Minotaur

3

Fiona led Chapel out onto a wide deck behind the house, where he had a good view of the swimming pool and beyond it the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean. It looked more like the veranda of a luxury resort in the Caribbean than the recreation area of a single family on the Long Island coast, with dozens of deck chairs and patio tables set up as if a massive party was likely to break out at any moment. Only one of the chairs was occupied. Ygor Favorov was watching the sun set while he waited for his dinner. He did not get up as Chapel approached, but he did hold out a hand for Chapel to shake.

“You’ve met my wife, I see. My prize possession,” Favorov said. The man’s voice had a little of Russia left in it, but otherwise he looked like any other East Coast American millionaire. His hair had thinned out on top but was still dark. Expensively simple sunglasses perched on his beak-like nose. He had an even rich tan and his white open-necked shirt was made of slightly rumpled linen.

“I’ve had that pleasure,” Chapel replied.

Favorov nodded as if Chapel had confirmed something he already believed. “This house is mostly her work. She keeps it pleasant for me, and she raises my children.”

“You make me sound like a housewife,” Fiona protested, with a smile.

“Oh, not just that. Outside this house, she’s active in many charity causes, of course. You know about this, Chapel? You know that rich women spend their days trying to help the poor? It’s so they don’t feel quite so useless.”

Chapel saw Fiona stiffen, just a little, from the corner of his eye. Her perfect façade never cracked, but she didn’t laugh off the barb, either. Favorov was trying to sound him out, that much was clear, but he was also giving himself away a little—Chapel could tell Favorov’s marriage wasn’t perfect.

“From what I’ve seen,” Chapel said, “she could get a job anywhere as an interior decorator.” He had no idea if that was the right thing to say or not, but it got Fiona looking at him with something like respect. That was good. He could use all the allies he could get, here.

“You’re not the usual fellow,” Favorov said. “Not CIA.”

“No, sir. I’m from the Pentagon,” Chapel said, which was strictly true. Rupert Hollingshead, his director, had an office in the Pentagon—or rather, underneath it, in a secret fallout shelter that didn’t appear on the official tour.

Favorov grunted in confusion. “Every year, someone comes to dinner. To see if I still have any secrets left to sell. I’ll tell you what I tell the CIA. I’m out of stock.”

Chapel tried to smile. What he knew about Favorov made it difficult. The Russian had been in the GRU, once, Soviet military intelligence. He had been one of the USSR’s leading men in Afghanistan and had overseen part of the war there that had brought the Soviet empire to its knees. His hands had gotten pretty dirty in the process. If the dossier Chapel had seen was accurate, then Favorov had been responsible for the destruction of at least three Afghan villages—with the civilians still cowering inside their houses when the bombers came.

His position had given Favorov a front-row seat for the end of Russia’s world-conquering ambitions. He must have seen what the future held and realized that the Politburo couldn’t afford to keep fighting such wars, especially when they couldn’t be won. So in 1987, at a particularly scary point in the Cold War, he had defected to the USA. The CIA had paid him at least a million dollars (as usual, they refused to divulge an actual figure) for a list of names of Soviet spies working in the United States, many of them in extremely high profile defense positions. Information that must have seemed invaluable at the time—if it had ever come to a war between the superpowers, the spies on Favorov’s list could have tipped the scales toward a Russian victory.

Instead, the Iron Curtain had come down and Russian-style communism had vanished from the earth, to be replaced by… well, whatever Putin was doing now. The spies on the list had become useless, with no one left in Moscow to report to. Less than five years after it was sold, Favorov’s intelligence had become worthless.

To everyone except the man himself, of course.

A servant came up and put a drink in Chapel’s hand—whiskey and soda, strong but not too strong. The ice in the glass clinked happily as he sipped at it. Fiona took a glass of white wine while the three of them watched the waves crash out on the beach. “I’m not here for information on Soviet assets,” Chapel said. “This isn’t a debriefing about old wars. I’m more interested in what you’ve done since you became an American citizen.”

“I imagine you do not like to see this, Chapel,” Favorov said, lifting one hand wearily and gesturing at the house and grounds around him. “You must be biting back your anger, to see a former enemy living in such luxury.”

“Ygor, Jim is a guest here,” Fiona chided, though there was enough of a laugh in her voice to make sure no one felt she was honestly reprimanding her husband.

“On the contrary,” Chapel said, responding to Favorov’s words. “You’ve built this with your bare hands. I certainly respect that.”

Favorov leaned forward to stare at him through the sunglasses. Maybe he was trying to decide if Chapel was being honest. “I took the money your CIA gave to me, and I invested it most carefully. Bought my way into the free market. Started up any number of businesses—real estate, then construction, and shipping so I could move the steel and lumber I needed to build where I chose. I worked hard and put that money back into my new country, out of gratitude.”

Chapel nodded. In his ear Angel confirmed what Favorov had said. All of the Russian’s money had stayed in the US—he had never invested in foreign companies or building projects. “It’s interesting, though. You could read his life’s story one way, that he’s a patriot—or you can look deeper. He’s had plenty of chances to invest overseas but he turns them down because they would make too much money. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I’ve been going over his tax forms. Some years he shows huge profits, and then the next year he’ll make a decision that looks foolish and he’ll lose a bundle. The richest he ever got was in 1999, when through a series of very, very shrewd investments he brought his net worth up to nine hundred million; the next year he invested in a pharmaceutical company that was being investigated by the FDA and he lost nearly a third of his entire fortune. Anybody could have seen that coming. And it’s not just one bad decision. The pattern repeats often enough that it has to be deliberate. It’s like he’s been very careful never to become an actual billionaire. I have no idea why.”

Chapel did. Billionaires made the news. They had sycophantic reporters following them everywhere, begging for their business secrets. Favorov had been careful to become rich but not so rich that he became a celebrity. As an intelligence man himself, Chapel understood that perfectly. As long as Favorov stayed out of the limelight nobody would ask too many questions.

“Sometimes a leopard can change his spots.” Favorov smiled. It was a cold smile, the smile of a man who has seen reality at its ugliest and refused to flinch. “I’m a new man. Your government should be thanking me for what I do. I help keep this economy afloat. But still, all the time, they send men like you to pester me. Is that fair? I ask you.”

Chapel fought the urge to shrug. “I have a few questions for you, that’s all. If you’d like, we can start right now so I don’t waste any more of your time.”

“Well, I don’t like it at all,” Fiona said, stepping forward. “We promised you dinner, and I refuse to let you think I’m a bad hostess, even if my husband is in a gruff mood. Please tell me all of this official business can wait until after dessert.”

Chapel smiled. “Of course,” he said. “Where are my manners?”

Fiona reached out and squeezed his bicep. His right one, the one that was still real. “You have Ygor beat, that’s the important thing.”

The Russian snorted in derision, but then he slowly rose to his feet. “If we’re going to eat, let’s eat. I’m hungry now.” He stomped off toward the house, leaving them to follow.