by Jack Hardin
He blinked in the low light and took in his environment. The room was small, no larger than four square meters, made entirely of freshly poured concrete—the ceiling too. A small vent rattled above his head, and a naked bulb hung in the corner. A metal table sat before him, a chair on the other side. That was all. No window, no mirror, no cameras.
Between the dim light and the dark fear assaulting his mind, Bahar lost track of time. He waited, and then waited some more. His wrists ached behind his back, and his mouth was as dry as the inside of a flour jar.
Who had brought him here? And just where was here? What did they want with him?
Whatever the answers might be, he was sure that he would find out soon enough. And he was also certain of something else: he would never see his grandmother or his sister again. May God be merciful to them.
Bahar passed his time in the unnerving silence considering anything he may have done wrong. He had spoken nothing of his task, had been meticulous in the planning. His ability to network and plan while staying unnoticed was the very reason he had been selected. He may yet be a novice, but that did not mean he was incompetent.
Multiple possibilities ran through his mind, none of them good, none with outcomes that did not end with him in a dark prison for the remainder of his life. Or death.
Hours after he had arrived, after some of the initial adrenaline wore off and his head bobbed downward in a sleepy haze, the door scraped open behind him. Bahar jerked awake and sat upright, adrenaline flooding him all over again. The door slammed shut, and as he turned timidly in his seat, his most feared nightmare bloomed into reality.
He saw the laced boots first, then the cargo pants. As the man came around and stood on the other side of the table, Bahar recognized the distinct combat uniform of an American soldier. His icy blue eyes burned into Bahar’s. The young man looked away.
The soldier pulled out the chair across the table and sat. Placing a hand on the table, he slowly tapped his index finger in a slow cadence.
Bahar could feel the cold bore of his stare. He thought he might throw up. “What do you want with me?” he blurted in English. “What am I doing here?”
The officer gave him a hard, thin-lipped smile. “Bahar Shakor,” he said slowly. “I am Captain Savage. You and I—we need to have a little chat.”
Chapter One
Nice, France
Four Days Ago
The sun was warm on his face as his skis crested the speedboat’s wake and he cut away, returning to the flat surface of the dark blue water. His skis shimmered across it, the spray from the boat’s wake cascading by on his left. The burn in his legs continued to grow more intense, spreading past his knees and upward into his loins, the sensation of hot grease cascading through his veins. He had been holding the same rigid position on the water for nearly five minutes. He wasn’t a young man anymore. He wasn’t old either, but when you only go water skiing two or three days out of 365, it was hard for the body to keep up. Tomorrow and the following day, he would certainly be aching in places he forgot he had.
Florin Gronozav turned his attention to the boat and patted the top of his head. He was finished; thirty minutes in the skis was plenty. The pilot acknowledged him, slowed slightly, and carved a wide, foamy arc across the water as he made for a mooring field half a kilometer to the west.
The day was absolutely perfect: a cloudless sky and temperatures that had already peaked in the high seventies. In the distance, bikini-clad women lay sunbathing on the yachts, sailboats, and speedboats that peppered the enviable coast of the French Riviera.
Florin loved it here, so much so that he could not decide whether Nice or Lisbon clinched the top spot on his list of favorite summer destinations. His preferred winter destination was Garmisch-Partenkirchen in Germany. Nowhere came close to competing with it. Garmisch was home to the Zugspitze, the highest peak in the German Alps, and the town itself was rich in old-world Bavarian charm Florin loved so much. With each passing year, he saw his distaste for the urban accoutrements of the modern world growing stronger. He despised the thirty-story monoliths that made up every downtown, the concrete fields they stood in, and the light pollution that blurred out nearly every glowing speck in the starry heavens. And then there was the traffic, the noise, and the hurried bustle that made you think everyone was going to miss out on the creamy center of life if they didn’t get to their destinations in the next ten seconds. All that was for some people. But not for him. He preferred the slower pace of life and rich cultures of old-world towns scattered all over Europe. The quiet time he had spent on the Riviera these last few days had ticked away in a slow crawl. Just Florin’s pace. And it would have been the beginning of a perfect vacation if it wasn’t for that one nagging problem that was weighing him down like a pair of concrete boots. All the women and all the massages, all the sunbathing and water skiing, couldn’t shake the sensation of personal doom that had drifted over him like an ominous cloud.
