Page 49

49

ROMAN

“ W hy the fuck are you at Pillars?” I frown at my phone. It’s nine a.m., and Dimitry was supposed to be at my Hale office an hour ago.

“There’s an issue with an order that hasn’t shown up. I’m just lending Abby a hand to sort it out.”

For fuck’s sake. I forgot Dimitry’s girlfriend is working at the nightclub now.

“That’s Nikolai’s fucking job. Wake the lazy prick up.”

“Nikolai’s away. I told you that, remember?”

“Of course I fucking remember.” I’m getting annoyed. “But that was weeks ago.”

“Yeah, and he’s still away. Gregor’s been running the show, but he’s working twenty-four seven. He was still up from last night, trying to work it out, when Abby got here this morning. I just sent him to bed, told him I’d sort it out. Abby’s here on her own, and she doesn’t have all the contact numbers.”

I press my fingers to my head, staving off an imminent headache. “How is Nikolai still away? Is the little prick on permanent fucking vacation?”

“No idea. Gregor said he’s in the States, something to do with Cádiz FC doing showcase matches.”

“Hmm.” I’ll be making a call sooner rather than later. “Do what you need to, and let me know when you’re done.”

“Copy.”

I hang up, drumming my fingers on the desk. Nine a.m. is too early to call Miami, and I’ve got bigger priorities today. I make a mental note to call Nikolai when I’m done.

I’m restless, on edge. I glance at my phone.

No message from Lucia.

Usually she texts me a few times during the day, just an image of the kids or some small message of love or support. Although I often don’t have time to do much more than simply like the message, unconsciously I’ve begun to look forward to receiving them, especially on days as important as this one. She knows that today is the first meeting with the clients I’ve handpicked to utilize Mercura. The absence of a message makes me uneasy. I pick up the phone and call Luis.

“Boss.”

“Are you with Lucia?”

“Yep. And Ofelia. Dress shopping again.” He almost succeeds in not sounding bored.

“All okay?”

“Yep.” He lowers his voice. “Anything I need to look out for?”

“No, no. All good.” I hang up, feeling a bit foolish and admonishing myself for being a possessive prick.

I feel as if I’ve barely seen Lucia in the past few days. I can’t exactly blame her for that. In the lead-up to today’s meeting, I’ve been coming home after midnight most nights. Part of me always hopes to find Lucia waiting for me, wearing one of those delicious fucking lingerie sets that I get to tear off. But school has finished for the summer, and I know she’s been flat out with the kids. I make another mental note, this time to take her out somewhere special. I need to make the most of my time with her before Inger shows up.

Fuck knows I don’t want Inger to get even the faintest idea of Lucia’s importance in my life. That way lies serious trouble. Inger sees the parts of my life I allow her to and gets access to nothing more. She’s selfish, temperamental, and incredibly disruptive for the children—but she’s also their mother. It’s a fine line to walk. Walk it I do, for the kids’ sake, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting her anywhere near Lucia.

I thrust my personal issues to the side and focus on the presentation I’m about to give. It feels strange to be in the Hale offices. I’ve been so absorbed with the Mercura launch I’ve spent hardly any time here for weeks now. But that’s the thing about running a legitimate business front: in order for it to look legitimate, sometimes you actually have to show up. And the Hale offices are perfect for today’s meeting. Nobody watches who goes in or out of Hale’s revolving doors.

A dozen limousines winding up a Malaga mountain to an obscure software facility, however, is a different matter entirely.

And I don’t need anyone looking into Hale Tech. Not even the people who are about to make a fortune out of it.

“Mr. Stevanovsky.” The receptionist’s voice crackles through the intercom. She’s lasted longer than any of her predecessors, not least because I’ve spent so little time here. “The first of your guests has arrived. I’ve sent her to the boardroom.”

“Let me know when they’re all here.”

