Chapter 12

Guntram de Lisle's Diary

August 12th 2003

I still don't know how or why I'm still alive. The logical result would have been my death. I had all the odds against me, but I survived. I wish I would have died. It's been a month but I can't forget a single noise, word, touch, smell or hit.

I try to tell myself that it was all Constantin's fault but I know that I'm responsible too. I should have asked around; didn't you marry? Do you have children? Where do you go all the time? But I preferred to ignore all the signals because I was never so happy in my life than living with him. I was comfortably numb with my painting, my school, my part time job in Portobello Market, always waiting for his kisses or praises if he liked some of my works. Constantin was my best friend and I trusted him with my life and soul.

I had finished my working day at the Market that Sunday, July 7th, at noon and I was going to wait for Yuri at the corner where he would pick me up to take me home. Constantin was in New York and I was not expecting him till Tuesday morning. I said good-bye to Mrs. Smithers like always and she asked me to come back again on Wednesday to help her with some continental pottery. I worked my way through the crowd of street performers, colours and Indian food smells, trying to reach the corner where we meet.

Yuri wasn't there. There was another; Sergei Tretiakov, a man I never liked but he was working under Morozov and never had much contact with me. He told me that Yuri was sick and that he would drive me home. I suspected nothing as Yuri had been looking very sick in the morning, throwing up after breakfast. I felt bad that he insisted on taking me to work, but Mikhail was away and on Sunday most of the people had free.

Sergei drove me home—but I should say to Ilchester Place because this is not my home—and I was surprised that there were no maids at all. The man took me by the arm and steered me to the living room, pushing me to enter with a: “In there, you scum. Time to meet the lady in charge.”

Sitting on the large couch was a brown haired woman, mid-forties, dressed with a soft grey business tailor suit, with very expensive jewels. Three men more were in the room, one tall blond called Stephanov, with the coldest gaze I've ever seen, and the other two were perfect strangers and looked like bullies. Who was this woman, freely sitting in Constantin's stances?

“So you're the little French whore my husband has been fucking for the past months. You don't look like much.”

“Your husband?” I stuttered, opening my eyes very big.

“Constantin Ivanovich Repin. Did he forget to tell you about me?”

“Constantin is not married!”

“Married with me since 1984 and the proud father of four children; Sofia, Constantin, Vladimir and Ivan. They live in St. Petersburg.”

“I didn't know he was married with children!”

“You didn't? It's well known that blonds are idiots but you're giving a new meaning to the phrase. A single billionaire? Nothing in his life? A rich man just jumping into your bed, telling words of love?” She mocked me and then directed her attention toward the blond man. “Darling, can you believe it?”

“The little prick believes that your husband is a respectable man,” he smirked.

“Constantin?” She laughed. “How many has he killed in his war with Lintorff this year?”

“I know of twenty-seven killing contracts, my love.”

I was speechless, trying to understand what they were telling, but my brain refused to cooperate. I could only look at her, his wife and mother of his children, realising that everything she was telling was true.

“My husband is a very successful businessman; he deals with weapons, drugs from Afghanistan, girls and boys from Central Europe and Russia, smuggling and fraud. His companies are only a front for much more lucrative activities, not that oil and transport are bad sectors,” she told me with a humourless smile and I was feeling more and more lost.

“You must be wondering what I could want from a pathetic little thing like you.”

“I'll leave this house instantly and will never contact him again. I swear madam that I didn't know about you. I would have never been in the middle of a family. Please forgive me if I hurt you.”

“Leaving him was an option a few months ago, but now it's impossible. Constantin is too infatuated with you to let you go. He would follow you like a puppy all over the world, killing everyone in his path to have you back, like that friend of yours, the one with the drugs problem. Constantin checks all your letters and conversations and hated him. He organized the whole set up and had him killed in prison. I know he killed the two girls who were flirting with you in Paris; Sergei was part of the team. Then came that Art dealer from Amsterdam and that student from your art class, so many that I'm afraid to forget someone.”

“Don't forget that banker from France,” Stephanov added solicitously.

“You're right my love.”

“You don't love Constantin at all!” I said shocked, not truly understanding what she was telling me.

Those were horrible and stupid accidents! Peter had the misfortune of being in the middle of a mugging gone wrong He was never my lover. He only asked me to go in a date and I refused. He understood that I was in love with someone else.

