Chapter Four

 

 

Moscow, Russia

September 12, 2:15 p.m.

 

Justin looked out the tinted rear window of the Rolls Royce Ghost and blinked to clear his blurry vision. He rubbed his temples and tried to squeeze away his throbbing headache. He frowned and closed his eyes. Then he thought about taking another Vicodin pill, but decided against it. He wanted to have a sharp, unadulterated mind for his meeting with Romanov.

The Russian oil tycoon had invited Justin for a round of golf at the course he had purchased a few months ago and had just finished renovating and expanding. Romanov Golf and Country Club now included eighteen holes and stretched over two hundred acres in one of the richest and most pristine western suburbs of Moscow. But Romanov had not summoned Justin to Moscow simply for a spar on the green between friends.

They had unfinished business.

Justin sighed and leaned against the black leather seat. For the umpteenth time he ran through his mind the scenario of his meeting with Romanov. It was the same conversation he had rehashed ever since he climbed aboard the Boeing 777 of Emirates flight 131 that brought him from Dubai to Moscow. The conversation where he tried to convince Romanov to forget about Carrie and about her investigation into his past.

Back in August, Romanov had given Justin classified reports of the Russian internal security intelligence service, the FSB. The reports helped Justin thwart an attack against his life and his family members. In exchange, Romanov had requested that Justin find out who was digging up dirt from Romanov’s shady past.

Things got complicated when Justin discovered the name of the person threatening to bring down Romanov and his billion-dollar empire. Carrie had been the one stumbling into Romanov’s past while running her own separate investigation. Her father, a Canadian Army colonel, had vanished during a covert mission in the late eighties in the Soviet Union, when she was just a little girl. Her father’s disappearance had been the main drive for Carrie to join first the army and then the secret service in the hope of finding the truth about her father. Last year, she had identified her father’s grave and had brought back his remains for a hero’s funeral in his homeland. But she still had not made peace with her past. Her hatred for Russia and everything Russian was still boiling in her blood with the same strength as when she had first heard the news about his disappearance.

Then in December, a former CIS agent had provided Carrie with classified reports of her father’s last mission objective. He was expected to bring out of the Soviet Union a highly valued defector. The man was suspected to be an influential leader near the top of the Soviet Union’s Communist Party. So far, Carrie’s investigation had identified him only by the codename Makarov, like the famous Russian-made pistol. She still did not have the man’s real name, but in all likelihood it was someone with close ties to Romanov.

Justin shifted in his seat and peered through the dark glass. A series of hills and fields were the first signs they were getting close to the golf course. Heavy machines and huge cranes were stretched along the left side, preparing the way for Moscow’s expansion in this direction. An army of people in blue-and-yellow coveralls were milling around the area like busy worker ants.

“We’re about five minutes out,” said the bodyguard in the front passenger’s seat. He was a short stocky man with a frown that seemed to have been permanently stamped across his face. “So sit tight and relax, okay?”

Justin nodded. This was about the fourth or the fifth time Frowny had demanded Justin relax. Perhaps he is the one who needs to relax, Justin thought. Or perhaps he’s noticing something unusual in my behavior that escapes me.

He shrugged, then pointed with his head toward the construction. “Are these Romanov’s projects?”

“Some of them,” the driver replied. He was a red-haired man in his early twenties, thin and muscular. He was in Romanov’s crew for more than his driving skills. Justin had noticed two pistols in the driver’s shoulder holsters when he had opened the rear door of the Rolls as the pair picked Justin up at the Sheremetyevo International Airport.

Justin resisted the urge to scratch along the side of the gauze still wrapping his left forearm and wondered how well he was going to play golf. He tightened his fingers into a fist and felt only a brief jolt of pain. It shouldn’t be that hard.

He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes for a long moment. He tried not to think about Romanov and the meeting, but could not shake the man from his mind. After this favor, I should wash my hands of him. Or perhaps take a break for a while. One of this favors might end up killing me.

