Devil's Move: A Thriller (Political Terrorism Technothriller) Read online

  “Sure, you’re in great shape to go clubbing, nothing more, and you look great in one of those short skirts. But when things got rough I had to bail your ass, if you so kindly remember.”

  Alex felt the sting. “So what? That’s what we do for each other in this job. That’s what we’re supposed to do: have each other’s backs. Plus, I already thanked you.”

  “Yeah, but what if I’m not there? What if none of us are there when you need help? Do you want to die before your time? Are you in a hurry or something? Or do you want the last thought that goes through your head before you die to be ‘I now die of laziness because I could have learned how to defend myself, but I was too complacent to get my ass off that sand and work with one of the best close-combat trainers I could have hoped for’?” Lou approached her and offered his hand to help her get up. “Up you go.”

  “You don’t ever lose an opportunity to list your talents. Modesty sure ain’t one of them. You also should have started with hacking, which I’m sure is the strongest skill you have. You should have stuck to hacking. It would have hurt less.” She grunted with a smile and patted him gently on his very well-developed forearm. “OK, but whatever you do, don’t throw me on the ground again, or I will start crying.”

  “Deal, but only for today. And you get to do whatever I ask you to do, without argument. We’ve already wasted forty-eight minutes squabbling. We only have a few days, so let’s make the most of them.”

  “Yeah, OK, but you know it’s Christmas week, right?” She flashed him a full-blown manipulative smile.

  “Don’t care. So please give me twenty ab crunches on my count. Go!”

  She sat on the wet sand, scowling. Lou started counting and coaching her.

  “One, two, breathe, four, five, keep it coming, faster, seven, eight, keep going!”

  The deserted beach, just north of Torrey Pines State Reserve, was one of her favorite places to come and relax, enjoy the constant crashing of the Pacific waves, and bask in the gentle sunlight. Today, and most probably for quite a few days to come, it had become their own private dojo. Louie Blake, Lou for short, the newest addition to The Agency team, had just finished his first case. It made Alex feel competent, tenured, and a bit protective: although Alex was only one case ahead of Lou in terms of experience, he obviously didn’t need any of her protection. Six-foot-three and built like a rock, the ex-SEAL seemed very able to take care of himself.

  “Up,” he interrupted her ab crunch session, “let’s run.” He sprinted ahead of her, and she struggled to catch up. He was leading her where the waves touched the shore, making running a splashy, annoying, and difficult exercise.

  “It sucks here, in the water,” she complained, “why not run six feet to the right? What’s wrong with that? My feet are wet now.”

  “You can’t postpone or reschedule a fight because your feet are wet. This is not about comfort; it’s about focus and pushing your limits outside your comfort zone. So push yourself, focus, and endure.” He smiled discreetly, his head turned away from her.

  “Bastard,” she mumbled.

  He was right, and she knew it. The Agency work was very dangerous. Infiltrating organizations and conducting undercover investigations without being part of any law enforcement entity was a risky existence that could turn deadly at any time without warning. It had happened in the past and would definitely happen again in the future. She hated him for being right and hated this cold, wet, and miserable alternative to what could have been a day of luxurious indulgence in front of the fireplace, complete with Belgian chocolates, martinis, and a good book.

  “OK, we’re stopping,” Lou said, “now drop down and give me twenty.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Wrong. Drop and give me twenty pushups, now. On my count. One, two, three. Good.”

  Yep, great sacrifices I’m making for my job today, Alex thought, but well worth it, I might say. Her job had been a continuous adventure since the day, not so long ago, when she had walked through The Agency’s door to interview with its founder, Tom Isaac. Tom and his small team had since become like a family to her, a closely knit group of top-notch, highly intelligent professionals, with Lou Blake as the latest addition.

  Each assignment required a different approach, and her low tolerance for repetitive, boring work was fully satisfied. The job was challenging and dangerous, but very rewarding. And quite well paid too, she thought, letting a smile of satisfaction make it through her effort-strained features. This was going to be her first financially comfortable Christmas ever.

