Rules of Vengeance (28 page)

His fortune secure, he moved laterally into politics. A native of St. Petersburg and a former judo champion (weren’t they all, these days?), Timken allied himself to that other son of the north, Vladimir Putin, and rode the diminutive former spy’s coattails to power. It was a meteoric rise. A seat in the Duma. An appointment to the cabinet. Then the move to counselor, and a voice in making the really big decisions.

For the past three years Timken had served as first aide to the president, where his primary function was to hold hands with the myriad Western oil companies brought in to modernize Russia’s aging infrastructure and exploit the nation’s vast oil reserves. His work had met with so much success that he was a front-runner to succeed the president when he stepped down in two years’ time.

“What did we give her?” asked Shvets, eyes drilling the monitor.

“Cyanide.”

“We still use that?”

“Nothing works as quickly. Once the scent fades, it is almost impossible to detect in the blood. It will appear that Timken had a heart attack. Who will doubt it?”

Shvets angled his head to better view the writhing coils of flesh. “How will she administer it?”

“You do not wish to know.”

“Go ahead.”

The driver explained briefly. For once, Shvets had no comment.

Since the eleventh century, Mother Russia had been a land ruled and divided by clans. Stretching over eleven time zones and incorporating over fifty ethnic minorities, Russia was simply too large a landmass for one man, or one family, to govern. Ivan the Terrible relied upon his feudal lords to see his will carried out. Peter the Great, on the caste of noblemen called Boyars. Each granted his supporters large tracts of land in exchange for fealty and in doing so united their aims with his own and guaranteed their loyalty.

It was no different in the twenty-first century.

On the surface, Russia appeared as monolithic as ever. The new, modern Russia was a Western-style democracy boasting a popularly elected president and a bicameral legislature. But appearances were deceiving. Just below the surface, the country was a caldron of competing interests. In place of warlords, there were mafia chieftains. In place of Boyars, there were CEOs. Land was no longer the favored asset, but money, preferably shares of large corporations built on the plundering of Russia’s vast natural resources: oil, natural gas, and timber. And knee-deep in the intrigue was the nation’s intelligence service, the FSB, fighting with everyone else for the president’s favor.

Russia was, and would always be, a country ruled by clans.

Rapacious was the head that wore the crown, and no one was more so than Sergei Shvets, chairman of the FSB. Shvets had long ago set his sights on the pinstriped ermine of the Kremlin. Nothing short of the presidency would do.

On this cool, rainy morning in Moscow, three men stood in his way. One lay comatose in a London hospital bed. Another was touring a natural gas facility in Kazakhstan and was due back later that night. The third, Lev Timken, first aide to the president, was about to die.

Shvets watched as his agent uncoupled herself from Timken and placed her head between his legs. Timken’s mouth fell open, and Shvets could hear the man’s howls even with the volume turned off. Timken arched his back, his eyes bulging in ecstasy. The woman raised her head from his lap and kissed him on the mouth, lifting a hand to massage his cheek.

Shvets shuddered, imagining the capsule entering his own mouth, his teeth gnashing down on it and releasing the poison into him.

Timken pushed away the nude woman and struggled to stand. The woman remained on her knees, watching as Timken collapsed to the floor and lay still.

Sergei Shvets tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Yasenevo,” he said.

He looked out the window as they drove.

One down.

Two to go.

   The Ristorante Sabatini sparkled like a gem beneath the cloudless Roman night. Rows of tables dressed with white tablecloths bathed in the glow of fairy lights strung overhead. Across the Piazza Santa Maria, the façade of the Basilica di Santa Maria dominated the square. At 11 p.m., the open-air restaurant was packed. Boisterous conversation mingled with the chink of cutlery and the bustle of waiters rushing to and fro to create a convivial, energetic atmosphere.

Yet even among the ranks of satisfied diners, one group appeared to be enjoying themselves more than the others. There were eight persons in all, three men and five women. The men were tanned and elegantly attired, by age and comportment successful professionals. The youngest was forty-five, the oldest sixty, but all were boyishly exuberant in the Italian manner. The women were much younger, barely out of their teens, and beautiful, notable for their sharply tipped, decidedly un-Roman noses and generous, proudly displayed breasts.