He frowned and sat up straight. His right hand went to the left side of his waistband, where he usually placed his holster. But there was nothing there. He had decided against bringing it with him to Russia. He did not need more complications at the border, especially since he was traveling under a fake passport. His real name would have tolled a million alarm bells and would have invited the wrong kind of attention from the FSB and other Russian intelligence agencies. The last time Justin exited Moscow, less than a month ago, he did not leave on friendly terms with the FSB.

The driver rounded a couple of sharp turns, and a wide vista opened up as they came to the entrance of the Romanov Golf and Country Club. It had started to rain, a drizzle that formed a thin veil and blurred Justin’s vision. He wiped the glass, but the veil remained, giving the wrought-iron gate and the dark red brick stone building a twisted fish-eyed look. A series of brand new and expensive cars were parked to the left, away from the circular driveway that rounded a small white marble fountain.

“Mr. Romanov is waiting for you on the driving range.” The bodyguard gestured beyond the building and to its right.

Justin nodded and pulled his black leather briefcase closer to him.

After the driver had parked near the entrance, the bodyguard escorted Justin through the building. Its interior was lavish, but tasteful. Gray-and-black marble, long red carpets, and dark brown antique furniture would make each guest of the country club feel special and appreciated. The bodyguard guided Justin through the hall, but he was able to steal a glance at the dining room to the left. A couple of Asian men dressed in gray suits and a large group of Africans in their traditional multicolored clothes were sitting and enjoying food and drinks near a large black fireplace.

“We have to go this way.” The bodyguard pointed at the exit’s French doors, a needless gesture since it was clear they were headed in that direction. But the bodyguard’s voice with the hint of impatience was to serve as a reminder for Justin to hurry his steps.

When they reached the range, they found Romanov practicing his swing. He was dressed in khaki pants, a matching polo shirt, and a black Merino woolen sweater. He had fastened a black flat cap on his head and was wearing a small pair of rimless glasses that seemed to just float over his broad rosy face. Romanov was leaning over the golf ball and was getting ready to hit it with his club. Two bodyguards dressed in charcoal gray pinstriped suits were standing a few feet behind him.

The bodyguard who had escorted Justin placed a hand in front of him, so he could not walk any further and ruin Romanov’s concentration. They waited until he had taken his swing, a clean powerful hit that sent the ball flying into the distance. The trajectory was a bit crooked to the left, but the ball still landed on the green. It was about twenty yards away from the edge of the nearest grove and had gone a good hundred and fifty yards or so.

Romanov cocked his head. He did not seem pleased with the hit, so he reached for another ball from a holder nearby. As he swung his body, his eyes met Justin’s. “Mr. Hall, what a pleasure to see you. Welcome, welcome.” He dropped his club and gestured for Justin to come and join him at a pergola with a cobblestone patio and four chaise lounge chairs and a small glass table to the side. Two oval-shaped bottles of a clear liquid Justin assumed was vodka were sitting on the middle of the table, along with four glasses. Thick vines had snaked around the pergola’s four black columns and had stretched over the glass railings.

The bodyguard began to shuffle his feet, but Romanov dismissed him with a stern head nod.

“How was your flight?” Romanov asked.

“It was long, but good.”

Romanov nodded and removed his gloves. He straightened the sides of the bushy moustache that curled under his aquiline nose and was a shade darker than his silver hair. Then he wiped a couple of sweat bubbles from his forehead with a blue handkerchief he drew out of his pants pocket. Romanov was a man with a large body but also a round belly. Practicing on the golf course was quite tasking, especially in this warm muggy weather.

He waited until Justin had taken the seat across from him, then poured a couple of fingers of the “Triple R” vodka—Justin now could read the red-and-blue label—into two glasses. He moved one a few inches toward Justin, then picked up his own.

