Devil's Move

by Leslie Wolfe

  “This is not negotiable,” Tom said in his I-am-the-boss-and-I-will-act-like-it voice. “You need to give me time to sort this out, and I want to make sure you’re safe while I get things figured out.”

  Silence. Alex did not respond. A few days in the sun wouldn’t hurt at all, and she always loved spending time with Steve.

  Kramer moaned and started to move, coming about. Alex turned, and with a quick kick in the neck, knocked her out cold again.

  “Look, it’s Thursday,” Tom continued. “Hop on a plane, get down there, spend the weekend. You can come back on Monday if you like, or you can fly back with Steve.”

  “All right.” She caved. There was logic to Tom’s request, and the perspective of a weekend in the islands was not an easy offer to decline. “But I’m not scared, and I’m not running, so you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Tom chuckled. “Head straight for the airport as soon as the cops take Kramer. No packing, no going by the house, no nothing. Buy some new stuff from the airport; it’s on me.”

  ...Chapter 26: New Name, Old Habits

  ...Friday, January 15, 9:17AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)

  ...The Kremlin

  ...Moscow, Russia

  Russian President Piotr Abramovich greeted Minister of Defense Mikhail Nikolaev Dimitrov with open arms and a full glass of vodka, despite the early morning hour.

  “Mishka,” Abramovich said, hugging the man in a rare gesture of benevolence, “have one with me. Let’s drink to Russia’s glory.” He handed Dimitrov the glass.

  Dimitrov took the glass and inhaled the cold alcohol vapor. “To Russia the great,” he cheered and downed the liquor.

  “To Russia the great,” Abramovich followed.

  Dimitrov’s senses perked up. Abramovich was unusually friendly, a state of mind just as dangerous as one of his famous rages, because it could change without notice or reason. One wrong step, one uninspired comment, and he could be thrown into the depths of Siberia, never to see his family again. Damn...

  “Tell me about your plan,” Abramovich said. “When can I have my old KGB back?”

  He had suggested the idea to Abramovich only a few days earlier. His current friendliness was an indication of how much the president had liked his idea. Now he had to make it happen. Dimitrov truly believed Russia deserved to recover its long-lost glory and restore order, progress, and control within its boundaries. Maybe this was the way to make that happen. And hopefully it would please the unstable alcoholic he had the privilege to work for.

  “Yes, of course I have a plan,” Dimitrov said, unbuttoning his overcoat. The vodka was heating his blood, making him sweat under the heavy winter astrakhan coat he was wearing.

  “Great, I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” Abramovich said, reaching to fill Dimitrov’s glass again. “When do we start operations?”

  “We’ve already started. Vitya is organizing the network for his first assignment. On my end, I’m assembling a joint unit, FSB and SVR, and we’re going to name it Joint 7th Division. It will be entirely dedicated to covert operations. Our own black-ops unit. The unit commander will report directly to me, bypassing the heads of the FSB and SVR.”

  “Why joint?” Abramovich asked. “Why not completely new, independent?”

  “KGB disbanded to form two pieces in 1991; that’s how FSB and SVR came to be, you remember. That’s where all the talented operatives are, in one or the other of those organizations.”

  “So we are going to join the two to bring KGB back?”

  “No. In that case, everyone would know what we’re planning. We’re just going to handpick the best of the best operatives from each organization and assign them to the new Joint 7th Division, unseen and unnoticed. FSB and SVR will continue to exist as cover for the real intelligence black ops. Vitya will lead the 7th.”

  “Good, good,” Abramovich said, deep in thought.

  “Any concerns? Anything you don’t like about this plan?” Dimitrov probed.

  “It’s the name. Why the 7th Division? What are the other six?”

  “They don’t exist, gospodin prezident, but everyone will think they do. They’ll waste their intelligence resources trying to find them.”

  “Da! I like that! What are you planning to do next? When will you start making the bastards pay?”

  “Soon, gospodin prezident. Our first Joint 7th Division mission is well underway, and it will make you proud.”