“Of course I don't love him, but he's considering to divorce me and I can't accept that. I would only get two hundred million from the 7.6 billion he declares. He does not want to share even if I gave him the best years of my life. I need a more permanent solution in your case.”

I was terrified of her now. She had said it such a cold way, as if I were a bug ready to be crushed.

“The cellar is soundproofed. We already tried it with your man, Yuri.” Stephanov told me as I looked at him in horror. “You see, a bullet in your head won't do at all. We have to set an example, just in case Constantin finds a replacement for you. He has to pay for all the pain he put Olga over the past year.”

I wriggled against my captor and fortunately caught Sergei unaware and could knock him down, exactly as Yuri had taught me, going for his weapon, a Glock 9. Before the other two would jump on me, I surrounded his neck with my arm, pressing as strong as I could because I knew I only had a chance, and put the weapon against his forehead.

“One step more and he's dead,” I threatened. Idiot.

The man on my right fired and killed Sergei with a clean shot in the head, making the base explode, splashing his brains all over me. I was petrified. They had just sacrificed one of their own just like that. The dry sound of the body hitting the wooden floor and my heartbeat hammering my ears, are things that I won't forget. I took an involuntary step backwards but I couldn't pry my eyes from the dead form lying in a pool of blood.

“Well, more for us, don't you think?” Stephanov chortled.

I tried to run but one of the monsters jumped on me and knocked me down, hitting my head several times against the floor to stop my rebellious attempts.

“Stop!” She shouted and for a second I thought that she was having second thoughts and would let me go. “You're going to ruin the parquetry with the blood. I plan to have tea with my friends here. Take him to the cellar with his friend while you clean this.”

The brute dragged me, throwing me the stairs down and I think that was when I sprained my ankle, I don't know. All the previous hits on my head were making me feel dizzy and stunned. My body hit with full force against the metal door and I realised that the thickness was not to protect the wines environment but to keep the cries muffled. That door was exactly as one of those recording studios. I tried to stand up but I got a vicious kick on my ribs and I felt my lunch coming to my mouth and I dry heaved.

“Don't you dare to throw up on me, piece of shit. I'm going to fuck your brains out before we kill you and hear me well, if you ruin my shoes, your death will be very slow and painful.”

He opened the door and again took me by the collar as if I would weight nothing and threw me against a limp form on the floor. I recognised it as Yuri, horribly beaten and almost dead because he was almost not breathing.

There was blood everywhere. I turned him around and I saw that they had burned his face with a cigarette. I don't know but I started to weep like a little girl for him.

“Guntram, your mobile, do you have it?” He croaked to my surprise and yes I had the second one, the mini or cockroach as I used to call it because of its size. I nodded. “Just switch it on. It has a distress signal.” He didn't close his eyes, they just went glossy and I knew he wasn't here any longer. I did what he told me but hid the thing inside his pocket because I thought that they were going to throw our bodies at the same place. They are only three of them now and two bodies to get out in the middle of Kensington. They would have to wait for the night or leave us here.

I don't know why I had the flashback of Chano, my lawyer and legal tutor telling me that a torture session is your most political moment in your whole life. There you understand the concept of power because you have to convince your interrogator that you have nothing that could interest him. He should know, he barely escaped with his life in 1977, as he was in the Peronist Guerilla. He was tortured for several weeks till a friend of his father, a colonel let him go because he was a middle rank cadre, never involved in military actions. He also told me that it's nothing personal, they want to make it personal so you plead and fall into the abyss when they do nothing for you.

Don't talk to them; try to ignore them; there's a point when the pain nullifies itself and either they kill you or they stop and let you live to start again later.

Easy to say, not so easy to achieve. I don't know for how long they left me with Yuri, I suppose so I would be more terrified but his body was a source of comfort for me because I knew that he was in peace now and I remembered all the laughter we had together when he was taking me to buy a muffin at a stall in Victoria Station or when he was helping me to smuggle a Star Wars comic from Forbidden Planet—I think he also read them—or when he was sneaking my jacket out of the house to the laundry so Mikhail wouldn't know that I've been to the McDonalds'

or another greasy place. His attempts at learning our “dialect” were truly funny and his impersonation of the Argentinean accent was very accurate. I caressed the side of his face and muttered “good-bye, my friend.” I closed my eyes because I've never felt so tired, defeated in my life.

