Shit.
Vlad hastily turned the stereo off, giving the street a quick scan before getting back to work. He ducked down, muttering in Russian as he searched for the starter wire.
“C’mon, c’mon.”
Finally, he found it, and after stripping off the yellow insulation, touched it to the power wire. Once the engine hummed to life, Vlad cut a U-turn, and stomped the accelerator to the floor.
The car shot forward like a sprinter from the blocks, the 2.9L V6 growling beneath the hood as the needle swept past sixty miles an hour. He lit a second cigarette off the butt of the first and thought back to his time in the GRU—the day he realized that there was only so much damage a body could take, so many times a bone could be broken and reset before you lost a step.
And then what?
As far as Vlad knew there were no retirement homes for broken spies—only desk jobs, disability stipends, and a piece-of-shit gold watch when the government decided it was time for you to pull the pin.
If there was anything he’d learned during his time abroad it was that he’d never be poor. There were too many men willing to pay top dollar for someone with his skill set.
So he left the institutional-gray walls of the FSB for the glitz and glamour of the “west.” He eventually ended up in Malta, where he set up shop as a gun for hire.
And there was no shortage of takers.
The money was great and in the span of a year Vlad had made more than he had during his ten as a civil servant. His five-year plan was to save up enough and get out. Retire and buy a place on the beach, somewhere warm to die—and he was almost there.
But then he’d gone to work for Cabot and everything had gone to shit.
He stopped at the intersection, eyes drawn to the blue sign on the side of the road, and for the first time in his life he considered running.
What to do? he thought, glancing up at the rearview mirror, an idea floating at the back of his mind as he studied the rust-colored bruise on his throat.
The plane, if I could steal the plane, I might be able to . . .
In an instant he knew what to do.
He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed his phone from his pocket, and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a voice answered in French.
“I need to talk to Monsieur Cabot.”
7
MAYOTTE
Andre Cabot sat at the conference table in Mayotte, the tiny island off the coast of Madagascar that was all that was left of France’s once vast colonial empire. He’d been sitting at the table for the past three hours. Listening to his lawyer and the bureaucrat from Paris squabble over the nuances of international law, his head was beginning to ache.
Dear God, will they ever shut up?
“So, as I was saying, since relocating your headquarters to Mayotte, all business conducted by DarkCloud is now governed by French law.”
Andre Cabot got to his feet and crossed to the cherrywood humidor perched on the edge of his desk. He opened the lid and selected a Cohiba Lancero, remembering how he’d come to Mayotte to get away—to start over.
But despite being separated from Paris by two oceans, one continent, and five thousand miles, all it took was one look at the bureaucrat sitting at the end of the table to realize that he hadn’t run far enough.
Back at the table, he fished the 18-karat gold Dunhill Apex from his pocket, thumbed the striker, and twirled the end of the cigar above the flame. When it was lit, he snapped the lid closed and studied the lighter.
Cabot had purchased it in London, because he liked the timeless quality, the craftmanship, and the way it felt in his hand. It had cost him three grand and had been worth every penny.
The same could not be said for the $1,500-an-hour lawyer sitting across from the French bureaucrat. The one who was supposed to be getting him out of this shit.
“The law is quite clear on the matter,” the man said, glancing up at Cabot as he walked over, “which means besides the travel restrictions already imposed by the court, the government is filing the necessary motions to freeze all of DarkCloud’s assets.”
“Now, you listen here,” the lawyer scowled, “if you think for one minute that Mr. Cabot is going to let some third-world puppet court dictate where he can and cannot go, then you are out of your mind.”
“Be that as it may, Monsieur Cabot is a French citizen and as such is required to abide by French laws.”
Cabot puffed on the cigar, letting the smoke eddy in his mouth as he studied the lawyer, trying to remember the man’s name.
It’s one of those stupid Ivy League names, like Chip, or Skip . . .
He tried to remember but he had so many lawyers representing him, so many hotshots strutting around like cocks of the walk with their trust-fund names and their $1,500-an-hour rates—and none of them worth a shit.
“Well then, we will file the necessary motions . . . and . . .”
I’m surrounded by fucking idiots.
“You,” he said, slapping his hand on the table and pointing at the lawyer.
“Yes, Mr. Cabot?”
“Get the fuck out.”
“But I . . . I . . .”
“Now!” he snapped.
The man’s face fell. He got to his feet, pulled his shoulders back, and marched across the office. Cabot skirted the recently occupied chair and took his seat, waiting until he heard the click of the door before blowing the mouthful of smoke across the table.
“How much?” he asked.
“M-Monsieur C-Cabot,” the man coughed. “I-I don’t know what you mean!”
“You think this is my first time playing this game? Or the first time Paris has sent someone to shake me down?” he asked, voice cold as ice.
“No,” the man answered, dropping the act, “I do not.”
“Then let’s cut the foreplay, shall we? Name your price.”
“Price?” the man asked, getting to his feet and retracing the steps Cabot had taken earlier to the box on the edge of the table. “You wish to buy your way out of this? With what, this box?” he asked, bending at the waist and reading the inscription off the brass plate.
“‘May this ornament suffice as a token of gratitude from a thankful nation.’”
“Yes, that is what it says,” Cabot said, getting to his feet, the cigar in his hand shaking with rage as he walked over to the man.
“No date?” The man frowned. “No years of service, no vraiment désolé—very sorry—that your wife left you? That you were thrown out on some trumped-up charges so men in Paris could save face?”