As Florin skied into the mooring field and reached his destination, the muscles in his thighs burned at peak exertion. The pilot slowed and Florin bled off speed and sank back into the water. He slipped his feet from the bindings and gathered the skis to his chest. The pilot drew in the rope and then idled over. Florin handed up the skis, thanked him for his time, and then turned and swam to his yacht’s swim platform. The pilot turned out and headed back toward the marina.
Florin reached the ladder hanging off the teakwood platform of his 126-foot superyacht and heaved himself up. He stood on wobbly legs as saltwater dribbled off him like oversized raindrops. His chief attendant appeared with a towel and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Teto.” After scrubbing the towel over his head, Florin draped it across the back of his broad neck. The thin gold chain around his neck glistened in the sunlight and lay on the thick nest of blond hair carpeting his chest. He looked over at Teto and paused. “Is something wrong?”
Teto hesitated. The young man’s dark Ethiopian skin clashed against the brilliant white of his teeth. “You… have a guest. He is waiting for you on the bridge deck.”
Florin was not expecting any visitors. And certainly, no one who would have the audacity to invite themselves onto his yacht. “Who?”
“Mikhail Ivanov.”
A mingled rush of anger and anxiety passed through Florin’s chest. He allowed himself a long sigh. “Tell him I will be with him presently.”
“Of course.”
Florin grasped both ends of the towel and made his way to the master stateroom on the main deck. Stepping into the ensuite bathroom, he took a quick shower and dressed in a white short-sleeve button-down and matching shorts. He ran a comb through his hair, slipped into a pair of loafers, and stepped onto the breezeway.
He paused and placed his hands on the wood railing as an unconscious sigh escaped from deep inside his chest. His gaze fell across the open expanse of water to where the curved coastline of the Bay of Angels ended at Nice’s sandy beach and old-world architecture.
Florin had come to the French Riviera to clear his head, to get away from the concussive effects that had resulted from the largest professional setback of his lifetime. He had been dealt a blow that was as much indefensible as it was unpredictable. He needed time to think, time to work through his options, to begin at square one and work his way forward from there. He had hoped that getting away and getting out on his yacht would ease his anxieties. But that had not been the case. He was only stressing in a more favorable location. The scenery was better, but on the inside stirred an anxious tempest.
He had left instructions at his office in Stockholm that he was not to be bothered for any reason. All calls and emails were to be held until his return; no one was to know where he was. And yet, the very face of his dilemma had found him and boarded his yacht.
A breeze drifted across the water and lifted a lock of hair off his forehead. Florin released his tentative grip on the rail and continued down the breezeway, taking his time as he made his w
ay to the bridge deck. He was reluctant to have this meeting and swallowed hard when he saw the towering figure of Mikhail Ivanov standing on the deck with his back to him.
Florin cleared his throat and forced a smile, spreading his hands in a hospitable gesture as his guest turned around. “Mikhail,” he said with as much enthusiasm he could muster. “What a surprise.”
Florin was not a small man. But Mikhail Ivanov dwarfed even him. The Russian’s broad shoulders, thick neck, and barrel chest presented an imposing figure. Low, thick brows and a hard jawline completed a look that made him appear to be chiseled out of concrete. His well-trimmed brown hair was shot with gray, his beard nearly overtaken with it. His skin was unusually tan, the result of a great deal of time in the sun, and a Hawaiian shirt hung loosely over his torso. A low ball glass was in his hand, filled with amber liquid.
He boards my yacht uninvited and then drinks of my liquor. Florin knew Teto would have offered the drink. Still, the entire situation irritated him.