  “Enjoying yourself, huh?” Lou’s voice brought her back to reality.

  “No, not at all, let me be very clear about that.” She laughed. She stood up, panting, knees and arms trembling from the prolonged effort.

  “All right, let’s start some real training now,” Lou said and winked.

  “Kidding me? What was this I’ve been doing here since 8AM?”

  “Well, mostly bitching, and some warm-up.” He laughed. “Now we’re getting into the interesting part. The purpose of our training is to give you the basic self-defense knowledge required, at minimum, to deter relatively simple attacks. Tom briefed me about your past. So please pay attention: this is important.” He sat on the wet sand, crossing his legs in a relaxed half-Lotus pose. She followed suit. They were both wet from the rain and their sweat and covered in sand, but the warm-up had left Alex indifferent to any environmental factors.

  “I will teach you how to deter attacks by hand, knife, and gun. Typically, when going after a woman, aggressors will not come heavily armed or in large groups. Due to their reduced body mass and overall lower strength, women don’t seem as threatening. The bad guys are most likely to think you pose zero threat and will tend to underestimate any risk associated with you putting up a fight. We’ll learn how to make them regret it.”

  “Will you teach me how to throw my legs in the air and kick them in the head?” She grinned mischievously.

  “No, and please forget every single fight you’ve seen in movies. This is real life, not some carefully choreographed John Woo combat scene, where actors just fly through the air without any respect for the laws of physics.” He was not smiling anymore. “This is real, as real as it gets.”

  “OK,” she said, her attention in full gear.

  “The techniques we are going to practice are part of a family of combat techniques called CQC, or close quarters combat. Specifically, I will show you two different CQC techniques. One is borrowed from Krav Maga, the self-defense system invented by the Israelis, and the other from Systema, developed by the Russians. Between these two fighting systems you will have a good base of defensive and offensive strategies to counter an attack.”

  “I see,” she said. This was getting serious. “Did you learn these when you were a SEAL?”

  “Yes. There are many other combat techniques, but there are some reasons why I chose these two for your self-defense training. One reason is that no attacker would expect you to know either of them, giving you the benefit of surprise. Second is that between the destructive efficiency of Krav Maga and the fluid elasticity of Systema, you have the best mix of skills to be able to neutralize a threat with minimum risk to you.”

  He sat up with ease and reached into his duffel bag. After helping her up, he offered her a training knife, painted to resemble a real knife but made of rubber. She took it, examining it closely.

  “Come at me with that knife, and I will show you how to defend and disarm,” he said, making inviting gestures with both hands.

  “You won’t slam me to the ground again, right? You promised.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I promised. Just aim for my chest with that knife.”

  She pounced and made a stabbing gesture aimed at his chest. Swiftly, he deflected her right arm toward his left and caught her arm under his, immobilizing her. Then he turned to his left, forcing her to kneel, while twisting her arm until she dropped the knife conveniently into his hand. The whole
thing lasted less than half a second.

  “Again,” she said, feeling challenged. “Not sure yet how you did it. Slow down a bit.”

  “Having fun already? Good, because we’re training with guns tomorrow. Real guns.”

  Alex was not smiling. Memories of being held at gunpoint clouded her eyes. “What did you mean by forcefulness, and what was that of Krav...what was that name again?”

  “Krav Maga. In Krav Maga the purpose is to deter the attack with maximum prejudice.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you will learn how to kill your attacker.”

  ...6

  ...Wednesday, December 23, 11:36AM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)

  ...Palais Hansen Kempinski Hotel

  ...Vienna, Austria

  Vitaliy Kirillovich Myatlev, Vitya to his very few friends, one of the richest Russians alive and a former KGB agent, had become accustomed to the pleasures of luxury spa treatments. Taking the old Russian Banya tradition to the next level, he no longer considered a good massage to be an enjoyment reserved only for spoiled women. He liked to indulge in the spa suite for countless hours. He preferred to start with a cleansing sauna and continue with a relaxing massage performed by lovely young ladies with talented fingers. Then he enjoyed taking a nap on a slab of warm marble.

