Consent to Kill by Vince Flynn Page B

announced it was a girly beer. Too light. The bottle of vodka was placed in the center of the table and the bet was on as to whether or not it would last to see the sun rise. Petrov said absolutely not and Abel agreed.
    Abel was not a meek eater, but his Russian friend made him look like a sparrow. Soon all of the sausage and ham were gone, as well as the fried potatoes, and the lion’s share had gone to Petrov. Abel placed the dobosh torte on a platter and watched as Petrov’s eyes dilated as if someone had hit him over the head. The cake, a confection of layered chocolate sponge and chocolate buttercream covered with caramel, was mouth-watering. Abel had one piece to Petrov’s three, whereupon the Russian announced that if he didn’t get up and leave the table he would eat the whole thing. Abel was sure he’d be back in around midnight to finish the other half.
    Finally, they retired to the porch and a starlit evening. Abel brought out two heavy wool blankets to ward off the cool air. There wasn’t a sound other than Petrov’s various attempts at aiding his digestion. Abel broke out the box of Montecristo cigars. He kept one and handed the box to Petrov.
    “Yours to take home with you.” Abel rolled the cigar under his nose taking in the fine aroma.
    “Thank you, my friend.” The Russian opened the box and looked eagerly at his bounty.
    Abel would have only one cigar, and he would smoke it very carefully. The only time he chanced it was when he was in the mountains and even then he had to see how he was feeling. With his asthma he had to be very cautious. He would savor the moment, smelling the cigar for up to an hour before lighting it.
    “I need some advice, Dimitri.”
    Petrov snatched a cigar from the box, bit off the end, and lit it. After several heavy puffs, he said, “I was wondering when you would get around to business.”
    “Always after dinner. You know that.”
    Petrov pointed his cigar at his German friend. “You should be careful. You’re becoming far too predictable.”
    Abel didn’t like the sound of that, and made a mental note to review his habits. He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and handed it to Petrov. “Your fee.”
    The Russian hesitated while grimacing. “I don’t like this. I have done nothing.”
    “I have confidence in you.”
    “Ten thousand dollars.” He shook his head. “We are friends.”
    “Yes, we are.” Abel slapped the money into his hand. “And I am being compensated very well. Think of it this way … it is not my money … it belongs to the man who hired me. You are a subcontractor.”
    Petrov placed the envelope in his pocket. “Now that I have been hired, what is it you need?”
    “A name.”
    “What kind of name?”
    Abel had already decided under no circumstances would he reveal the identity of his target. “I need someone killed.”
    Petrov shrugged nonchalantly. “You know plenty of people who specialize in such things.”
    “Yes, but this job requires someone who is better than your average plumber.”
    Petrov’s brow furrowed in thought. “Can you tell me about the target?”
    Abel shook his head.
    “You must give me something to work with. Do you need it to look like an accident? Do you care about collateral damage? What theater will they need to operate in? What fee will they be paid?”
    “I need the best. I need a real professional. Someone who looks at their craft as a higher form of art.”
    “Ahhh …” sighed Petrov. “You want one of the crazy ones. The kind that treat the kill like it is a religion. And you want the best?”
    It was obvious that Petrov was thinking of some names. “Yes,” said Abel, “I want someone who not only thinks they are the best, but someone who is hungry to prove they are the best.” Abel had thought of this distinction carefully. There was a good chance that a seasoned contract killer would turn down the job as soon as he learned the identity of the target. He needed someone who was on their