No Apologies and No Regrets

by Roddy Wix

The Khamsin cruised slowly about a mile off the southern coast of France. Ilya was in the company of a beautiful woman and being pampered by the crew of his new friend’s yacht. With the kind of mind that focused with intensity on one thing at a time he gave no thought to being hundreds of miles away from Paris or that his whereabouts was unknown to Ilya. It would never have occurred to him that he was supposed to be the 'key' to Thor's Hammer. His attention was consumed by the bare breasted Clara who massaged lotion on his back while he sipped a potent Bloody Mary.

  Ivan spent the short ride to the George V on his cell phone. On arrival his bags awaited him and a bellman quickly loaded into the trunk. In moments the car pulled away and Ivan left the hotel without speaking to Madeleine who finished breakfast then went to the hotel's spa for a massage. She was as indifferent to his departure as she was to him. Her father was rich and Ivan just another slice of fun in a life promising many more.

  Serge Malroff could not afford the luxury of indifference. In his last call the Prime Minister made clear his intention to move up the timetable for another event. Under different circumstances he would have tried to talk the Prime Minister into using other means of disrupting the financial markets, but now he couldn’t risk raising suspicions. He wondered how soon the old KGB boss’s network would inform him that Serge didn’t control the program or its creators. That would be fatal. He dialed both their cell phones and got no answer. Enraged, he hit a speed dial number and got an instant answer.

  “Those fucking Rusikov brothers flew from New York to Paris. They arrived there a couple of days ago. I want them found. Find them immediately! I don’t care what you must spend and I don’t care what you do. You've got two days. Do not fail!” He ended the call and leaned back in his seat. Serge closed his eyes and did not open them until Friedrich pulled into the motor court at the villa in Laglio.

  The hotel limousine delivered Ivan Rusikov to the Euro Jet FBO at leBourguet. He had arranged for a private jet to take him to Nice though he wasn’t sure how he would pick up Ilya's trail. The FBO’s concierge informed him of an unexpected delay, made apologies, and introduced Ivan to his pilot. His luck would change within moments.

  “Mr. Rusikov, this is Captain Jacques Renard.”

  “Captain.”

  “Monsieur Rusikov. I am sorry for the delay. We had a larger plane ahead of us and so our refueling has been slowed."

  “A few more minutes won’t matter.”

  “Thank you for understanding. This normally doesn’t happen but, confidentially, Sheik al Zaribi’s plane came back from Nice and had to be refueled.”

  “Interesting. Where is the Sheik traveling to today?” Ivan acted impressed.

  “He is not. His plane is based here and is chartered when he is not using it. He traveled to his yacht yesterday. I know nothing more about his plans.”

  “The sheik obviously lives quite a luxurious life.” He'd seen pictures of the yacht Khamsin in magazines.

  “Yes, he does, but you seem to be doing rather well yourself. We scheduled a wonderful Gulfstream IV to take you to Nice and it appears we are ready to get underway. May I escort you to your plane?”

  “Yes, thank you.” At least, he thought, I've got a lead to pursue.

  The two men boarded the jet and Ivan took a seat. Upholstered in tobacco colored leather and accented in dark woods, the Gulfstream IV embodied luxury. For a moment Ivan allowed himself to smile and enjoy his luxurious surroundings. Unlike his brother, however, he had the sense to realize Serge could bring everything to an ugly ending. Soon. Time was of the essence and caution would be critical or everything he had worked on for the past two years would collapse on his head.

  As the plane climbed into the sky and turned south Ivan closed his eyes and tried to reason his way through his next steps. Back at the private jet center a member of the ground crew stepped into a corner of the hangar and made a call on his cell phone.

  “G-Five to Nice. VP-BXX.” The man’s message was short and he returned to his normal work routine in moments. In a luxurious dacha the Prime Minister’s secretary handed him a folded piece of paper bearing only one handwritten word, “NICE”. The Prime Minister smiled and dropped the paper into a shredder beside his desk.

  Hearing two “clicks” on the line, Rudy Geisler put down his headset and sent a one-line message to a standard Gmail account. “G-IV Nice. VP-BXX”. Then he stepped outside and lit a cigarette. The world was becoming a complicated place. Now it was harder to tell the good from the bad. The man on top of the bubble seemed to change daily and retirement looked better every day. The toad smoked a second cigarette then went back to work.

  In McLean, Virginia the email was received, read and deleted. Harry Brooke picked up his phone and passed the information along to Frank Beretta.

  Ivan allowed the cabin attendant to bring him a double Goose on ice which he swallowed in one draught. Feeling nothing he asked for another.

  His brother continued to enjoy the ministrations of Clara and settled into the hedonistic lifestyle of the MY Khamsin. Ilya ate a lunch of crab, prawns, and octopus and drank champagne, perhaps too much champagne. Though he and Clara hadn’t had sex yet, few mysteries remained to be revealed. She’d not bothered to put on her bikini top as they lunched at a sun drenched table on the top deck of the Sheik’s floating pleasure palace.

  Ilya didn’t once wonder where his host was nor did he give a moment’s thought to his own brother. Instead, he poured champagne on Clara’s breasts and began to lick the effervescent wine off. Life was good, no?

  Two decks below, in his teak paneled library, the Sheik mechanically finished his prayers without giving a genuine thought to what Allah would think of how he lived his life. Many pious Muslims would despise him even more than they hated the falsely demonized Americans. Fuck them, he thought. He had much work to do. Convinced of the foolish Russian boy's value he set about finding a way to monetize his asset. He flipped on his multiple computers and set to work. As with all opportunities, time was of the essence, but Ali, the consummate bargainer, had a shrewd sense of timing. He focused on identifying his list of buyers and hoped his task wouldn’t take long.

  On one computer screen he could observe his guests up on the sundeck. Keeping the boy happy until he figured things out should be easy.

  Upon Ivan’s arrived at the Smith FBO at the Nice airport a Mercedes convertible awaited him at the end of a regal red carpet rolled up to the plane. He enjoyed this life and hoped he would be able to keep it. He started the rented car and headed toward the harbor. Hell, just staying alive would be a challenge but the rewards, if he survived, would be incalculable.

  22.