“You're disgusting! Sleeping next to a body!” Stephanov shouted me awake, giving me another kick on the back. I rolled and tried to stand from my knelt position but he hit me again in the face with a lot of force. I nearly fainted.

“No! Not in the face my love. I want a beautiful body so Constantin knows what he has lost. Morozov wants him devastated with grief, unable to think. Lintorff will finish him off.” I heard the voice of the bitch. “He's an artist, focus on that, my love.”

“As you wish Olga, now let us work. This is for men only, dear.” He chuckled and I thought poor idiot, she will turn you into meatballs once she's finished with me. That woman is a predator of the worst kind. Sharks kill because they're conditioned by nature to do so; she kills for pleasure and power.

I heard her heels stomping over the concrete floor, going away and I braced myself for what was coming with the three monsters. As I have predicted they moved the body to one dark corner, doing their best not to touch it.

Funny, you kill but you're afraid of a body.

They were very classical with me as they couldn't touch my face. They kicked me on the stomach and ribs many, many times. At some point I stopped counting the blows and huddled, trying to protect my head, but I didn't plead and that drove the two men mad. I was in maddening pain, my body burning in flames and every breath was a slow torture, but I didn't feel like crying.

“So you're a though guy?” Stephanov shook me because I think I was fainting and I vomited or spat a lot of blood, ruining his precious shoes. He hit me on the stomach with all his force and I bent over myself with the pain, howling. One of the others ripped my jacket and shirt off and started to burn my skin with a cigarette. It was a horrible pain as you could feel the red point going through the layers of skin and the foul sweet stench of the burned meat. It's nothing like you have never experienced in your life. It's just unique. But I didn't plead, just like Chano told me to do.

They shouted something in Russian at each other and the two men looked very nervous about something.

“We will try what the boss finds so good.”

I felt them tearing my clothes, but I was half conscious due to the beating and couldn't resist them as all my remaining strength was on my brain, trying to find a way to nullify the pain. One of them—don't know which one because I couldn't see well on my right side clouded somehow—threw me against a table making me face the wooden surface and the door that led to the wine cellar. I felt one hand securing me by the neck, burying his fingers and suffocating me. He penetrated me and I yelled when he did it feeling his satisfaction pour all over me. He fucked me very hard, and it was like being torn in two. He almost left me deaf with his groan when he finished inside me. He shouted something in Russian and all of them laughed. The second and the third came next.

But I didn't plead or make them stop. Stephanov took me twice, the second not even finishing it. As they were too exhausted to continue with the game and I assume I was bleeding in a very disgusting way, they decided to focus on the “he's an artist” part.

First they removed the nails, one by one from my left hand and later used a hammer to break the fingers.

My throat was raw from my crying because there are no words to describe how you feel when your torturer toys with you, falsely attacking you, just to make you cry and finally gives you the blow or the pull. It's a game, a political game about showing you that he's in charge and you're nothing.

Wrong, you're something; you have what he desires, like Chano told me.

I only wanted to die to escape the pain, but they knew exactly when to stop to let me recover just a bit. I knew there that I was going to die but they will take all the time in the world to do it and I just wanted to avoid the pain.

“Water,” I pleaded finally, knowing that they wouldn't give it to me, but having an idea of what could pass through their minds.

“Do you want a drink? Suck me and you'll get some. Bite me and you're dead.” The dark haired shouted grabbing me by the hair. That was my hope. He put his filthy thing inside my mouth and started to ram it, keeping my head straight by fisting my hair.

I bit him hard, not to the point of tearing the member, but to the point of feeling the blood flood into my mouth. He yelled and fell to the floor from the pain. His friend jumped on me and stabbed me three times in the stomach, before Stephanov could stop him.

“Stop! We will settle the score with him later! Take Ivan out,” he yelled and the other man did as he was ordered.

'Only one left,' I thought

“If Repin is half of what you told me, there would be no hole in this Earth deep enough as to hide you,”

I said, still spitting the blood on the floor. Whose one's? I don't know.

“Shut up, little fucker!”

“Do you realise that you're next? She only cares about money.”

He jumped on me and put one of those Rambo knives out and yelled. “Shut up!”

“The second time you could do nothing. Getting old? I know now why you got this job.” I truly wanted to end everything.

