The Prometheus Deception (44 page)

“I don't doubt that. But can Anatoly Prishnikov afford to believe you? I ask you—you know him better than anyone. You know what kind of man he is, how deep-rooted is his suspicion.”

Labov had begun to tremble.

“And if Prishnikov thought that there was even the slightest chance that you had betrayed him, how long do you think he would let you live?”

Labov shook his head, his eyes wide with terror.

“Let me answer my own question. He would let you live just long enough to know that your loved ones had died horribly. Long enough for you and everyone in the firm to be reminded of the price of betrayal—of
weakness
.”

Yuri Tarnapolsky, who had been watching from the sidelines, stroking his chin idly, put in: “You remember poor Maksimov.”

“Maksimov was a traitor!”

“Not according to Maksimov,” Tarnapolsky said gently. He toyed with his service revolver, polishing its barrel with a soft white handkerchief. “Do you know he and Olga had an infant son? One would think that Prishnikov would spare the young and the innocent—”

“No!
Stop!
” gasped Labov, ashen-faced. He was having difficulty breathing. “I know much less—much less than you must think. There is a great deal I don't know.”

“Please,” said Bryson warningly. “Evasion will simply waste our time and will add to the length of time you are gone—the period of missing time you must somehow account for. I want to know about Prishnikov's alliance with Jacques Arnaud.”

“There are so many deals, so many arrangements. They accelerate. There are more than ever now.”

“Why?”

“I think he is preparing for something.”

“For what?”

“Once, I heard him speaking on his secure phone to Arnaud and saying something about ‘the Prometheus Group.'”

The name chimed in Bryson's head. He had heard it before. Yes! Jan Vansina had used the phrase in Geneva, wondering whether he was “with the Prometheans.”

“What is the Prometheus Group?” Bryson demanded urgently.

“Prometheus—you have no idea. No one has any idea. I hardly know. They are powerful—immensely powerful. It is not clear to me whether Prishnikov follows their orders, or whether he gives them orders.”

“Who are ‘they'?”

“They are important, powerful people—”

“You've said that already.
Who are they?
”

“They are everywhere—and nowhere. Their names are not to be found on mastheads, on letterheads, on papers of incorporation. But Tolya—Prishnikov is among them, this I am sure of.”

“Arnaud is one of them,” prompted Bryson.

“Yes.”

“Who else?”

Labov shook his head in defiance. “You know, if you kill me, Prishnikov will leave my family alone,” he said reasonably. “Why don't you kill me?”

Tarnapolsky looked over, a wry smile on his face. “Do you know how they found Maksimov's child, Labov?” He approached Labov, still menacingly polishing his revolver with the handkerchief.

Labov jerked his head back and forth like a child unwilling to listen. Had his hands been free he would surely have clapped them over his ears. Quivering, he blurted out, “The Jade Master! He is making arrangements with … with the man they call the Jade Master.”

Tarnapolsky gave Bryson a sharp look. They both knew whom the moniker referred to. The so-called Jade Master was a powerful general in the Chinese military, the People's Liberation Army. General Tsai, based in Shenzhen, was famously corrupt and had facilitated the efforts of certain international conglomerates to establish a foothold in the immense Chinese market—in exchange, of course, for certain considerations. General Tsai was also world-renowned as a collector of precious imperial Chinese jade and was known to sometimes accept blandishments in the form of valuable jade carvings.

Labov saw the look between the two men. “I don't know what you hope to accomplish,” he said contemptuously. “Everything is about to change, and you cannot stop it.”

Bryson turned back to Labov quizzically. “What do you mean, ‘Everything is about to change'?” he demanded.

“Days remain—only days,” Labov said cryptically. “Only a few days I am given to prepare.”

“To prepare
what
?”

“The machinery has already been put into place. Now power is about to be transferred fully! Everything will come into view.”

Tarnapolsky finished polishing his revolver, pocketed the handkerchief, and then pointed the gun a few inches away from Labov's face. “Are you referring to a coup d'etat?”

Bryson interrupted, “But Prishnikov is already the power behind the throne in Russia! Why the hell would he want something like that?”