I stand at the window, staring out at the city below but barely seeing it. Pavel isn’t keen on me having this meeting before he and Mickey have tracked down what they need to. But I’ve trusted my gut for a long time, and right now, it’s telling me to act.

The longer we sit on Mercura, the higher the chance it gets uncovered or a competitor beats us to it. And although Pavel and Mickey have been working night and day, they both shake their heads whenever I ask about the trojan and the possibility of Andersson being involved. I get the feeling they both know more than what they’re saying, but I also know Pavel won’t waste my time by talking before he’s got a complete picture.

I wait until I get confirmation that all twelve have arrived, then stand up, shoot my cuffs, and head for the door.

It’s time to fucking do this.

“ T hat’s the proposal, in a nutshell.” I look around the gleaming boardroom table. The Russian faces looking back at me would make government agencies across half a dozen countries shit their collective pants.

A stone-faced young man who took the bratva into Thailand and now runs one of the largest criminal associations in Southeast Asia.

A Russian Jewess who is ex-Mossad and now runs a team of the world’s deadliest assassins for hire.

Sitting next to her is a man named Makari Tereschenko, with whom I’ve done a lot of business over the years. He’s an ex-Russian FSB agent and now heads up the world’s biggest private mercenary army. According to my research, he and the ex-Mossad agent have been unofficially doing business for over a decade.

A few extremely brutal pakhans who run most of Greece, Turkey, Lebanon and Syria despite decades of relentless scrutiny trying to expose them.

Zinaida Melikov, Russian heiress who reportedly murdered her own father before taking over his London-based bratva organization and building it into the most deadly in that city.

The heads of two competing Paris bratva clans, neither of whom acknowledge the other.

And, just to round it off, a couple of Russian arms dealers whose real names were buried long ago.

Between them, the people sitting at this table control around eighty percent of the world’s illegal financial transactions.

That’s excluding the government-sanctioned deals, of course. That’s a whole other business, one anyone with half a brain stays the fuck out of. The people at this table manipulate government agencies. We don’t deal with them. That’s the thing about governments: they can be brought down overnight, along with the fragile protection that bribery buys from them.

That’s a mistake Yuri made, and not one I will ever repeat.

“I’ve explained as much of the tech side as I’m willing to. Any one of you can decline my invitation. There’s no bullet waiting for you if you do, on that you have my word.”

I smile coldly.

“Of course, if you attempt to sabotage me, that guarantee is null and void.”

“You say there is almost a month until launch.” One of the Paris pakhans leans forward. “Why bring this to us so early?”

“Because it will take that long for you to liquidate what you hold elsewhere and divert it creatively so it enters our system without detection. Between us we control the GDP of several small countries. The disappearance of that money will shake the international markets. That’s why my proposal is to stagger our respective investments. The key to making this work is to do it without drawing any attention.”

“Then what, exactly, are you expecting from us today?” It’s Zinaida, the London heiress, with whom I’ve done business more than once, and who, in my humble opinion, is possibly the most dangerous person sitting at the table.

Psychopaths are a whole different level of ruthless.

“Before I give you the answer to that, I need to know if you’re buying in or not.”

There’s a general murmur of uneasiness and shifting of seats around the table.

I wait until they’ve all settled and are looking at me again.

“You all know the dangers of a money trail in the digital age.” I open my palms. “Every one of us has faced threats to our business because some journalist followed the money . We all know that diligent accountants pose more of a threat to our operations than any rival or government agency.

“This proposal is for a currency that is ours alone. We control it. It’s not publicly listed. Nobody can find it without an invitation, and that invitation can be revoked after a single transaction if you choose. Resources funneled through it are completely untraceable, gone before there’s any record they ever existed in the first place. Like I said in the proposal: I’m offering you a world where nobody can ever follow your money again.” I nod curtly. “I’ve given you all the information I can. If you want to leave, now is the time. Those still seated in five minutes will receive their invitations.”

I don’t move. I don’t offer to break for coffee.

