For Everything a Reason (27 page)

Chapter
Fifty-Three

Cold wind snapped at ankles. The hems of pant legs flapped
about like the fluttering of flags. A group of bent figures made their way
towards the stationary aircraft. The small private airfield was deserted except
for this small group and the LearJet. The first member reached the short flight
of steps that led to the cabin. He pulled himself inside as the rest gathered
around the foot of the steps. The passenger reappeared a moment later. With a
wave of his hand he beckoned for the rest to board.

Like their comrade, the next
three to enter all wore dark blue suits. And even though the sky was clouded
over, dark sunglasses hid their eyes. The fifth member to board was dressed in
simple casual clothes, his head bowed submissively to the harsh winds that tore
across the airstrip. He pulled himself to the top of the stairs before turning
to look back. He stood poised for a second, looking out at the panoramic view.
He took a few moments, contemplating recent events, scanning the grey horizon.
Finally, he nodded to the two who remained, before disappearing inside. They
ascended the steps, paused momentarily to look about them, and then reeled in
the short retractable steps.

The whir of engine noise began.
Within seconds it had grown to a deafening roar. The aircraft rolled onto the
blacktop. More power was added to the twin engines, the roar growing quickly
towards an ear-piercing scream. Now, as if freed from a catapult, the jet raced
away, tearing down the runway. The plane took to the skies, quickly cutting
towards the heavy clouds above. In a matter of seconds the jet had disappeared,
ready to deliver its cargo back home.

Nikolay unbuckled his belt. He
turned towards the window and gazed at the thick clouds below him. They rolled
by like the white surf of crashing waves. He wiped at his brow and his palm
came away with a layer of sweat.

The guy sitting opposite him
laughed gently. “Not one for flying, Nikolay?” he said, in a flat American
accent. His eyes were soft and filled with compassion and understanding.

The old man grimaced slightly.
“It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” replied his
companion, smiling.

Nikolay nodded. He’d worked in New
York for almost ten years, not once making the return trip home. Yet, in just
fourteen hours, he’d feel the soil of his homeland beneath his feet.

The guy opposite leaned forward
to pat Nikolay’s hand. “It’s good to have you back,” he said.

The old man nodded again. It
would be good to be back. He looked his companion in the eye. “What of Viktor?”

The guy opposite offered a
dismissive wave of his hand. “Taken care of. Not to worry, Nikolay. Business is
back in order.”

“And the FBI and FSB?”

The guy shrugged. “Those not
committed to our homeland still pose a threat. But we must remain one step
ahead. As always.”

“As always…” Nikolay echoed.

They were interrupted by one of
the other passengers, who almost filled the aisle with his bulk. The bite of
the wind had turned scar tissue, which ran from nose to lip, into a bolt of
white lightning. Agent Vitos spoke to Nikolay’s companion in a thick Slavic
accent. “We will land in Moscow in fourteen hours. You need anything, Boss?”

Nikolay’s companion opened his
mouth to speak. He paused for a second, as his face underwent a drastic
transformation. The gentle demeanour that had been Edward Jones evaporated
instantly and the soft, sensitive eyes turned hard. He coughed heavily, as if
trying to shift something that was lodged at the back of his throat.

The old man shifted slightly in
his seat. This was the real boss he’d left behind over a decade ago: cold and
calculating, with the heart of a poisonous snake.

“Nothing needed, Comrade,”
Sergei Mikhailov said, in his native tongue.

The heavy nodded and then
quickly returned to his seat.

Sergei Mikhailov turned his
attention outside. He sighed wistfully. He’d had a pleasant and productive
trip. He’d been busy, sorting out first the Colombians and then, more
importantly, Viktor and his pet rat. Still, he hadn’t been overseas for quite
some time and the change had done him good. He felt invigorated and was now
looking forward to his return home.

Nevertheless, he’d been forced
to use every help available. His contact at the Bureau had had to first get him
manpower, pulling a few agents from the field and assigning them directly to
Sergei. These agents had come willingly, ready to help their homeland, eager to
prove that their ‘repatriation’ had not been wasted.

Luck had played its part, too.
They had intercepted Edward Jones’ call to his father, and then traced it to
the accountant’s place of hiding. Now, there would be no trial. The authority’s
star witness had been silenced once and for all. 

Viktor had been Sergei’s prime
reason for coming. Now, that problem had been resolved, with the added bonus of
ridding the world of Viktor’s uncontrollable brother, Yurius. It was just a
shame Sergei had not got to Viktor before innocents like Henry Jones and Joseph
Ruebins had been involved. Still, these innocents had played their part in
helping Sergei achieve his objective. And now, thanks to their unwitting
intervention, business was back to normal.

Sergei’s smile widened slightly
as he remembered a song he’d heard the day before. It had been played out over
the radio during the return trip from silencing the accountant.

Sergei Mikhailov grinned
happily, catching Nikolay’s attention. The Russian Mafia boss opened his mouth
and sang…

"…Back in the
U-S-S-R!"