55

Yuri Sergeyevich Zhukovski was not an impressive physical specimen: no more than medium height with a narrow face, his short, graying hair starting to thin on top. His charcoal suit, white shirt, and nondescript patterned tie suggested a man who had no interest whatsoever in looking fashionable or making a show of his wealth. He could easily be taken for an intellectual of some kind, an academic, perhaps, or a scientist. His voice was quiet and unassuming. But the steely chill of his eyes and the directness of his gaze revealed the truth about his ruthlessness, his ambition, and his desire for power. If the former colonel Yuri Zhukovski of the KGB spoke quietly, it was not because he was too meek to shout. It was because he had absolute confidence that his merest whisper would instantly be obeyed.

His day had begun with an eight a.m. meeting in Moscow, discussing the purchase of the last aluminium smelter in Russia that was not yet in his hands. His negotiating tactics were very simple: He named a purchase price, then informed the vendors that if they did not accept it, they would be dead within the week. That was the way business worked in the frontier economy of the new Wild East, and it suited Zhukovski very well. Not all his business interests, however, were proceeding quite so smoothly. Not all his partners were quite so open to intimidation.

In the Challenger jet that had flown him to Switzerland that afternoon, Zhukovski had taken a call from an African president. He was an old comrade from Communist days, who’d been KGB-tutored in Kiev like so many members of Africa’s late-twentieth-century ruling class. But there was nothing comradely about him now. He was trying to renege on a hundred-dollar million order. And it wasn’t for aluminium.

“My dear Yuri,” intoned the raddled despot, whose holdings in Zurich precisely matched the aid that had poured into his country over the past three decades, down to the last billion, “as I have explained to you many times in recent weeks, this isn’t personal. This is politics. We just can’t be seen to be purchasing the type of product you are proposing to sell us.”

He spoke English in a voice that combined the sonorous musicality of African speech with the languid self-confidence of an English gentleman. After Kiev, he had completed his studies at the London School of Economics. This too was typical of his caste.

“I am not proposing anything, Mr. President. I am honoring the contract we both signed,” Zhukovski said patiently.

“A contract signed under very different circumstances, when a very different mood prevailed in Western governments. The simple fact is, we have been under intense pressure to alter certain aspects of our defense procurement and strategy. People have even threatened to withhold the aid my people need so desperately.”

Zhukovski’s eyes closed in mute frustration as he made his reply. “Please, Mr. President, spare me the heartfelt speeches. We made a deal. I’d be obliged if your nation would stick to it.”

“I’m afraid that will be impossible,” said the president. “But don’t blame me. Blame that damn woman, parading herself in front of all those television cameras.”

“That damn woman is now dead. She won’t be in any position to influence anyone anymore, and the only cameras she’ll be parading in front of will be the ones at her funeral. Everything will soon go back to normal.”

“Well, I hope it does. And if it does, I’ll be only too happy to buy your products again, Yuri. But until then, our deal must be postponed. And don’t act so outraged. I doubt I’m the only one of your clients who’s decided to rethink his plans.”

Zhukovski remained outwardly calm, his voice betraying none of his frustration, let alone his anger. “As you know, Mr. President, my dealings with my clients are always completely confidential.”

“Quite so. Well, send my regards to Irina.”

“And mine to Thandie. Good-bye, Mr. President.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Zhukovski.”

Yuri Zhukovski closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, calming his mind. He had two more calls to make. One was to a government minister in Moscow, assuring him that his monthly payment would arrive in full and on time. The other was to the senior partner of a Monte Carlo law firm, who represented the family whose patronage had been responsible for Zhukovski’s rise from a midranking officer to a multibillionaire; the family who had bankrolled his purchase of state assets at knockdown prices; the family who were his secret masters. They would need to be reassured that their assets were still secure. They would not hesitate to find another front man if such assurance was not forthcoming.

Zhukovski’s Bentley met him at the private airport east of Lake Geneva and whisked him off to the mountain estate just outside Gstaad. He’d been there for almost four hours when he got the message from Kursk. Carver had escaped again, but then Kursk revealed, scarcely able to keep the sadistic glee from his voice, that he’d captured Alexandra Petrova.

Zhukovski could imagine what Kursk would do to Petrova if he were ever given the chance. That time might yet come. But when Kursk pulled up outside the palatial chalet - the Swisscom van absurdly out of place on a driveway intended for supercars and limousines - Yuri Zhukovski had not yet decided what to do with his lovely runaway.

“Alexandra, what a pleasure to see you,” he said as she was led into his study, looking bedraggled and exhausted, barely able to stand. “I was wondering when we’d meet again. You look tired. Sit down.” He glanced at a butler hovering at the far side of the room. “Get her something to eat and drink.” Then he focused his attention back on the woman in the dirty blouse and torn blue skirt, her head bowed, a hand rubbing the bruise at the back of her scalp. “Now, Alexandra, tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me . . . everything.”

Zhukovski’s tone could not have been more charming, nor could his concern have sounded more genuine. But the menace behind the sweetly spoken words was as sharp as a naked blade.