All phones were checked before entry and everyone scanned for technical gizmos. Everyone at this table understands the stakes.

The minutes tick by.

Nobody makes eye contact.

I particularly avoid looking at Zinaida. She and I spent a night together, a long time ago, before Yuri was imprisoned. It wasn’t an experience I have any desire to repeat, but I’ve never forgotten what she told me back then.

“You should kill Yuri and his son, before they get you killed. Weak men die, Roman, and they take others down with them. You’re the strength in Yuri’s operation, and he knows it. That’s dangerous. Most of all, you should ask yourself: why did Yuri take you in? What does he have to gain? Because if you think it was the bullet you took for his son, you’re a fool. Work out why he wants you—but do it soon. Then put bullets through anyone who stands in your way.”

Given Zinaida’s notorious reputation for savagery, at the time, I dismissed her warning as the dysfunction of a psychopathic mind.

Still, I’ve never forgotten it. Over the years, I’ve developed a healthy respect for Zinaida, even occasionally enjoyed a vodka with her. And for some reason, perhaps simply because I’m currently fed up with both Nikolai and Yuri, her warning feels oddly pertinent.

The five minutes are up. I put the Russian and her warning out of my mind.

“So.” I look around the table. “We’re all still here.”

They nod.

“There are twelve envelopes sitting on the side table.” I gesture to the neat stack. “There are no names on them, no particular order. Inside each one is a device that holds a digital code. Once you activate it, you will be inside the system and able to access further directions. Each device is for a one-time use only. We will activate them inside this room, after which you will all watch them be destroyed.

“Ladies and gentleman.” I smile around the table. “Welcome to Mercura.”

A fter the toasts have been drunk and formalities completed, the room empties out—all except the ex-FSB agent who runs the mercenary army. Of all those invited to today’s meeting, Makari Tereschenko is the only one I would describe as a true friend.

“Glad you said yes, Mak.” I proffer my hand and he grips it. There’s nothing bone crushing in the shake. Mak Tereschenko is a man who has nothing to prove, to me or anyone else. He’s also one of the few men who can match me in the boxing ring, but it’s more than that. I know the stories about how he came up in the FSB, and if even half of them are true, the man’s legend is well deserved. I also know for a fact that at least three members of the G7 alliance have him on speed dial.

“It’s a good offer.” His voice is clipped and cool, upper-class Brit with not a trace of Russian accent. The man was a chameleon for a long time. These days, I hear he owns a stately pile of stone in the English countryside, which no doubt pisses off every old Etonian in the district. “And besides—I haven’t forgotten that I owe you.”

I frown. “That isn’t a debt, Mak. I told you that at the time.”

He tilts his head politely, flat black eyes as inscrutable as ever. “Your tech guys found the money trace on the Malian deal. If you hadn’t tipped me off, we’d have faced an ambush, not to mention an embarrassing international situation. I owe you, Roman, and I pay my debts.” He takes the glass of Scotch I offer. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you since then. Like I said, Mercura is a good deal, one that will benefit me. My buy-in has nothing to do with repaying my debt.” He hands me a thick cream card. It has nothing on it apart from a gold-embossed phone number. “This card is a one-time offer. All the resources at my disposal are yours, without question, for a one-off situation when you may need them.”

I tense, and he half smiles. “Don’t be insulted. I know you have resources of your own, efficient ones at that. But we both know there’s a world of difference between security and an army. And a man with a business the size of yours never knows when he might need an army.” He nods at the card. “If you ever need it, my army is yours.”

I swallow my instinctive protests. A favor from a man like Tereschenko is a matter of honor, and no less than I would have done in his shoes. I take the card. “I appreciate it, Mak.”

He almost smiles. “Knowing you as I do, I imagine you’ll be making that call sooner rather than later, Stevanovsky. Either way, look me up next time you’re in the UK. I’ve got a new set of wheels that makes your MTT look like a fucking tortoise.”