Gambit, David Hagberg [most life changing books .TXT] 📗

“Plenty of ideas, but ex–special operators are a dime a dozen in the business.”

“It’ll be a night attack, and we’ll be outside in the bush or behind a rock somewhere with good firing lines on our house,” Pete said. She reached out and touched his cheek. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

The Hotel du Paris, Monaco’s finest, had always been one of Hammond’s favorite spots anywhere on the planet. After he had made his first five million, he’d treated himself and his girlfriend at the time to the Princess Grace Diamond suite, which even then was more than twenty thousand euros per night, worth every cent in his estimation. And he’d been staying there at least once a year ever since.

He and Susan had gotten up around ten and had sauntered down to the private beach, where they sat on chaise longues drinking Krug under one of the striped cabanas. It was just past eleven, and Susan said she was getting hungry.

“Let’s finish the wine and then go up,” Hammond said. “Unless you want a picnic lunch brought down.”

“Out here,” she said. “It’s nice.”

Hammond picked up the phone that did not ring but was answered immediately by a woman speaking English with a French accent.

“May we be of service, Mr. Hammond?”

“We need another bottle of wine, and fix us something for lunch.”

“Do you have a preference, monsieur?”

“I’ll trust your good judgment.”

Susan had watched, and when he hung up, she managed a slight smile. “How do you do it, Thomas?”

“Do what?”

“Sit on the beach, drink wine, and order lunch as if nothing were going on?”

“It’s a nice day, I’m with a woman I love, and I’m hungry.”

“But it’s going to happen in Greece in the next thirty-six hours, and if it fails again, it’s very possible that a virtual shitstorm could rain down on us. Aren’t you worried?”

He’d thought about that from the point when the second attempt in Washington had been made and failed, and he had been frightened for a time, but then he’d relied on his pipeline deal with Tarasov to provide him with a shield. Shortly after that, he’d once again played the situation like the game he’d wanted it to be from the start.

“Actually, no,” he said.

She laughed. “You’re either the smartest man I know or the craziest.”

He laughed, too. “Probably a little of both,” he said. “But the game’s afoot.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

Senior Lieutenant Vetrov showed up with his team a few minutes after 1800 hours, assuring Nyunin that they fully understood what was needed of them and had agreed without reservation to the terms.

“We’re doing it for the Rodina,” the senior lieutenant said.

“And yourselves.”

“If you say so, sir.”

The six of them crowded into Nyunin’s office, and Vetrov handed them their terms-of-enlistment papers. All of them in battle camos stood at attention.

They looked young, Nyunin thought, barely out of their teen years. But they also looked hard, their bodies for the most part smaller than the average Russian, but muscled without being muscle-bound. Supple, with an almost wild animal edge to their faces and postures.

“Do you understand what you have been asked to do, and the requirements of the mission?” Nyunin began.

All of them nodded.

“This will be handled as a captain’s mast, the result of which will be dishonorable discharges and a debt to you men that your country will never be able to properly repay except by its lasting gratitude.”

No one said a thing.

“Sound off.”

One by one, they reported their names, ranks, and serial numbers, beginning with Vetrov, and from his left, the youngest looking of them all, Vasili Anosov, Aleksei Petrin and Eduard Nikolayev—who could have been twins—Ivan Orlov with his Siberian looks, and Ilich Silin, a man near thirty who had the attitude that he was ready to cut everyone’s throat.

When it was over and they were gone, Nyunin took the Makarov out and laid it on the desktop.

The Gulfstream G500 leased from a Bulgarian service was incoming and due to land within forty minutes. Vetrov’s team would have changed into civilian clothes by then, and within fifteen minutes of the aircraft touching down, they and their equipment would be aboard and the Gulfstream airborne.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Clarke Bender flew up to New York on a private FBI jet and was met at LaGuardia by Alicia Sherman, the Bureau’s special agent in charge of the UN desk, who’d been working on the case she’d been sent twelve hours ago. She was a businesslike woman in her midthirties, a Harvard graduate on her way up, but she looked athletic, even hard around the edges, with a sharply chiseled face and deep blue eyes.

They got into a Caddy SUV, Sherman driving, and headed into the city. “There definitely was a connection between Rodriguez and Viktor Kuprik other than one of a simple business relationship.”

She took a file folder from between the center console and her seat and handed it to Bender. “What we’ve come up with so far.”

“I’ll look at it later; for now, give me the highlights, because I think that we’re running out of time,” Bender said.

“Sir, it would help if I had some idea in what direction you want us to take this investigation. I mean, if it’s a possible collusion between the Russian delegation and someone in Washington, maybe the White House, we could put together a good case for wiretapping.”

“Nothing like that. This time, it has to do with a private citizen who may be in physical danger because of possible business dealings with Russia.”

Sherman glanced over. “Physical danger?”

“Imminent. And Hammond Enterprises Strategic Liaison Group, which Rodriguez headed, might have something to do with it. Or at least they might have information we can use.”

“Do we have a search warrant for the offices, or subpoena for Wilfred Maslak, who’s the acting COO? We have Rodriguez’s murder as an open case because of his connection with Kuprik.”

“I don’t want to slow this thing down, tying it up with