by Leslie Wolfe
Vitaliy Myatlev wasted no time. Within months of his departure from the KGB, he had opened several companies in Russia with foreign capital he’d been able to raise rapidly. He brought into the country luxury household items, such as ice-free refrigerators, washing machines, dryers, convection ovens, and microwave ovens. He knew not many Russians had money to buy these at first, but he would hold the stake in the appliance market, and once all the known brands had been deployed through his companies, no one else would be able to grab that distribution market from him.
Moreover, all the KGB officers and party officials who were loaded, but had decided to keep their accumulated savings in Russia, had heaps of rapidly devaluing Russian rubles to spend. Myatlev’s prices were ridiculously high, but his merchandise moved fast nevertheless. From Whirlpool to Kenmore to KitchenAid, he brought them all to Mother Russia, for a substantial profit.
He moved on to bring wireless cellular services into a country that had almost no telecommunication infrastructure outside the major cities and citizens were forced to wait months for a new landline, despite the copious bribes they were willing to pay. The mobile phones addressed that need, and, within a few years, almost eliminated residential landlines.
He still didn’t stop. Next, he built a few banks. He finally held the capital reserves needed to attract partner names like Credit Suisse and AIG, and to issue a credit card product of his own. After all, the Russians needed a financial institution to lend them money at predatory interest rates to pay for the highly expensive appliances and overpriced cell phones. Once the foundations of his financial empire had been laid, he proceeded to acquire vast amounts of real estate at ridiculous prices, knowing those prices would soon rise. He was able to foresee the inflation that soon took over Russia and moved his liquidities to hard currencies and gold.
He had already made the list of the top 100 richest people in the world, and that was before he started his oil and gas endeavors. He wasn’t going to stop; it was never going to be enough. His lust for power was tireless, and the thrill of the hunt was too exciting for him to give up.
Vitaliy Myatlev had moved to Kiev a few years before, when his wealth had grown to be large enough to cause him sleepless nights. Some of his old KGB friends had climbed the ranks of political power, achieving interestingly strategic and useful roles in the Russian government. One had just become president; the other had been the minister of defense for a while, holding that seat for a few years now. Their influence, kept motivated by large cash payouts, luxury cars, and custom-built villas, had proven very advantageous throughout the years.
But Myatlev was not stupid. He knew their favor could turn into scorn overnight, and he couldn’t trust any of them. Therefore, Myatlev acquired Ukrainian citizenship in addition to the Russian and Iranian citizenships he had gained at birth, bestowed on him in a hurry and without due process by the deputy minister of the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs. Of course, now the minister had a new Mercedes S65 AMG, lunar blue metallic, and there was a rumor spreading that a dying aunt from Germany had willed him the exquisite vehicle.
Myatlev opened the door to his suite as soon as Ivan swiped the access card and entered the imposing living room to find his guest reading a magazine, installed comfortably on the plush sofa. Fuck...he thought, remembering he was wearing only a white spa bathrobe.
His guest rose and extended his hand with a slight nod. Myatlev shook the man’s hand vigorously.
“Welcome, Mr. Zaidi,” he said in his most dignified tone of voice, trying to compensate for his inappropriate attire.
His guest, dressed to the nines, smiled and responded, “Or maybe I should say welcome, yes?”
“Yes, indeed, indeed. My deepest apologies for keeping you waiting and for having you endure seeing me dressed like this,” Myatlev responded, making a hand gesture to apologize for his improper appearance.
His guest, Samir Jamal Zaidi, an Iraqi national of considerable wealth, was rumored to be well connected to both sides of the political battlefield in his country. Welcomed in the high circles of American political power and equally honored in Iraq by various political factions otherwise at war with each other, Zaidi was highly influential and a great partner to have for any endeavor. In his late forties, Zaidi had an appearance of determination and calculated calm, never showing any of his thoughts or feelings. His face, covered with the typical beard that Iraqi nationals liked to wear, was impenetrable and seemed entirely immobile and expressionless. He wore sunglasses at all times, even indoors, hiding his eyes behind dark lenses. He was a hard man to read.
Minutes later, after Myatlev had dressed appropriately for the occasion, he and Zaidi took their seats at a dining table brought up by the hotel staff, set to perfection with white brocade linens, silver accessories, and Bohemia crystal glasses. Myatlev’s bodyguards had taken positions from a polite distance, guarding the men as they ate.
“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Zaidi,” Myatlev said, immediately after his guest had finished the soup.
Zaidi made an inviting gesture with his hand.
“I am assembling a small group of very influential, very wealthy individuals,” Myatlev continued, “whose global interests are aligned. Several countries are represented in our council, and yours is one of the countries that should hold a seat in this association of common goals.” Myatlev paused, gauging his guest’s interest level. Zaidi’s eyes flickered for a split second, barely visible behind his tinted lenses, but he remained silent.
“There are many things we can do for each other,” Myatlev continued, “and even more things we can do together. United.” He stopped and focused on the schnitzel in front of him, savoring a piece of it with his eyes half closed in delight.
Finally, Zaidi spoke. “Which countries are represented on your council?”
