Shock Warning

CHAPTER THIRTY

“I am beginning to be concerned, Mlle. Derrida.”

She looked up from her reading. There was nothing to do in this godforsaken town. It still had the old Soviet smell about it, the same hopelessness, the same rundown atmosphere, as if tomorrow was inevitably going to be worse than today and there was not a damn thing anybody could about it.

She’d admired Baku Bay, seen the Azerbaijan State Philharmonic Hall, traipsed up and down the Maiden Tower, from which some princess or other was said to have thrown herself in an attempt to escape the place. She could certainly understand that.

“It’s Iran,” she said. “Not France. Things happen.”

Skorzeny shot her a look. How unlike his late adjutant and majordomo, M. Paul Pilier, she was. He had been a man of impeccable taste and breeding, and quite handy in a tight spot. She, on the other hand, was a French lesbian intellectual.

The thought of the late M. Pilier got him to thinking about Maryam again — she had shot his man back at Clairvaux — and his impatience only grew. “Try her again.”

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea, M. Skorzeny,” she said. “You’re wanted by the American government. You may assume that the Black Widow is tracking any unsecured communication, and no matter how good you think your technology is, theirs is better. So I advise you to maintain operational security and try to enjoy the wonders of Baku.”

“I trusted her,” he muttered, growing agitated.

“That’s your problem,” said Mlle. Derrida, and returned to her reading.

He needed to get out of there. He was a man of property as well as principle. A man at home everywhere. “I am going out for a constitutional,” he informed her.

“Do you want me to shadow you in case someone tries to grab you?”

“Don’t be absurd,” he said, and left.

Out on the street he took a deep breath of the sea air. There was, in fact, a man he wanted to meet. A man with whom he had business, and a man whom he counted on for the utmost discretion. He began to reach for his phone, then thought better of it; perhaps Mlle. Derrida was right. There was no point in coming all this way, and getting this far, only to blow it at the end over something as silly as a woman. He trusted her, and that was that.

The building he sought was near Boyukshor Lake, near the steel company. Not very fashionable. But that is exactly what he would have expected.

Slobodan Petrovich had come out of the old Soviet Union — where, exactly, was not clear — and after the collapse of the U.S.S.R. had made a fortune operating in the interstices of communism and capitalism. There were vast sums of money to be made in such tight spots, and Petrovich made them. And yet he lived here, anonymously. He was a man after Skorzeny’s own heart.

The taxi stopped in front of a typical Soviet piece of industrial architecture. Skorzeny entered an office and spoke Russian to the functionary; he had not spent all that time as a guest of the Red Army at the end of the war without learning their language. He thought it might be difficult to see Petrovich, or that perhaps he was living there under a pseudonym, but no: he was told exactly where to find the man, and find him soon enough he did.

The door was made of steel. There were no peepholes or any visible security devices, but before he could rap on it, it slid to one side and there stood the financier, a cigar in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, stepping aside to admit Skorzeny.

Skorzeny entered gingerly. He was not used to being a guest in someone else’s house; in fact, lately he was not used to being in a home at all. With Tyler’s fatwa against him, he had spent most of his recent life on board his specially outfitted Boeing 707, condemned like some latter-day Flying Dutchman to only the most unpleasant ports of call. Ah, but look how well that was going to work out, despite what happened to the late Arash Kohanloo and his merry band of terrorists in New York City.

Petrovich had helped with that operation. It was difficult — although not impossible — to launder money from the air, but to have an ally on the ground, living in a Muslim country but completely at home with the old Soviet ways of evading taxes and getting a maximum return on one’s investment… well, that was invaluable. He needed a paymaster, fixer, and investor, and in Slobodan Petrovich, he got all three.

“Has the package been delivered?” said Petrovich. The man’s tastes ran to the sybaritic, it was true, but then Skorzeny’s own handsomely appointed apartments in Vaduz and Paris, with their priceless art and furnishings, bespoke his sophistication as well.

“Things are under way in Iran, yes,” said Skorzeny, not quite sure what to do with himself. Petrovich noticed his social discomfort, and yet did not move to offer him a seat, a cigar, or a drink.

“What about New York?”

“Countdown has begun. Timing is everything, and I believe I can predict with a degree of high confidence that simultaneity will be very nearly achieved. First the one, then the other.”

“And our Iranian friends get the blame?”

“Of course. After all, they are the ones who are guilty. You and I are… just bystanders.”

“And about to make a great deal of money shorting the market. I congratulate you. Now, tell me the real reason you honor my house with your presence. You’ve lost your girl, haven’t you? Or, judging from your demeanor, both of them. There’s a line from Oscar Wilde that might be appropriate right about now.”

Skorzeny finally chose an uncomfortable-looking chair and sat. He didn’t plan to stay long. Just long enough to make sure their business arrangement was solid; later, if he had to, he could have Petrovich killed. In the aftermath of what was about to happen, no one would notice.

“I must say, Emanuel,” said Petrovich, relighting his cigar, “so far your plan is going splendidly. Have you seen the news from Africa today? The entire continent is in flames. Blend excitable people with machetes with competing superstitions and you have a prescription for a bloodbath that is making Rwanda look like a warm-up act at a bad Moscow nightclub. You’ve been to bad Moscow nightclubs, I assume?”

Skorzeny let the question float. “Tomorrow, the Philippines. Muslims and Christians have been fighting there since the Moros. It won’t take much for the beheadings to start. Then, Paris — think of the reaction of the Muslims, and how much damage they will be able to do to Notre Dame and San Sulpice before the flics get out of bed. Paris will be lost to tourists forever.”

“The girls,” prompted Petrovich. “The girls.”

Skorzeny thought, then decided to tell the truth. “Radio silence.”

“You old fool. She’s left you, and taken God only knows what with her.”

“Impossible. I am everything to her. And, in any case, it doesn’t matter. Should the mullahs get their hands on both of them, well… that is one fewer problem for me in the days and weeks ahead.” He decided to change the subject. “Where will you go when it happens? Baku seems uncomfortably close to… ground zero.”

“I have my bolt-holes,” replied Petrovich, “as I’m sure do you.” He had remained standing throughout the interview, but now moved toward the door. “This conversation is very pleasant, more pleasant than I would have imagined, but as I never mix business with pleasure, it must come to an end, for we are not friends, merely business partners…. What do you suppose the damage will be? An idle question, but please indulge me.”

“I estimate that up to a million people will be killed in the blast, or will subsequently die from radiation poisoning, and much of the island will be rendered uninhabitable for a very long time. Manhattan will finished as a center for world finance.”

“That’s it, then.” Petrovich helped Skorzeny to his feet and began to propel him to the door. Skorzeny could feel himself getting hot under the collar — nobody was supposed to touch him, and the fact that this parvenu thought he needed assistance was an outrage. He would most definitely deal with Tovarish Petrovich when the time came.

“My man has positioned the device as per your instructions, but, if I may say so, the thing has been well-hidden and not connected to any electrical source. What about the trigger?”

“Leave that to me.” said Skorzeny, exiting.

Outside, on the street, he brushed his lapels and his sleeves, then began looking for a taxi.

Typically Soviet, there were no taxis, and he would be damned if he were to stoop to bribing one of the workers for a ride in something that still looked distressingly like a Lada.

Very well, then, he would walk. And when he got back, it would be time to open the delicious little Maryam’s precious laptop and see what mischief he could cause before all hell broke loose.