Dangerous Passion (Dangerous #3)(2)

He was going to team up with a master of the universe and live forever. He knew where to buy new hearts and livers and kidneys.

He could still remember the feverish excitement he'd felt as the limo dropped him off in front of Drake's building. He knew how to school his face to impassivity-God knows he'd had enough experience dealing with drunken, incompetent generals-but inside he was bouncing with elation.

It took Rutskoi half an hour to work his way through Drake's security, which at the time had pleased him. The man was invincible, impregnable. Each layer of security, executed with perfect, polite professionalism by Drake's bodyguards, reassured him. This was truly the big time. He imagined that the only other man so well-protected could be the president of the United States, who arguably was less powerful in his world than Drake was in his. Drake's world was no democracy.

Finally, Rutskoi was led into a room with a door that closed like a steel vault behind him.

Ah. The smell of leather, fine whiskey and excellent cigars. The scent of the big room came to him before his eyes had a chance to adapt to the semidarkness. There were only a few lamps on, but the impression was of a huge room with an immensely tall ceiling. And comfort. Everything was built for the comfort of a man. Big leather armchairs; thick, plush carpets. An array of expensive-looking spirits in cut-crystal decanters. A brass-and-wood humidor.

"Come in," came a deep voice from within. And there he was. Drake.

Rutskoi wasn't easily impressed and he wasn't easily scared, but Drake impressed him and frightened him, at the same time. Of average height, he was immensely strong. His huge hands and feet were stippled with yellow calluses. Rutskoi had seen him punch a man so hard it was as if he had been hit with a bullet. He'd also seen Drake massacre a man with one kick.



       
         
       
        

He was adept at both SAMBO, the Russian martial art, and savate, French kickboxing. He could not be bested in hand-to-hand combat. He simply took his opponent to the floor and demolished him. And he was frighteningly intelligent. At times it was as if he were plugged into some secret intelligence system only he had access to. He was never caught by surprise, ever.

The story was that the killing of Ahmed Masood on the tenth of September, 2001, was a clear enough signal for him to start immediately dismantling his arms supply chain to the Taliban.

By the twelfth, he had moved his entire business to the States and teamed up with the CIA to funnel in arms to the Northern Alliance. He never sold another weapon to an Islamist or jihadist after that.

Though he was on every international list of outlaws, wanted by the UN and Interpol, he became untouchable, protected by the Americans. His pilots had stones the size of refrigerators. They ferried in arms to U.S. soldiers in Iraq, the only pilots brave enough-or crazy enough-to fly into Baghdad International on a daily basis, no matter the danger.

When Drake walked up, every hair on Rutskoi's body stood up. He swallowed his fear and awe, pushing them away. He had to meet Drake as an equal or this wasn't going to work.

"Sit down, Dmitri," Drake said and listened politely. The next thing he said, quietly, was "Get out," after Rutskoi explained what he wanted.

Without pressing a bell or making any sign, Drake's bodyguards came and frog-marched him out. He was literally thrown out the door by two huge bodyguards.

Rutskoi vowed revenge, but it was hard to take revenge on a man who didn't even notice you.

He spread the word that Drake's head was worth 50K and sat back and waited. And waited. And waited. Drake clearly paid his people so well that 50 grand wasn't an incentive. Either that or they were shit-scared of him. Probably both.

Rutskoi studied and waited and planned in vain, until he got the call. Not just any call. The Call. The one that was going to change his life.

Finally, a little of the money he was throwing around stuck somewhere. Rutskoi had left a Hotmail address and received an anonymous message.

If you want information on Drake, transfer $50,000 to this bank account.



At the bottom of the email was an IBAN, the first two letters, CH. A Swiss account.

Rutskoi's bank in the Caymans was efficient and fast. Half an hour later, he had mail.

Drake slips out of his building on the first and third Tuesday afternoon of every month, without bodyguards, and has done so for a year.



There were a number of attachments. Hands trembling, Rutskoi opened them, and-there it was. Information on Drake. Even better-information on a weakness. 

At last! A chink in Drake's armor, straight through to the heart of the man.

Drake went to a well-known art gallery on Lexington every other Tuesday afternoon from two to three. Of all the things Rutskoi knew about Drake, a passion for art was not one of them. Going to a gallery wasn't breathtaking news.