The Athena Project

CHAPTER 42

PREMANTURA

ISTRIAN P ENINSULA

CROATIA

Thomas Sanders looked at his boss. With a thick gray beard and abundance of poised self-confidence he appeared Zeuslike. “I don’t understand how you can be so relaxed.”

They were sitting on the stone stairs in front of the compound’s main building waiting for Viktor Mikhailov to arrive. Abressian held a snifter of B &B in his hand and was smoking a Gurkha Black Dragon from the hand-carved camel bone chest in his office. “Patience, Thomas, is the art of caring slowly.”

It was a warm, breezeless night. Stars punctured the dark curtain of sky above. The only clouds came from the leathery smoke of Abressian’s eleven-hundred-dollar cigar.

“I have a bet with our security chief, Marko, about how many cars Viktor will bring,” Sanders remarked. “I’m guessing five-a full, flamboyant show of Russian muscle.”

Abressian plucked a small piece of tobacco from his tongue and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger before flicking it to the ground. “And how many cars does Marko believe are coming?”

Sanders smiled and shook his head. “He says only one.”

“And how much did you bet?”

“Only a hundred dollars.”

“Well, you’d better get your money ready,” said Abressian as he stood and drained the liquid in his snifter. “Comrade Mikhailov has arrived, and he brought only one vehicle.”

Sanders looked toward the gate. Their heavy metal doors were still closed. He tilted his head, but he couldn’t hear a thing beyond the normal sounds of the night. Seconds later, men came out of the guardhouse and opened the large doors. It wasn’t until he saw the halogen headlights of Viktor’s Audi slicing through the darkness of the twisting uphill road that he knew he was close. Only now could he make out the car’s engine. Armen’s hearing was amazing.

The low-slung black Audi passed through the gates and crunched across the gravel motor court. It came to a stop in front of the stone stairs and the front passenger door opened.

Viktor’s lead bodyguard exited the vehicle first, followed by another bodyguard from the backseat. The driver remained with the car.

When the very large bodyguards were content that it was safe for their principal to exit the vehicle, the lead man opened the door and out stepped Viktor Mikhailov.

He was a barrel-chested fireplug of a man. At five-foot-five, his diminutive stature was only highlighted by how enormous his bodyguards were. Mikhailov had a completely shaved head and a neck as thick as a telephone pole. He was about the same age as Armen, but any similarity between the two men ended there. Whereas Abressian was dressed in a linen shirt and linen trousers, and shod in tasteful Italian loafers, Mikhailov looked every inch the mafioso-silk shirt, silk trousers, and several pieces of gold jewelry.

It was an image the Russian had worked hard to cultivate. Abressian had no doubt that everything the man wore, everything the man said, and everything the man did was very well calculated and considered.

“Thank you for coming, Viktor,” Armen said as he extended his hand. “I apologize for the circumstances.”

Mikhailov’s digits looked like a cluster of sausages, but he had an incredibly strong grip. He shook his head as he clasped hands with Abressian. “What has happened is very bad, Armen. Very bad. I have given you protection and this is how you repay me?”

“As I said over the phone, we need to talk face-to-face. Why don’t you come inside?”

Abressian led the way to his office, where a bottle of vodka sat in an ice bucket on his desk. Mikhailov told his men to wait outside.

“What were you drinking in the snifter outside?” asked the Russian. “B &B?”

Armen nodded.

“Good,” replied the former KGB agent. “That’s what I’ll have, then.”

Abressian poured the man’s drink and handed it to him as he refreshed his own snifter.

“What are we going to do about this situation, Armen?” asked Mikhailov as he took a seat. “Who the hell do you have working for you, Dr. Mengele?”

The Nazi reference took Abressian by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You’re up here in this compound doing God knows what while one of your scientists is snatching up my girls and killing them. That’s what I mean.”

“And I want to compensate you for your loss. It’s the right thing to do.”

The Russian shook his head. “After one girl, maybe we could have worked something out. Your professor would have had to have his leg broken along with a couple of ribs, but we could have come to an arrangement. Now, though, four of my girls are gone.”

“We can pay you for the four girls.”

Mikhailov drained the contents of his glass in one swallow and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He set the glass down and looked at Abressian. “This has nothing to do with paying me for the girls, which you will do, by the way. My other girls are afraid. They don’t believe I can protect them, and my competitors see me as weak. Everyone knows those girls are gone and everyone knows who did it. I can’t let that go unanswered, Armen. I like you, but this is business.”

Abressian nodded and took a sip from his snifter. “Then we have a problem.”

Mikhailov hadn’t been expecting that kind of response. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Professor Cahill is integral to my business. I can’t allow anything to happen to him.”

“Maybe you misunderstood me,” replied the Russian. “I’m not giving you a choice. I want Cahill. Now.”

Abressian set down his glass. “That’s too bad. I was hoping that I could help you see the light; that we could come to some sort of an arrangement.”

The ex-KGB man stared at him in disbelief. “Maybe my English is not so good.”

“Your English is fine, Viktor, as is mine. I’m not giving you Cahill. He is too valuable to me.”

“Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

Abressian stood. “I’m sorry we couldn’t come to terms.” He offered his hand, but the Russian refused it.

“I will burn you to the ground,” said Mikhailov as he turned and walked out.

Not if I burn you first, Abressian said to himself.

The Audi spewed gravel across the motor court as the driver spun its tires and sped off out of the gate.

“I take it he didn’t see the light?” asked Sanders as he joined his boss once again on the stairs outside.

“Not yet,” replied Abressian as he lifted his cell phone and pressed the button for his head of security. When the man answered, Armen said, “He’s all yours, Marko.” He then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.

Sanders looked at him. “What are you doing, Armen?”

Abressian pointed toward the horizon and said, “Watch.”

For several minutes they stood as Armen drew on his cigar and released peaty trails of blue smoke into the air. Just as Sanders was about to ask what they were waiting for and how much longer it was going to be, there was the sound of automatic weapons fire, lots of it, followed by the distinct sound of a rocket-propelled grenade as it sizzled through the air.

Then came the explosion as the RPG slammed into the Russian’s Audi and a billowing fireball lit up the night sky.

Sanders turned to look at his boss, “What just happened?”

“I think Mr. Mikhailov has finally seen the light,” replied Abressian as he raised his snifter and toasted in the direction of the explosion. “No hard feelings, Viktor,” he said. “It’s only business.”

Though Armen was smiling, Sanders couldn’t help but dread the hell they had certainly just unleashed upon themselves.