The Domino Game (40 page)

He threw back his cuff and looked at his watch again.

Shit! Twelve-thirty!

He spun his attention back to the street. There it was. Finally! The black Lincoln sliding its way around the corner. He stepped forward, flagging the driver as the phone in his left breast pocket began to burr.

Christ! Ivankov. That was all he needed!

His fingers slipped inside his jacket as the car pulled to the curb. He stopped a hand to the driver signaling him to wait, turned away, pressed the button and snapped into the receiver.

“Yes. I’m here. What is it?”

“Malcolm.” There was trail of disappointment in Ivankov’s voice.

Powell grimaced. Perhaps he’d been too terse.

“Sorry Marat. It’s hot as hell, here, I’m late for a meeting with Perlman and Haysbert and the damn car’s only just arrived.”

Ivankov’s voice was thick with exaggerated understanding. “Oh, I am so sorry, Malcolm. But I’m sure our senators won’t mind waiting given all the support we provide them, so why don’t you walk for a while, Malcolm.”

Powell stared at the phone. What the fuck was he talking about?

“Just humor me,” Ivankov continued. “Walk and talk and let me share some good news with you my friend. Tell your driver to follow.”

Powell’s brow bunched in annoyance. He paused a moment then leaned down to the Lincoln’s window, tapping the glass. It glided down and the suited driver looked up at him. Ivankov heard the distant voice relayed across the Atlantic.

“I’m going to walk for a while. Follow me, okay?” Powell’s voice returned louder, the pant of his breath and the clack of footfalls on concrete layered beneath it. “Okay, Marat, I’m walking. I’m walking and it’s a hundred fucking degrees and I’m sweating like a pig so I’d appreciate your telling me your good news so that I can get the fuck out of the sun and into the air-conditioning before I melt.”

Ivankov’s voice was pained. “Oh, Malcolm. To walk free down the streets of one of the world’s grandest cities. To feel the caress of the sun on your face and the drift of the warm scented air against your skin and to know you haven’t a care in the world. The simple pleasures of life are passing you by, Malcolm. And time is so short.”

Christ, what was this?

Powell changed hands with the phone, his voice tight with irritation.

“I’m sorry to spoil your vision of life Marat, but right now the sun’s a blazing fucking overhead furnace and the air isn’t scented, it stinks of gasoline and rotten garbage because the guys who are supposed to collect it have been on strike for a week. And I’ve got a lot of cares, Marat. A lot of very serious cares. And I agree, life’s simple pleasures are passing me by, so could we get on, please, with whatever the hell it is you want to tell me?”

Ivankov chuckled into the receiver. “Humor me, Malcolm. About your cares. Tell me, right now, what is the greatest worry you have in the world?”

Powell snared a breath and tugged at his tie as he walked. He ran a finger inside his collar, loosening it. His neck was wet with gathering perspiration. “You know goddamned well what my greatest care is. My greatest care is Jack fucking Hartman and what he could do to us if we don’t do something to him first.”

There was a smile in Ivankov’s reply.

“Then I am the bearer of good news, my friend, since I can now confirm to you that your greatest care is about to evaporate once and for all. You might recall the last time we spoke I assured you I was working on the problem and that I would let you know the details just as soon as I was able. Well now I can do that, Malcolm, and as I said, I think you are going to be surprised and even a little impressed with my solution.” He paused, listening to the distant sounds of America tracing along the line. The undertones of other cities always fascinated him. The car horns, the distant sirens, the rushing clutter of the city filling in the spaces between Powell’s steps. “Tell me,” he began again, “do you recall a fellow by the name of Nikolai Aven, Malcolm? Back when you were Ambassador here… that diligent young man who caused me so much trouble?”

Powell’s brow furrowed as he ran the name. Nikolai Aven. His attention looped back to the phone. “You mean the guy from the FSB? The one Hartman wanted to lift?”

“That’s the one,” Ivankov replied. “And you, Malcolm, through our mutual friend, were kind enough to alert me to what was going on and then to use your impeccable contacts in Washington to override Mr Hartman’s plan, which then enabled me to have young Aven slipped from the picture, you remember?”