He knocked me down once more, getting all dirty with the blood freely flowing from me. Funny but I wasn't hurting anymore and there were so many bright lights dancing around. I believe he shouted something like

“how do you want it? Your neck or your right hand amputated? Do you want to live?” and I think I said: “kill me.”

I'm not sure, I heard a big detonation and I passed away, relieved that it was going to be over soon.

I woke up two weeks later, in a private hospital just to start the nightmare of surviving or living.

The security man couldn't believe his eyes: An emergency signal from one of the top members in the organization. He looked up the code and location and it was from Mr. Repin's boyfriend and from the house in London. “Shit!” he cursed loudly, getting his own mobile phone to warn his superior. “If the boy was playing with it, Oblomov will kill him.”

Malchenko couldn't believe his bad luck. He had tried with Massaiev but the man was in Bucharest, working per his cousin's orders and he should speak with Yuri Rimsky, who was taking care of the boy probably painting or working at the market, trying to sell a sorry porcelain dog to an old American tourist lady. Yuri Rimsky didn't answer his phone nor anyone in the house seem to be there. The boy's phone was off. “Better be on the safe side, if something happens to Guntram, Constantin will kill me very slowly,' he decided before dialling Gregory Kalashov's number in London.

'The question is, do I call Constantin or not?' Better not. I'll get Oblomov; he's with him in New York.'

“No, leave Constantin out of this till you speak again with Kalashov Probably it's nothing and if there's something going on, Kalashov should be able to deal with it. The Order wouldn't be so crazy as to attack us so bluntly.” Oblomov said after he was briefed.

“Their man in Tbilisi is dead along with his family. Lintorff is very corporative in his thinking. He blames us and he will go against us.”

“He wouldn't dare.”

“Why not? He's furious with us. He lost a lot of money to save his positions in Central Europe. Morozov nearly provoked a default in Poland and Romania.”

“Mr. Malchenko? One of my men went there, but he found nothing out of the ordinary.” Kalashov said respectfully, still uncertain of the outcome of his investigation. He was perfectly aware that he was walking on thin ice as the original order of “speak with the bodyguard or the boy,” had not been fulfilled.

“Did he speak with the boy or his bodyguard?”

“No, they're gone to Bath for the day. The little idiot forgot his mobile phone. The lady who spoke with him, told him that the ringing had driven her crazy the whole afternoon.”

“Lady? As cleaning lady?”

“No, very elegant woman, with a real emeralds necklace, brunette and tall. Nothing cheap at all. ”

“Shit!” Boris swore very loud when he realised that the only woman with such description was Olga Fedorovna. “Get a team and raid the house. Now!”

“Raid the house?” Kalashov repeated incredulous. “Mr. Repin's house?”

“Take a minimum of ten men to enter there; full equipment. I'm flying to London now. Whatever happens, no police at all. It's internal.”

“Should we not wait for you?”

“NO! Move your ass before Repin kills us all for being such idiots!”

“But if…”

“I take full responsibility. Move now, and take whoever is there alive! No deaths at all! Mr. Repin will want to have a word with whoever is in his house!” he shouted before slamming the phone against his desk and dashing for the door.

Kalashov men were nervous. Raiding the big boss own house was a very bad idea, even if it was one of his most trusted henchman's order; Malchenko in charge of the Smolensk territory. Being family didn't make you immune to his well-known wrath and sadism. The seven men, including Kalashov looked at each other when Malysev finished to nullify the security system as indicated by Malchenko.

“Where is the fucking security team?” One of them mumbled.

“Sounds very bad. We go in and we shoot to kill.” Kalashov whispered as they entered through the dining room door to the garden.

Very fast they secured the first floor and found two men in a bathroom. One of them fired first but he was killed in no time, and the other surrendered himself. “Wait, we're with Olga Fedorovna Repin!”

“Shit!” One of the men cursed.

“Where's the boy? Guntram.”

“In the cellar, with Stephanov. It wasn't my idea, she forced me!”

“What did you do?”

“Stephanov did it. Killed the bodyguard and tortured the boy. She ordered it!”

“Malysev get that woman! The rest, follow me.” Kalashov ordered

The gory sight of the boy on the floor, lying in a pool of blood, nearly dead was a very bad omen for all of them. While the men took Stephanov away, just hurt in the shoulder, Kalashov frantically thought what to do. A simple doctor wouldn't do as the boy was stabbed and obviously in shock, bleeding profusely. “We take him to St.

Catherine's in East London. They won't ask questions.”

