snow-covered tarmac.
A tall man in a thick, dark blue wool coat was standing a few feet from the Gulfstream. His head was covered by a fur Cossack cap and his breath made puffs of mist as he exhaled. He approached Cabrillo while removing a glove and offered his hand. Cabrillo shook it, then the man motioned to the middle limousine.
“I’m Sergei Makelikov,” the man said as the driver opened the door, “special assistant to President Putin.”
Cabrillo followed the man into the rear of the limousine. “Juan Cabrillo, chairman of the Corporation.”
The door was closed, and a few seconds later the police cars started away from the Gulfstream followed by the trio of limousines. “The president is very interested in hearing what you have to say,” Makelikov noted. “May I offer you a drink, perhaps vodka, or some coffee?”
“Coffee, please,” Cabrillo said.
Makelikov reached for a silver-plated thermal carafe and poured the contents into a red mug with the crest of the Russian republic on the side. He handed it to Cabrillo.
“How was your flight?”
The streets were deserted at this late hour. The procession roared down the road toward central Moscow, followed by a cloud of snowflakes. Cabrillo sipped the coffee.
“No problems,” Cabrillo said, smiling.
“Cuban cigar?” Makelikov asked.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Cabrillo said as he selected one from the box Makelikov held.
Trimming the end with a tool from inside the box, Cabrillo leaned over for a light from Makelikov. “We’ll be there shortly,” the Russian noted. “In the meantime, perhaps you would like to hear some music.”
He motioned to a CD player and a stack of discs. They were all jazz.
“I see you know my taste in music,” Cabrillo said.
“We know a lot about you,” Makelikov said easily, “and that is why President Putin is staying up late to see you.”
Cabrillo nodded and smiled. “Great cigar.”
Makelikov lit one and puffed. “It is, isn’t it?”
Cabrillo slid a CD into the player and the men relaxed and listened.
Fourteen minutes later the procession slid to a stop in front of a row of town houses near Gorky Park. Makelikov waited until the driver opened the door, then he stepped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk.
“One of the president’s hideaways,” he said as Cabrillo climbed out. “We can talk here in private.”
The two men headed up the walkway to the steps and climbed up to the door, where Makelikov nodded at a Russian army sergeant. He saluted and swung the door open. Makelikov and Cabrillo walked inside.
“Mr. President,” Makelikov said loudly, “your visitor has arrived.”
“I’m in the living room,” a voice said from a room to the right.
“Let me take your coat,” Makelikov said, helping Cabrillo out of his overcoat. “Go on in—I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Cabrillo walked into the living room. The room was fitted and furnished like the library of an expensive gentleman’s club. Dark wood paneling, the walls were covered with paintings of hunting scenes and birds. Along the right wall was a fireplace containing a roaring wood fire. A pair of high-backed red leather chairs framed the fireplace, with a couch just behind them closer to the door. A thick red carpet atop the inlaid wood floors led almost to the fireplace hearth. Two brass lamps on each side of the couch cast pools of light in the otherwise dark room. President Putin’s back was to Cabrillo as he stoked the fire. Finishing, he stood up and turned.
“Mr. Cabrillo,” he said, smiling, “come in and have a seat.”
Cabrillo slid into the red leather chair to the left of the fireplace, while Putin took the right.
“Back when I was with the KGB, I had quite a file on you,” Putin said.
“And me you,” Cabrillo said in Russian.
Putin nodded, then looked directly into Cabrillo’s eyes. “Your Russian is much better than my English.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cabrillo said.
Putin nodded. “I assume you have done a recent psychological profile on me,” he said. “Did it hazard a guess as to how I would respond?”
“It doesn’t take a team of psychologists,” Cabrillo said, “to know you’ll say yes.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what I’m agreeing to,” Putin said, smiling.
Cabrillo nodded, then opened the file he had brought. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve been commissioned to put the Dalai Lama back in power. We think we’ve worked out a solution that can benefit everyone. We just need some Russian muscle.”
“Explain,” Putin said.
Cabrillo handed over the document Overholt had faxed to the Gulfstream. “This is a classified satellite image of potential oil reserves inside Tibet. We recently recovered ancient documents that list thousands of oil seeps in the northern region.”
“From the Golden Buddha that your company stole in Macau?” Putin asked.