Justin almost never drank but he did not want to insult his host. And this was not the typical operation when he needed to be alert and on guard at all times. Or is it?

He took the small glass and glanced at the drink, unsure whether he should drink or refuse. He glanced around at the two bodyguards, who had moved to new positions about twenty feet away just outside the spacious pergola. They were out of earshot, but close enough to intervene at a moment’s notice.

Romanov said, “This is Triple R, the pride of my new line of drinks—what do you call them, yes, spirits. Because they cheer up your spirit, right? Go ahead, try some! Tell me how you like it.” He held up his glass and tipped his head impatiently toward Justin.

Justin brought his glass to his mouth and let the liquid soak his lips and the tip of his tongue. The vodka had a strong fiery taste with a hint of sweet grape and a subtle vanilla finish. “It’s excellent,” he said, knowing Romanov liked praise and recognition.

“I’m glad you like it. You’re a hard man to please, Hall. Now, how about a toast? To long lives and good business,” Romanov said, stressing the words “long” and “good.”

They clicked glasses and Justin took a small sip. He swallowed the vodka slowly, enjoying its velvet-smooth sensation.

Romanov downed about a quarter of his glass. He placed it down and folded his arms across his chest. The gold ring and the diamond-encrusted Rolex on his left hand caught the glint of the faint sun peeking from behind a dark curtain of clouds. “Too bad the weather didn’t cooperate today.” Romanov’s voice carried a feeling of frustration. He sounded truly irritated the weather did not respond to his every wish and whim. “But perhaps it will clear up in a couple of hours. We can practice our swing and have a conversation here, while we wait. The bar and the restaurant are close by; you can order anything you want.” He gestured toward the building.

“When did you buy this place?” Justin asked.

Romanov shrugged. “I can’t remember; ten, eleven months ago. It was a fire sale. Bergovich was on the brink of bankruptcy, so he was dropping his assets left and right. This was a bargain, but also a dump. I paid twice as much as I did in buying it to renovate it. Once it’s finished, it will be the best in all Russia, my pride and the pride of my homeland.”

Justin nodded. He asked Romanov more questions about his estate, his venture into the golf business, and his vodka-producing plant. Justin could not care less about the details of the multi-million-dollar deals, and the arm-twisting and the backstabbing needed to conclude them. But he let Romanov talk at length, while they nursed their drinks. Talking about his accomplishments in glorious and exaggerated terms, along with the calming effects of vodka, was improving Romanov’s mood. And Justin hoped that Romanov would be in good spirits when the time came for Justin to give him the bad news.

Eventually, the conversation about Romanov’s political and financial machinations dried up, along with his third glass of vodka. Justin had resisted Romanov’s strong suggestions to drink more, loosen up, and enjoy life, and was still nursing his first glass. At some point, Romanov waved to his bodyguards to wait for him inside the club. Then he leaned closer toward Justin and said, “Let us talk about our incomplete business.” His voice dropped to a whisper, but his focused gray eyes never left Justin’s face. “What have you found?”

Justin did not blink. He was ready for this moment. “The person looking into your past is a former CIA operative. I’ve found out she’s a woman with close ties to Mossad and the DGSE, the French external intelligence service. I don’t have a specific name, because she uses way too many aliases. But I know where she most commonly operates. My sources confirm last seeing her in a ranch north of Joburg, South Africa.” Justin’s voice was calm and unwavering as he delivered the story he and Carrie had concocted before Justin had left for his Australian operation.

Romanov gave Justin an uncertain nod. “My men have also discovered this assassin is a woman. But their information makes her a British agent, not CIA.”

Justin shrugged. “I don’t want to say that your men have made a mistake, but you asked me to find the truth. And that’s what I did.” He reached for his briefcase and pulled out a blue folder. “All the intel I’ve put together. Pictures. Names. Locations. Needless to say, the woman is extremely hard to locate. I haven’t been able to contact her, but sources very close to her told me about her objectives.” Justin shifted in his seat and brought his glass to his lips. He drew in a small breath and locked eyes again with Romanov. “She’s not looking to cause you any harm. One of her contracts—for you’re right, occasionally she’s hired to make people go away—required her to look into the past of a target. Perhaps you heard about him. Konstantin Maksimovich.”

