Scorpion Winter

Chapter Five

Milena II

French Riviera

The main salon of the mega yacht, Milena II, was furnished in white Italian leather, soft and buttery to the touch, and looked out to the aft pool deck. The designer had gone for Metro modern, and what looked like a genuine Rothko painting hung on an interior wall. They were cruising eastward along the French coast. Through the salon windows, Scorpion could see seaside villas and the villages in the mountains. The sun broke through the clouds and sparkled on the sea.

The yacht’s tender had come into the harbor at Villefranche and picked Scorpion up on the stone quay just steps from the restaurant. When he boarded the ship, the two shaven-headed men from the Mercedes asked him in accented English for his gun. He handed them the Glock 9mm from the holster at the small of his back.

Vadim Akhnetzov came into the salon with a rush of energy. He was a medium-sized man, trim, with blond hair cropped almost to the skull. He wore a striped Armani suit and under it a blue and red T-shirt from Arsenal Kyiv, a Ukrainian soccer team. An attractive blond woman in a Chanel suit followed him in.

“Mr. Collins-or are you going to throw that name away-what you are drinking?” Akhnetzov asked in serviceable English as he sat down opposite Scorpion.

“Bloody Mary with Belvedere,” Scorpion said. The blond woman tapped on her BlackBerry as if taking notes.

“Not Russian?” meaning the vodka. “Would you like some Beluga caviar? Dimitri?” Akhnetzov said, glancing at the white-jacked bartender behind the mahogany bar, who began preparing dishes.

Scorpion shook his head.

“Of course, business first. Perhaps later. Evgeniya?” he said to the blond woman.

“Goodbye, Meester Collyins,” she said in a thick accent, and left. She had a lovely body in the well-fitted skirt, and for a moment the two men watched her leave.

The bartender brought Scorpion’s Bloody Mary and an iced bottle of Iverskaya water for Akhnetzov, who gestured, and both the bartender and one of the leather-jacketed men standing by the door left.

“Better?” Akhnetzov asked.

“Do you mind?” Scorpion said, pulling an electronic sweep unit out of his pocket and showing it to Akhnetzov, who gestured that he could use it. Scorpion stood up and began walking around the salon, checking for eavesdropping bugs and hidden cameras.

“Maybe we should both take off our shirts?” Akhnetzov said, starting to take his jacket off.

“Maybe we should,” Scorpion said, unbuttoning his shirt as well, then gesturing it was okay.

“We are on our way to Monte Carlo,” Akhnetzov said. “Is the only local port big enough for the Milena. When we finish talking, you may make business there. Your rental car is being brought from Villefranche.”

“You’re assuming a hell of a lot. Such as that I’m interested in whatever it is that made you want to get me here,” Scorpion said, sitting down.

“No, not assuming. Talking,” Akhnetzov said, studying the man in front of him. There was something about him: his strange gray eyes and the scar over his eye, his stillness, as if he could erupt into action in an instant. Akhnetzov lived in a world with many powerful and dangerous men, and he knew when he was in the presence of one. Indeed, he himself was one.

“Out of curiosity, why do you use the Collins identity, which I assume you will get rid of?”

“Either I found you or I let you find me. The latter was simpler, faster. Who’d you bribe, the man at the car rental in Nice?”

“Something like that.” Akhnetzov smiled.

“How’d you find me? Who told you to leave a card for Collins in Porto Cervo?” Scorpion said casually, masking his tension. His identity and base in Sardinia was on the line.

“We had a list of some dozen Mediterranean ports. We left notes at all of them. We assume you have a boat and would pick up the note at one of them.”

“Who told you how to contact me?”

“Friends of friends. As you know, one cannot do business in our part of the world without certain…” Akhnetzov paused, groping for the word in English. “… understandings.”

“With the SVR and a back channel to the CIA?”

“I have many friends,” Akhnetzov said. “Everyone, it seems, likes money.”

Scorpion sipped his drink. Whoever Akhnetzov had bribed, it wasn’t Rabinowich. If Dave had given Akhnetzov a list of ports, it was because the CIA wanted him to talk to Akhnetzov.

“So now that you’ve impressed me with how rich you are,” Scorpion said, gesturing vaguely at the salon. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stop something bad from happening.”

“Bad for whom?”

“For me,” he replied, tapping his chest. “Bad for my business. For my country, Ukraina. Bad for America too.”

“What makes you think I’m American? Or that I give a damn about you or your country?”

“I think you are American. You are CIA, but not CIA. My sources say you kill ‘the Palestinian,’ terrorist impossible to find, but you do in only two weeks. They say you are the best.”

“What else do you know?” Scorpion said quietly. The question of how much Akhnetzov knew about him was still very open and very dangerous.

“Listen, drooh. This is maybe your first Ukrainian word. It means ‘friend.’ I am billionaire from a part of the world that is not so simple. I don’t get this way by being stupid. I own Ukengaz Company. We do maybe eighty percent of gaz pipeline, natural gaz from Russia for Europe. Also chemicals, steel, television, real estate. This team, Arsenal,” tugging at his football T-shirt, “I own. I begin with nothing. My maty, my mother, clean toilets in Metro so I can be student at Shevchenko Kyiv University. One night I take money from nightclub where I am working as dishwasher. The shef, the boss, send krutoy paren gangsters to get money back. They beat me with iron bar so bad I am in hospital. But I do not tell them where is money. I keep. Later, I use this money for my first gaz trade. You and I, Scorpion, my drooh, we are both wolves. We must understand each other or we must kill each other, yes?”

The two men looked at each other. Akhnetzov leaned forward, his muscled forearms on his thighs. Scorpion sat casually, but he was ready to move. The code name Scorpion lay between them like a ticking bomb.