  ...Chapter 27: At the Spa

  ...Friday, January 15, 9:22PM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)

  ...Kurhaus of Baden-Baden

  ...Baden-Baden, Germany

  Vitaliy Kirillovich Myatlev relished in the VIP treatment he was offered every time he visited the majestic Kurhaus Casino and Resort in Baden-Baden. Secular building, famous for two centuries for its fine dining, excellent amenities, and high-roller gambling in discrete, full-service settings, Kurhaus knew how to welcome its regulars. Especially the very rich ones like Myatlev.

  Myatlev loved to party, and the state of decay of his fifty-nine-year-old body reflected that fact ruthlessly. Dark circles around his sunken eyes, swollen eyelids, and the reddish hue of the typical alcohol abuser’s nose gave him the physiognomy of a Moscow street drunk. The five-day stubble, peppered with gray, did not help improve his appearance. Neither did the relatively short, greasy, and unkempt hair, running in all directions from his receding hairline, despite Myatlev’s attempt to get it under control by cutting it often.

  His neckline was where all the street drunk resemblance stopped. From the neck down, Myatlev was dressed impeccably in high-end couture, custom-made by some of the finest tailors in Paris and London. Myatlev took trips twice a year to get his wardrobe refreshed, and he placed no limit on what he was willing to spend to achieve the look he wanted.

  Kurhaus Baden-Baden was one of Myatlev’s favorite stomping grounds. The massive building, featuring neo-classical interiors lushly decorated with elegant chandeliers and exquisite paintings, was very well suited to the image he wanted to present. The Kurhaus staff was efficient to the point of reading his mind, or so he believed. In fact, most staffers were quite good at reading the body language of their clients, and they rushed to satisfy any need, even before Myatlev acknowledged or formulated his desire. Any need whatsoever. The Kurhaus was very accommodating, ensuring each stay was going to fulfill his every wish.

  This time Myatlev was there for business, not pleasure. He was there to make the acquaintance of Dave Vaughn, American billionaire from Texas, with interests similar to his in oil, gas, and energy. The encounter had to appear serendipitous to Vaughn, but that was no issue; Myatlev was good at setting such things up, thanks to his KGB upbringing. A well-compensated bellhop had been watching for Vaughn to make a reservation. Once that had happened, Myatlev was on his way too. The same bellhop had texted him that Vaughn was at the blackjack high-roller table, so that’s where Myatlev went, directly after his arrival at Kurhaus, without even bothering to check-in.

  He headed for the high-roller tables, separated from the rest of the casino by tinted glass windows and lavishly decorated walls. Each high-roller table had its own private room. Minimum bet 500 Euros, no high limit at the table for selected clientele. Dedicated staff for every room, waiters in white shirts and black vests assisted by lovely young ladies, keeping the players nourished, hydrated, and slightly buzzed.

  Myatlev toured the high-roller area, looking to pinpoint his target, Vaughn. There he was, in a blackjack high-roller suite, just as his favorite bellhop had said. Right next to Vaughn’s table, an empty one waited for him, courtesy of the same bellhop. He took it and was greeted warmly by the room staff, all old acquaintances from his previous trips.

  He started playing double-deck blackjack, half-focused on the game while keeping an eye on his next-door neighbor. Catching his eye at the right moment, Myatlev raised his glass toward Vaughn and made an inviting gesture with his hand. The American nodded, accepting the invitation. He entered Myatlev�
�s room with his hand extended.

  “Dave Vaughn, nice to meet you,” he said, then took a seat at the table.

  “Vitya Myatlev, or V for short,” the Russian said.

  “I think I’ll stick with V.” Vaughn laughed.

  “I think we’ve crossed paths before around here, yes?”

  “Most likely,” Vaughn confirmed. “You do look familiar, and we do seem to like the same game.”

  “Do you want to join forces?”

  “Sure, why not?” Vaughn made a hand gesture, indicating the change in play. The dealer added two more decks to the card-shuffling machine.

