And now, for the first time, it occurred to him that the trap might have already been sprung, that possibly it had clamped him in its teeth the moment he had gone to tell Gourdjiev that his—what had he called it?—his burnt offering would not save Annika this time. What if, he asked himself now, that entire heated conversation had been choreographed by Gourdjiev? He was more than capable of such a Machiavellian stratagem.
It was a stratagem that he had used himself with Nikki and Alexsei Dementiev years ago, in another, simpler world, driven only by emotion, pure or impure. He had been invited to the wedding and he had gone, taking one of his many women, he could no longer remember which one. He kept away from the couple of honor. Not surprisingly Gourdjiev’s eyes were upon him the entire night, but even if he hadn’t been under scrutiny, he had resolved to keep his distance as a first step in his stratagem. Patience was his ally when it came to Nikki, he knew this in his bones, though his flesh felt like it was on fire every time he caught sight of her. And when she danced, in the center of the ballroom floor, his heart nearly stopped.
In the weeks that followed he did nothing at all but go about the business of following in Yukin’s shadow and, like his mentor, amassing more and more power as he rose in prominence and influence. It was just over two months from the wedding date that he contrived to cross paths with Alexsei Dementiev in a perfectly natural way so as not to arouse Gourdjiev’s suspicions. It was hardly difficult; Dementiev worked as a state prosecutor, his whereabouts known and documented by any number of ministries with which Batchuk had powerful contacts. Batchuk made it vital that Dementiev depose him for an important case he was prosecuting for Yukin. Afterward, they went to lunch. Having committed to memory every fact aggregated in Dementiev’s government file, Batchuk invited him to play tennis, a sport the young man adored, at the indoor facility owned and operated by his club. Dementiev wasted no time in accepting, and in this way, among others cleverly devised by Batchuk, the two men became friends. And so it came about that Alexsei Dementiev himself introduced Batchuk to Nikki when he brought him home for dinner, the first of many nights that the three of them—and sometimes four because Batchuk was careful to bring a date now and again—spent together, eating, talking, and drinking the excellent vodka Batchuk was sure to bring.
Early on in his relationship with Dementiev, when they had gone out drinking after a tennis match, Batchuk had determined that the prosecutor did not have the capacity for alcohol he himself did. One night, eight months later, when the three of them were alone, they drank so much that near midnight Dementiev passed out, obliging Batchuk to help Nikki carry him to bed, after which the two of them returned to the living room, where a welter of dirty plates and servers awaited them. Batchuk obligingly helped her clean up. Space in the kitchen was at a premium, and more than once their bodies brushed against each other.
Nikki was not the kind of woman to fuck a friend while her husband lay insensate in the next room so Batchuk didn’t try, though he had to summon up all his willpower not to take her forcibly and relieve the demonic itch that afflicted him like an allergy or a response to poison. When it came to Nikki’s effect on him poison was not too extreme a word. When he was in her presence—and, eventually, even when he wasn’t—he felt ill, disoriented, dizzy as he lost track of who and where he was. It was only when he was alone with her, so drunk he could taste, or thought he tasted, his heart in his mouth, that he was comfortably numb. But then the gray morning would come and his mind would be beset by the thought of what Alexsei Dementiev had, what he didn’t have, and it was all he could do not to tear his hair out.
And then one day his patience was rewarded.
Batchuk’s mind snapped back into focus as he saw Gourdjiev’s Zil turn off the secondary road, down a gravel driveway that led to a high wall into which was set an electronic gate that opened for the car, then immediately closed behind it.
Beyond the wall, set on a rocky promontory, he spied a large and imposing manor house that he knew he must penetrate. He pulled over his car, doused the lights, and began to formulate a plan.
TWENTY-EIGHT
JACK, BENT over a toilet, was retching, his eyes watering, his guts still spasming.
“It’s all right,” he heard a voice say from behind him, “it’s all out of his system.”
A pair of strong hands pulled him upright, led him over to the sink where he washed out his mouth and put his head under the cold, gushing water. Then he was being dried off with a towel. He heard the toilet flush and had a sense that that sound had been going on for some time. There was a terrible taste in his mouth, part supersweet, part salty, that made him shudder. He heard the toilet seat being lowered and then he was seated on it, the damp towel over his face, another one, rolled and soothingly cool, at the back of his neck.
“Tell them he’s all right,” the voice said. “I’ll bring him out in a minute, just be patient.”
He felt ill and exhausted, as if he’d just returned from a fifteen-round boxing match where his midsection had been systematically pummeled by Lennox Lewis. Pulling the towel off his face he looked up and saw Kharkishvili grinning down at him. Kharkishvili handed him a glass of water.
“Drink, my friend. After puking up your guts for twenty minutes, you’re seriously dehydrated.”
Jack drank the water, feeling better with each swallow; however, his head thundered and his throat ached. He handed back the glass, which Kharkishvili refilled from a nearly full pitcher.
“What happened?” His voice was a thin, ugly rasp, as if his throat and vocal cords had been seared.
“Poison,” Kharkishvili said. “You were poisoned.” He refilled the glass, handed it back. “Good thing I was in the kitchen when it happened, I’ve had some experience with poisons.” He chucked darkly. “You know, in my line of work—which, I assure you, the less you know about the better for both of us—you need to know many ways to skin a cat.” He waved a sausagelike hand. “The important thing is I got you to swallow water with sugar and salt, which caused you to expel everything in your system.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You wouldn’t, you were raving but not, fortunately, unconscious.” Kharkishvili nodded. “Now drink up and return fully to the land of the living.”
A sudden fear pierced the slowly dissipating fog in his mind. “Alli was eating the same food I was, is she all right?”
“Perfectly. She’s outside, everyone was evacuated while we interrogated the kitchen staff. Please keep drinking.” Kharkishvili refilled his glass. “It wasn’t the food that was tainted, it was your fork.”
“How?”
“Arsenic, an old but reliable methodology.”
“Who, the sous-chef?”
Kharkishvili shook his head. “One of the assistants, we have him in custody.”
Jack drained his glass; he was feeling better with every moment that passed. “How long ago was he hired?”
“I inquired of Magnussen; he was hired six days ago.”
Kharkishvili was proving to be a good man. Jack’s brain, which had felt as if it had been encased in jelly, was functioning again, enough, at least, for him to remember his conversation with the president, who had assured him that, the sanction canceled, no more government agents were in the field.
“I want to speak with him,” he said. He rose, took two tottering steps, and sat back down.
Kharkishvili frowned, making him look something like the ogre in the story of Jack and the beanstalk. “In your condition I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Please have Ivan Gurov come in, then bring the poisoner here,” Jack said, a certain snap returning to his voice. “We don’t have time to worry about my condition.”
Kharkishvili nodded and left.
When, in due course, Gurov poked his head in the doorway and asked how Jack was feeling, Jack said, “Ivan, the assassin who followed us here, the one you blew off the road, do you know anything about him?”
“I checked with Passport Control at Simferopol North. His name was Ferry Lovejoy.”
“A government-assigned legend.”
“Ah, yes.” Gurov nodded. “A false name to go with the false papers the American government gives its
