Black Harvest

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zviad Gelashvili was at his desk. One of his lieutenants came into the room. The desk was an antique, a glowing masterpiece of 18th Century craftsmanship. Its delicate beauty formed a curious contrast to Zviad's coarse bulk. It was the sort of thing that might have inspired a Japanese Zen master to write a poem.

Behind Zviad two of his bodyguards stood against the wall. They were always present. They were always silent. They were not there to talk.

The man was nervous. Zviad believed in instilling loyalty through rewards. It was profitable to work for Zviad, but there was a second part of the loyalty equation.

Fear.

Zviad had been known to kill the messenger. Looking at his man, he knew something bad had happened.

"Boss…"

"What is it, Iosif?" Zviad had never seen Iosif look nervous. The news must be very bad. He reached for a bottle of vodka and poured two large glasses.

"Drink. Then tell me why you are here."

Iosif gulped down the clear liquor. The words rushed out. "Boss, it's Bagrat. He's dead."

Zviad paused with the glass halfway to his lips. He set it down, carefully. Now he knew why he hadn't heard from his brother. His first thought was disbelief. Bagrat. He was indestructible. His second thought was an odd memory of when they had been children, fighting in the rows of the vineyard. His third thought wasn't a thought. It was feeling that swept over him. Rage.

"How?" His voice was quiet.

"He was in a Greek hospital. Someone shot him. The shooter killed a guard in the hall. Then he went in Bagrat's room and shot a Greek cop and an Interpol agent. Then he shot Bagrat."

"Why was Bagrat in a hospital?"

"A woman put him there. An American. Bagrat tried to grab her. She fought back. Grigor is dead. Bagrat was badly injured, so they took him to the hospital."

"A WOMAN?" His shout could be heard throughout the house. Outside the study, his wife listened.

Zviad brought his huge fist down on the antique desk top. It split and sagged. He hit it again. The desk shattered into two parts. The vodka, papers, glasses fell to the floor. The bottle rolled away, gurgling vodka behind it.

Iosif waited, afraid to move.

Zviad shook himself like a great northern bear. He reached down for the vodka, put the bottle to his lips and drank. His mind began planning, calculating. This was now a matter of honor. Bagrat. How had he let this happen?

Once it was known a woman had done this there would be loss of respect. There would be jokes, trouble. An example would have to be made. And who had fired the shots? Who dared?

"Tell me what is known."

Iosif cleared his throat. "Bagrat was under guard. Someone, a man, posed as another Interpol cop. He used a silenced weapon. No one knew anything until a nurse found the guard outside Bagrat's room. No one heard the shots."

"Bagrat and three cops."

"Yes, Boss."

"Go to Greece. Take three men, good ones. Find the woman. Find out anything you can. And Iosif."

"Yes, Boss?"

"I want this woman. And the man who did this. We are clear?"

Iosif was very clear. He was on the chopping block. His only hope was to find the woman or book a one-way ticket to somewhere obscure and far away from Moscow.

"Yes, Boss. Clear."

"Iosif."

"Yes, Boss?"

"Don't come back without her. Go."

Iosif went. He closed the study door behind him. Zviad's wife stepped from the shadows where she'd been listening.

Bedisa had been born and raised in Georgia. She had heard the conversation. She knew honor demanded revenge. She knew Zviad was obsessed with respect. The woman, whoever she was, was as good as dead. She would wish for death many times over if Zviad found her.

She brushed her long black hair back over her shoulders. The movement accented her full breasts. She put her finger to her lips. Iosif watched her. They could hear Zviad pacing back and forth in his study, cursing. His heavy footsteps vibrated out into the hall.

She went to Iosif and ran her fingers over his face, stroked his crotch, kissed him.

"Are you insane?" he hissed. "What if he comes out?"

"He will not come out. I will go in and calm him."

Iosif had been sleeping with Bedisa for the last six months. At first he'd wondered why she'd chosen him, or why he'd let it continue. Perhaps it was the danger. Discovery by Zviad would have been terrible. The fear added an adrenaline rush to their furious and inventive sex.

The sex. Bedisa was not like any other woman he had ever known. She was unique. What she could do with her body, with his, astounded him. She was beautiful, not the kind of woman who normally found Iosif attractive. He knew he was no prize for looks. Iosif was hopelessly in love with her.

After a month she'd begun to talk about Zviad. About Iosif as the new boss. About what they could do together if Zviad was not around any longer.

Zviad was as paranoid as he was shrewd. He had a servant taste his food. He was always protected. He never ventured far from Moscow, though sometimes he went to his villa near Tbilisi, surrounded by bodyguards. He was not an easy man to kill. Bedisa knew Iosif couldn't just kill him and take over. It had to look as if someone else had done it. Otherwise there would be vendettas.

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Find the woman. Then lure Zviad to wherever she is and kill him. We'll never have a better chance."

Iosif nodded. "I don't know…"

Bedisa ran her hand down over his crotch, cupped him and squeezed. She ran her tongue into his ear.

"All right."

"Good."