The Plot to Kill Putin by Max Karpov

Author:Max Karpov
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781951627188
Publisher: Arcade Crimewise
Published: 2020-02-19T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY

Northern France.

The Americans’ first contact with Ivan Delkoff came on the evening of August 16: an envelope left in a small seafood restaurant off the coast road. The envelope had actually been left for Delkoff’s cousin, Little Dmitri, who went to the restaurant in the evenings to drink a pint of ale with the owner and one of the local fishermen. Someone, evidently, had noticed that.

Dmitri’s nightly habit would be discontinued now that Delkoff was here; he had assured his cousin of that. But on Monday night, he’d come to the restaurant for a different reason: to buy Delkoff a pint of vodka so he could return to the house and finish writing his “Declaration.” It was funny: For months, Delkoff had considered himself a conspirator; now, he understood that he was something else, a witness. His plans were not about survival and concealment anymore; they were about making sure his country’s deceptions became known. And that meant he had to rely on basic rules of combat. If your enemy is stronger than you are, evade him. If your enemy is temperamental, seek to irritate him. If your enemy is a clever coward—as Andrei Turov was—expose him. That was what he was going to do. Delkoff’s initial strategy after August 13 had been escape and evade. He’d planned to use France as his base for two or three days, then he’d travel on to Germany; from there, to South Africa. He had already arranged his accounts so that his family members would be taken care of for the rest of their lives. And so that Delkoff had enough ready cash to avoid leaving an electronic trail.

Dmitri came out looking sullen, as always, his open hunter’s jacket flapping in the sea air. Delkoff heard the bottles clinking in an old paper sack. They rode inland, dipping into a shallow and coming to the turn with the upside-down rowboat. Dmitri touched Artem’s shoulder, asking him to stop. He turned and signaled Delkoff.

The two men got out, much as they had on the drive from Paris. Artem stayed behind the wheel with the engine running, watching in the mirror.

They walked down the road behind the SUV. Then Dmitri stopped and handed him the envelope. “For you,” he said. “Not me. You.” His cousin watched like an angry police sergeant as Delkoff opened the envelope.

It was a brief note, handwritten in French. Delkoff read it in the moonlight: Turov sait que vous êtes ici. Je voudrais vous aider. Appelez ce numéro. Jake Briggs, USA. “Turov knows you’re here. I want to help. Call this number. Jake Briggs, USA.”

He read it again and passed the note to his cousin. Dmitri looked up at Delkoff when he finished, his mouth parted, as if someone had hit him in the stomach.

“Who the fuck knows you’re here?” Dmitri said. “You know this person?”

“I’ve met him. Several years ago,” he said. “I met him in Estonia.”

Jake Briggs. He did know him. But Delkoff was still trying to form a clear picture.

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