Page 87 of Dead Fall

There was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table as well as food. Judging by the flush in the men’s cheeks and the unsteadiness with which the President now stood, the intelligence operative figured this probably wasn’t their first bottle.

Walking over to Peshkov, Grechko shook the leader’s hand. “It is a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Grechko. Do you know my old friend, Arkady Tsybulsky?”

“I only know of him,” the intelligence operative replied. Maintaining his poker face, he shook the jowly oligarch’s meaty hand. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“Something to drink?” Beglov asked as he pointed to the chair he wanted him to take.

“I am okay. Thank you.”

Peshkov smiled. “Nonsense. He’ll take a vodka.”

Grechko knew better than to refuse the President’s hospitality.

Once each of the men had a fresh glass, they toasted to Russia and knocked back their shots.

The President insisted Beglov refill the glasses but urged temperance. “This one,” Peshkov said, “we sip.”

The intelligence operative had no idea what was going on. A direct meeting with the President and one of his advisors was rare, but not unusual. To have a mining magnate in the room, however, made no sense at all. What possible reason could require him to be there?

Further, this was a side of Peshkov he hadn’t seen before. He was used to the stern, serious leader he had seen in meetings and on TV. This after-hours, slightly drunk version was something he was quite unprepared for.

“I hope we didn’t interrupt your Saturday night,” the President said, eyeing his intelligence operative’s crisp suit and polished shoes.

“No, sir. Not at all,” Grechko lied. “I am at your service twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“That’s a very good answer,” Peshkov responded. “Thecorrectanswer.”

“That’s why he’s one of our best men,” Beglov added. “Totally dedicated.”

Grechko looked to see if the advisor was still wearing his wedding band, which he was. And as far as he could tell, he hadn’t suffered any scratching or bruising at the hands of his wife. There was no telling if she had noticed the lipstick on the man’s collar from the night before or not. Perhaps someone had tipped him off before she’d seen it.

The intelligence operative didn’t really care. All he knew was that at this moment, he disliked Beglov even more and he downright hated Tsybulsky. The thought of that corpulent man having his way with Inessa was burning him up inside. He wanted to wrap his hands around the man’s fleshy throat and choke the life out of him.

There were no bodyguards in the room; they were seated just behind a false door, watching everything via closed-circuit TV. He guessed that if he really wanted to do it, he had a thirty percent chance of success before the security men were on top of him and pulling him away. He’d be better off improvising something with a cocktail pick or one of the shrimp forks sitting on the coffee table in front of them.

“I saw you looking at Mr. Tsybulsky,” Peshkov said, “and I can read your mind.”

Grechko doubted it,big-time, but he was polite enough not to say so. “What am I thinking, sir?”

“You are thinking,What the fuck is he doing here?” the President said, laughing, as the other two men joined in.

The intelligence operative smiled and waited for the laughter to die down. “It’s always good to see old friends, Mr. President.”

“Yes, this is true. It is even nicer when the friend doesn’t want something from you.”

Tsybulsky raised his glass in tribute to his host and took a long sip of vodka. As he did, Grechko fantasized about driving the glass down thefleshy man’s esophagus and finishing him off with a throat punch. But it was just that, a fantasy.

Peshkov, after helping himself to a long sip of vodka, finally got around to the point. “Arkady,” he continued, “tell us again about your great idea, the one we were discussing before Mr. Grechko arrived.”

“How I avoided sanctions by putting many of my assets in my mistress’s name?” the fat man asked, laughing again.

“No,” the President replied, shaking his head. “Tell us about your idea for an intelligence operation against the Americans.”

Grechko couldn’t believe his ears. Peshkov was soliciting espionage advice from one of his drinking buddies? Tsybulsky no less? This night really couldn’t get any worse.

The obese oligarch shifted his girth so he could address the intelligence operative head-on and asked, “What do you know about Turkey?”