Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

When he’d left Canada, he’d opened an account in Luxembourg and transferred much of his money there. Once that was done, it had been child’s play to open a local account in Thailand and transfer $500K. That was a king’s ransom here. You could live very well in Phuket for thirty grand a year, and like royalty for seventy. He’d set it all up as smooth as a Swiss watch, and so far was enjoying himself more than he would have imagined possible. Good food, good sex, good drugs and alcohol... It was uncomplicated.

  He’d been untroubled by much of anything for the last ninety days and had easily slipped into the lazy lifestyle.

  It was currently 7 a.m., local time. He wondered what had woken him up. He looked over at his latest companion, Lin-Lin, fifteen years old and fast asleep. His head hurt from last night’s booze and drugs.

  Maybe it was dehydration that had roused him.

  No, it was smoke.

  He smelled cigar smoke coming from downstairs.

  Those lazy fuckers had better not be hanging out in his house, smoking his cigars, instead of patrolling the grounds. He’d hired a top-flight three-man round-the-clock security team to make sure his tranquility remained undisturbed. Thailand was not the safest area in the world if you were wealthy. You were a target, plain and simple. A smart man took precautions.

  He was a smart man.

  Griffen climbed out of bed and stared through the big bay window. Another spectacular day; clear skies, high eighties to low nineties. How could you beat it? He pulled on a pair of shorts, donned a silk robe and slippers, and walked groggily down the stairs to the great-room.

  God, his head was splitting. He needed a Percocet.

  When he turned the corner from the stairwell, he saw someone sitting in the large armchair at the far end of the room, in the shadows. Smoking one of his cigars.

  That fucker was as good as fired.

  “Hello, my friend,” the smoker said.

  Griffen’s heart missed several beats.

  “Long time we haven’t talked, nyet?” Sergei said. Conversational. Nice to see you.

  Griffen’s powers of speech had deserted him. His eyes flitted around the room in panic. He knew this couldn’t be good.

  “It took some time to track you down. You didn’t leave much to follow – did a pretty good job disappearing. But money always leaves a trail. Always.” Sergei blew out a cloud of cigar smoke. “These are good cigars, Nicholas. Cuban, I see. And I noticed your alcohol selection is premium. As I presume your opium and cocaine to be. You have a nice setup here.” Sergei cast his eyes over the plush furnishings.

  “Sergei, I...”

  “Tut, tut. No need for long explanations. Although, maybe it would be fun to hear it. Fun to hear the ‘Why Sergei lost a hundred twenty million in my offshore fund’ speech. Okay, you have the floor. Speak up.”

  “Sergei, it...it isn’t what you think. I tried to get out of Allied and convince the banks to support the price, but no one wanted to touch it after the article. Even then, I tried to salvage it, turn things around. It was just an impossible situation. I lost thirty-six million. It was a bad deal all around, that’s all.”

  Sergei started clapping. Slowly. Seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Bravo. Really. Very touching. I am impressed, and I’m not an easy man to impress, you know.” He got up, walked over to Griffen and lay an arm around his shoulder. “Walk with me. I want you to see something.”

  They moved to the large dining room, around the corner from the great-room. A cherubic man wearing round wire spectacles stood rinsing something in the sink, humming to himself. Several bowls sat on the bar counter behind him, along with what looked like a toolkit, and some wires. Below the bar sat a bucket, next to a chair.

  They continued past him and out onto the patio, and down to the beach. Another man stood on the sand, holding another bucket, throwing food out to the gulls wheeling around the surf line.

  “It really is a nice place you have here. I think I would like to have a place like this, too.”

  Griffen felt overcome by numbness and fear and shock.

  “You look pale, my friend. You must have a lot on your mind. Would you like to feed the birds? I find it’s very relaxing. Therapeutic, even. Yuri, come over here, let our friend feed the birds while we talk. It was all a big mistake, apparently. He tried everything to save our money. He told me; there wasn’t any other option.”

  Yuri approached with the bucket. Griffen had a very, very bad feeling about this.

  “Come, feed the birds, and tell Yuri all about the big mistake,” Sergei said sotto voce.

  Yuri thrust the bucket into Griffen’s arms.

  He looked into it, then dropped it; stepped back and retched.

  The birds circled overhead, eager to scoop up the contents spilled onto the white sand. Ears, fingers, a penis, some toes, what looked like an eye, but could have been a genital.

  “Your security team wasn’t prepared for ex-Spetsnaz men. But who could have expected us to drop by?” Sergei sounded reasonable. Looked reasonable. “Nicholas. There’s no need for more stories. I was sent a copy of your Canadian brokerage statement; probably by your friend Steven Archer. Who knows? It showed your three million dollar put purchase on Monday morning, right after you told me everything was going to be all right. Also had the sale on it. Almost fifteen million dollars.”

  Sergei flicked the penis with his toe towards a particularly aggressive brown gull, which grabbed the prize greedily and flew off with it.

  Griffen felt faint, dizzy. His head swam. He felt himself blacking out. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was a feeble croak.

