Devil's Move

by Leslie Wolfe

  Vitaliy graduated a calmer, more responsible young adult, but the rebel still lived under the surface, ready to come out. His thinking was not shaped like everyone else’s. Secretly, he was not a communist, nor was he a patriot. He stayed self-centered, focused solely on his own well-being. His powerful mind had survived many brainwashing exercises during his formative years and helped him come up with solutions and ideas that were creative, out of the ordinary, and very successful. This type of thinking helped him advance fast through the ranks of the KGB First Chief Directorate, where he continued to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  Vitaliy hated working for the KGB. He hated working for anyone for that matter, but, of course, the KGB was not something one resigned from; it was unconceivable, as bad as treason. There was no way out. Looking back though, joining the KGB had been the decision that had opened the door for him to become who he was today.

  He spoke four languages fluently, his linguistic skills developed in early childhood by his multilingual family environment. His English was flawless and almost free of accent; his German and French were not bad either, and his unpracticed Farsi almost forgotten.

  By 1981, he had shaped up and become an appreciated intelligence officer, working on assignments in Western Europe. Of course, having a KGB general for a father hadn’t hurt at all. The most coveted assignments were in Western Europe and North America, and by the time he had turned thirty, he had worked both regions. He was attracted mostly to assignments of an economic nature. He started handholding researchers and USSR delegates through their rarely seen business trips to the West to make sure they didn’t defect. He moved up to commercial contract negotiations and vetting of foreign corporation officials who wanted to open subsidiaries in the USSR.

  Vitaliy arranged foreign trade contracts of hundreds of millions of rubles, and, in this role, he was the one getting the bribes. Corruption of USSR commercial representatives was a well-known reality in the business circles of the West. Vitaliy was smart about the bribes he accepted. The shinier items—most coveted luxury watch, gold chain, VCR, or stereo—were reserved for his commanding officer. He delivered the items personally to his boss, calling them “small gifts,” and his boss never asked Vitaliy where they’d come from. Instead, he named Vitaliy for the next commercial assignment and the next one after that.

  Vitaliy kept the bulk of the bribes, stashing them away as hard currency or gold in places all over the West, together with contact information for key business people he had met. He had sworn his allegiance to the USSR, but when it came to his squirreled greenbacks, he trusted the Western powers more. He was smart, greedy, and opportunistic, ruthlessly negotiating his bribes. Whenever he saw a way to grab a perk or make a profit, he didn’t hesitate. He also found the time to make friends with other young, ambitious, cutthroat Russian intelligence officers, friendships he cultivated carefully throughout the years.

  One day it was over, one cold November day in 1991. Communism was done and finished; the KGB was falling apart, and Vitaliy was free again. He left the dissolving KGB without giving any notice, just scribbling a one-line resignation letter to get his papers released from the personnel department. He exited the Lubyanka KGB headquarters edifice without looking back and started building his fortune.

  With the USSR falling apart and all the former Soviet Republics seeking their independence from Russia, there was chaos in the streets. Many of his Russian friends and contacts were in Russia, including the majority of his former KGB contacts, who had decided to return home instead of immigrating to or seeking asylum in the West. Russia was also not a communist economy anymore. It was the dawn of Russian capitalism through a painful passage from communist, state-owned structures to the capitalist, free-market economy, a period one could call transitionism.

  However, no one knew how to be a capitalist, how to think like one. Being citizens of a communist country for generations, never traveling outside the USSR, having mandatory but guaranteed jobs, and having lived in a system that made owning any kind of property or wealth a capital offense, no one knew how to become a capitalist overnight. No one except Vitaliy and other foreign intelligence officers who had stashed their cash outside the country, had contacts in the real capitalist world, and the knowledge of what capitalism was, how it worked, and how it can make the right people rich.

  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. Shit...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 sh
ould 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.

  ...Chapter 7: The Drive to Tahoe

  ...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 crap anyway.” He was still mad.

  Laura felt a pang of anger taking over her self-imposed calm.

  “I give a crap 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. Th
ere’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.