  This time was different. Woken from his nirvana by one of his bodyguards, he had to cut the blissful hot stone experience short and head straight for his penthouse suite. His two bodyguards followed closely, as they did most of the time. The three of them boarded the elevator hurriedly.

  Vitaliy Myatlev had an important guest for lunch and wanted to make sure he did not keep his guest waiting. He glanced at the newly acquired Patek Philippe watch that had set him back almost half a million dollars and muttered under his breath, “It’s fucking late already...Ivan, what the hell were you thinking? Never let it happen again!”

  “Da...yes, sir,” a shamed Ivan answered, looking at his shoes.

  Myatlev was keen on speaking English and wanted his staff to follow suit. Although he was one of the true Russian oligarchs, he spent the majority of his time in the Western world.

  Myatlev was Russian by father, Iranian by mother and place of birth, and Ukrainian by choice. His father, Kirill Myatlev, a KGB lieutenant colonel of the First Chief Directorate, had taken an assignment in late 1952 at the USSR Embassy in Tehran in the sore aftermath of the Iran-Azerbaijan crisis. Several years after the crisis had ended, tensions between the USSR and Iran about the disputed territories at the core of the conflict were still high, making his posting with Tehran a challenging assignment. This crisis, many historians agree, was one of the events marking the beginning of the Cold War.

  In 1952, under the leadership of Communist Party First Secretary Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev and Secretary General Joseph Stalin, the USSR was expanding its horizons. The country was preparing for the omnipresent and inevitable Cold War by strengthening its intelligence networks and consolidating its diplomatic relationships with its remaining allies. Key intelligence officers of the First Chief Directorate took posts in embassies around the world, assuming the roles of unofficial leaders for all foreign intelligence operations in their respective countries of assignment.

  Kirill Myatlev was no exception. His posting was strategic, one of the hot potatoes of KGB’s foreign intelligence assignments under a diplomatic ruse. He served his country well and held the post for many years. While he was deployed in Tehran, Stalin died and was replaced by Nikita Khrushchev, a personal acquaintance of Myatlev’s.

  This personal relationship kept Kirill Myatlev’s career unaffected by the change in leadership following Stalin’s death. Foreign intelligence had changed hands, moving under the leadership of Lavrentiy Beria, who’d disbanded all existing structures and reassigned everyone, placing all his loyal people in KGB leadership roles and crucial foreign soil assignments.

  Kirill Myatlev survived the political depuration of the First Chief Directorate and continued his station in Tehran unperturbed. That’s where he met Farrin, Vitaliy’s mother, and with the prerequisite blessing from KGB headquarters in place, married her. Vitaliy was born in Tehran a year later, and they all lived there for five more years before Moscow recalled them.

  Farrin struggled adapting to life in Moscow, constantly surrounded by drunks spewing profanities and engaging in crude behaviors, all insulting her profound Islamic beliefs. She had hoped that her son would become a devout Muslim. However, young Vitaliy took after his father and showed no real faith in any denomination and no interest in anything or anyone but himself. Disillusioned, heartbroken, and hopeless, Farrin left Russia to live with her family in Tehran. She never came back to visit. As for Vitaliy and his father, they didn’t miss her all that much. One was busy working foreign intelligence, now a major general, while the other was growing up as an unsupervised teenager with lots of attitude and early problems with authority, women, and alcohol abuse, having the time of his life.

  Major General Myatlev transferred his rebellious son to a select high school reserved for sons and daughters of elite Communist Party members, Central Committee leaders, members of the government, high-ranking military, and militia officials. No longer feeling elitist among such peers, Vitaliy spiraled out of control even more. His drinking binges offered him a few near-death experiences, and some of the sex orgies he organized became well-known in the school and beyond. He was becoming a liability and a risk to his father’s career.