“He won't make it. We need an ambulance.” The man trying to stop the bleeding protested.

“No police at all. This is more serious than we thought. Besides, he's almost dead. We're only covering our asses when Repin starts to kill people. Shit! He liked that boy a lot!”

Kalashov paced the sterile hospital waiting room. The doctors had taken the boy to surgery six hours ago and none of them had come to tell a thing. The poor lad had been tortured and raped for over five hours and they had been especially vicious as Olga Fedorovna was determined to make him suffer. 'But the vixen was clever enough as to run away after she saw my man. I have no idea of where she could be.'

“Kalashov!” Malchenko greeted the tired man. “How is he?”

“I don't know Mr. Malchenko. In surgery. They're trying to close his wounds, I suppose. I've seen no doctor so far.”

“Do we trust this place?”

“Belongs to us. Always takes care of my boys. They're good doctors. It's the best I can do.”

“I know. Thank you. Mr. Repin will be here tomorrow at noon.”

“We missed the wife. I'm sorry.”

“I'm after her. The others?”

“Secure in one of the houses. Lost one and there were two more bodies inside the house. My people are cleaning it.”

“The service, where were they?”

“It seems she sent them away for the day. The butler had the day free.”

“Mr. Kalashov?” A good looking woman dressed with green fatigues asked him. She was carrying a small cap on her hand. He nodded and she continued. “I'm Dr. Emily Harris, the surgeon. I treated Mr. de Lisle.”

“Is he…?” Malchenko asked already waiting for the worst.

“No, no. He's in the intensive care unit. It was a long and complex surgery, sir as his stab wounds were very deep. We had to remove the spleen and part of the liver as they were damaged beyond repair. It was a miracle the knife didn't touch other organs.”

“Will he recover?”

“It's hard to say at this point. My main concern is his heart as he suffered one heart attack during the surgery. We weren't aware that he suffered from a previous heart condition. There was no time to make any kind of pre surgery tests.”

“Guntram has nothing of the sort!”

“The cardiologist has just assured me that he suffers from heart failure due to hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Perhaps it went unnoticed because the symptoms are very easy to overlook. It's one of the leading causes in young athlete’s sudden death. We managed to stabilize him, but he's in a pharmacological coma because of his brain injuries. He was severely beaten and has a skull fracture. Fortunately there's no brain swelling so far and we hope the coma will prevent further damages and reduce the stress from the pain. We estimate that we would need a minimum of five to seven days before we try to remove the sedation.”

“Can we see him?”

“No, I'm afraid not. Visiting hours start tomorrow from 5 p.m. to 6 p.m. He's in a critical condition but stable, and that already gives us hope, gentlemen. If you'd excuse me.”

“What are his chances?”

“He's on life support systems. Perhaps you will have to make some serious decisions. Is there anyone from his family we can contact?”

“How many chances?”

“I can't give you a prognosis, but in his case the recovery ratio is less than 50% I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” Malchenko whispered, feeling bad for the young boy. 'He's only twenty years old and never made troubles! I have a long list of people that I would love to see in his place!'

“What do we do?” Kalashov asked.

“Nothing. We wait for Repin and Oblomov. It's their call now.”

The flight had been a slow torture for Constantin. Boris had called him and just told him to return to London, that there had been an accident and Guntram was seriously hurt. “How badly hurt?” “I don't know. He's in surgery. We can't speak now, cousin. Trust me.”

Ivan Ivanovich knew something more as he had been permanently speaking over the phone in German, but he had told him that he knew nothing about Guntram's condition, a blatant lie in his opinion.

He couldn't wait to have his flight plan approved and took the first commercial flight back to London.

He hoped that Lintorff had not been in one of his killing spree days, looking for revenge for what had happened in Tbilisi just a week ago. He had never given the order and the mess with the Polish Bonds was not his fault at all. He had tried to speak with him, but Lintorff was so furious that he didn't want to hear him, shouting that he had disgraced their agreement.

Only five hours more to fly.

Oblomov was feeling something akin to remorse. Everything had turned out has he had always expected it would. He had told countless times to his stubborn friend that Olga would sooner or later take matters into her hands. Guntram was indeed a dangerous competition for her. She knew about the boy and how Constantin treated him as if he were like a real mate—taking him out publicly, meeting their common friends, living with him in London—

not the type of relationship you have with a lover. His friend wanted the divorce, paying her the stipulated sum in their prenup and send her away, ruining her plans to finally control the organization.