A waiter snaked through the crowd and handed a note to the man at the head of the table. “Dottor Lazio, from a friend at the bar.”

Accepting the note, Dr. Luca Lazio tried at first to read it without glasses, failed, and then fished a pair of bifocals from his silk blazer and tried again. Lazio was a fifty-year-old Apollo, his feathered hair a shade too black, his chin a shade too tight. His green eyes quickly abandoned the note and turned toward the interior of the restaurant, where the bar was crowded with clients. Making his apologies, he rose and walked inside.

Seated at the bar, Jonathan watched Lazio approach. Though exhausted, he felt a surge run through his body at the sight of the man who might be able to get him a step closer to Emma. He rose from his stool, and Lazio stopped dead.

“Not who you expected,” said Jonathan.

Lazio wrinkled the note between his fingers. “‘An old friend’ is not exactly what I would have called you.”

“You’re still practicing.” It was a statement, a reminder of a service rendered.

Lazio shrugged, acknowledging the debt. “I haven’t had a drink since we saw each other last. I thank you. Again.” Lazio reached out to give Jonathan a belated hug and a kiss on each cheek.

Lazio was one of the corps of doctors who revolved in and out of the missions run by Doctors Without Borders around the world. Six years earlier he’d worked under Jonathan’s supervision at a camp in Eritrea. When several of Lazio’s patients died of suspicious causes, Jonathan discovered that the Italian doctor had been operating while drunk. He had suspended the doctor pending an investigation. In the meantime, word leaked to the local tribespeople. A mob got up, captured Lazio, and was very nearly successful in administering a punishment of its own. Jonathan had intervened and personally shepherded Lazio onto a plane back to Rome. Grateful for his life, the Italian had promised never to drink again. Given all the circumstances, it was the best outcome Jonathan could expect.

“I’m glad to see you’re recovering,” said Jonathan.

“What are you doing in Rome?” Lazio searched up and down the bar. “And where is Emma? I thought you two only took vacations in the mountains.”

“We make an exception now and then,” said Jonathan. He didn’t add anything about Emma.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you look like you could use some mountain air yourself.”

Jonathan glanced at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He’d been driving for hours and his eyes were sunken, rimmed with circles. “I’m fine.”

“And so,” said Lazio, “tell me, is this a coincidence?”

Jonathan finished his beer, then shook his head. “I called your wife and told her it was an emergency. She told me where I could find you. Apparently she thinks you’re with some fellow doctors from the hospital.”

Lazio glanced back at his friends. “I am.” He shrugged. “What about you? Still working for peanuts?”

“I’m back in East Africa. Kenya this time.”

“Is that why you’re here? To remind me of what happened?”

“I’m here to ask a favor.”

Lazio found this amusing. “What can I do for the great Dr. Jonathan Ransom?”

Jonathan moved closer to Lazio, close enough to smell his cologne and see the roots of gray beginning to poke from his scalp. “It’s about Emma. She was here a few months ago and had an accident that required surgery. I need to know which hospital treated her.”

“What happened?”

“She was mugged and stabbed.”

“Emma? I’d thought of her as someone who can take care of herself.”

“She can. Usually.”

Lazio fingered the chains at his neck. “So why are you asking me this? Surely she remembers where she was treated.”

“Emma and I aren’t together.”

Lazio considered the request. “Fine,” he said at length. “I’ll help you find the hospital that took care of your wife. It shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll make some calls in the morning.” He motioned toward his table. “Why don’t you join us? The sole is fabulous.”

“I need to find out where she was treated now,” said Jonathan. “Tell your friends you have an emergency. They’re doctors, right? They’ll understand.”

“You’re asking a lot.”

“We’re just beginning here.”

Lazio exhaled loudly. “All right, then, but I have to use the men’s room.”

“Sure,” said Jonathan, putting a hand on Lazio’s shoulder. “But give me your wallet before you go.”

“My wallet?” protested Lazio. “I don’t think so.”

Jonathan dug his fingers into the soft flesh, allowing a measure of his hate for the man to slip through. Lazio grimaced and handed Jonathan his alligator billfold.