“So far, Iran, Afghanistan, India, Pakistan, and, of course, Russia.”
“How many representatives are you inviting from each of these countries?”
“Only one,” Myatlev said gravely.
They ate silently for a few seconds.
“And what is the mandate?”
“During the past few decades we have observed how America has turned into the world’s most arrogant bully, fortifying its super-power position in the world and stopping at nothing to maintain that power and increase its wealth. The American domineering way to meddle in other countries’ internal affairs has reached an unprecedented level of insolence, causing significant concern for several countries.”
“Oh...so your mandate is anti-American?” Zaidi asked abruptly.
“Our mandate is to establish a new world order, where we don’t have the high-and-mighty Americans dictating how we conduct our internal political and economic affairs. Our mandate is to fix the balance of power in the world and restore other nations’ rights to decide for themselves.”
Myatlev took another bite of schnitzel, allowing Zaidi time to consider his proposal.
“How are you planning to pursue this goal? Politically? Engaging in violence?”
“That would be for the council to decide, depending on what actions we decide to take.”
“I see,” Zaidi said and then promptly touched his mouth with the white napkin, marking the end of his meal. “I am very honored by your consideration, but this is not something that I am inclined to be a part of. I would also like to wish you all success with this initiative.”
“Would you like some dessert?” Myatlev asked, unperturbed. His eyes encouraged Zaidi to accept his offer, then shifted slightly to catch Ivan’s gaze. Myatlev nodded almost imperceptibly, and his bodyguard nodded in response.
“No, I have to decline, I’m afraid. It has been a very satisfying meal; thank you for your hospitality,” Zaidi said.
Ivan approached Zaidi from behind and grabbed his head with his right arm, immobilizing it as he placed a napkin soaked in chloroform over his nose. Zaidi struggled for a few seconds and then fell inert. The two bodyguards grabbed
Zaidi quietly and took him to the other room. At some point in the very near future, they would get him out of the hotel in a suitcase, shoot him in the head somewhere, and throw his body in the Danube.
You can’t win every time, Myatlev thought bitterly and took a sip of wine. He had to be more careful next time.
...7
...Wednesday, December 23, 8:52PM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)
...Reno–Tahoe International Airport, Rental Car Terminal
...Reno, Nevada
“Here you go, Miss Roberts, if you’ll sign here, and here.” The courteous car rental employee pointed out several places on the form. “We’ll get you ready to go in just a second.”
“What kind of car are you giving me? May I have a GPS, please?” Laura asked impatiently, running her fingers through her long, black hair and placing a few rebel strands behind her left ear. The man she was traveling with put his arm around her, but she didn’t welcome his gesture of affection. She continued to lean against the car rental counter, ignoring him, focused on getting the paperwork done.
Laura Roberts was tired and a little irritated with her new boyfriend. He seemed to have absolutely no interest for what was on her mind. She wanted more than just easy-breezy companionship and great sex; she wanted a human being she could exchanges ideas with, a partner. Maybe he was not Mr. Right material, after all. Too bad. He did look gorgeous, this one.
“Umm...you’ve reserved an SUV. We have a Chevy Tahoe,” the clerk giggled. “You might want that since you’re driving to Tahoe, right? We have a Honda CR-V, and...umm...and a Jeep Wrangler, but that’s a gas guzzler.”
“This time I’m not gonna care,” Laura said decisively. “What color is it?”
“Red. And it’s convertible,” the attendant added humorously, “Very useful feature in the dead of winter.”
“Great. I’ll take it.” She was starting to feel better again. She had endured eight hours of flying from DC through a boring stopover in Dallas. Her morning had been challenging, and her boyfriend moody.
She hopped behind the wheel and programmed the GPS, while Bo struggled with the luggage. The Jeep was fairly new; it still carried the unmistakable new car smell.
“This car has no space for luggage. This trunk is a joke,” he mumbled.
“Use the back seat, baby; there’s enough room there. Let’s go already. It’s late.”
He climbed in, slamming the door shut. He was going to give her some attitude, by the looks of it.
The GPS acquired satellites and gave her a route. Their destination was almost an hour away, an hour of driving in the dark on icy mountain roads. She groaned.
“It’s far, but it’s going to be great, you’ll see. Totally worth it.”
“Especially if you decide to leave the office behind and enjoy whatever we came all the way out here to enjoy. You know, it was cold enough in DC. We didn’t have to fly all the way out here and lose twenty degrees in the process. It didn’t have to get any colder than DC.” Bo had a way of complaining, half-jokingly, that drove Laura crazy.
“Baby, we’re gonna warm up by the fire and have a couple drinks, and the cold will be gone.” She made every effort to cheer both of them up. They needed it. She needed it.
“OK, but promise me not a word about your work. I really don’t understand why you give a fuck anyway.” He was still mad.
Laura felt a pang of anger taking over her self-imposed calm.
“I give a fuck because my work is important. Because I have to care. Someone has to care. This is a strategic decision for everyone involved, and they’re gonna do it wrong. They’re not thinking straight. There’s no other choice; I have to think for them, and I do care.” She stopped and took a deep breath.
