The Ghost Pattern

…48

Ivan hated to be the one who had to wake Myatlev up in the morning. Eternally hung over, sullen, and grumpy as can be, Myatlev was not easy to deal with in the early hours of the day. Entering his bedroom usually turned Ivan’s stomach. He clenched his teeth and winced just thinking about it. The stink of metabolized alcohol and sweat, combined with stale cigar smoke and, sometimes, just to make it worse, the smell of bodily fluids exchanged freely during his boss’s sexual encounters, made it almost unbreathable, even for the hardcore ex-Spetsnaz that he was.

Regardless, he had no choice but to wake him, and with bad news on top of it. Ivan stopped in front of Myatlev’s bedroom door, rapping his fingers against it and waiting no more than two seconds before entering.

There he was, butt-naked, lying flat on his back, his morning wood still impressive for his age and state of physical decay, his snores roaring louder than a tank engine climbing a steep hill. At the far end of the bed, a young girl, not much older than sixteen, crouched shivering. Wrapped tightly in sweaty sheets and trying to take as little space as possible, she stared at him with big, round, pleading eyes.

Ivan waved the girl away, and she was quick to disappear, grabbing her things on her way out. Then, taking a deep breath, he approached Myatlev and cleared his throat to wake him up. Nothing. No throat clearing was going to cover that snoring. He touched Myatlev’s shoulder, and said, speaking louder and louder with each word.

“Boss? Boss? Good morning. Boss?”

Myatlev finally opened his eyes, groaned, and licked his dry lips.

“What the fuck is it?”

Ivan handed him a glass of sparkling water and a couple of rehydrating pills, to help with his obvious hangover.

“We blew up the plane, as you said,” Ivan replied, unperturbed. “We recorded the explosion via satellite.”

“Good.”

“But there’s a problem,” Ivan continued. “You’ll have to see.”

He pulled open the laptop he had brought along, and pulled the recorded satellite view of the hangar. The recording started a few minutes before the explosion, showing four people approaching the hangar, taking out the two sentries, commando-style, then sneaking inside the hangar, only to come out of there running for their lives just seconds before everything blew up in a huge blaze of fire.

“What the fuck?” Myatlev said, suddenly awake. “Who are they?”

“Unknown,” Ivan replied. “But my man is still in the area. He’ll find out.”