  The American liked his Scotch, and Myatlev kept them coming discreetly, while making sure the vodka martinis he was downing were more and more virgin as the night advanced. He needed to think sharp and be on top of his game. It was time to move in for the kill.

  “Ah, I think I have had enough for tonight,” Myatlev said, right after Vaughn had scored several hundred thousand in a winning hand. “Want to join me on the terrace for some fresh air and a cigar?

  “Absolutely,” a happy and tipsy Vaughn replied.

  “Excellent game, thank you for joining my table; it was an honor.”

  “Pleasure was mine, all mine,” Vaughn said, slurring a little and lighting his cigar with moderate difficulty.

  “It’s amazing what we can do if we join forces, isn’t it?”

  “Right, right.” Vaughn puffed some smoke toward the moonlit sky.

  “Makes me wonder if we couldn’t join our forces outside the blackjack table, what do you think?”

  The American did not answer. Myatlev continued his sale.

  “We’re both in oil and energy, we have common interests; we care about little more than our respective businesses, yet we compete instead of being allies. Can you imagine the things we could do as allies?”

  “An alliance with a Russian?” Vaughn blurted out, his typical diplomacy diluted by the Scotch.

  “Who cares about that kind of stuff anymore? It’s all gone, right?” Myatlev laughed, patting the American on his shoulder.

  “What do you have in mind?” Vaughn was trying to focus, the effort to regain use of his thinking brain creasing his forehead in the process.

  “We could make more money working together, dividing areas and markets, building new distribution channels and new markets, taking all our competitors by storm.”

  “Interesting,” Vaughn said, thinking hard. “Yes, I guess we could become stronger against Arab oil, suffocate the bastards a little.”

  “Yes, yes,” Myatlev said, “and much more.”

  “Like what?”

  “We could influence things for each other. For example,” he said, carefully watching Vaughn’s reactions, “you could become the supporter of the democratic candidate for president in the United States.”

  Vaughn didn’t seem bothered by the idea. Good. Maybe not all Texans were republicans. That just made it easier.

  “Do you know what that would do for you and me?”

  Vaughn did not respond, so Myatlev continued. “The republican candidate will most likely put protectionist sanctions in place, or that’s what he said, anyway. That will bring taxes and limitations for you even more than for me. That guy is trouble. Bobby Johnson, on the other hand, is open-minded and malleable, is pro-globalization, and is willing to listen to big business before making policy. He’s the man you want in the White House. Trust me, he’s the one.”

  “I know; you’re right. I like Johnson. I think he’ll be less trouble than the republican, Krassner.”

  “Right, so go for it, help the guy a little; put your own guy in the White House.” Myatlev laughed, patting Vaughn on the shoulder again.

  Hopefully, all that Vaughn would remember the following morning would be that he had a good time, made a new friend, won a small fortune at a card game, and decided to support Bobby Johnson’s run for president.

  ...Chapter 28: A Call for Help

  ...Saturday, January 16, 7:17AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)

  ...Robert Wilton’s Residence

  ...Washington, DC

  This is pointless, Robert thought, giving up the night-long effort to catch some shuteye in favor of letting Melanie sleep undisturbed. All he’d been able to do this past night was toss and turn, fall asleep for brief periods of time, then wake up startled and start tossing and turning again.

  He sat on his side of the bed, careful to not wake her. He looked at her and felt a knot climbing in his throat and his eyes moisten. Her face was shedding the sickly gray complexion bestowed by the congestive heart failure. She was sleeping well, eating well; she was regaining her old energy and passion for life. It was worth it, Robert reflected, she was worth it. Anything.

  Yet his conscience wouldn’t let him find his peace. Maybe it was his upbringing, an upbringing that had instilled solid moral values, in a family where right was right and wrong was wrong, with no room for gray areas in the middle. Born to a middle-class, Midwestern family in Iowa, Robert had benefitted from the undivided attention of an intelligent, patient, principled, yet strict mother. A single child, Robert had been encouraged to think before acting and to evaluate the moral value of all decisions.