Mikhail did not offer a hand, did not return the smile. When his cold gray eyes landed on Florin, Florin’s stomach clenched into a nervous knot.
“What brings you to the Riviera?” Florin asked.
The Russian stared at him for a long while, his gaze unwavering. Finally, he broke the growing tension, “Come, sit with me.” He turned and moved to a well-appointed lounge area beneath the shade of a retractable awning.
Florin suddenly felt like he was the guest on his own yacht. He followed Mikhail, and as soon as they were settled into their chairs, Teto appeared with a decanter and another glass. He poured a measure of scotch into the glass, handed it to Florin, added some to Mikhail’s glass, and then quietly left after placing the decanter on the side table.
Mikhail took a sip of his scotch, swirled it slowly in his mouth, and closed his eyes as he swallowed. Florin set his glass to his lips and threw back half its contents, treating it like a cheap vodka instead of the rarified aged whiskey that it was. It had the desired effect, immediately warming his chest and cutting across the apprehension.
Mikhail opened his eyes and clicked his tongue as if he were considering his opening salvo. “Florin… Florin. How long have we known each other? Twenty years? Twenty-five years?”
“Twenty-three. If we’re being precise.”
“Twenty-three. A good span of time. And we have, what, been doing business together for ten of those years?”
“Yes. Ten years,” Florin replied.
“Ever since you came to me with the knowledge that Tanzania was set to devalue their currency.” The hint of a smile appeared in the corners of Mikhail’s lips. “The beginning of a beautiful partnership. We made a great deal of money on that one. And ever since,”—he swept out a hand—“you have transitioned from an average man making below average money in the public sector to becoming one of the wealthiest men in the world.”
Florin nodded. Mikhail was right. They had come a long way together. When they met all those years ago, Florin had been working a drab desk job in a drab office with Romania’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Mikhail, a carryover from the KGB, was working as a mid-level officer in Moscow’s Federal Security Service.
They were first introduced at a dinner party at the Russian Embassy in Bucharest. The evening was perfectly ordinary; nothing memorable about it. Just a typical assembly of intelligence officers, politicians, and administrators. Jokes were told about how things had been before the Iron Curtain came down, a speech was made by Romania’s president, who praised the blossoming relationship between his country and Russia, and alcohol was plentiful and free flowing. Toward the end of the evening, a mutual colleague in the FIS had introduced Florin to Mikhail. The two had spoken no more than five minutes, briefly offering their opinions of the president's speech and the champagne. And that was it. The next morning, when Florin returned to his office nursing a hangover, he almost did not recognize the large Russian waiting for him behind his desk. Even now, Florin recognized the pattern that had always been there. Mikhail did not ask for permission to do anything. Not back then, and not now. He had a way of inserting himself into your private space without asking and without apology. It was his way of asserting a psychological advantage, wordlessly informing you who was in charge.
Mikhail had asked Florin to shut the door to the office and invited him to have a seat in the chair in front of his desk. The Russian then informed, Florin of his need for certain information. He needed access to the Deputy of the Interior’s personal call logs and banking records and had been told that Florin might be able to help him. To grease the wheels, Mikhail had reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, brought out an envelope, and set it on the desk. And that was how Florin’s betrayal of his country had begun. He hadn’t even blinked. The offer was made, he had accepted, and that was it. He never looked back, fully unpossessed by guilt. Nevermind that the Deputy of the Interior was mysteriously found dead at a villa in the Alps, not a month later.
Thereafter, Florin became Russia’s go-to source for any and all workings within Romania, functioning as an informant for nearly fifteen years. If Russia needed something—anything—and Florin could get his hands on it, then Russia always got it. Over the years, he received many more envelopes filled with cash and payments substantial enough to warrant a healthy deposit into an untraceable bank account in the Caribbean.