Powell hesitated, the events of Moscow in ‘95 replaying through his mind. How could he forget? The single critical incident. The moment of risk and decision that had both galvanized his relationship with Ivankov and sparked the crusade Jack Hartman had doggedly pursued ever since. The sudden flashpoint from which he had been tossed through a decade of space and time to this very moment of his existence on the hot gray pavement of West 82nd Street. He started walking again, his reply terse.

“I remember. So what?”

“So,” Ivankov ventured lightly, “now Mr Aven has kindly reappeared to deal with Mr Hartman for us.”

Powell stopped again. The Lincoln creeping along behind him followed suit. He stared at the pavement. “What the fuck are you talking about, Marat?”

“You need to know all this, Malcolm,” Ivankov continued, patiently, “because when it happens and when all the ends are tied together the media will almost certainly come to you for comment since you were Ambassador to Moscow at the time, and then you will be able to fill them in on all the details. How Hartman was Head of Station for the CIA. A likeable but old-school type. The kind who used to cut corners to get things done. How this young Aven fellow came to him to try and buy his way out of Russia and how Hartman rashly promised to help him, but then apparently his superiors refused and Aven was arrested and tried and convicted for treason, and how understandable it was that he would have held a grudge against Hartman for all those years. Nothing more than the truth of course, Malcolm, that’s all you will need to tell them.”

Powell had reached the corner of Central Park West. A hydrant had blown on the opposite side of the road. Its spray arced through the air, the midday sunlight dancing a rainbow through the glistening mist. He drew back distractedly, beyond the range of the shower, staring past the blurring traffic to the park, his expression perplexed. His brow bunched as his mind juggled the equation.

“But Aven was sent to prison for, what was it… twenty years?”

“Correct,” Ivankov agreed lightly.

“So…” Powell blinked. “What is it you’re telling me, Marat? That somehow Aven got out of jail. And now you’ve hired him to take out Hartman?”

Ivankov mused the words, his voice rising and falling against the options. “Yes. And no.”

Powell spun around on his four hundred dollar heels, irritated by the game. “Well what then, for Christ’s sake?”

Ivankov drew a breath. “Yes, he got out of prison. He escaped. With a little help, I admit, although he wasn’t aware of that. Then, being a wanted man here in Russia and given the opportunity, he understandably decided to flee the country, so what could have been a more appropriate choice of haven for him than New York, the cradle of the free world.” Ivankov paused to demur. “As for my hiring him to deal with Hartman, that’s not strictly correct. But he will deal with him.”

The Lincoln was doubled at the curb, the driver leaning from the window, his face growing tight with impatience. Powell glared at him and turned aside.

“I don’t get it. You’re saying Aven’s going to go after Hartman of his own accord?”

Ivankov played with the supposition. “Certainly he would have reason to, wouldn’t you say, Malcolm? Hartman let him down at least. Double-crossed him at worst. Either way he destroyed Aven’s life, so now that he is there in the same city as Mr Hartman it would be entirely reasonable that he would wish to look him up. And if he did and decided to mete out some violent retribution then that would remove our problem in the tidiest possible way, don’t you think? It would simply be a matter of Mr Hartman’s past finally catching up with him.”

Powell chewed his lip. Squinted through the sunlight, considering the angles.

“I don’t know how you intend to do this, Marat, but you wouldn’t want Aven floating around after the event.”

“Malcolm…” Ivankov’s voice was layered with exaggerated patience. “Please give me some credit. You don’t need to know the details. In fact it’s far better that you don’t. All you need to know is how to react when the news breaks and the media seek you out for comment, and when they do I suggest that you should be generous and statesmanlike in your retrospective of Mr Hartman. A patriot. A great American. The last of a dying breed, his loss a shame and a tragedy. But then I don’t have to tell you do I, Malcolm? You’ll know how to handle it. You’re so very good at that sort of thing.”

Powell stared at the pavement, his mind testing the equation, the trace of a smile settling across his sealed lips. He nodded slowly. “It cuts,” he allowed begrudgingly. “It would work. It would be better still if all of Hartman’s records disappeared as well.”

