Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

Azov, Russia, twelve years earlier

CAL SAVAGE IV, far from being a captain, was near the end of his rope. He was sitting in a bleak, cluttered office overlooking a bustling shipyard. The sound of rivet guns reverberated from below. Sparks flared from welding torches.

Across the table from Savage sat Alek Ivanov—a large man with an outsized reputation. Banker. Bootlegger. Oligarch. He and Savage were the only two people in the room. The shipyard's manager had obligingly found a task in the warehouse.

Outside the office window loomed the superstructure of a 220-foot yacht, still in dry dock, surrounded by scaffolding—a six-hundred-ton work in progress.

The yacht was Ivanov's. His dream. His design. Paid for in advance.

Cal Savage had been working out of a safe house nearly, and he frequently wandered past the shipyard at night. He had admired the magnificent ship from the day its keel was laid, and his admiration had grown with each step in its construction—from shaping the hull to the delivery of the teak planks for the decks. Something about the ship called to him, and he dreamed of having it for himself, even if he'd never piloted anything bigger than a sailboat. And even if the yacht was already spoken for by one of the most powerful men in the country.

For Savage, money was no object. Through various illegal enterprises, he had already accumulated a substantial fortune. He had made offers over the years through intermediaries, raising his ante every time. But Ivanov was unreceptive. He was building the yacht for his children. That's what Savage kept hearing. The oligarch wanted something substantial and beautiful to leave behind. A legacy.

When Ivanov had finally agreed to a face-to-face meeting, Savage polished his Russian and worked hard on his inflections. He wanted to be sure every word was clear. He realized that today was his last, best chance.

Savage knew that Ivanov had already done a background check on him and discovered that nobody in the Russian state hierarchy or secret police had ever heard of him. To the authorities, he was a total cipher. A nobody.

So be it.

He would have to rely on personal persuasion.

Ivanov puffed away vigorously on a worn meerschaum pipe. The small office was clouded with smoke, so dense that Cal found himself rubbing his eyes. Maybe a deliberate distraction on Ivanov's part, or an intimidation tactic. Or maybe just an annoying habit.

Since Savage knew that Ivanov had warm feelings for his children, that seemed like a perfect place to start the conversation.

"This tremendous ship," said Savage, in his well-rehearsed Russian. "You're building it for your son and daughter?"

"Correct," said Ivanov. "As I've said."

"How old?"

Ivanov pulled the pipe stem from his mouth. "Oleg is seventeen. Irina is sixteen." Savage detected the hint of a thaw in the oligarch's expression. When he spoke his children's names, even his voice turned warmer.

Ivanov stared at Savage for a few seconds, resumed his puffing, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his Android phone. He leaned across the table and clicked to a photo of two teenagers, heads together, at some kind of lavish gala.

"Handsome boy," said Savage. "Pretty girl."

"They're in Zermatt," said Ivanov, putting his phone away. "Ski holiday."

Savage took a deep breath. He pulled an iPad from his briefcase. His turn for show-and-tell. It was now or never.

"Correction," he said. "They were ." He was careful to use the Russian past tense.

Ivanov took a heavy draw on his pipe and scowled. "No. They are ," he said curtly. The warmth was gone from his voice. "They don't return until the weekend."

Savage clicked on the iPad's photo gallery. There were several pictures in the series to choose from. He picked the one he thought would be most effective, then angled the device so that both he and Ivanov could see it.

Ivanov's pipe dropped onto the table, ashes flying. His face was suddenly flushed. He grabbed for the iPad. "No!" he shouted.

Savage pulled the screen out of the oligarch's reach, then stroked the photo as if admiring a fine painting.

The image showed Ivanov's teenage children in a nondescript cellar. The lighting was dim. The kids were bound back-to-back, faces toward camera. Oleg had a bruise on his chin and one eye was blackened. Irina's right cheek was red and swollen and her pert nose was bloodied. The look in her eyes was a mix of shock and terror. Same for her brother.

"Where are they?" demanded Ivanov, rising out of his seat.

"Wrong question," said Savage, leaning forward. "They can be back on the slopes by noon." He clicked the iPad off. "Or not."

Ivanov's lips had turned pale and fishy. He was breathing hard. His pupils were dilated to huge black pools.

Savage pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. There was a number on it. One hundred thousand rubles over his last bid.

"My final offer," he said. "That—and your children's lives."

Ivanov was gasping so hard that Savage thought he might be having a heart attack. The oligarch grabbed the paper and crushed it in his huge hand.

"Yes!" he wheezed. "She's yours!"

Savage stood up and gave Ivanov a twisted little smile. He walked to the window and looked out at the ship. His ship.

She was yet to be christened. But he already had a name in mind.