The Ghost Pattern

…24

Vitaliy Myatlev finished reading Dr. Bogdanov’s report on his computer, and regretted he didn’t read it in printed format. That way he would have had something to tear to pieces, or slam down against the desk.

“Motherfucking idiot!” The man was a moron. Period. In only a few days, he’d managed to lose Faulkner, one of the best researchers in the field, because he just had to punch him in the stomach. How stupid could Bogdanov get?

Myatlev stood abruptly, pushing his desk chair all the way into the wall. He went to the window, opened it, and lit a Dominican cigar, savoring the fresh, heady smoke as it filled his mouth, his nostrils. Better.

Then he read the report again, this time in a calmer state of mind. All right, maybe it wasn’t that bad. After all, in just ten days since Myatlev had come up with the idea, he’d hijacked a commercial flight, set up a state-of-the-art lab in the middle of nowhere, and had the best scientists in the world working for him. Not bad!

Yes, they will need a few more days to have the first batch ready, but so what? So fucking what? In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. These things normally took years. For him, it would be just days, or maybe a couple of weeks.

Then he would really conquer the world. No one would be able to say no to him anymore. He would be able to manipulate and control everyone in his path, from business opponents to clients to governments. No one would be able to resist.

He poured himself another glass of vodka and slammed a few ice cubes on top of it, sending droplets of clear liquid splashing all around him. He sipped it with reverence, letting it work its miracles in his weary body, and expressing his enjoyment with a loud, satisfied exhalation of air mixed with bluish smoke.

We are slaves to our brain chemistry, all of us, he reflected. Equally vulnerable. There's no willpower, no intelligence, and no spirit that won't succumb to the right mix of drugs.

He’d learned that from his friend, President Abramovich, from the stories of his early days in the KGB, when he had worked in punitive psychiatry, learning how to manipulate and defeat people with drugs. After all, why would that wealth of knowledge be limited to Abramovich’s use? Or to Russia’s? He could definitely use it in his business. Although he’d been on the Global Fortune 50 list for some time now, that wasn’t even close to being enough. It was never going to be enough.

After careful planning and precise delivery mechanisms, tested in the field on a vast number of unsuspecting subjects in all kinds of environments, he could rule the world. His business opponents could make some bad decisions, driven by an unexplained surge in one brain chemical or a drop in another, and he'd be there, watching, waiting, ready to reap the benefits. They could feel overly aggressive and competitive in purchasing an asset, paying to the seller — Myatlev, who else — two, three times the fair market value. They could suddenly feel weak and demotivated when bidding against one of Myatlev’s many global corporations about contracts worth billions of dollars.

That's why the formulations had to be precise, and work with accuracy. It had to gain him control. Random violence, as they had on the latest failed test, the one that left an entire offshore drilling platform covered in blood, gave him nothing.