Final Target

CHAPTER 61

G age’s flight landed at Borispol Airport fifty kilometers west of Kiev four hours after Matson, who’d stayed in London only long enough to pick up Alla. Gage had waited in Zurich until he got word from Slava that Matson had arrived. He’d been fortunate to get a seat since journalists from around the world were rushing to Kiev to chronicle the Bread and Freedom Revolution, an uprising triggered by the revelation that the president had diverted a fifty-million-dollar IMF agricultural loan into his election war chest.

One of Slava’s impassive bodyguards met Gage in the unheated arrivals hall and led him to an armored Mercedes sedan in the parking lot. Gage got into the backseat with Slava while the bodyguard entered a trailing silver Land Cruiser. Slava appeared so relaxed that Gage wondered whether he’d taken his own advice in Geneva and spent a week soaking in the aromatic steam baths of Montreux.

“What’s happening in Kiev?” Gage asked him.

“Opposition took over Independence Square. Hundred thousand. Demand new election.”

“Will there be one?”

“Wrong question.”

“What’s the right one?”

“What difference it make.”

Gage glanced over. “I didn’t think you took such an interest in politics.”

“I take interest in business.” Slava flashed a predator’s smile. “Politics is business in Ukraine.”

The driver sped out from the tree-lined airport road onto the highway toward the city.

“Where’s Matson staying?” Gage asked, as they passed a sprinkling of two-story stucco dachas owned by the Ukrainian nouveau riche.

“Where else? Lesya Palace Hotel.”

“Apparently he’s not afraid of being seen.”

“Or heard. Bugs everywhere. For Soviets, state secrets. For capitalists, business secrets.” Slava snapped his hand shut. “Like mousetrap.”

“Do you have any way to find out what goes on inside?”

“Only little. Waiters and doormen. Guys in president’s entourage took it over right after independence. Gravilov maybe own a piece.”

Gage smiled. “Am I in a mousetrap, too?”

“Your place clean. My people check it.”

Gage gave him an I-wasn’t-born-yesterday look.

“What? You think I plant something? I thought we trust each other again. Like partners.”

“I brought a little device of my own,” Gage said. “But there are a few things I need.”

Slava spread his hands. “You want. I get.”

“A fur ushanka and a black overcoat. I need to blend in. A hat and coat should be enough.”

“You get in hour.”

“Thanks. What’s Matson doing?”

“So far, nothing. Reservation for dinner at hotel restaurant.”

After passing concrete Soviet-era apartment blocks, concentrated together as if to squeeze out everything soft or green or human, Slava’s driver sped across Paton’s Bridge over the Dnepr River. He slipped between the botanical garden and the Monument to the Great Patriotic War, then aimed for the heart of Kiev. As a light rain fell, the driver skirted around Independence Square, its chanting crowd of a hundred thousand spilling into the side streets, their tone celebratory.

The driver pulled up to the arched driveway of a white six-story apartment building built in the anonymously ornate style dictated by Moscow in the 1950s. He honked once. Moments later the iron-framed wooden gate swung open and he drove through the courtyard into a two-car garage on the opposite side. Once the garage door was closed, Slava heaved himself out of the car. Gage stepped out behind him.

“You should think about losing a few pounds,” Gage said.

“Few not do it.”

Gage followed Slava into an elevator that took them to the top floor.

“Okay?” Slava said after his bodyguard opened the apartment door.

Gage walked into an Italianate living room, gilded to the barest limits of good taste.

“Sveta do,” Slava said.

“I didn’t realize your wife was an interior decorator.”

“She not. She like to spend money. When she get enough things we hire somebody to do something with them. Some of it match.”

Slava ran a finger along the back of one of two aqua and gold Louis IX armchairs. His eyes blurred for a moment.

“When I was boy, ten families live ten years on what this cost.”

As soon as Slava left, Gage removed a debugger from his briefcase and checked the apartment. He disabled four bugs, but left them in place. He then set up a local Internet connection and checked his e-mails. Boss: Mr. Burch called. Chuck Verona said he forwarded Matson’s FedExed boxes from Checker Trading to New York. He couldn’t remember the name of the company, but will find out. Everything is in order as far as Matson’s new account is concerned. Mr. Burch is still wondering why you chose the name KTMG Limited. He thinks “TMG” is The Matson Group, but he can’t understand what the “K” means. I think I do. Cute. Blanchard called. He reviewed the list of what was missing and said the most valuable were the monolithic microwave circuits. He suspects that a competitor is using gray market SatTek components to make their own devices. He’ll put together a list of possible companies and I’ll research them. Alex Z

Gage looked at his watch. It was 5 A. M. in California. He didn’t want to wake up Faith by calling her on their home phone, so he decided to leave a message on her cell.

Faith answered on the first ring. “Did you make it there okay?”

“I just got in. Why are you awake so early?”

“I was watching the news last night and saw how tense things have become in Kiev. The chaos reminded me of when you and Jack were in Karachi.”

“That’s why I called. I thought you might be worried.”

Gage walked to an east-facing living room window with a view of Independence Square. Through the now freezing rain, he saw thousands of yellow flags bearing images of wheat stalks, the symbol of the Bread and Freedom Revolution, and the tent city in which the demonstrators spent the subzero nights.

“I can see it out of my window. Listen to this.”

Gage cracked open the window and faced his phone toward the crowd cheering the opposition leaders as they condemned the president and his corrupt administration.

When he put the phone back to his ear, he heard an echo of the demonstration.

“I just turned on CNN,” Faith said. “They’re panning the streets leading to the square. Can you see the troops?”

On a side street leading to the square, Gage spotted police clad in blue and soldiers in green waiting for orders, running their numbing hands over the barrels and trigger guards of their AK-47s to keep them from icing up.

“The cheers sounded heroic, almost triumphant as we were driving in,” Gage said. “Now they just sound naive. These people think they’re marching toward the promised land, but they’re really just backing toward the edge of the abyss.”

Gage didn’t wait for Faith’s next question before answering it.

“I’ll try to get out of here before that happens.”