The Ghost Pattern

…6

Vitaliy Myatlev ignored the loud growling in his stomach announcing the buildup of hyperacidity, and washed it down with his third shot of vodka for that morning. After providing a few seconds of deep satisfaction, the alcohol started burning what was left of his stomach lining, causing Myatlev to fidget uncomfortably and cuss under his breath.

“Tvoyu mat,” he swore in his mother tongue, “this job is going to kill me.” He leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket and putting the palm of his hand on his bloated stomach, in an effort to soothe the pain. Maybe a smoke would help.

He opened a new box of Arturo Fuente Opus X cigars, taking his time removing the clear packaging, and inhaling the scent released by the unsealing of the humidor. Then he chose one cigar, and carefully removed its wrapper, stopping at times to inhale the smell of the exquisite Dominican tobacco. That box of cigars had set him back thirty grand… he wasn’t going to let a stupid stomachache stop him from enjoying one.

He clipped the tip with a golden cigar clipper engraved with his initials, a gift from an old business partner. Then he lit the cigar, taking his time, holding the tip above the open flame of his torch lighter, and puffing a few times. Then he let out a long sigh, together with some bluish smoke, but not even that calmed his pain.

He opened the window and let in some fresh air, then took in the cityscape of downtown Moscow, with the massive Kremlin a little to the left, and numerous government buildings crowding the central area of the city.

He used to like this game, but not anymore. For the most part, he still liked playing God, more than anything else, and did so every opportunity he got. But he hated being so close to his friend and unpredictable sociopath, President Abramovich. He hated feeling vulnerable, at Abramovich’s whim.

He’d been fearless ever since he’d started amassing wealth at unprecedented rates. He had everything. He had numerous prosperous businesses in various countries, some of which offered no extradition, just in case he’d ever need that some day. Myatlev was one of the richest men in the world, having broken into Global Fortune 50 a few years back. He had good health, with some minor issues, of course, but still he was doing all right. And he had the same insatiable lust for power and achievement that had propelled him to where he was, and continued to fuel his unrivaled drive.

Only one man could crush all that in seconds, and that man was Abramovich. Myatlev hated how he felt about Abramovich and the power he had over him. He’d heard somewhere that genuine power is held by the person who can destroy what you value the most. How true.

At times, Myatlev had thought of killing Abramovich. It would be so easy. Thirty-five years of friendship didn’t mean much to Myatlev, who hated being vulnerable more than anything else in the world. He also knew that, if the right circumstances would align, the same thirty-five years of friendship wouldn’t hold Abramovich back from sending Spetsnaz after Myatlev with an order to kill on sight.

Then why not beat Abramovich to it and take him out? Myatlev let out another smoke-engulfed long sigh thinking about it. Yes, it was about money. Lots of it. With a favorable, at least for now, Russian president watching over his interests, and with Dimitrov as defense minister, money kept flowing in from all directions. Tax exemptions, official or unofficial. Countless privileges. Government contracts, military and civilian, they all came his way. In turn, he shared the cash with his two friends, and agreed to help Abramovich and Dimitrov rebuild Russia.

But there was a catch, a wrinkle in this fantastic arrangement. It kept Myatlev awake at night, despite almost being in an alcohol-induced coma every night before his head fell on his pillow.

He’d committed to deliver masterful plans in intelligence and covert operations, to acquire weapons and technologies through a wide net of foreign-based assets, most of which were deployed in America. His unrivaled imagination had delivered strategies that, at a global level, could shift the balance of power in the world in Russia’s favor, almost overnight. He had the audacity to deploy foreign intelligence asset arrays in a manner seen only in computerized big data models. He’d crafted unexpectedly innovative solutions to all of Abramovich’s frustration with the Americans, and to Dimitrov’s military needs.

The problem that was fueling Myatlev’s gastritis-soon-to-become-ulcer and his growing fear of Abramovich’s retaliation was that his most recent plans had failed to deliver the promised results. No doubt, Abramovich was becoming frustrated with his delivery. No matter how carefully he had planned every single detail, no matter how closely he’d been involved in managing every aspect of the plans — and he hated that — they still failed. It was almost as if he had an unseen enemy out there, one who understood what hid in the deepest corners of his mind and could think ahead of him, taking away the advantage of surprise.