“Two minutes,” said Jonathan. “Be at the front door.” He watched Lazio slide through the crowd, the picture of elegance and good manners. Then a very different image of Lazio came to him. He saw the doctor being dragged along a dirt road by an angry mob armed with machetes and clubs. He saw Lazio crying out for someone to help him, his wonderfully groomed hair a mess, his face clawed, his shirt hanging in tatters. The Italian hadn’t been so suave and polished then, thought Jonathan.

He opened the wallet and studied the image on the driver’s license. He looked at the dancing eyes, the easy smile, the facile expression. He was looking at a fraud.

Jonathan jumped off his stool and elbowed his way through the crowd in a rush toward the bathroom. He paused at the entry and gently opened the door.

“He’s here, I tell you,” came Lazio’s voice from inside a stall.
“That Dr. Ransom
. The man wanted for the bombings in London. No, I am not crazy. I know him. I am a doctor, too. We worked together. He is the same man I saw on the news.”

Jonathan kicked open the stall, grabbed the phone out of Lazio’s hands, and severed the connection.

“Leave me alone,” shouted Lazio. “You have nothing on me. You can’t make me help you. What have you done? You are a terrorist.”

Jonathan shoved him against the wall. Lazio’s head snapped against the tile and a stunned look came into his eyes. “Listen to me,” said Jonathan, fingers curled around Lazio’s collar. “I had nothing to do with what happened with the bombing in London. Nothing! Do you understand? And I have plenty on you. Five patients died under your care because you were too drunk to do your job.”

“That was years ago,” retorted Lazio. “Ancient history. I’ve been sober ever since. No one pressed charges then, and they won’t now. Are you going to bring a bunch of Africans to the stand? Where’s your proof? I’ll deny it, and that will be that. And who are you to be telling me what to do? I saw your picture on the television. You’re a wanted man.”

Jonathan released his grip and Lazio fell back against the wall. He was right, of course. No one would help. It was only then that Jonathan realized that he could never go back to work, for DWB or anyone else. This wasn’t a case of malpractice in a forgotten corner of a Third World country. It was a terrorist act against a ranking government dignitary, an act that had taken seven lives. Innocent or guilty, he would be forever tainted by his mere proximity to the crime.

He decided then that if he were a criminal, he’d better start acting like one. Slipping a hand behind his back, he freed the pistol he’d taken from Prudence Meadows and jabbed it into Lazio’s gut. “Last chance.”

For the first time Lazio appeared genuinely frightened. “Okay, okay, I’ll help,” he said.

Jonathan rammed the pistol further into the man’s belly. “Did you tell the police where you were?”

Lazio shook his head. “I didn’t have time.”

“Is that the truth?”

Lazio nodded violently.

“Okay, then, we’re going to walk out of here,” said Jonathan. “You’re going to take me to your car, and from there we’re going to drive to your office. If you help me out, we’ll be finished by morning. I’ll disappear from your life and you’ll never see me again. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes. Deal.”

Keeping a hand on Lazio’s arm, Jonathan led the doctor out of the restaurant. Clusters of youths stood on the sidewalk, smoking, laughing, arguing. Mopeds zipped by. “Which way is your car?”

Lazio looked in both directions, hesitating.

“Which way?” asked Jonathan.

Lazio pointed to a silver Ferrari parked illegally 10 meters up the street. “That’s it.”

“Of course it is.” Just then Jonathan heard the siren. He looked over his shoulder. Across the piazza, a Fiat belonging to the Italian carabinieri pulled into the square, slowing to a crawl as pedestrians scattered. He looked at Lazio. Of course the man had lied.

Lazio yanked his arm free and began to run down the street. Jonathan slipped on a cobblestone, regained his balance, and started after him. He caught him after ten strides and threw him against the wall of the basilica. “Go ahead, then. Shout. This is your chance. If you’re so sure no one will care about what you’ve done, yell for the police.”

Lazio’s eyes darted here and there, but he remained quiet.

“In your car,” said Jonathan. “Or I will shoot you. Right here. Right now.”

“Okay,” said Lazio. “In that case, we’d better hurry.”

   Luca Lazio’s private practice was located in a three-story travertine villa in the Parioli district, adjacent to the Borghese Gardens. In contrast to Trastevere’s pulsing nightlife, the neighborhood was sleepy and peaceful, the winding, leafy streets split between businesses and residences.