Eventually, Mikhail took his leave of the FSB and entered the private sector, specializing in back-channel deals and black market industrial trade. Within a decade, he was one of Russia’s unofficial oligarchs, one of the exceptionally wealthy who pulled the nation’s levers behind the vast array of curtains. Florin remained with Romania’s Foreign Intelligence Service, moving up in rank and acquiring greater access to clandestine files and sensitive information. He was happy with the arrangement, content to stay under the radar building the means to a nice retirement. Until, that is, an opportunity presented itself that made all the money the Russians had paid him to date look like cheap coins.
A trusted source had informed Florin that Tanzania, in a move intended to offset a portion of their sovereign debt burden, was making plans to devalue its currency. The information came straight out of Africa and was known to no one else outside of the highest officials in Tanzania. There were no whispers of it in any of the global financial markets. Florin presented the details to Mikhail, who, after commissioning the research, confirmed the accuracy of the inside information. Mikhail gathered a small group of trusted billionaires and together they shorted the currency. Florin recognized the golden opportunity and also claimed it for his own, dumping everything he had into it. When it was all said and done, Florin was a very wealthy man, and Mikhail, already affluent in his own right, even richer.
The deal had served as the fulcrum Florin needed to pry himself away from government work. He turned in his notice, but not before greasing the palms of anyone in Bucharest who might wonder why his lifestyle was about to change radically for the better. Money had a way of bringing nosy people to sudden disinterest.
So he stepped out into a life of newfound wealth and, following Mikhail’s lead, utilized his extensive network of political connections to increase his net worth many times over. He purchased vast holdings of real estate in Dubai and London, black market oil contracts in Libya, and cornered the shadow gambling economy in Singapore. As it turned out, the Romanian intelligence officer possessed a great deal of business acumen that had lain dormant during his years with the FSI.
His business interests eventually diverged from those of Mikhail Ivanov. The two men came to speak only on rare occasions and then, only when they needed a favor that would help leverage a deal or introduction in their favor. Over time, Mikhail had solidified a reputation as a hard-nosed and even backstabbing associate, leaving business partners hanging out to dry or using them as scapegoats until the earlier respect and admiration Florin had had for the older Russian was all but gone, disdain and distrust taking their place.
&nbs
p; So it had only been with great reluctance that Florin had come to Mikhail with this latest of opportunities. The upside was too large, the possibilities too vast to pass up. And because the nature of the opportunity related directly to the Kremlin, Florin had no choice but to bring it to the former KGB officer.
That was eight months ago now, and everything had been proceeding perfectly, until several days ago, when it all imploded. Florin hadn’t seen it coming. No one had. But because Florin had hatched the plan, because he had taken the lead on the negotiations, and because the Kremlin had laid ultimate responsibility for the project at his feet, he was the man everyone had turned and looked at when it went off the rails.
Mikhail took another sip of his scotch. “I know that this turn of events is unexpected, Florin. It was for all of us. But can you imagine my surprise when I arrived at your office only to be informed that you were not there and that you would be unavailable for the next several days? And imagine also, Florin, my surprise, when my people discovered that you are enjoying a relaxing stay on the French Riviera.” Mikhail shook his head. “Such a thing reminds me of the Director of the Russian Athletics Federation taking a holiday the moment the allegations of doping were brought to light.”
Florin would not be brought to intimidation. “You know how I work, Mikhail. You of all people know that I could not stay in that pressure cooker any longer. Many people, including yourself, are expecting sound and expedient solutions. I am here seeking a clear mind.”
“Even so, optics are everything. Especially in our line of work. You come here to France at a time like this and the wrong people find out… It leaves me in a difficult situation having to explain to my business partners why you are not treating such a matter with the gravity it deserves.”
Florin did not respond. He had nothing else to say. The fact was, he understood with absolute precision what the ramifications were, what the outcomes would look like if he did not repair the frayed wiring of this enterprise. Mikhail’s business partners were not ordinary investors hoping to recoup their initial stakes with a little interest. No, they were some of Russia’s richest, most influential people, every last one of them with deep ties to the Kremlin.