Second Strike

CHAPTER 47

^{NORTHERN VIRGINIA,}

^{AUGUST 16, 4:09 P.M. EDT}

It was the call he had dreaded and it came sooner than he’d expected.

The phone vibration sounded angry, as if somehow trying to convey the attitude of the caller. It seemed impatient, insistent.

Bulkvadze did not answer. He knew of no one who voluntarily answered a call from their executioner.

“Bring ten.”

What explanation would he give for failing to do so? He had been given sufficient funds to pay ten. He’d simply disregarded the command. Now, in the quiet of his Mercedes gliding along I-495, he wondered what in his makeup caused him to blithely disregard a command so easily fulfilled. He had the money. He had access to personnel. Why not simply follow the directive? Why did he have to second-guess it?

Bulkvadze suspected he’d never get an opportunity to provide an explanation. Bor wasn’t a man who listened patiently to explanations, to rationalizations, to excuses. Bulkvadze could only hope that Bor did listen to pleas and assurances. Pleas for another opportunity, assurances that it would be done right. Bulkvadze was doubtful that Bor would, but it was the Georgian’s only chance.

The phone stopped vibrating and he continued driving at the posted speed in the right lane. He didn’t have a destination. He just wanted time. Eventually he would have to answer the phone. Sooner rather than later. He didn’t want to make a plea to Bor after angering him still further by making him wait.

But he wanted a bit more time. Not to figure out how to craft his plea, but to procrastinate. Blessed procrastination. Procrastination, Bulkvadze thought, was an underrated exercise. Procrastination expanded the range of possibilities: A solution might present itself; maybe Garin would be struck by a bus; maybe Bor would have a heart attack; maybe Bulkvadze would wake up from a dream. Maybe.

Procrastination prolonged the opportunity for fantasy and delayed the prospect of reality. And the reality was Bor was going to kill him.

Bulkvadze had but two alternatives: disappear so completely that Bor couldn’t find him, or kill Garin as soon as possible. Both alternatives appeared impossible. There was no place on the planet Bulkvadze could go and not be found by Bor. Within the vory community rumors of Bor’s assassinations had circulated for some time. No one in the community wanted to get on his bad side. Not only was he indefatigable, but he had the resources of the entire Russian intelligence apparatus at his disposal.

As for killing Garin, that was similarly problematic. Bulkvadze had no idea where Garin might be. The Washington, D.C., metropolitan area had more than six million people. Bulkvadze wasn’t without resources, but finding one person among millions would take time, and Bor had made it clear Garin was to be eliminated immediately.

Even if Garin could be located right away, killing him was another matter entirely. Bulkvadze had had a front row seat for the last attempt. Garin had made short work of five assassins, and Bulkvadze didn’t have time to assemble a new team, assuming ten were even available.

The insistent vibrating resumed. Indulging in the vice of procrastination only prolonged the anxiety and aggravated Bor. Bulkvadze picked up and tried to make his voice sound calm.

“Yes.”

“You have been thinking about how and when I am going to fulfill my promise to you,” Bor said. “It will be a bullet to the back of the head. Imminently. If you prefer to avoid the suspense, you may present yourself at an agreed location.”

“There is an alternative.”

“Alternatives are usually less satisfactory. And I do not have time to accommodate another failure.”

“I can do it before you can get someone else. You would save time.”

“You have already lost me time.”

“I will forgo the balance of the payment. Keep the four million.”

“I would be interested in hearing how you explain that to Abkashvili.”

“I will handle Abkashvili.”

“I don’t like giving second chances. Failure should not be rewarded. It should be punished.”

“With all due respect, failure is what you will have again if you employ someone else,” Bulkvadze pled. “I have seen Garin. I now have a full appreciation of his capabilities. A new team would not. And they would meet with the same fate as my first team.”

Bulkvadze paused but Bor remained silent. Bulkvadze pressed. “Also, assembling a new team would take more time and more money.”

For several seconds Bulkvadze heard only his own breathing, then: “The last location I have for Garin is near Lorton along Route 1, likely toward I-95. That was a few minutes ago. He is in a black Ford Explorer. Partial Virginia license plate VY72.”

A wave of relief and gratitude came over Bulkvadze, but he tried to keep his voice measured and businesslike. “Do you know his destination?”

“Yes. He may be proceeding along I-95, but he will be returning to the location from which he recently left, if he hasn’t returned already.”

“How do you know he will return?”

“I know how he thinks.”

“What is the location to which he will return?”

“I will forward the exact address by text,” Bor replied. “He will not, however, be at that precise location. He will be somewhere in the immediate vicinity, obscured or partially hidden. He will be watching the house at the address you will receive momentarily. Approach accordingly.”

“I will.”

Bor said, “Report immediately upon completion of the assignment with proof of death. You understand what will happen if you don’t succeed.”

Bor terminated the call. A few seconds later Bulkvadze received the text with the address. The wave of relief and gratitude began to recede, to be replaced by concern. He knew he couldn’t assemble another kill team any more quickly than anyone who would’ve replaced him. In fact, since word of the first kill team’s fate would spread rapidly, it was highly likely he couldn’t assemble a kill team at all. Five dead bodies were a powerful deterrent to anyone asked to finish the job.

Bulkvadze would have to complete the task himself. He would’ve preferred otherwise, but now that he had Garin’s location it was feasible. He was experienced. He was a good shot. He was tough. He was strong. And he was intensely motivated.

Bulkvadze took the next exit and drove toward the address in the text. He was in the most elemental of circumstances. Kill or be killed. The simplicity of it all focused his mind. He had but one objective, and every other thing in the world was irrelevant. He found it strangely liberating.