against me if I don’t see her more often.”
Bowen winced. “That was the message you received on your phone the other day?”
Vincent turned from the window, faced his advisor and nodded.
Bowen’s eyes turned cold and calculating. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just Marco Zakarias. He’s owns the new hotel downtown where I usually meet her.”
“I know Marco,” Bowen said. “He’s solid. So when are you gonna see her again?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I was vague the last time we talked, but I hinted around I might try to see her next week.”
Bowen glanced over at a giant fish tank, watching a pair of silver angelfish swim lazily through the water. “We’ll get it taken care of, Luke,” he said. “Mrs. McCallen will either wise up and realize that screwing you isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, or she’ll wish she’d never tripped and let your dick fall in her. Either way, this problem will be taken care of.”
CHAPTER 19
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2:00 P.M.
Yuri Petrenko was peripherally aware that Maryland had just scored another touchdown. He wasn’t following the game closely, but the broadcasters’ excited voices indicated the Terrapins were pulling away from Virginia Tech.
Yuri glanced up from his papers and saw a kicker wearing a red jersey boot the football through the goalposts. The score at the bottom of the screen rolled over and increased by one, showing the Terps now ahead 34-20. Yuri drained the last swig of his beer and set the empty bottle down on the coffee table.
The longer he lived in America, the more he enjoyed its version of football. At first, he was drawn mostly to the spectacle – the pure violence – of the sport. But as he watched the game more, he began to appreciate its strategic aspects: Should the offense run the ball or try to throw downfield? Should the defense stack the line to defend the run or blitz a cornerback into the backfield to disrupt the play? Because so many of the game’s concepts applied to the real world, he understood why observers often used military analogies to describe events on the field.
Looking down at the thick dossier of information in front of him, Yuri viewed it as a detailed scouting report on his team’s opponent in the national championship game. And Yuri viewed himself as the team’s offensive coordinator, looking for weaknesses in the enemy’s defense that could be exploited to win the most important game of the year with the highest stakes imaginable – the White House itself.
After two tours of duty with the Spetsnaz in Chechnya, Petrenko spent five years in Moscow with the Federal Security Service handling electronic surveillance and cyber warfare. Then Mazniashvili made him a financial offer he could not refuse, so he finished his term with the military and moved to America.
The front page was embossed with the words “Operation Aristocrates.” God only knew why Mazniashvili had chosen that moniker for the project. But since he was fronting all the project’s expenses, Yuri supposed he could call it whatever he wanted. After all, “Screwing Jonathan Royal while Keeping My Rich Ass away from a Firing Squad In Tbilisi” may have more precisely described the project, but it gave off no cool, yet sinister vibes. Thus, “Operation Aristocrates” carried the day.
Petrenko waded through the document with a highlighter, highly impressed with the quality of information his boss had accumulated. Unfettered access to exceptionally private and valuable information was apparently one of the privileges Mazniashvili enjoyed in his role as the financier and behind-the-scenes puppet-master at AIS.
Yuri had spent most of the past five days reviewing the voluminous file for “Operation Aristocrates,” painstakingly trying to identify the one man or woman best suited for their project. After initially narrowing his choices down to four, Yuri found his focus returning to one particular candidate over and
Bowen winced. “That was the message you received on your phone the other day?”
Vincent turned from the window, faced his advisor and nodded.
Bowen’s eyes turned cold and calculating. “Who else knows about this?”
“Just Marco Zakarias. He’s owns the new hotel downtown where I usually meet her.”
“I know Marco,” Bowen said. “He’s solid. So when are you gonna see her again?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I was vague the last time we talked, but I hinted around I might try to see her next week.”
Bowen glanced over at a giant fish tank, watching a pair of silver angelfish swim lazily through the water. “We’ll get it taken care of, Luke,” he said. “Mrs. McCallen will either wise up and realize that screwing you isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, or she’ll wish she’d never tripped and let your dick fall in her. Either way, this problem will be taken care of.”
CHAPTER 19
VIENNA, VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2:00 P.M.
Yuri Petrenko was peripherally aware that Maryland had just scored another touchdown. He wasn’t following the game closely, but the broadcasters’ excited voices indicated the Terrapins were pulling away from Virginia Tech.
Yuri glanced up from his papers and saw a kicker wearing a red jersey boot the football through the goalposts. The score at the bottom of the screen rolled over and increased by one, showing the Terps now ahead 34-20. Yuri drained the last swig of his beer and set the empty bottle down on the coffee table.
The longer he lived in America, the more he enjoyed its version of football. At first, he was drawn mostly to the spectacle – the pure violence – of the sport. But as he watched the game more, he began to appreciate its strategic aspects: Should the offense run the ball or try to throw downfield? Should the defense stack the line to defend the run or blitz a cornerback into the backfield to disrupt the play? Because so many of the game’s concepts applied to the real world, he understood why observers often used military analogies to describe events on the field.
Looking down at the thick dossier of information in front of him, Yuri viewed it as a detailed scouting report on his team’s opponent in the national championship game. And Yuri viewed himself as the team’s offensive coordinator, looking for weaknesses in the enemy’s defense that could be exploited to win the most important game of the year with the highest stakes imaginable – the White House itself.
After two tours of duty with the Spetsnaz in Chechnya, Petrenko spent five years in Moscow with the Federal Security Service handling electronic surveillance and cyber warfare. Then Mazniashvili made him a financial offer he could not refuse, so he finished his term with the military and moved to America.
The front page was embossed with the words “Operation Aristocrates.” God only knew why Mazniashvili had chosen that moniker for the project. But since he was fronting all the project’s expenses, Yuri supposed he could call it whatever he wanted. After all, “Screwing Jonathan Royal while Keeping My Rich Ass away from a Firing Squad In Tbilisi” may have more precisely described the project, but it gave off no cool, yet sinister vibes. Thus, “Operation Aristocrates” carried the day.
Petrenko waded through the document with a highlighter, highly impressed with the quality of information his boss had accumulated. Unfettered access to exceptionally private and valuable information was apparently one of the privileges Mazniashvili enjoyed in his role as the financier and behind-the-scenes puppet-master at AIS.
Yuri had spent most of the past five days reviewing the voluminous file for “Operation Aristocrates,” painstakingly trying to identify the one man or woman best suited for their project. After initially narrowing his choices down to four, Yuri found his focus returning to one particular candidate over and
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