“There’s no escaping this matter, is there? You’re so riled up; there’s no way you’ll leave it alone. OK, then, let’s hear it. What’s making you so mad?”
She turned and looked at him for a split second. Was this the same guy she had boarded the flight with? What, now he decided to give a damn? Maybe there was some hope for him after all. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a long and elaborate sigh.
“OK. Here it is, in a nutshell. DCBI, the company I work for, just won an incredible contract. We’ve known about it for a while, and we were already preparing for it, but it just got confirmed this month. Can’t tell you what it’s about: it’s highly confidential. But it’s very large and strategic, one of those contracts that can make or break companies and people. I’m their senior director of vendor assessment, which makes me directly responsible for selecting the vendors to execute this contract. There are several people on our sourcing team who decide which vendors come to the table and become part of our vendor list or supply chain. Do you follow me, baby?” She wanted him to understand and maybe even offer some advice. A second brain examining things could only help.
“Yeah, I get it. I might not be in business for a living, but so far, I’m with you. I still don’t see the problem though.”
“The problem is that most of the people on my team want to outsource the work on this strategic contract to offshore vendors. And that is just wrong.”
“This is what got you mad? Everybody is offshoring everything these days; no one cares anymore. So why do you care?”
She gripped the wheel tighter with both hands. The road was dark and curvy, quite treacherous to drive at the end of a very long day. A wall of stone on her left, a pitch-black abyss on her right.
“Jeez! I care because it’s wrong. There’s no room for error in this contract. I’ve worked with offshore vendors enough to know how deadlines are missed, quality is not respected, promises are not kept, and products are substandard. In the end, it costs you double anyway. We just can’t screw up this particular contract, and if we send it offshore like we’re doing everything else these days, we’re fucked.” She stopped talking for a while, concentrating on driving the curvy, slippery mountain road. “Plus, there will be a lot of media involved.”
“Media? So it’s that kind of strategic, large project, huh? I think I might have an idea what project you’re talking about.”
“No, you don’t; you’re not supposed to, shush,” she silenced him. “But yes, it is that kind of strategic project. We’re all going to look like absolute idiots—no, even worse, like traitors—giving such a contract to an offshore company when this country’s labor force has still not recovered after the last depression. Reckless, deluded idiots, that’s what they are.”
“Baby, I know how you feel about this entire offshoring business, and trust me, I feel the same way too. Everyone knows this is one of the things that has robbed us of our standard of living and our jobs and everything. Politicians and business leaders are the only ones who don’t wanna see it, because they make more money putting everyone else into the ground. But this is old news. Why get so angry now? What changed?”
“It’s just this particular contract, that’s all. I cannot agree to send it offshore. I can’t tell you what this contract is about, can’t even confirm your guess, but trust me: for this specific contract, offshoring is terribly wrong. I have a very bad feeling about it.”
“Are they forcing you to accept it?”
“My boss has a very balanced way to select vendors. The entire team weighs in; it’s not top-down driven.” She corrected her approach on a tight, descending curve at the last moment, making the Jeep’s wheels squeal.
“Then?”
“My team is filled with idiots too, just like the rest of this shortsighted world of greedy fools. They only see the apparently low prices of offshore outsourcing. They don’t, or won’t, see beyond that. They don’t think, and they never learn, even from their own bad experiences.”
“OK, I get it, or I think I do. Listen, baby, here’s what I think. Unless you are very calm and relaxed about this situation, you cannot persuade anyone of anything, You’ll just throw spaz attacks like you did with me on the plane. No one will take you seriously. You have to le
t go and stop caring before you can begin to care effectively.”
“Huh...What line of business did you say you were in? ’Cause you definitely do not talk like a biologist.”
Bo laughed, relieving the tension in the car. “I’m full of surprises, baby; we’ll explore a few in just a little while.” He put his hand on her leg, right above the knee, and squeezed playfully.
She squealed, then touched him on his arm to get his attention. “Hey, what’s that?” She pointed at a red flicker, coming from the woods ahead of them.
“Where?”
“It’s gone. No, here it is again. It comes and it goes.”
“Looks like a signal, or maybe a laser. Maybe someone is playing.”
“It’s brighter; now I see it all the time.” She squinted, as the red laser beam started to blind her. She slowed down, but it wasn’t helping. “I’m pulling over,” she said, worried.
“No, keep going,” Bo said. “Step on it. I really don’t think stopping now is such a good idea.”
She hit the gas, partially covering her eyes with her hand to escape the blinding glare of the red laser. Then she felt the Jeep hit the railing and plunge into the darkness, ripping through tree branches and brush. She heard herself shriek. Then nothing, just silence and darkness.
...8
...Saturday, December 26, 5:16PM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)
...Tom Isaac’s Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
Alex loved going to Tom and Claire’s place. Following the gentle curves of Cliff Drive and passing by houses decorated for the holidays, she let the Christmas spirit invade her. It had been more than ten years since she had left her parents’ home, and she had never looked back. She couldn’t look back, even if she wanted to. Many Christmases had been lonely and sad since that day in her past, but not anymore. She had a new family now.