Labov laughed dismissively. “Coup d'etat! How little you know! How narrow is your view! We Russians have always been happy to give up our freedom for safety and security. You will, too, all of you. Every last one. For now the forces are too great. The machinery is already in place. Everything is about to come into view!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”
thundered Bryson. “Prishnikov and his colleagues—do they now aspire higher than the corporate world—do they aim to take over governments now, is that it? Have they become besotted with their own wealth and power?”

“We would appreciate some specifics, my friend,” Tarnapolsky said, lowering his revolver, the threat no longer necessary.

“
Governments?
Governments are outdated! Look at Russia—what kind of power has the government? None! The government is powerless. It's the corporations that make the rules now! Maybe Lenin was right after all—it
is
the capitalists who control the world!”

Suddenly, with the speed of a cobra, Labov's right hand lunged out a few inches, the maximum play allowed by the constraints. It was just enough for him to grab Tarnapolsky's revolver, which was almost next to him. Tarnapolsky reacted swiftly, grabbing Labov's hand, twisting it hard to loosen Labov's grip on the revolver. For a moment, the gun was pointing upward and back, right at Labov's own face. Labov seemed to be staring at the muzzle, hypnotized by it, a strange, sweet smile on his face. Then, just before Tarnapolsky was able to wrench it away, Labov pointed it between his own eyes and squeezed the trigger.

TWENTY

The suicide of Anatoly Prishnikov's longtime aide-de-camp was a grim turn of events; Labov may have been a ruthless corporate functionary, the fax and the phone his deadly weapons, but he was no killer, and his death had meant the shedding of unnecessary blood. More than that, it was a complication, a deviation from their carefully laid-out plan.

Labov's driver would return to consciousness within the hour; whether or not he would have any specific recall of the Bentley filling with tear gas, his memory would be disjointed, hazy. He would awake to find his uniform reeking of cheap vodka, a bottle on the seat beside him, his passenger and charge gone; he would panic. No doubt he would place a call to Labov's home; that angle had to be covered as well.

Among the papers in Dmitri Labov's wallet, Yuri Tarnapolsky had turned up Labov's home phone number. From his cell phone—Moscow these days seemed to be overrun with mobile phones, Bryson had noticed—Tarnapolsky then placed a quick call to Masha, Labov's wife.

“
Gospozha
Labova,” he said in the obsequious tones of a low-level office functionary, “this is Sasha from the office. Sorry for the interruption, but Dmitri wanted me to call to say he'll be somewhat delayed, he's on an urgent phone call to France that can't be interrupted, and he sends his apologies.” Lowering his voice, he added confidentially, “It's just as well, since his regular driver seems to have hit the bottle again.” He gave an aggrieved sigh. “Which means I'll have to make alternative arrangements. Ah, well. Good evening.” And he hung up before the wife could ask any questions. It would do; such delays were unavoidable in Labov's line of work. When and if the chauffeur called in a state of agitation and disorientation, the wife would respond with anger or annoyance and would dismiss him at once.

All this was reasonably straightforward. Labov's suicide, however, was a loose end that had to be tied up as best they could. Bryson and Tarnapolsky were limited in what they could do, because the ex-KGB man was absolutely unwilling to place any calls to the Nortek office; assuming that all calls incoming or outgoing were recorded, he did not want a tape of his voice to be found. A solution had to be quickly improvised, an explanation for the suicide that might be accepted without too much follow-up investigation. It was Tarnapolsky who came up with the idea of planting various suspect items on Labov's person and in his briefcase: a package of Vigor brand Russian-made condoms, a few soiled, dog-eared cards from less-than-reputable Moscow clubs known for the sexual hijinks that took place in private back rooms—Tarnapolsky had a small collection of such
cartes de visite
—and, the crowning touch, a half-used tube of ointment customarily used to treat the topical manifestation of certain more benign sexually communicable diseases. Quite likely such escapades were entirely alien to such a proper, work-oriented man as Labov; but it was precisely such a man who might react so violently to finding himself in the middle of a sordid embarrassment. Alcohol, tawdry sex: these were normal, everyday vices.