  His mother had taught him to analyze before acting and to refrain from pursuing actions or deeds with a negative moral value. Not from a religious point of view though, despite her Catholic convictions. Although she was a faithful woman, she was not obsessed with religion, but she did find moral guidance in Catholic principles whenever in doubt. She had taught him to analyze actions from a logical perspective, and she had explained the meaning of right and wrong by reason. Her definition of a moral code had been about determining the set of guiding principles that would keep Robert out of trouble with the law, would make him successful in life, would make him feel good, even proud about his actions and how he conducted himself, and would help him find peace with his conscience. There was no peace to be found now. A month had passed since Melanie’s surgery, and his conscience bothered him more and more.

  His mother had always encouraged him to fix things when they were broken. Robert had lived his entire adult life on these moral principles and had built a remarkable career for himself by doing the right things, fixing what was broken, and taking assertive action when needed. Something was definitely broken now, and Robert knew only one person who could, maybe, be of some help. Or at least offer some advice.

  He stood quietly, gathered his cell phone from his nightstand, and left the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him. He got dressed in a hurry, putting on some crumpled jeans, a shirt, and a parka. In a hurry, he scribbled “out shopping” on a sticky note and slapped it on the fridge door, then closed the garage door behind him.

  Climbing into his car, he took a deep breath, holding his face in his cold hands. Although new to him, this gesture was becoming more and more common.

  “May God help me do the right thing,” he murmured and turned the key in the ignition.

  Almost an hour later, just an anonymous figure in the crowded Walmart parking lot, Robert unwrapped a burner cell with trembling hands. He verified that it worked properly, then dialed a number, holding his breath.

  The phone rang for a while.

  “Hello?” a sleepy voice greeted.

  “Sam? It’s Robert, Robert Wilton. Sorry to call so—”

  “Hey, Rob, long time no see,” Sam interrupted. “Almost didn’t pick up, didn’t recognize your new number. How have you been?”

  “It’s a burn phone,” Robert clarified, skipping past pleasantries and jumping into the core of the problem.

  Thick silence ensued. Sam Russell, retired CIA operative and lifelong friend of Robert’s since their paths had crossed in Vietnam, reacted instantly to the words indicating that his friend was facing some predicament.

  Silence broke with some fumbling noises, as if Sam were touching phone keys or attaching hardware to his phone.

  “Line is secure now, Rob
, you can spill it. What’s up?”

  Robert unloaded the entire story in one breath, one long phrase that made little sense.

  “I’m in serious trouble, Sam. I screwed up,” he concluded. “And I don’t even know what kind of trouble. People are dead. I need to call the cops, but I need you to protect Melanie.”

  “OK, slow down. Let’s take this one step at a time; let’s start over,” Sam said in a reassuring tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Together. Like old times.”

  Sam’s reference to their shared Vietnam tribulations had a grounding effect on Robert. Sam had been a POW in a camp liberated by Robert’s unit at the end of the Vietnam War. Robert’s skinny, grimy face had been the first American face Sam had seen in months. Getting to safety had not been easy for the two of them. They’d had no food or water, and Sam had been malnourished and tortured for months. Robert gave him every bit of food he could get and carried him when he couldn’t walk anymore. During their endless, exhausting march through the jungle, they had saved each other’s lives more than once and had become closer than brothers. They had been through worse and still made it home in one piece. Maybe there was hope.

  “Let’s start over; let me get the facts,” Sam said. “So, they declined Melanie for the heart transplant, right? When was that?”

  “Yes, that’s right. MedStar Georgetown University Hospital declined her at the beginning of December. They said it was because of her DUI.”

  “Then this guy approached you? What was his name?”

  “Helms, that’s what he said. Not sure if it’s real.”

  “Probably not. Then he offered you a transplant in return for your influencing an outsourcing or offshoring decision? That seems like a lot of trouble to get a contract. What kind of money are we talking about with this contract? What’s it for?”

  “It’s the...” Robert hesitated, thinking of the confidentiality he was sworn to maintain. “It’s for the e-vote overhaul, Sam.”