Mistress(89)

Somehow, the praise doesn’t seem so sincere coming from this guy.

“So now, Benjamin, we move on to better times. I want you to be happy, my friend. Happy and wealthy. I trust you have confirmed the wire transfer to the account you specified? Twenty million dollars?”

“Yes,” I say. “It will certainly help my quest for happiness.”

“Indeed it will. You are being rewarded handsomely to keep this video confidential.”

I rub my hands together and try to sound authoritative. When I get nervous, my voice tends to go up an octave, which is pretty much the opposite of cool. “You understand what I said before, Alex. If anything happens to me, if a bullet accidentally finds its way into my skull, that video goes viral. It gets released to every media outlet in North America.”

“I do understand that,” he says. “You were very clear on the phone this morning. You are very clear now. If I kill you, the video becomes public.”

Yeah, but I wanted to say it again. It’s what will keep me alive.

“But you understand,” says Kutuzov, “that if you have second thoughts about our agreement and decide to release this video, you will die a painful death.”

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.” If I were chewing gum, I’d blow a bubble right now. That would look cool.

I turn toward Kutuzov, who grabs my shirt with one hand and tugs me close to him. I’ve hit a nerve with him, obviously.

“Listen to me, my little friend. Do not mistake what has happened in the past for the future. You were in hiding, and we lacked adequate time to prepare, and still you only narrowly escaped us. Those bullets that killed your friend the detective were within inches of you, yes? And never again will you have a barricade of police and Secret Service agents saving you. Had they not arrived yesterday, you would have been dead within seconds. Do not mistake what I can do.”

Kutuzov releases my shirt with a push. This, and no other reason, is why we are meeting face-to-face. Kutuzov could have wired my money with the tap of a keystroke and flown back to Russia. But he wanted to deliver this message personally. He wants me to live in mortal fear of him.

“That’s a helluva way to talk to a friend,” I manage.

Kutuzov looks me up and down. “Do you require another reminder from Victor?”

I show my palms, like stop. “No, no. You made your point.”

After a moment, Kutuzov shows me another cold smile. “Very well, then, Benjamin. If I kill you, you release the video. If you release the tape, I kill you. Mutually assured destruction, yes?”

A term from the Cold War. How appropriate.

Kutuzov claps his hands. “You have heard my warning and I trust you understand its sincerity. So now we are done. Yes?”

Kutuzov offers his hand to me. I don’t care what Victor does with his next bullet, I’m not shaking this asshole’s hand.

“No,” I say.

I just have one thing left to say to him. It’s what Robert De Niro said to Dennis Farina at the end of Midnight Run. If these are the last words I ever utter—and they might be—I might as well go out quoting one of my all-time favorites.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to say to you,” I tell Kutuzov. “You’re under arrest.”





Chapter 104



Alex Kutuzov’s smile evaporates. He jumps to his feet. His mind is racing. He can’t reconcile his disbelief with my confidence.

“It’s real,” I say. “You should say something.”

Jay Mohr’s line to Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire when he fired him at lunch. Now I’m feeling better.

“You just confessed to being behind the deaths of those cops,” I say. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure that’s a crime in America.”

Kutuzov’s eyes race over me. “You did not record this conversation,” he says, panicking. “We checked. We took every precaution.”

“That’s true,” I concede. “I didn’t record this.”

“Then it is simply your word against mine.”

“It’s really just your words, Alex.”

Kutuzov removes a small handgun from the pocket of his pants. I didn’t even know he had it. He points it at me and starts speaking furiously in Russian.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Russian,” I say, but he’s not talking to me.

“Explain this!” he shouts at me. “Or I’ll kill you now.”

“You shoot me,” I say, “and you’re liable to lose a lot of those humanitarian awards.” Chevy Chase to Joe Don Baker in Fletch. This is like a buffet for me.

“Nyet!” he shouts, again not to me. But I know a little Russian. His name is Andrei Bogomolov.