The Ghost Pattern

…36

Myatlev gave his half-smoked cigar a disappointed, frustrated look, as he rolled it between his thumb and index finger. A wave of humid heat had taken over Moscow, and the polluted, stinking haze ruined his smoking enjoyment, bringing a faint smell of gasoline exhaust to the otherwise perfect Arturo Fuente cigar.

He flicked the cigar over the terrace railing and leaned back in his lounge chair, thinking, letting his mind wonder, reliving the bear attack. He could have delayed taking that shot just a few seconds, and it could have been no more Abramovich. No more unstable, moody, arrogant bastard to order him around and tell him what he could and couldn’t do. No more having to go to work in his office at the Ministry of Defense. No more fear of having the president’s favor turn into persecution, and no more threat of Siberia looming over his head. It would have been an easy, clean kill, brought to him as a peace offering from destiny itself. Abramovich’s life, offered to him on a silver plate, and he chose to save that life.

Yet, in the heat of the moment, he’d chosen to pull that trigger and save the bastard, and he didn’t regret it. Despite his unpredictable stubbornness, Abramovich was worth more to Myatlev alive than dead. The possibilities were endless, his to explore, materialize, and reap benefits from.

Even if that meant, every now and then, yielding to the bastard’s will and doing what he was told.

“Tvoyu mat,” he muttered under his breath, then called out, “Ivan!”

Ivan instantly appeared out of nowhere.

“Da?”

“Blow up that 747, Ivan, and do it soon,” he said, feeling his jaws clenching at the thought of it. Such a waste… a senseless, stupid, cowardly waste. But blatantly disobeying a direct order from Abramovich and irritating him wasn’t an option.

“Sir?”

“Yes, yes, you heard me,” Myatlev confirmed. “And you heard Abramovich yesterday. It has to get done. ”

Myatlev stood up, straining, feeling a pinch under the right side of his ribcage. Maybe it was time to give his liver a checkup. So much stress wasn’t good for anyone, and the vodka didn’t help, but he wasn’t going to stop living before actually dying.

“Send someone you trust, Ivan,” he continued. “Tell him to pack it with C4 and blow it up.”

“Yes, sir,” Ivan acknowledged. “Consider it done.”

“Route a satellite over it and record the explosion, in case Abramovich wants to see some proof.”

Ivan nodded, getting ready to leave.

A cunning smile appeared on Myatlev’s lips. “Tell your man to collect some of the plane’s debris after the explosion, and take that out to sea. Tell him to throw that debris in the water near where they said it crashed. This way they’ll stop looking.”

Ivan smiled widely.

“Consider it done,” he repeated before leaving.