Second Strike

CHAPTER 36

^{WASHINGTON, D.C.,}

^{AUGUST 15, 9:38 P.M. EDT}

Bor spotted Levan Bulkvadze sitting alone at a far corner table of the Edgar, the restaurant-bar at the Mayflower Hotel.

Spotting Bulkvadze was a task only slightly more difficult than spotting an elephant in a phone booth. At six foot seven, he weighed well over three hundred pounds and was built like a power lifter. The thick black beard that covered much of his face matched the color of eyes that projected constant hostility. As he sat among the politicians, congressional staffers, and lobbyists who frequented the establishment, his overall appearance suggested a reversion in the evolutionary spectrum. Yet his frame was draped in an impeccably tailored twenty-five-hundred-dollar suit that somehow rendered him not merely civilized, but cultured.

Bulkvadze rose and smiled as the assassin approached. Bor placed a leather satchel on the floor next to the table and grasped Bulkvadze’s outstretched hand. With his other hand the big man gestured for the waiter.

“I’m pleased to see you again, my friend,” Bulkvadze lied. “What brings you to Washington?”

“Business,” Bor replied tersely.

The waiter appeared at Bulkvadze’s elbow. The big man nodded toward Bor. “Bring my friend whatever he wishes and another vodka for me.”

“Nothing for me,” Bor said.

The waiter retreated toward the bar. Bor pulled a mobile device from his hip pocket and tapped the screen, upon which a photo appeared. He turned it toward Bulkvadze.

“This man,” Bor said.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Mike Garin. I will provide his location shortly. Upon receiving that information, you must eliminate him. Immediately.”

“Tell me something about him.”

“He is an American soldier. I worked with him once. He will be very difficult to kill. That’s all you need to know other than where to find him.”

“We have not agreed upon a price,” Bulkvadze said. “Yet you have brought a bag I assume is filled with cash. How much have you brought, if I may ask?”

“Five million US. You will, however, receive an advance of one million only. The balance will be delivered upon proof of death.”

“Very generous. But I’m afraid Nikoloz will demand ten.”

“Five million. That is the price,” Bor said with finality. “I expect you will skim one million off that total and tell Nikoloz that the price was four million. Regardless, how much you keep for yourself is your affair. What is of concern to me is results. If you fail, I will kill you and every one of your associates involved in such failure, including Nikoloz himself.”

“Have we ever failed before? There will be no failure now,” Bulkvadze said with all of the confidence he could muster. He was frightened of Bor. He knew of no one who wasn’t.

“How many men do you plan to use?” Bor asked.

“You say it will be difficult to kill him.” Bulkvadze thought for a moment. He held up three fingers. “Then I will use three.”

“More.”

The big man raised his eyebrows. “More than three, you say?” He tilted his head and looked at Garin’s photo again. “Then I will use five.”

“How many would you use to kill me?” Bor asked.

“Kill you, my friend? I would never think of such a thing. Why kill you?”

“Humor me. How many men would you use to kill me?”

Bulkvadze frowned. “But there are few, if any, like you. I say this not to flatter you, but for a man of your capabilities I would use two primary, two secondary, and three for a perimeter. So”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“to be absolutely certain, I would use seven.”

“Bring ten.”