STAG WAS READY to go to Bali. When he finally dragged himself back to the apartment in the Sony Center, he checked his messages. There it was. Yes, indeed. Portier, Sadler, Rikhardsson, and Zellner were willing to buy first-class tickets on the Bali Singapore Airlines flight. Once in the sky, he would get his final payment, and cut a deal for the “second” bomb, assuring them of his secret knowledge with the pictures comparing the Todesrunes.
“Portier has said he will be there. With his prostate problems, I don’t think I should delay,” Stag told Duffy when he met him for coffee the next morning.
“I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this is—your having discussions with him. Let’s not kid ourselves. You’re poking the beast. We haven’t been able to trace a goddamned thing about this bomb back to Tarnhelm except for what you’ve told us. They’ll be happy to see you gone.”
Stag nodded. “I’ve made plans. I want to finish what I started.”
“All to write a series of articles that NATO will probably ban you from publishing?”
“I have my own grudge.”
Duffy rubbed his jaw. “Is there anything we can do?”
Stag studied him. Finally, he said, “No, but I think there’s something I can do for you.”
Portier looked down at the confidential report sent by courier. There it was in black and white, a full dossier of who was involved in Tarnhelm’s fail at Oberpfaffenhofen: NATO. Interpol. Maguire.
He crumpled the news and watched it burn. Deep inside he felt only a mild antipathy. Certainly, he had nothing to fear. Tracing any of the mess back to Tarnhelm would be near impossible with the Muscle Men involved. Plus, once the bomb was in NATO hands, it would be disassembled and rendered neutral. No surprises waking up to find he was breathing the fallout from Munich or Prague.
Of course, Tarnhelm would have to repay the money. But there was always more money. What there wasn’t was more time. Tick tock. Tick tock. It was driving him mad.
Outside his office, he watched Genevieve play on the docks, once more feeding the swans. He and the little girl had shared much. Her cancer fight had moved him. Now he was her compatriot. A warrior like she was.
But he was losing his war.
There was little denying it. He knew he had a rally or two left, but after that, he would be done. He would take to his bed and cease to be.
The notion astounded him. It didn’t seem possible to no longer be. He was a force in this world. He had fought and struggled to gain everything he had. But in spite of his outraged denials, deep down, he knew it was coming. He was reaching his end. And when he lay snuffed out, the rest of the world would continue to laugh and drink and be merry.
His gaze settled upon Angelika who handed the bits of bread to Genevieve, the wind off the lake whipping her hair seductively.
Because of his affliction, he would never know the joy of her. He would die never achieving intimacy with the one woman who utterly fascinated him. He would surrender his life and be forced to leave her to other men. The world, in fact, he would be forced to leave to other men.
With a quiet, deadly rage, he acknowledged he no longer had patience for ruined plans. He didn’t give a fuck whether his bomb was sold and paid for. What he’d been counting on by that profitable blast to Barvikha was payback. When the bomb was detonated, he was going to send out the information in the documents he now held in his hands. That opportunity was gone now. Yes, he might have the chance at another bomb, but he doubted it. The best he could do now was create the chaos and instability he felt inside, and spread it like burning napalm across the world.
He looked down at the papers. They were meant to be destroyed after his perusal. But he had not destroyed them. It was the flight plan of the Global 7000 over Barvikha. Also, the specifications of the bomb, and the new bomb door placed in the belly of the craft.
There was also the printout of a payment from a Cypriot bank account from a certain company that had a very renowned family name.
It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put the facts together.
He thought of the Russian president glaring at these documents, infuriated that his beloved oligarchs had been annihilated by a more furious American greed. Portier had been counting on the Russian president’s one surefire reaction: retaliation. Right where it would hurt. Washington, DC. And the best, most delicious part? Sadler’s beloved Potomac would become nothing but a ruined, abandoned suburb of Chernobyl.
Apre-moi, le deluge.
Portier was going to send the documents. Potomac might stand, Russian presidents might use discretion, but that vulgar asshole in DC would be ground into borscht and caviar by a smarter, more nefarious foe once “Vlad” was informed of the rat he had in his cage.
He would think of another fitting end for Sadler later. It wasn’t what Portier had planned, but it offered cold satisfaction, at least.
He summoned his personal high-security courier back to his office. Placing the documents in a sealed pouch, he handed them over, and said, “Three hours to Moscow. See that the president gets these tonight. I want top anonymity on this and top priority.”
The courier, well trained, nodded.
“Tell him this is courtesy of ‘a friend.’”
“Yes, sir.”
Portier watched the courier exit. He could now enjoy the day with Angelika and Vieve. His last damned trip to Bali was tomorrow.
Then he would be done.