He had thought, at some point, that his identity might have been exposed, that he’d been compromised. No one knew, outside of a very few carefully selected people, that one of the world’s richest magnates held a permanent office in the Russian Ministry of Defense. Except that inner circle of trusted friends and appointees, no one knew that he led foreign intelligence, espionage, and military strategy operations instead of focusing on his business empire. No one knew, outside of Dimitrov and, of course, Abramovich, that he was sometimes using his own cash, rerouted carefully though several countries, to fund covert operations on foreign soil. He paid that price to ensure no one associated Russia with terrorism, and, of course, the top two Russian leaders paid him back tenfold in contracts and favors.

But, if his identity had been compromised, why was he still alive? Myatlev wasn’t fooling himself; he knew very well that he could become a target the moment the Americans learned who he really was and what he did with his time. Yet the adrenaline rush and the financial windfall were strong motivators for him to continue playing this game.

It felt like a game, and he knew the Americans had no sense of humor; they would have taken him out by now. He actually expected it to happen any day, fueling his adrenaline rush and his growing paranoia. Yet he continued. His ambition couldn’t take defeat, then call it quits just because the game had become too dangerous; that was not who he was. Myatlev lived to win, in business or in the service of his country; it didn’t matter. Winning was all that mattered. Conscience hadn’t bothered him ever in his choice of weaponry or tactics; there was no limit to what his mind could conceive.

In moments like these, when he allowed his mind to wander, he wanted more than anything to find out who was playing games with him. Who was behind the lackluster delivery of new weapons technology through his newly deployed array of agents on American soil? How the hell did the Americans catch his best asset handler so damn fast?

It felt personal; it felt that whenever he had a grandiose plan, his unseen enemy would step in and foil that, but otherwise let him operate. He was sure that the enemy existed; but if he did in fact exist, Myatlev wasn’t sure why his enemy hadn’t killed him already.

He flicked the cigar butt out the window and turned his attention to the matter at hand. He opened a file folder left on his desk and started reviewing the information it contained.

Doctor, fucking, lame Bogdanov. Not such a gift from God after all, Myatlev thought, referring to the meaning of the man’s last name. The file showed the background of a studious young man coming from a solid family with good political connections, who had worked his way though medical school and had graduated top of his class from Lomonosov Moscow State University, then had chosen to become a researcher and had been accepted at the VECTOR Institute immediately. Then he’d proven himself at VECTOR, becoming one of its best researchers.

Myatlev just hated the guy; there was no other word for it. Gutless, spineless little prick, he called him. He could deal with his demeanor better if Bogdanov could bring him some results, but the two months Myatlev had been working with him had been an exercise in frustration.

“Ah… fucking Bogdanov,” he said, slamming the file folder on his desk. “Ivan?” he called.

“Yes, boss?” Ivan replied, entering the office promptly and stopping in the doorway.

“Get Bogdanov in.”

Ivan stepped aside, making room for cowering Bogdanov to step in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Myatlev,” Dr. Bogdanov said in a hesitant voice.

Myatlev didn’t respond. He gave Bogdanov a quick look, then said, “You’re going to set up operations near Sakhalin, on the mainland.”

“Sir?” Bogdanov said, as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Sakhalin was an island near the extreme far east of mainland Russia, just a few hundred miles from Japan. It was literally at the other end of the world.

“You’re going to pack everything you need to build a full research facility and move it to the new location. Ivan will make sure you get everything you need. You have 48 hours to get ready.”

Bogdanov clasped his hands together, rubbing them anxiously. “But, sir, how would—”

“You’ll load everything on a military cargo plane. Tell VECTOR to call Minister Dimitrov if there are questions. Take everything you need, you won’t find anything there on-site.” Myatlev paused for a second, measuring the man from head to toe. “This is your last chance, you hear me?”

“Y — yes, sir, but what’s going to… what are we—”

“Bogdanov, it’s enough that I have to fix your problems for you. Don’t be a bigger idiot than you already are. This is your last chance to get me the results I need. If you fail again, you won’t be coming back from there.”

Bogdanov turned pale and didn’t say another word. Myatlev waved him away, and Ivan took him outside, closing the door quietly behind them.

Good, he thought, let’s hope this time it works. How hard can it be to create a new drug?

With the Bogdanov issue taken care of, all he needed was lunch, a good, soothing meal that would ease the pain gnawing at his stomach.