Black Harvest

CHAPTER FOUR

Zviad Gelashvili sat sharpening a long steel blade he kept strapped low down on his left leg. He held it up to the light, inspected it, and continued the quiet stoke of the whetstone along the razor edge.

He was a huge man. His head came to a bald, round top under a workman's hat he wore to remind people of his peasant roots. He looked like a malevolent egg. He was known as "the egg". Not only because of his looks. Because anyone who annoyed or opposed him was turned into an unpleasant omelet.

The thick flesh of Zviad's face was marked by acne scars and jovial cruelty. He had a large nose and black eyes that glittered without warmth. His lips were large, tinged with purple. He was heavily muscled. The tailored shirts he wore cascaded forward over a mountainous gut balanced by huge buttocks that required special chairs to accommodate them. His shoes were of the finest leather, crafted by the most exclusive boot maker in London.

Gelashvili had risen to power in the criminal underworld of Moscow by emulating his idol and fellow Georgian, Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, otherwise known as Stalin. If Zviad suspected treachery, someone died. If someone failed to carry out their assigned tasks, they died. If someone opposed him, they died. Something could always be done to encourage motivation.

Gelashvili was powerful and rich. He controlled part of Russia's energy deliveries to Germany and Western Europe. He controlled politicians, judges, police. He owned nightclubs and brothels in Moscow, Kiev and St. Petersburg.

Earlier in the day he'd gotten a phone call from a client he knew only as an anonymous voice over the phone. His accent was American and it was how Zviad thought of him, as "the American". Sometimes he'd hired Zviad to terminate someone, or wanted industrial secrets. Once he'd sought plans for one of the new fighters. It was all the same to Zviad, as long as he was paid. The American always paid very well.

This time the client wanted Zviad to go to Greece, kidnap a woman and deliver her alive to a place where someone would take charge of her. A picture was faxed. The fee was generous. Zviad decided to send his younger brother to handle it. Bagrat was just as ruthless as he was. He could be trusted to do what was necessary.

Gelashvili lived in the heart of the city, just outside the Garden Ring and next to Gorky Park. He could see the park from the large French windows of his study. His wife had wanted something central, close in. He liked to indulge Bedisa. She rewarded him with sexual improvisation that made up for the inconvenience she represented. She'd disappointed him with two girls. Perhaps next time it would be a boy.

The gossip Bedisa heard in the posh salons and shops frequented by the wealthy women of Moscow often provided useful intelligence. She was shrewd. Overall, it was a good bargain. Zviad hoped she would never do something indiscreet. It would be a shame if the children lost their mother.