of the Russian mobsters who controlled that part of town. Many of them had done business with Katchi in the illegal arms trade. And for those who hadn’t, they had certainly heard of him.

Over the years, Katchi had risen to the level of an international celebrity in the underworld. Who would have thought a “conversion” to global peace would give him the ability to continue to secretly negotiate with national leaders behind the cloak of legitimacy. This was a man no one wanted to cross.

The Pakistani weapons master turned a corner and walked another fifty feet toward a rustic shop with the word on the sign out front: “espresso café.” The storefront was dark, and a sign hanging in the window said “Closed.” Katchi knew he was at the right place.

Cautiously he looked up and down the street, assuring himself that it was empty; then he opened the door and walked in. The café was empty, the chairs had been stacked up for the day, and the lights in the main dining area were out. But a soft light from the back room cast a glow through the darkened shop. Katchi walked into a small office and closed the door.

A burley man in a sloppy-looking suit and smoking a Cuban cigar sat in the corner next to a small wooden table. He slowly tapped the end of his cigar with his ring finger, causing ashes to carelessly fall to the ground, all the while eyeing Katchi as he entered the room.

“Good to see you again, Vlad,” Katchi began.

The other man, Vlad Levko, was a former KGB agent and now an aging member of the Russian Federation’s newest spy agency, the FSB. He smiled and motioned toward a bottle of vodka flanked by two shot glasses. Katchi shook his head no. Levko helped himself anyway, filled up a shot, and then tossed it down.

Levko didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “What are we going to do, you and I, about our deal?”

“I was hopeful that we could negotiate a price,” Katchi responded.

“And I assume you have authority to speak on behalf of Mr. Demas?”

“I didn’t come all the way to Moscow for your vodka.”

“Okay, but there is a slight adjustment since we talked last.”

Katchi was prepared for some last-minute treachery from the Russians. What he was not prepared for was a deal breaker.

Levko took another draw on his cigar before proceeding. “We want the exclusive rights to the RTS. We don’t want the system being sold to our competitors.”

“That’s not an adjustment, Levko—that’s a complete overhaul. You should have informed me before I wasted a trip.”

“And you should have anticipated that we would want to be the sole proprietors of this technology. Any advantage the RTS system would bring us diminishes the moment the technology is shared with any other government.”

Katchi wasn’t surprised, not really. As a result of the breakup of the Soviet empire decades ago, Russia’s military domination had weakened. So in recent years the Russians were making a mad dash to rebuild to superpower status but still had a long way to go. They were being threatened from all sides, and if they were to have any hope of being able to fund their military build-up, they needed to protect their most prized possession—the vast oil fields that were their major source of revenue.

Katchi replied, “What you are asking is going to be a very hard sell to Demas.”

“We are, of course, prepared to compensate you for exclusivity. You are, however, going to have to guarantee that you will be able to deliver all the necessary information regarding the details of the RTS laserreversal protocol to make it worth our while.”

Hamad Katchi casually responded without blinking an eye. “That won’t be a problem.”

“And we don’t want to wait until next year for delivery. You can understand that.”

“We expect to be in possession of the RTS any day now.”

“One more thing. We cannot under any circumstance be traced back to your efforts to obtain the RTS design. Are we clear about that? We are not looking for a world war with the United States. At least not yet. Can you guarantee that you will keep us out of the spotlight?”

“That won’t be a problem. In the meantime, I suggest you increase the U.S. allotment of oil above what you are currently offering, to make it look like you’re helping to prop them up economically. You will continue to appear like a friend, and the U.S. does not become suspicious.”

Levko was interested now in hearing the rest of the story. He poured himself another shot, tossed it back, and motioned for Katchi to proceed.

Katchi continued eagerly, “We have someone getting the RTS for us who is world-class. The best there is. Maybe the best there ever was. I am certain he will keep all of us out of the spotlight.”

But then Katchi caught himself. Had he said too much? He did not want the Russian spy-masters to know whom they had hired for this project. The Russians had long memories. Atta Zimler’s execution of three of their top agents had left a festering sore.

“This man you are using, is it anybody I would know?” Levko asked nonchalantly.

“A gentleman from South America. Well, maybe gentleman isn’t the right word. He’s been operating under radar for many years. He’s excellent for this sort of thing.”

After Katchi’s lie, he studied Levko to see if he bought it. Vlad was simply smiling back at him and pouring himself yet another shot.

Katchi concluded as he rose to leave, “You are never going to reach retirement, my friend, if you keep up your drinking…”

“In our business, retirement is never guaranteed. Isn’t that right, Hamad?”

Just before exiting the café’s back room, Katchi added almost offhandedly, “For exclusive possession of the RTS design, you will have to pay double.”

Levko didn’t flinch. Russia’s oil reserves were at an all-time high. And the Federation had successfully taken control of all private oil production. Another billion dollars was no big deal.

“Be safe, my friend,” Vlad Levko muttered to Katchi as he made his way through the dim café and out onto the street. “The world can be a dangerous place.”