The Ghost Pattern

…27

Vitaliy Myatlev finished his vodka-enhanced coffee and flicked the butt of his cigar out the window. It had rained that morning, bringing a luscious tint to all spring greenery, and cleaning the air of the constant stink of Moscow’s pollution. But rain also brought joint pain to his left shoulder and also to his lower back, making him irritable. He wanted to go home and get in bed, but he still had to be there, in his goddamned office at the Ministry of Defense. There were days when he just hated his life, but, for as long as Abramovich held the supreme position in the Kremlin, he had to walk the line.

“Anything else?” Myatlev asked Ivan, seeing how his aide and bodyguard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitant to leave.

“Umm… if I may, I was thinking that now everything is in place at the lab and everyone’s working nicely, we should tie up all loose ends. Leave no trace.”

Myatlev rubbed his shoulder furiously, trying to make the pain go away.

“What the hell do you mean, Ivan? Stop fucking around and get to the point.”

“The plane, boss. We should destroy it. It’s evidence we don’t want to leave behind.”

Myatlev rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. People can be so stupid, even the smart ones.

“Where’s the plane now?”

“In a hangar, buried in the side of a hill. It’s an old, abandoned facility near a decommissioned airbase and ICBM site. Middle of nowhere, really.”

Then why destroy it? No one would ever find it hidden in there.

Myatlev resisted the urge to yell at his aide. Ivan had been his most trusted, loyal employee, and he valued that. He also knew he couldn’t afford to risk losing the loyalty of the man who knew so much about him. He tempered himself, bringing his anger down to a quiet simmer.

“Don't destroy a fucking 747, for God’s sake. We might need that sometime. Just strip it of all markings and recognizable features, and have it sealed and guarded around the clock. And get me a masseuse.”

Ivan frowned and hesitated a little before acknowledging. “Yes, sir.”