“What do you know about Scorpion?”

“Less than I want,” Akhnetzov said. “I know you were CIA then not CIA. Independent. It says you know Arabic from when you are child,” glancing at a tablet PC. “Real name unknown. Raised by Bedouin in Arabian desert.” He looked at Scorpion. “What is American kid doing in Arabia?”

“My father was an oilman. He was killed. The Bedouin saved me.”

“Is true? You’re unusual guy. Also tough guy. What were you? Navy SEAL? Delta? Marines?”

“Girl Scouts. I sold cookies.”

“Okay, you don’t talk. Like I said, tough guy. Only one thing important…”

“What’s that?”

“I know your enemies respect you. There are worse ways to judge a man than by how his enemies fear or respect him. For you, both I think.”

“So this is a job interview?” Scorpion asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“In a way. One thing I must know,” Akhnetzov said, tapping a cigarette on a gold case and lighting it. “Why did you leave CIA? For money?”

Scorpion smiled. “To tell you the truth, it never entered my mind. At the time, I hadn’t thought about making a living that way. I just quit.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t talk about that.”

“Listen, drooh…” Akhnetzov looked at Scorpion, his eyes ice cold, and Scorpion had a sense he was seeing the real man. “For what I am about to tell you, this is important. I don’t ask for nothing.”

“I don’t talk about missions.”

“I don’t care mission. I care why you leave, okay?”

Neither man spoke. The only sounds were the ship’s engines and the slap of the waves on the hull.

“It was a termination. A street outside the target’s location. He was supposed to be just with bodyguards, but his little boy was with him. They told me to go ahead anyway.”

“Did you?”

Scorpion shook his head. “No. At that moment, I realized I was through. Tvajo zdorovy,” Scorpion toasted in Russian, and drank.

Akhnetzov got up and poured himself a glass of Ukrainian Nemiroff vodka from a bottle on the bar. “Za vas!” he toasted back. He brought the vodka bottle over and put it on the table between them. “Listen, maybe you see on CNN. There is election for president in Ukraine.”

“What of it?” Scorpion said. From Akhnetzov’s posture, he could tell Akhnetzov was at the moment, in CIA-speak, when the Joe drops his pants.

“One of the candidates will be assassinated.”

“I see,” Scorpion said, putting his drink down.

“No, you don’t. It will mean war. Also end of Ukengaz. We must stop this. This is why I seek you out.”

“We…?” Scorpion raised his eyebrows.

“Let me explain,” Akhnetzov said, freshening Scorpion’s drink with a splash of Nemiroff. “There are two candidates: Kozhanovskiy, a good man, a man of the West, favored by Europe and the Americans, darling of the students and the Kyiv intellihensia. He wants Ukraine to be partner in EU and NATO. The other is Cherkesov. A strong man, tough like bull. He is supported by ethnic Russians and people in eastern Ukraine. He is for close ties with Russia. Like this,” smacking his fist into his open hand and holding it.

“Which one do you support?”

“Me, I do business with the devil so long we make money. Russia fears if Kozhanovskiy wins, Ukraine joins NATO, and worse, terminates lease of Sevastopol as base for Russia’s Black Sea navy fleet. For Russia, this is casus belli. My sources tell me there is a plot to assassinate Cherkesov.”

“Sources…?”

“The same sources that led me to you.”

“SVR?” Scorpion asked.

“I will tell you once we agree. These same sources assure me that if Cherkesov is killed, Russia will invade. Ukraine will call upon NATO. This will be most dangerous world crisis since Cuba.”

“You want me to stop this supposed plot to assassinate Cherkesov?”

“I want you to stop a war.”

“Over killing a single person?”

“Why not? World War One began with the assassination of a single person,” Akhnetzov said. Neither man spoke. There was a throb as the engines slowed. Through the salon windows, Scorpion could see the harbor and buildings of Monte Carlo piled against the backdrop of the Alpes Maritimes.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” Scorpion said, putting down his drink. “This is not my type of assignment. Besides, I’m not a bodyguard.”

Akhnetzov shrugged. “Cherkesov has dozens of bodyguards. This is not what is needed. What I need is an operative, the right operative.”

“It’s no good. What makes me effective is a certain unique combination of skills,” Scorpion said, leaning forward. “Languages, for one. I don’t speak Ukrainian and my Russian is pretty limited.”

“But you speak some Russian, yes? Nearly all Ukrainians speak Rossiyu.”

“Just basic Russian plus some of the dirty words.”

“The best part of any language.” Akhnetzov smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling. “But you are wrong. What makes you effective is your knowledge and ruthlessness. Like wolf, like me.”

Akhnetzov leaned forward and wrote something on a piece of paper.

“What’s that?” Scorpion asked.

“A number,” still writing.

“Six figures?”

“Seven,” Akhnetzov said, turning the paper so Scorpion could see. It was a big number, enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.

“That’s a lot of money,” Scorpion said carefully.

“BNP Paribas is private bank near the casino in Monte Carlo. Monaco has the same bank secrecy laws and discretion as Switzerland. You can have half this money in your own account within thirty minutes. So, Mister Whatever-your-new name and nationality is,” Akhnetzov said. “As the Americans say, we got a deal?”

Forget the money, Scorpion told himself. That isn’t what this is about. Rabinowich wanted this to happen or he never would’ve told anyone about the back channel. And the only reason he would’ve done it was because something absolutely vital to American security was about to go down. Rabinowich was the smartest guy in the American intelligence community. There was more to this than just some Eastern European politician. A lot more. And it was a lot of money.

“When’s the election?” he asked, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

“In eight days. The assassination could happen any time.”