'I never expected she would do it this way. She caught us unaware. A fast and decided strike, exactly as she's. Massaiev was away, his man was alone to defend Guntram, the service was on their free day and the remaining ones were sent away, the bodyguards were in league with her or dead. The bitch used the house even, knowing that that would be the last place we would be looking at. She bided her time very well.'

'Lintorff swears he has nothing to do with this and I believe him. It's neither his style nor Pavicevic's.

How does he tell it? “I don't take the trash out for other people, Ivan Ivanovich. Rest assured I will have my revenge for Schäffer, but on my terms and with my own people.” I need to convince Constantin that this was an inside job, Olga and someone else, but who? If Constantin attacks him because of Guntram, we all are dead. Lintorff will return the fire with everything he has. He's very paranoid.'

'I have to catch her before Lintorff does. I'm sure he wants to know her reasons and see if he can get something out.'

“Who is here, Friederich?” Konrad von Lintorff asked his butler, totally dumbfounded. It was more than 10 p.m., on a Sunday, certainly not the time a lady would call at a single gentleman's door.

“Madame Olga Fedorovna Repin, Sire.” Friederich said with a deep disgust lacing his voice.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, your Excellency. She says that it's most urgent that she sees you. The lady arrived in a cab.”

“This is most importunate.” He complained as his much needed day off had been finally ruined. First Oblomov, spoiled his dinner, shouting vulgarly on the phone that he had betrayed their gentlemen's agreement by helping Repin's wife to personally attack him in London—probably the woman had destroyed a valuable painting making the Russian explode—because of “that incident in Georgia”. He had had troubles to keep his temper down at the suggestion that He, the Hochmeister of one of the most powerful remaining brotherhoods was somehow involved in the marital problems of a couple of crazy Russians; that He would be in league with a petty adventuress to commit a felony and finally that He was using something as low, beneath his rank and breed, as women gossips to direct his actions.

“Keeping a woman waiting is not what I have taught you, Konrad,” Friederich interrupted his musings and brooding.

“Yes, you're right. Tell one of the drivers to have a car ready for her. We can't kick a woman out, can we?”

“Even if she's not a lady,” Friederich finished the conversation, making the Duke softly smile at his former tutor's diplomatic way of agreeing with his views. 'I swear he's related to the Fürst von Metternich.'

“I'll see her at the library. Tell the maids to go to bed.”

On Monday morning, Malchenko stopped his cousin before he would ram into the ICU. “Wait Constantin, you can't enter till the afternoon. It's only one hour. We need to speak. There's nothing you can do for him.

It's in God's hands.”

“Good evening, Madam. What do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Konrad said, deciding to keep the conversation to the minimum.

“Good evening, Duke. I'm most obliged that you accepted to see me with such a short notice. I apologize for my rudeness.”

'That sounds more like a ruined Dali,' Konrad briefly thought as his hand indicated where she should sit.

“I confess that I'm intrigued about your visit, Olga Fedorovna.”

“I need your help, Duke. My life is at stake.”

'It's more than a painting, must be something really good,' Konrad considered and kept himself silent as he had the upper hand.

“My husband and I are at odds since a long time, Duke. He plans to assassinate me so he can freely lead the kind of lifestyle he likes so much. He knows that in case of divorce, he would lose our children's custody for his blatant homosexuality.”

'With women like you, I'm not surprised he prefers boys. I also do, but the best is to keep everyone away as the minute they're in your bed, the trouble starts. All of them want something from you. Repin is going to learn that lesson now.'

“Do you have any proofs of your accusations, Madam?”

“Of course not! But it's a very strong rumour!”

“With all due respect, Constantin's dalliances are well known in our circles. He's not exactly discreet about them.” 'The man has a flawless taste, in my opinion. Pity, you can't touch them. That Massaiev is a really good handler.'

“I'm willing to reach an agreement with you, Duke.” She offered very seriously. “Vital information on Constantin's deals in the Caucasus in exchange for your protection.”

“I will have to refuse, Madam. I have an agreement with your husband. A non-aggression pact since 1989. We might have our disputes over some minor issues, but we always solve them on the negotiation table.”

“Information about the Chechen rebels: all of it, names, ranks, families, locations. Everything.”

