Last Snow - Eric van Lustbader [141]
“I bring this up because eastern Ukraine has fallen into a severe economic depression, there have already been riots there as there have been in Moldavia and parts of Germany. This expanding civilian unrest is just the excuse we need to move our troops into north-eastern Ukraine and keep them there, and after the accord with the United States is signed no nation will dare rise up against us. Thank you, General. As requested by President Carson’s press secretary, I have scheduled the formal signing for eight o’clock tomorrow night in order to get the maximum exposure on American television. When we sign the accord in front of a thousand news cameras your part in our little play will come to an end and your account in Liechtenstein will be filled to overflowing with gold bullion.
“Tell me, General Brandt, how does it feel to be a wealthy man?”
“ORIEL JOVOVICH.”
The sound of Limonev’s raspy voice brought Batchuk back to the present, back to the eyeball-searing interior of Baskin-Robbins.
“A strange place to meet.”
“Let’s go.” Batchuk rose to his feet. “I have a job for you.” As usual, remembrance of things past had turned his mood sour; he felt no inclination toward small talk.
“You could have texted me the way you always do,” Limonev said as they rode the escalator to the underground garage. “I sent you the number the minute my new cell was activated.”
“This one’s different,” Batchuk said without looking at him. “It demands a different level of security.”
Limonev said nothing more until they had walked between the ranks of parked cars and were comfortably settled in the deputy prime minister’s luxurious Mercedes sedan.
“We’re going together?”
“It’s a two-man job.” Batchuk guided the Mercedes up the ramp and out onto the busy street. Twenty minutes of battling traffic at either a dead crawl or flying along at insane speeds brought them to the Ring Road, which Batchuk took around to the northeast, where he swung off the exit to the slums and Skol’niki Park. He pulled over at the park’s outskirts and they went into it, heading down a gentle slope to the lake known as Pulyaevskiye prudy. It was too cold and snowy for the homicidal gangs and addicts to be out; in fact, this particular area of the park was all but deserted. Snow continued drifting out of the hard, porcelain sky, swirled and blown sideways by gusts of damp wind that seemed to make the snowflakes expand, grow heavier, as if they had turned from frozen water into silver or glass tiles.
At the edge of the lake Batchuk glanced at his watch. “He’ll be coming soon. He has an appointment on the other side of the park.”
Limonev squinted through the snow. “Perhaps in this weather he won’t come.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about the weather.”
“I’ll need to be able to recognize the target.” Limonev glanced in every direction to ensure that there was no one close to them. “As usual a photo of him would be best.”
“Of course.” Batchuk slipped a snapshot out of the breast pocket of his black leather trench coat. “This is the man I want you to kill.”
Limonev looked down at the photo of Riet Medanovich Boronyov, his eyes closed, his face waxen and gray. There were flecks of blood on his lids and along one cheekbone.
Batchuk had already produced an MSP internally silenced, blunt-barreled pistol. Now he shoved it against Limonev’s chest and fired a round.
Limonev lost his balance and fell to his knees in front of Batchuk. One hand, shaking as if palsied, fumbled for his gun, but with an almost negligent wave Batchuk knocked it away.
“Unfortunately