Medvedev, most of questionable ethics, but never had he been ordered to watch the wife of the man who paid his salary. He did not know why he had been given this assignment, only that it was important.
Ulyanov settled fifty yards behind the limousine and switched on some music. Nothing to do now but make himself comfortable and take a nice, boring drive to Sheremetyevo. Those were the kind of jobs he liked best: the boring jobs. Leave the excitement to the heroes, he was fond of saying. One tended to live longer that way.
As it turned out, the journey would be neither long nor boring. Indeed, it would end at the Ukraina Hotel. The offending car came from Ulyanov’s right, though later he would be forced to admit he never saw it. He was able to recall the moment of impact, though: a violent collision of buckling steel and shattering glass that sent his air bag exploding into his face. How long he was unconscious was never clear to him. He reckoned it was only a few seconds, because his first memory of the aftermath was the vision of a well-dressed man yelling through a blown-out window in a language he did not understand.
Anton Ulyanov did not try to communicate with the man. Instead, he began a desperate search for his mobile phone. He found it a moment later, wedged between the passenger seat and the crumpled door. The first call he made was to the Sparrow Hills apartment of Arkady Medvedev.
Upon his arrival at Cote d’Azur International Airport, Ivan Kharkov was escorted into a windowless conference room with a rectangular table and photographs of French-built aircraft on the wall. The man who had summoned him, Francois Boisson, was nowhere to be seen; indeed, a full thirty minutes would elapse before Boisson finally appeared. A slender man in his fifties with small eyeglasses and a bald head, he carried himself, like all French bureaucrats, with an air of condescending authority. Offering neither explanation nor apology for his tardiness, he placed a thick file at the head of the conference table and settled himself behind it. He sat there for an uncomfortably long period, fingertips pressed thoughtfully together, before finally bringing the proceedings to order.
“Two days ago, after your aircraft was refused permission to take off from this airport, we began a careful review of your flight records and passenger manifests. Unfortunately, in the process we have discovered some serious discrepancies.”
“What sort of discrepancies?”
“It is our conclusion, Monsieur Kharkov, that you have been operating your aircraft as an illegal charter service. Unless you can prove to us that is not the case-and, I must stress, in France the burden of proof in such matters is entirely on
“Your accusation is complete nonsense,” Ivan countered.
Boisson sighed and slowly lifted the cover of his impressive file. The first item he produced was a photograph of a Boeing Business Jet. “For the record, Monsieur Kharkov, is this your aircraft?” He pointed to the registration number on the aircraft’s tail. “N7287IK?”
“Of course it’s my plane.”
Boisson touched the first character of the tail number: the
“I couldn’t say for certain. Three years at least.”
“Do you not find that odd, Monsieur Kharkov?”
“No, I do not find it the least bit odd. As you well know, Monsieur Boisson, aircraft owners carry American registry because American registry ensures a high resale value.”
“But according to your own records, Monsieur, you are
“What are you talking about?”
“Your own aircraft registration lists the owner of N7287IK as a Delaware-based firm called, oddly enough, N7287 LLC. Obviously, N7287 LLC is a corporate shell maintained for no other reason than to give your plane the illusion of American ownership. Technically, you have no relationship with this company. The president of N7287 LLC is a man named Charles Hamilton. Monsieur Hamilton is an attorney in Wilmington, Delaware. He is also the owner by proxy of the aircraft you claim is yours. Monsieur Hamilton actually leases the plane to you. Isn’t that correct, Monsieur Kharkov?”
“Common, perhaps, but not entirely honest. Before we continue with this inquiry, I must insist you prove that you are the actual owner of the Boeing Business Jet with the tail number N7287IK. Perhaps the easiest way for you to do that would be to telephone your attorney and put him on the phone with me?”
“But it’s Sunday morning in America.”
“Then I suspect he’ll be at home.”
Ivan swore in Russian and picked up his mobile phone. The call failed to go through. After two more futile attempts, he looked at Boisson in frustration.
“I sometimes have trouble in this part of the building myself,” the Frenchman said apologetically. He pointed toward the telephone at the opposite end of the conference table. “Feel free to use ours. I’m sure it’s working just fine.”
Arkady Medvedev received the call from an obviously dazed Anton Ulyanov while he was relaxing in the study of his apartment in the Sparrow Hills. After hanging up, he immediately dialed the number for Elena’s driver and received no answer. After a second unsuccessful attempt, he twice tried to reach Luka Osipov, the head of Elena’s small security detail, but with the same result. He slammed down the receiver in frustration and stared glumly out the window toward central Moscow.
The departure of the Kharkov children from Pampelonne Beach did not go according to schedule, which surely would come as no surprise to any parent of small children. First there were the demands for a final swim. Then there was the struggle to get two sand-covered seven-year-olds into dry clothing suitable for the journey home. And finally there were the obligatory histrionics during the long walk to the cars. For Sonia Cherkasov, the Kharkov ’s long-suffering nanny, the task was not made any easier by the fact that she was accompanied by four armed bodyguards. Experience had taught her that, at times like these, the bodyguards were usually more trouble than the children themselves.
As a result of the delays, it was 1:45 P.M. before the Kharkov party had boarded their cars. They followed their usual course: inland on the Route des Tamaris, then south along the D93 toward the Baie de Cavalaire. As they emerged from the traffic circle east of Ramatuelle, a gendarme stepped suddenly into the roadway ahead of them and raised a white-gloved hand. The driver of the lead car briefly considered ignoring the command, but when the gendarme gave two fierce blasts on his whistle, the driver thought better of it and pulled onto the shoulder, followed by the second car.
The gendarme, a veteran of the Saint-Tropez post, knew it was pointless to address the Russian in French. In heavily accented English, he informed the driver that he had been traveling well in excess of the posted speed limit. The driver’s response-that everyone speeds in the South of France in summer-did not sit well with the gendarme, who immediately demanded to see the driver’s operating permit, along with the passports of every occupant of the two vehicles.
“We didn’t bring the passports.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were at the beach.”
“As visitors to France, you are required to carry your passports with you at all times.”
“Why don’t you follow us home? We can show you our passports and be done with this nonsense.”
The gendarme peered into the backseat.
“Are these your children, Monsieur?”
“No, they are the children of Ivan Kharkov.”
The gendarme made a face to indicate the name was not familiar to him.
“And who are you?”