  “Yuri, help Nicholas back up to the house. Vasily should be ready for him.” Sergei studied Griffen’s pale countenance. “It was always about trust, don’t you see? Once we lose trust, then what do we have left?”

  Sergei dropped the cigar on the sand. Crushed it with his foot.

  “Come, my friend. We have much time to make up for.”

  Checkmate: Chapter 26

  The lake rippled gently with a spirit of enchantment as the mountains watching over dipped their lofty reflections deep into the blue of the water. A small sailboat cruised lazily parallel to the shoreline, with no particular destination in mind. The sails were not ones rigged for speed, a leisurely pace rather, bobbing the little boat along as it followed its prow to wherever. A young woman in white shorts and a horizontally striped blue and white top sat in the cockpit of the boat facing a brown haired man, who was lying back controlling the tiller. A picnic basket sat to the side of them. They were enjoying a glass of sparkling wine.

  “I’m warming up to Lake Lugano,” Steven said. “Although the pace around here is a little too hectic.” The lines creaked for a trice as a whiff of breeze puffed them steadily along. The shore barely moved.

  “Eh, you are too used to all the drama, no? Spy man and pirate, now you become drama queen once things are finito?” Antonia asked.

  “Maybe we should buy a dog,” he said, apropos of nothing.

  “A dog?”

  “And figure out where we want to live, for good. I like Florence a lot, but your apartment is noisy and the traffic’s too crazy. Maybe something in Campione, or in the country on the outskirts of Florence?”

  Steven had long since succumbed to the infectious charm of Italy – so he was fine hanging his hat there. As long as he was with Antonia, he’d be happy. God knows he’d made enough off Allied to live wherever they wanted; not that she had to worry about money.

  “I like Campione,” she said brightly, “it’s very picturesque. But there are also some nice farmhouses and villas south of Florence, maybe twenty minutes or so. We should go house-shopping there, you and I.”

  She looked more beautiful than ever.

  Their passion for each other was still all-encompassing, even after four months. Her brush with death had brought them closer still, if that was possible, and he’d proposed to her one week after her release from the hospital. Dante had
been a gracious host; and even though he wasn’t particularly clear about how he made his money. He was always soft-spoken and obviously doted on his niece. He and Steven had taken to playing chess every afternoon, accompanied by the inevitable coal-black cups of coffee, and a snifter of cognac. Dante invariably won.

  Steven joked with Antonia he suspected that was why Dante let them stay there – he enjoyed beating the pants off Steven, and Steven enjoyed the coffee and aperitifs. It was a satisfying equilibrium.

  Now that Steven had put a stop to Griffen’s manipulations on Allied, there wasn’t much turmoil in their lives, which was a good thing. Of course, he couldn’t go back to the U.S. while the Homeland Security issue was still open; although in truth he had very little interest in returning. He felt that chapter of his life was over, and considered himself more a citizen of the world now than of any given country. Stan continued working on bringing the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, but had little confidence that it would be resolved any time soon; so for now, Steven was an exile from the States, albeit a wealthy and happy one.

  That didn’t really bother him a lot, as there was an entire planet brimming with wonderful places to live; like Italy, for example. He’d been completely content since he’d touched down in Rome, and he had no sense of homesickness or nostalgia for California. It was as though that phase of his life was over, and a new and exciting one was beginning. So be it.

  Chianti had been good for their peace of mind; and as time went by, the threat of any further ugliness receded. It became obvious that taking Steven out wasn’t a priority for anyone any more. Nothing would be accomplished, and the cast of remaining miscreants in Griffen’s drama had bigger fish to fry. The investigation into Griffen had pretty much shut down his network, as all the cockroaches had scuttled away from the light. Wall Street had always been rife with fair-weather friends, but nobody wanted to be near the blast zone when a scandal like Griffen’s was exposed. That made Steven’s role in the exposure one of minimal interest once the damage was done – and nobody wanted to double down on their liability by trying to get even. Griffen was gone, and that was that.

  Steven had changed since the shooting. At first, he’d been restless and uncomfortable; the warrior returned abruptly to peacetime pursuits, still unconsciously watching his rearview mirror for signs of challenge or danger. Gradually, he’d relaxed, and been forced to come to grips with having a future. His priorities had shifted, and his time with Antonia had mellowed any residual fury at a system that had nearly cost them their lives. The anger at the injustice had melted away, replaced by a sense of peace and hope and harmony.

  He just didn’t care about any of his old concerns anymore. He had what he wanted, had discovered what was important to him, and vowed to make the most of their life together. He’d realized a big part of the reason he’d gotten so involved in the stock conflict in the first place was because he’d been drifting, living without any real passion; comfortable, but incomplete. Collecting watches, a convenient romantic interest, sports car, boat, obsessing about money…it all seemed so remote and trivial now. In a way, he supposed the ordeal had done him a favor, by snapping him out of his complacency and giving him a second chance to really live.

  The regrets still came sneaking in at night, but less frequently of late. Peter’s death would always haunt him at some level; but overall, he was healing emotionally, albeit more slowly than he had physically. That was okay too. It was important to grieve, to recognize mistakes, to digest, and move forward. It might take time, but time was something he felt like he finally had in good supply.