Ivankov sighed. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that, Malcolm? So, off you go now to your meeting with the senators and just relax. Leave it all to me.”

In his suite on the top floor of the Kempinski, Marat Ivankov closed off the phone and set it aside, leaning back and steepling his fingers to his face.

The symmetry. That was what he liked about it most.

Hartman and Aven and Powell each returning to their original parts and playing them out to a satisfying conclusion. Then a few months from now, when the merger was bedded down and his services were no longer needed, dear old Malcolm could be retired as well. He tapped the ends of his fingers together. He’d have to think about that… about how it should be done. Some kind of unfortunate accident would probably be best, but there was no hurry; that was a project he could work on at leisure. There was nothing personal to it, of course. It was just another step in the process of evolution, like the disposal of Patrushev and the others. Another dead skin shed, that was all. Another link severed to the musty past. Malcolm Powell and others like him had been Marat Ivankov’s bridge to respectability but now that he had almost reached the other side they would soon be redundant. His fortunes and aspirations would no longer be so dependent upon clandestine maneuverings and, in any event, to the extent they were, by then he would be able to retain credentialed experts to handle such matters for him: the lawyers and bankers and accountants and lobbyists of the establishment who would clamber over one another in their eagerness to rent their skills and allegiance by the hour or the deal.

It was what he should do with Vitaly and the black operations that was a more immediately serious and taxing concern. Under Vitaly’s management, the cash drop on Ivankov’s 75 per cent had grown to become, in a word, breathtaking. Hundreds of millions a year now, pumping through the system, scrubbed methodically clean then blown out to a hundred different accounts from where it was then stirred invisibly back into the resources of the legitimate enterprises like yeast mixed as leavening to grain.

It was going to be hard to let that go – Ivankov grimaced at the prospect – but necessary if he were to make the final transition to respectability, and the time was now rapidly approaching.

He could leave it all with Vitaly, of course. Given his loyalty over the years that wouldn’t have been an unreasonable gesture. But in his own way Vitaly was another Malcolm Powell – another link to the past that would be best severed. Which brought him to the alternative. He had to admit, it was not only an imaginative approach but it had appeal. Real appeal.

Why shouldn’t the black operations be treated just like any other business? And if they were, why shouldn’t he sell them just as he would sell any other asset? And since he knew their value, what was wrong with financing the sale?

The opening offer hadn’t been all that attractive but still, it had more appeal than just walking away, and it was just the first shot. His instinct told him that with a little wrangling he could most likely double it – push it, probably, to three hundred million or even more. Even at that figure, with Vitaly’s cut taken into account, the buyer would be looking at a return of more than 100 per cent a year. With seventy-five million up-front the purchase could pay for itself and he would be out clean in nine months.

He rocked his head from side to side, considering. The option, of course, was to leave things the way they were but his instinct told him that was too dangerous. His legitimate business interests were too valuable now to take the chance. The bigger the stakes, the more likely it was that someone, sooner or later, would pin down the link.

That aside, he liked the imaginative thought behind the proposed transaction. On paper the cash would change hands for the hard assets: the clubs and casinos and the retail stores which were fully owned by companies Ivankov ultimately controlled. The buyer would pay a deposit of 25 per cent with the balance of the price loaned back on a seller’s note payable in full within a year. At face value they would be paying a crazy price for the assets but that was their problem, not his. And not so much a problem really since, with good accounting advice, there would most likely be a whole raft of tax breaks that could be claimed on the investment. Control of everything else would pass immediately with one further stipulation. The buyer didn’t want Vitaly. Which really brought things to a head since, if they came to a deal, the buyer wanted to settle within seventy-two hours.

His hands parted, one falling to his lap the other to the antique desk, his fingers distractedly drumming a slow repetitive roll on the polished walnut. A minute passed, then two, as he thought it through. It solved the other outstanding problem as well of course, he had to consider that, since that was part of the offer. And the buyer would look after Vitaly, so Ivankov wouldn’t need to be involved in any of that.

Finally he sighed and leaned back again, folding his hands across his chest.