Consent to Kill by Vince Flynn Page A

from the chair with surprising swiftness.
    The two men embraced, and Abel once again tried to slap his Russian friend on the back as hard as he was being slapped. It was never enough, though. The two men were roughly the same height, both just under six feet, but the Russian had him by a good fifty pounds. Petrov was sixty-one and didn’t look a day under seventy. His silver hair, smoking, love of food and spirits, and undoubtedly the stress of his job had not been kind to him.
    “Come,” said Abel, “let’s go inside. I stopped at the market and got all of your favorite things.” The two men walked around the porch and Abel unlocked the front door. “You know where your room is. Go in and get settled, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
    Abel brought his own suitcase in and then unloaded three bags from the trunk. The first thing he did was take the bottle of Belvedere vodka and place it in the freezer. There was a better than even chance that his friend would polish off the entire bottle before they went to bed. Always aware of his asthma, he cracked a few windows to let some fresh air in. Next he threw a six-pack of Gösser in the fridge along with a six-pack of Kaiser. If that didn’t keep Petrov busy, there was a well-stocked wine cellar in the basement. He then placed the pickled herring, smoked ham, sausages, vegetables, and cake box in the fridge.
    Petrov appeared right on cue, and Abel handed him a bottle of Gosser. He grabbed himself a Kaiser and held up his bottle for a toast. “To old friends and free markets.”
    Petrov nodded and took a big swig. He was about to say something, but decided to take another drink. “I’ve been waiting for that all afternoon.”
    “Sorry I didn’t get here earlier, but I just flew in this afternoon.” Abel looked at the clock. It was almost five.
    “Where were you?” asked the Russian between swigs. The beer was already half gone.
    Abel was about to tell him, but caught himself. “The better question would be where haven’t I been.” He opened a container of mixed nuts and placed them in a bowl on the counter. The key with Petrov was to keep feeding him.
    “You’ve been busy doing OPEC’s dirty work.”
    The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries was headquartered in Vienna and was by far Abel’s biggest client. “Everybody needs to collect intelligence.” Abel held up his beer. “Even the Russian Mob.” The comment was a direct shot at Petrov’s sometime employer.
    “Yes, well, the glorious experiment of communism has ended, and we are now left to fend for ourselves.”
    “To freelancing and capitalism.” Abel raised his glass.
    “I’ll drink to freelancing, but never capitalism. Those pigs have flocked to my country like vultures to pick at its carcass and prey on the weak.”
    Abel laughed. “And what did the communists do?” This was a common argument between them, and Abel had never lost it. Capitalism was far preferable. If it was brought up again later, after Petrov was drunk enough, he could get him to admit it. The Russian would threaten to kill him if he told anyone, and then he would launch into a tirade about the corrupt communists and how they ruined a perfectly good idea.
    Petrov was mumbling something about greed and the destructiveness of organized religion. Abel cut him off and said, “Go outside and have a cigarette. I’m going to get dinner ready. Here, take the herring. I brought it just for you.”
    Petrov eagerly took the jar of salty pickled fish and then asked in a genuinely concerned tone, “What about cigars? Please don’t tell me I flew all this way and you don’t have cigars.”
    “I have cigars. Don’t worry. They’re for after dinner.” Abel shooed him away and began preparing the meal.
    Petrov came in to check on him periodically and shouted insults at him from the open porch door. By the time they sat down to eat, the six-pack of Gösser was gone. Petrov had only one Kaiser and immediately