Rules of Vengeance

“Good riddance,” shouted Allam. He stayed absolutely still as Frank Co

“Don’t worry, Frank,” he said to himself. “The unfriendly faces are here all right. You just can’t see them.”

56

The plane was a Cirrus SR22, a single-engine turboprop capable of seating six with a top speed of 200 knots and a range of 900 kilometers. Mikhail Borzoi, chairman and sole owner of Rusalum, Russia’s largest aluminum producer, majority shareholder of six of the country’s ten largest commercial banks, single largest public patron of the Kirov Ballet (private patron to three of the company’s leading dancers), and first counselor to the president, completed his preflight check. The pitot tube was free and clear. The stall flap was functioning nicely. The oil level was more than adequate, and the gas tank was filled to the brim.

“We’re good to go,” he called to his copilot before climbing into the cockpit and strapping himself into the left-hand seat.

Borzoi unfolded the map on his knee and plugged the coordinates of his flight plan into the Garmin computer. He was fifty-five years old, of average height and less than average build. Once long ago someone had said he was shaped like a pear, and the description still held true. But if he were a pear, it would be of the prickly variety. Mikhail Borzoi was not a nice man. Nice men did not control the world’s largest producer of aluminum. Nice men did not amass a fortune worth some $20 billion, and that was after the stock market crash. Nice men did not rise from an impoverished childhood to stand at the president’s side and be among the three candidates certain to take his place in the next election. Not in Russia. In Russia, nice men got trampled, chewed up, and spit out.

Borzoi radioed the flight tower and received his clearance to taxi. He had always dreamed of being a military pilot. As a youth, he’d attended the a

Borzoi taxied to the end of the runway and turned his aircraft into the wind. Today’s flight plan showed a quick 300-kilometer trip from Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport to the town of Norilsk, where he maintained his largest smelting plant. Total flying time was calculated at one hour, thirty-three minutes. Weather was clear, with visibility of 10 kilometers. It was a perfect day to fly.

Borzoi powered up the engines, then released the brake and sped down the runway. At 120 knots, he rotated the wheels up. The Cirrus’s nose rose and the small aircraft climbed magnificently, rising like a leaf in an updraft. Borzoi smiled, looked at his copilot, and said, “Doesn’t this little devil just love to fly?”

The copilot did not respond.

When the Cirrus reached a height of one thousand meters above ground level, an explosive device containing fifty grams of high-grade plastique planted next to the gasoline tank automatically detonated. The Cirrus holds fifty gallons of high-octane aviation or test fuel. As Borzoi had earlier noted, the tank was filled. The explosion that ensued was monstrous. One moment the plane was climbing at a rate of two hundred meters per minute. The next it was a raging ball of flame.

The Cirrus cartwheeled and fell to earth.

There were no survivors.

The crash was ruled an accident and later graded “pilot error,” though no details were ever provided.

Word of Borzoi’s death reached Sergei Shvets less than five minutes later. The FSB was proud of its network of sources, and Shvets liked to brag that he was the best-informed man in the country. Upon receiving the news, he cast a dour face and professed his sadness. Borzoi was a friend of long standing and, of course, a fellow spy.

Privately, Shvets smiled.

Two down. One to go.

Only Igor Ivanov stood between him and the presidency.

57

Jonathan threw an arm over the gunwale and pulled himself into the skiff. He’d been swimming for two hours without cease. His neck ached. His shoulders burned. Worse, his stomach roiled with incipient nausea. Twice he’d come up for air only to find a patrol boat passing nearby. Both times he’d swallowed a mouthful of seawater in his hurry to disappear. He ran his hand over his face, skimming off a layer of oil and salt and effluents. Laying his head on the warm wooden slats, he let the sun beat down upon his face. He needed rest, but rest was a luxury he no longer possessed.

With a grunt, Jonathan sat up and took a long look at the shoreline. Here and there a couple sunbathed, a man walked with his dog. Up the beach, a trio of children labored over a sandcastle. By his reckoning, he’d covered 6 or 7 kilometers, much of it below the surface. Instead of drifting with the prevailing current, he’d headed north up the coast, battling a stiff tide all the way. Once clear of the harbor, he’d swum past the city’s industrial quarter and farther still, until he reached a stretch of beach with waist-high grass and modest vacation homes tucked among scraggly pines. An irregular fleet of motorboats was moored 50 meters offshore, but all were covered with canopies. It was with no small joy that he’d spotted the skiff bobbing nearby.

A spasm racked his stomach, and Jonathan retched into the sea. Feeling better, he turned his attention to the outboard engine. It was a compact Mercury 75, similar to the auxiliary motor aboard the 16-foot Avalon he’d sailed along Maryland’s Eastern Shore as a youngster. Unscrewing the fuel cap, he observed that the tank was half full, give or take. He returned the cap, then adjusted the choke. It would be best to wait until dark before stealing someone’s boat, but waiting was not an option. At that moment, Kate Ford and her Italian colleagues were canvassing the tourist district in the vicinity of the Hotel Rondo, questioning shopkeepers, restaurateurs, and hotel managers about whether they’d seen or spoken with him. It was only a matter of time until they reached the Hotel De La Ville. Caution demanded that he assume they already had.

Moving fore, Jonathan untied the skiff, weighed anchor, then took his seat by the motor. He gave the cord a yank and the engine sputtered to life. To his fugitive’s ears, the noise was as loud as a grenade. He guided the skiff out of the inlet north along the coast, keeping one eye on the shore. At any moment he expected the skiff’s owner to run out of one of the matchbox houses, shouting for him to bring the vessel back. But no one so much as glanced in his direction.

In minutes his clothes had dried and the sun beat hot on his brow. A weighted net lay in the bow, and he used the lead gumdrops to pin down the currency remaining in his wallet on the bench so that it might dry as well.

Gradually the character of the shoreline changed. The beach disappeared and was replaced by an endless jetty. The terrain grew mountainous, and slopes descended steeply into the sea, a succession of rugged cliffs curled around azure inlets.

Jonathan studied the coastline, looking for a place to put in. It was essential that he start to think aggressively. His respect for the law, and those who’d sworn to uphold it, was no longer appropriate. To a man in his position, the law was a hindrance. It was the law, be it in the form of Kate Ford, Charles Graves, or the blue-jacketed carabinieri who had pursued him across the docks in Civitavecchia, that sought to prevent him from finding Emma.