  By the time Vitaliy had finally graduated, soon after his eighteenth birthday, his father had already grown tired of using his influence with the militia to keep the rebellious, irresponsible son out of jail. Setting his foot down, he gave his son no other alternative than to join the KGB and start building a career in intelligence, where he could closely supervise his progress and make him walk the line. Not having much choice, Vitaliy took the offer and was immediately accepted by the Dzerzhinsky Higher School of the KGB; his father made sure of that. Vitaliy hated the many painful months of boot camps, interrogations, and other hardcore training drills.

  Vitaliy graduated a calmer, more responsible young adult, but the rebel still lived under the surface, ready to come out. His thinking was not shaped like everyone else’s. Secretly, he was not a communist, nor was he a patriot. He stayed self-centered, focused solely on his own well-being. His powerful mind had survived many brainwashing exercises during his formative years and helped him come up with solutions and ideas that were creative, out of the ordinary, and very successful. This type of thinking helped him advance fast through the ranks of the KGB First Chief Directorate, where he continued to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  Vitaliy hated working for the KGB. He hated working for anyone for that matter, but, of course, the KGB was not something one resigned from; it was unconceivable, as bad as treason. There was no way out. Looking back though, joining the KGB had been the decision that had opened the door for him to become who he was today.

  He spoke four languages fluently, his linguistic skills developed in early childhood by his multilingual family environment. His English was flawless and almost free of accent; his German and French were not bad either, and his unpracticed Farsi almost forgotten.

  By 1981, he had shaped up and become an appreciated intelligence officer, working on assignments in Western Europe. Of course, having a KGB general for a father hadn’t hurt at all. The most coveted assignments were in Western Europe and North America, and by the time he had turned thirty, he had worked both regions. He was attracted mostly to assignments of an economic nature. He started handholding researchers and USSR delegates through their rarely seen business trips to the West to make sure they didn’t defect. He moved up to commercial contract negotiations and vetting of foreign corporation officials who wanted to open subsidiaries in the USSR.

  Vitaliy arranged foreign trade contracts of hundreds of millions of rubles, and, in this role, he was the one getting the bribes. Corruption o
f USSR commercial representatives was a well-known reality in the business circles of the West. Vitaliy was smart about the bribes he accepted. The shinier items—most coveted luxury watch, gold chain, VCR, or stereo—were reserved for his commanding officer. He delivered the items personally to his boss, calling them “small gifts,” and his boss never asked Vitaliy where they’d come from. Instead, he named Vitaliy for the next commercial assignment and the next one after that.

  Vitaliy kept the bulk of the bribes, stashing them away as hard currency or gold in places all over the West, together with contact information for key business people he had met. He had sworn his allegiance to the USSR, but when it came to his squirreled greenbacks, he trusted the Western powers more. He was smart, greedy, and opportunistic, ruthlessly negotiating his bribes. Whenever he saw a way to grab a perk or make a profit, he didn’t hesitate. He also found the time to make friends with other young, ambitious, cutthroat Russian intelligence officers, friendships he cultivated carefully throughout the years.

  One day it was over, one cold November day in 1991. Communism was done and finished; the KGB was falling apart, and Vitaliy was free again. He left the dissolving KGB without giving any notice, just scribbling a oneline resignation letter to get his papers released from the personnel department. He exited the Lubyanka KGB headquarters edifice without looking back and started building his fortune.

  With the USSR falling apart and all the former Soviet Republics seeking their independence from Russia, there was chaos in the streets. Many of his Russian friends and contacts were in Russia, including the majority of his former KGB contacts, who had decided to return home instead of immigrating to or seeking asylum in the West. Russia was also not a communist economy anymore. It was the dawn of Russian capitalism through a painful passage from communist, state-owned structures to the capitalist, free-market economy, a period one could call transitionism.

  However, no one knew how to be a capitalist, how to think like one. Being citizens of a communist country for generations, never traveling outside the USSR, having mandatory but guaranteed jobs, and having lived in a system that made owning any kind of property or wealth a capital offense, no one knew how to become a capitalist overnight. No one except Vitaliy and other foreign intelligence officers who had stashed their cash outside the country, had contacts in the real capitalist world, and the knowledge of what capitalism was, how it worked, and how it can make the right people rich.