“That could be more useful to the Russian Authorities than to me, Madam.”

“Constantin ordered the assassination of your representative in Georgia.”

“Can you prove your allegations, Madam?”

“The man who gave the order, Morozov told me he did it by his orders.”

“I see.”

“Then, do I have your protection?”

“No, I'm not interested to get in the middle of a couple's fight. Divorces are truly a bad experience for all the people involved.” Konrad answered with the same impassivity that he had greeted her. “What would I do with such information? Nothing. It's useless for me as I can't be sure that the new leaders would be good friends to the Order as your husband is. Morozov is too greedy to be reliable.”

“If you send me back, he will kill me,” she said very agitated. “Would you have a woman's blood on your hands?”

“I don't think your husband would do something so rash. A good divorce agreement is always better than having the police investigating why your wife is dead. Perhaps the conditions have worsened for you now, but I do not fear for your life. It's perfectly safe. Are you not the mother of all his children?” Konrad replied very innocently. 'At least of the three first because that mop of blond hairs from the smallest one is very suspicious.'

“Have you no chivalry? I'm completely alone,” she asked with her eyes veiled with tears, perfectly aware that that was his weak point. Men like him, so bent into their old ways were always easy to manipulate if a woman knew how to show her vulnerability.

'Exactly as Medusa,' the Duke thought before feigning some remorse and doubts. “Madam, I would love to help you, but I'm afraid that this would lead us to a full scale war between our organizations.”

“Please, my Duke. I beg you,” she said, starting to weep loudly, the tremors shaking her slender body.

'Don't you dare to sully my grandfather's desk, you tart! Bismark used it!' He got his handkerchief out of his pocket in an attempt to save his desk before the tears could affect the wood, offering it to her. “Perhaps I could help you to improve your position, Madam.” 'A small grenade in the enemy's field is always welcomed.'

“My Duke, you don't know him. He's ruthless and heartless. I'm useless to him now!”

“Perhaps I could use that information you offered me as you have confirmed my initial impression that Morozov was behind all this. In exchange I could give you a small account number your husband has in Luxembourg by one of our associates. Bank secrecy can be lifted in case of tax fraud or arms trafficking. Petrom has been very creative in its past tax declarations, Madam.”

“Please, sir, you're perfectly aware that I have no chances against him!”

“As I said, we have an agreement. He has not broken it and I will continue to honour it. This is an internal affair and I do not wish to be involved.”

“He broke the agreement the moment he ordered your man's murder!”

“Those were Morozov's orders as you said. The link of his actions to your husband remains unclear. This is my best offer, Madam.” Konrad finished the conversation as the meeting was taking longer than necessary and tomorrow he had to take his plane at 7 a.m. to be in Frankfurt at 10:15 at the ECB.

“What guarantees do I have of your word, Duke?”

'Typical answer from a parvenu, at least Constantin has some class.' “I'll show you the files and documents. It's all on a memory card. Exactly like in the school when we were exchanging trading cards.”

Olga doubted for a few minutes; letting Lintorff take just a glimpse of the information was a huge risk.

Everybody knew that he was a traitorous snake with incredible intelligence. Only a few were safe from his machinations. Constantin feared him and a war with him like the one Morozov had started was his greatest nightmare.

She silently extended a small memory stick and he only muttered a “thank you,” throwing it in one of his drawers to her astonishment.

“If you'd excuse me Madam, I'll look for your safeguard. One of my men will drive you back to Zürich, I insist on this,” Konrad said, rising from his chair and leaving the room, not waiting for her permission.

Some minutes later, he returned carrying a small laptop and the slim memory card. “Of course I don't have to tell you that I will keep a copy of these files, Madam.”

“I was expecting it, Duke,” she said disdainfully as she checked the contents, finding more than 2.7

billion euros hidden there. She had to do her best to keep her fury controlled at the sneaky bastard. He was preparing his escape because it was not his habit to have so much cash. 'He's more than obsessed with his little whore. I hope Volodia has killed him off.'

“Very well, Duke. I thank you.”

“We could escort you to a neutral territory. From there you could negotiate better with your husband.”

“I was under the impression you didn't want to be involved,” she couldn't help to retort bitterly.

“I will not be involved. We will help you to reach neutral grounds, like Buenos Aires for example, I have several properties there. Perhaps you prefer something warmer like Rio de Janeiro or Montevideo, a small but charming city. I was there once, for business, of course. I should travel for leisure more.”