*   *   *

Now it was a race: against time, against the likelihood that, one way or another, Prishnikov would learn that Nortek had been penetrated. Far too much could go wrong, Bryson knew. Labov's limousine, with its semiconscious driver, could be identified by a vigilant
militsiyoner
and reported to Nortek headquarters. Labov's wife could call his office back, for one reason or another. The risks were enormous, and Prishnikov would be quick to react. Bryson had to get out of Russia as soon as possible.

Tarnapolsky drove his Audi at top speed to Vnukovo Airport, thirty kilometers southwest of Moscow. This was one of Russia's domestic airports, serving all regions of the country but particularly the south. He had arranged with one of the new private aviation firms for an emergency, late-night flight to Baku for one of his wealthy clients, a businessman with extensive financial interests in Azerbaijan. Tarnapolsky had not gone into detail, of course, except to mention a sudden eruption of labor unrest at a factory, the factory director taken hostage. Given the suddenness of the booking, a substantial outlay of cash was required. Bryson had it, and was glad to pay it. Customs Control had to be paid off, as well, for expedited paperwork; this required another hefty sum.

“Yuri,” said Bryson, “what's in it for Prishnikov?”

“You're talking about the Jade Master, I take it. Yes?”

“Yes. I know you're well versed in the Chinese military, the PLA—you did your time in the KGB's China sector. So what exactly would Prishnikov hope to gain from establishing an alliance with General Tsai?”

“You heard what Labov said, my friend. Governments are powerless now. It's the corporations that make the rules. If you're an ambitious titan like Prishnikov and you want to control half of the world's markets, there are few better partners than the Jade Master. He's a ranking member of the PLA's General Staff, the one most responsible for turning the People's Liberation Army into one of the world's largest corporations, and the man in charge of all of its commercial ventures.”

“Such as?”

“The Chinese military controls an astonishingly complex web of businesses, interlocking enterprises, vertically integrated. I mean, from automobile factories to airlines, from pharmaceuticals to telecommunications. Their real-estate holdings are vast—they own hotels all over Asia, including Beijing's showpiece, the Palace Hotel. They own and operate most of China's airports.”

“But I thought the Chinese government had begun cracking down on the military—that the Chinese premier issued an executive decree ordering the army to begin divesting itself of all its businesses.”

“Oh, Beijing tried, but the genie was already out of the bottle. What do you Americans say, the toothpaste was out of the tube? Perhaps it is better to talk of Pandora's box. The fact is, it was too late. The PLA has become the most powerful force in China by far.”

“But haven't the Chinese slashed their defense budget a number of times in recent years?”

Tarnapolsky snorted. “And then all the PLA has to do is go out and sell a few weapons of mass destruction to rogue nations. It's like having a bake sale, or do you call it a yard sale? My dear Coleridge, the PLA's economic might is simply beyond imagining. Now they've begun to recognize the strategic importance of telecom. They own and launch satellites; they own China's largest telecommunications company; they've been working with the giants of the West—Lucent, Motorola, Qualcomm, Systematix, Nortel—to develop immense mobile phone and paging networks, information systems. It is said that the PLA now owns the skies over China. And the one true owner, the man in charge, the man behind it all—is the Jade Master. General Tsai.”

As Tarnapolsky's Audi pulled up to the airstrip, Bryson saw a small plane, a brand-new Yakovlev-112, waiting on the runway. He could see at once that it was a single-engine prop four-seater. It was tiny, surely the smallest craft in the company's fleet.

Tarnapolsky saw Bryson's surprise. “Believe me, my friend, this was the best I could do on such notice. There are far bigger, far nicer planes—they mentioned their YAK-40, their Antonov-26—but all were in use.”

“It'll do, Yuri. Thanks. I owe you.”

“Let's just call it a business gift.…”

Bryson cocked his head. He heard the squealing of brakes not far off; when he turned to look, he saw a massive, wide Humvee, black and glossy, roaring down the airstrip toward them.