Romanov peered deep into Justin’s eyes with curiosity and suspicion. “The Deputy Chairman of the Federation Council? This . . . this woman was behind his assassination?” He tapped the folder Justin had placed on the table but which Romanov had yet to pick up.

“No, she wasn’t the one who tapped the remote control which blew up his Maserati. But Elena Pasternack—the name she used to operate in London at the time—put the entire operation together, securing the explosives, the logistics, the works. It’s all there.” Justin pointed at the folder.

Romanov nodded. The suspicion still lingered in his eyes. But he seemed to be thinking about Maksimovich’s early demise about six months ago. The news had rocked not only London, but the entirety of Europe. The two-car convoy of the Russian billionaire who had made a fortune in the steel industry in the nineties had exploded just outside London. The police had yet to arrest anyone in connection with the murder of Maksimovich and his six bodyguards.

Justin glanced away, feigning checking if the rain had stopped. Large drops splattered on the cobblestone pathways, and the grayish canopy of clouds stretched for miles. Romanov’s piercing eyes were still scanning Justin’s face, but he was not worried Romanov would detect any sign of foul play, for Justin had his best poker face on. He had beaten many polygraph tests and knew what to say and how to say it. Justin had been setting up the story pretty well, and Romanov was very close to believing it.

Romanov nodded and opened the folder.

Justin leaned back in his chair and sipped from his glass. He waited in silence for the next few moments, wondering about what was going through Romanov’s mind. If the Russian tycoon suspected Justin was not telling him the truth, he would not be so straightforward as to ask him. Instead, Romanov would order his bodyguards to beat the truth out of him.

When Romanov looked up at Justin, the suspicion seemed to have melted away, at least a large part of it. “So, this Elena, she just happened to stumble upon my past when looking for information on Maksimovich? Is this what you’re telling me?” Romanov’s suspicion had been transferred from his eyes to his sharp and cold voice.

Justin shook his head. “No, I’m not telling you anything. The intel I’ve gathered shows this is the case. You had some business dealings with Mr. Maksimovich in the past, were partners in a couple of joint ventures, right?”

Romanov clenched his teeth. “He was a lying cheat, always trying to scam me at every step. I can’t say I shed a tear when he died.”

Justin subdued his grin. He was not sure Romanov would shed a tear for anyone upon their death. “Yes, so when she was digging into Maksimovich’s background, she discovered that you and he had crossed paths. So she began to investigate you as well, something every seasoned operative must do, to determine every player’s involvement when preparing for a hit. Elena must have determined you were not a target.” He wanted to add, Otherwise you would have ended up like Maksimovich, but he did not. The implication was clear.

Romanov gave Justin a thoughtful glare. He nodded and reached for his glass. Finding it empty but for a small sip at the bottom, he gestured for Justin to pop open the other bottle.

Justin obliged, while Romanov flipped through the folder’s documents. He seemed to be perusing them carefully, especially the photograph of the assassin. Then Romanov looked toward the restaurant’s windows. His eyes found one of his bodyguards, and Romanov gestured with his right hand for the bodyguard to step outside.

The bodyguard swung open the door and sprang toward Romanov. “Yes, boss.”

“Call Valery. I have something he needs to see right away.”

“I’ll take care of that immediately, boss. Anything else?”

“That’s all.” Romanov dismissed the bodyguard with a hand gesture, but he stayed in place near the table.

“What is it?”

“Eh . . . the President called. Again. Your aide told him you’re unavailable, but he insists—”

“I’m still unavailable.” Romanov spread his hands over the table and toward his guest. “I’ll call the President when I’m done. Until then, no calls and no interruptions.”