  Once Antonia had recovered, they’d traveled around Italy, enjoying the different flavors and moods that each town and region offered. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and the longer he spent there, the more roots he felt like he was putting down. Steven loved the country areas; Tuscany and the Amalfi coast; Antonia just loved Italy.

  The one thing that was clear as they traveled was that they were going to be together for the duration. Their bond had grown increasingly powerful, eclipsing all other concerns or priorities. In each other, they’d found home, and they were there to stay.

  It was a lazy, dreamlike time, where anything seemed possible. More out of a sense of guilt at being unproductive than a desire to actually work, Steven had toyed with the idea of getting a vineyard in Chianti and making wine; but he’d discarded that concept once he’d seen the amount of labor that went into growing and harvesting and crushing and fermenting. So he had no plans, no particular agenda, just an all-consuming desire to be with Antonia. They’d been inseparable since she’d left the hospital, and hadn’t spent a single day apart since.

  “Antonia, I don’t care. Campione, south of Florence, wherever. As long as I’m with you, I’m home,” he told her.

  She looked at him. His hair had grown in quickly, and was about two-and-a-half inches long now. She could imagine him with longer hair. He’d look very dashing.

  “I feel the same, caro. You are home, and I’m home, too. It feels good,” she said, stretching her legs out. She nudged his crotch with her foot. “You want to drop the anchor, maybe fool around?”

  With one hand he untied the rope that held the sail and let it fall.

  “I thought you’d never ask. What does the captain have to do around here to get a little love?” he complained, standing up to move to the front of the boat.

  “Ai, with all the talking. Still with the words. Can’t you just look pretty and dance for me?” she asked, and pulled off her shirt.

  There were worse things to be than a boy toy for an Italian nymphomaniac, he reasoned. Far worse things. She was pulling her shorts off as she went below, looking at him impatiently. Mama mia. What a life.

  He dropped the anchor into the water, tied it off, and went to greet the sweetness of his destiny.

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  Excerpt from The Geronimo Breach

  The Geronimo Breach

  A THRILLER

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

  Chapter 1

  Bullets peppered the dirt around Al and his partner. They instinctively returned fire, the barrels of their automatic rifles pulsing white hot from burst after burst of armor piercing slugs. Thick smoke belched from a crippled station wagon lying on its side by the mouth of the rural alley where they’d taken cover. The glow of burning fuel intermingled with the unmistakable stench of seared flesh, creating a nauseating haze. A slug ricocheted off the peeling wall, gouging a chunk of brick from the dilapidated surface.

  A flickering of illumination from ancient streetlights succumbed to the gloom of late evening, casting otherworldly shadows over the rustic thoroughfare – now transformed to a killing zone.

  White noise and static shrieked from their radios – not that they could distinguish anything in the cacophony of the firefight. The concussion of gunfire had devastated their hearing, and the ringing from tinnitus obliterated all sounds besides the percussive chatter of their guns.

  Squinting down their sights at the blurs of motion on the rooftops of the bombed-out buildings across the street, they gave each other a knowing glance before squeezing off the last of their rounds. They weren’t going to make it.

  This was a deathtrap; they’d been boxed in with no hope of escape. Help was at least fifteen minutes out, assuming their base had received the solitary frantic distress call before the radio had been taken out. It didn’t look good.

  The incoming fire escalated to a hail of screaming death. Rifle ammo depleted,
they un-holstered their army-issue .45 pistols and fired intermittently in the direction of their attackers, to no obvious effect. They exchanged panicked looks – this wasn’t supposed to happen; just a routine patrol in a secure area with no reason to expect hostiles, much less heavily-armed ones intent on slaughtering them. It was supposed to be a cakewalk.

  The firing pin snicked on Dave’s gun as he reflexively squeezed the trigger, again and again, even after his magazine was spent. Al elbowed him back into the fight. Dazed, he stared at the weapon in his hand, before dropping the handgun and frantically fumbling for the scarred knife handle protruding from his belt; he almost had the serrated edge free from its sheath when his head exploded in a blast of bloody emulsion.

  Al spat out the essence of his mutilated partner and expended his last pistol rounds in a defiant salvo. He unsheathed his trusty blade for the final reckoning.

  Shouts in an unfamiliar tongue drifted from beyond the dense smoke at the alley’s mouth. A bright flash momentarily blinded him as a flare bounced down the length of the cobblestone passage before coming to rest a few yards from his now trembling body.

  Four figures emerged from the gloom, cautiously approaching the soldier’s hiding place through the fog of cordite and burning oil, their rifles trained on his blood-spattered profile. Pointing at the ludicrously inadequate combat knife clutched in Al’s shaking hand, the tallest of the bearded, turbaned warriors barked a guttural cackle. He handed his firearm to the figure beside him and from beneath his filthy robe withdrew a gleaming, viciously curved blade as long as his arm. He sliced at the air with it, savoring Al’s horrified gaze as it whistled its grim tune. The turbaned warrior grinned maliciously and moved forward.

  The angel of death had arrived, and it was time for Al to die.