“I'll go to Rio, Duke.” Olga decided as from there she could easily go to her friends in Mexico.

“Perfect, my car will take you to the airport. I'm afraid that you will have to take a morning flight.

Farewell, Madam.”

“Good-bye, sir,” she said, furious at the man casting her out so brutally. But it was to be expected. Maria Ivanovna had been with him once after a charity party in Berlin and he had taken her to a hotel for the most boring night in her life. He looked so well but in bed he was the dullest man she had ever known. “Do you remember that golden android from the 70's Olga Fedorovna? More or less like that! He doesn't kiss you, just throws you over the bed and does what he needs to do to achieve his release. You can have a deeper relationship with a dildo than with him. An iceman, a total waste in my opinion. Three times, each one worse than the previous. I hope he never calls me back.” At least, he had a decent taste because he had sent her a panther brooch from Van Cleef and Arpels. A classical model.

“What can you tell us, Boris?”

“I'm no doctor. I think you should speak with one of them,” Malchenko did his best to evade the answer his cousin was looking for.

“What happened? This you can answer!” Constantin almost barked while he paced in the hospital's corridor.

“We received a distress signal from Guntram in your house. First we hesitated, but as I couldn't contact any of his bodyguards, I had my doubts and sent Kalashov there. When he called me back at six, I realised that Olga Fedorovna was there. I sent a full team to raid the house but she wasn't there any longer. Only Stephanov and another of your men. We killed one more while we were securing the field.”

“What happened to Guntram?”

“The details remain still unclear.” Malchenko hesitated to tell the truth, “It wasn't pretty.”

“Boris, we need to know what happened. Lintorff swears he had nothing to do with this,” Oblomov interfered, taking the man by his elbow.

“I'm sure of that. It was your wife. The prisoners confirmed it. Stephanov blames it on her. She was there.”

“What happened?” Constantin growled feeling the bile rose to his throat, but his cousin only fixed his eyes in the shinning floor without speaking.

“You can tell him, Boris.” Oblomov encouraged him.

“He was beaten, tortured, stabbed, and raped by her men. I don't know how many. His bodyguard, Yuri Rimsky, was killed in front of him. When we rescued him he was more dead than alive. The surgery lasted many hours and they had to remove the spleen and part of the liver as it was destroyed beyond repair. He had a heart attack and the doctors discovered that he has a previous and delicate heart condition, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, and fear that he might have some brain damage; this is why he's in an induced coma for five days at least. They need to reduce the stress and the pain as much as possible to give his heart a chance to recover, but there are not many. His left hand is practically destroyed, but the doctors will do nothing in the moment about it as they're more concerned about his internal injuries.”

“Where is she?”

“She escaped. My men are looking for her, Constantin, but I would need yours too.”

“Ivan Ivanovich, can you take care of this?”

“Of course, it will be my pleasure, my friend.”

“Don't touch a single hair from her. She's mine. I'll deal with her once I've recovered my angel,”

Constantin said and sat in the chair to wait for the visiting hours.

“Oblomov,” he growled in his mobile phone, frustrated that after one full day of work and using most of his resources, nothing had come up. The brief vision of the boy hooked up to machines to keep him alive and the way he had been beaten was building up his rage more and more and he needed someone to vent his frustration.

“Ivan Ivanovich, I might have something that belongs to you,” Konrad von Lintorff said visibly upset at the tone the other man was using with him.

“Duke, I was not expecting your call at all. Please forgive my manners,” Ivan apologized hurriedly.

“My sources tell me that you lost something and are desperately seeking it.”

“Indeed.”

“Is it related to the London issue you phoned me about on Sunday?”

“It's linked, yes, sir.”

“I understand Constantin Ivanovich is under some stress at the moment.”

“We all are, Sire. Difficult times.”

“Indeed, perhaps you all should take a look at Ipanema beaches. They're very beautiful at this time of the year. Full with… impressive women.”

“I thank you for your advice, Duke. Most assuredly we will take a trip there.”

“Send my greetings to Constantin Ivanovich. I'm looking forward to hearing from him in two months when we're less stressed.”

“I will pass your message, sir.” Oblomov answered not really believing that Lintorff had helped them selflessly -'sure, pigs can fly-' and offered a two months truce -just to recover and kick you better-without asking nothing in return.