“Yes, boss. Sorry, boss.”

Romanov waved him off, and this time the bodyguard vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Justin handed Romanov the vodka-filled glass.

Romanov took it but did not drink it right away. He glanced at Justin. It seemed the initial suspicion had returned to Romanov’s eyes.

“Another toast,” Justin said. “To healthy and peaceful times.”

Romanov reached over and their glasses clinked. “I’m not so sure about the peace, but I’ll drink to it anyway.”

Justin allowed only a small sip to go through his lips. He was not worried about Romanov’s distrust or what Valery and his team might find. The intelligence Justin and Carrie had put together was solid. They had used real-life data about two former CIA operatives who had gone rogue, respectively three and five years ago. Combined with information fabricated by a blend of real and invented sources, they had put together the file, which should be able to withstand any investigation from Valery and his men. Justin’s assets and contacts were nameless, a must in their profession. Romanov could harbor his doubts, but as far as the intelligence on the file was concerned, it looked impressively authentic.

Romanov placed his half-empty glass on the table. He drew in a deep breath, then cocked his head toward Justin. “What guarantees do I have that this Elena, let’s call her by that name, is no longer interested in me and my past? No longer a threat.”

Justin shrugged. “You know better than I do that there are no guarantees. All we know is that she has executed her contract, and has moved on.” He made a wide arc with his right hand, dramatizing his thought that perhaps Romanov should do the same.

Romanov frowned. “I don’t like loose ends. Especially since I don’t know what she has found.”

Justin nodded. He shifted his body and leaned closer to Romanov. “Eliminating Elena might cause more problems than allowing her to live. She knows who she’s up against, and she’s not going to cause you any trouble. A cockroach you can allow to live in a dark corner of your basement, while you enjoy the rest of your magnificent mansion.” He tipped his head toward the club and stretched his hand at the vast expanse of the golf course in front of them.

Romanov nodded undecidedly. “And these sources of yours, how accurate do you make them to be?”

Justin answered without hesitation. “Their intel has been extremely accurate in the past. And I’ve double-checked and verified all claims to the best of my abilities and the circumstances of the events.”

Romanov rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure, Justin. I’ll have Valery and his people check your intelligence. Not because I don’t trust you, but you know, contacts and assets can be unreliable at times, particularly if there are other interests in the game.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “And if I find out someone gave you false information, for whatever reason or motive, then all I can say is may God have mercy on their souls, because I will not.” He spoke the last words in a cold tone that almost gave Justin the chills.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mr. Romanov,” Justin replied in a calm voice.

Romanov nodded. “I’m glad we have an understanding about the consequences when people lie to me.” His voice kept the nerve-wrecking tinge. He downed the rest of his glass, then pointed toward the restaurant. “Why don’t we enjoy lunch now? I just received a batch of Almas caviar. It’s from beluga sturgeon of the Caspian Sea. I have some business partners in Iran, and one of them brought it this morning as a gift. Or you can try something else, if you don’t like roe.”

“I’ll be happy to have lunch,” Justin said, perhaps the only true statement during his entire conversation. He had not eaten anything since the previous night and so far had ignored his stomach rumblings. But the mention of the world’s rarest caviar made him feel extremely hungry.

Romanov nodded. “And if the weather turns sunny and the grass dries up, perhaps we can play a round of golf. Or two. Otherwise, you’ll have to come back to Moscow another time.”

Justin nodded. He was glad the conversation on their unfinished business had ended, and as far as he could tell, on a somewhat positive note. There was still the aspect of Valery and his men examining Justin and Carrie’s findings, but he decided not to let his mind worry about it. The likelihood of Valery or anyone else uncovering the truth was extremely slim. And if, by an unfortunate stroke of luck, they were able to expose any discrepancies, Justin would not be in Moscow, but somewhere else, hopefully beyond Romanov’s deadly reach.