Page 2 of Dangerous Passion

It took Rutskoi half an hour to work his way through Drake’s security, which at the time had pleased him. The man was invincible, impregnable. Each layer of security, executed with perfect, polite professionalism by Drake’s bodyguards, reassured him. This was truly the big-time. He imagined that the only other man so well-protected could be the President of the United States, who arguably was less powerful in his world than Drake was in his. Drake’s world was no democracy.

Finally, Rutskoi was led into a room with a door that closed like a steel vault behind him.

Ah. The smell of leather, fine whiskey and excellent cigars. The scent of the big room came to him before his eyes had achance to adapt to the semi-darkness. There were only a few lamps on, but the impression was of a huge room with an immensely tall ceiling. And comfort. Everything was built for the comfort of a man. Big leather armchairs, thick, plush carpets. An array of expensive-looking spirits in cut-crystal decanters. A brass and wood humidor.

“Come in,” came a deep voice from within. And there he was. Drake.

Rutskoi wasn’t easily impressed and he wasn’t easily scared, but Drake impressed him and frightened him, at the same time. Of average height, he was immensely strong. His huge hands and feet were stippled with yellow calluses. Rutskoi had seen him punch a man so hard it was as if he had been hit with a bullet. He’d also seen Drake massacre a man with one kick.

Drake was an adept at both SAMBO, the Russian martial art, and Savate, French kick-boxing. He could not be bested in hand-to-hand combat. He simply took his opponent to the floor and demolished him. And he was frighteningly intelligent. At times it was as if he were plugged into some secret intelligence system only he had access to. He was never caught by surprise, ever.

He had moved his entire business to the States and teamed up with the CIA to funnel in arms to Ukraine after the 24thof February 2022. He never sold another arm to Russia after that.

Though he was on every international list of outlaws, wanted by the UN and Interpol, he became untouchable, protected by the Americans. His pilots had stones the size of refrigerators.They would ferry in arms and equipment in the middle of war zones, no problem.

When Drake walked up, every hair on Rutskoi’s body stood up. He swallowed his fear and awe, pushing them away. He had to meet Drake as an equal or this wasn’t going to work.

“Sit down, Dmitri,” Drake said and listened politely and silently as he listed the reasons why he would make an excellent second in command. The next thing he said—quietly—was, “Get out.”

Without pressing a bell or making any sign, Drake’s bodyguards came and frog-marched him out. He was literally thrown out the front door by two huge bodyguards.

Rutskoi vowed revenge, but it was hard to take revenge on a man who didn’t even notice you. Still, Rutskoi was going to take him down and take over his business. He could run it just as well as Drake.

He spread the word that Drake’s head was worth 100K and sat back and waited. And waited. And waited. Drake clearly paid his people so well that 100 grand wasn’t an incentive. Either that or they were shit-scared of him. Probably both.

Rutskoi studied and waited and planned in vain, until he got the call. Not just any call. The Call. The one that was going to change his life.

Finally, a little of the money he was throwing around stuck somewhere. Rutskoi had left a gmail address that was automatically switched to a Tor address and received an anonymous message.

If you want information on Drake, transfer $250,000 to this bank account.

At the bottom of the email was an IBAN, the first two lettersCH. A Swiss account.

Rutskoi’s bank in the Caymans was efficient and fast. Half an hour later, he had mail.

Drake slips out of his building on the first and third Tuesday afternoon of every month, without bodyguards, and has done so for a year.

There were a number of attachments. Hands trembling, Rutskoi opened them and—there it was. Information on Drake. Even better—information on aweakness.

At last! A chink in Drake’s armor, straight through to the heart of the man.

Drake went to a well-known art gallery on Lexington every other Tuesday afternoon from two to three. Of all the things Rutskoi knew about Drake, a passion for art was not one of them. Going to a gallery wasn’t breathtaking news.

No, what was incredible was that month after month, Drake never entered the gallery. He waited outside, in the darkness of an alley, and observed what went on inside the gallery through a small window, watching from the shadows. What went on every other Tuesday of the month, regular as clockwork, was the arrival of a young artist, Grace Larsen, bringing her new work to show.

The work that was bought punctually by an unknown buyer. Every damned piece. For a year now, a lawyer representing a company incorporated in Aruba purchased by phone all new work by Grace Larsen, price no issue.

Rutskoi recognized the name of the company. It was one of the many shell companies Drake used to run his airlines. The paintings were being bought by Drake, no doubt about it.

Unsurprisingly, the gallery owner’s prices for Larsen’s workhad been hiked 300% over the past year. And yet still she sold. To the same, single buyer.

Rutskoi clicked his way impatiently through the attachments, trying to figure out how to use this information. Then he stopped. And stared.

Ah.

There were five attachments, jpegs of the artist. Rutskoi sat back, pleased.

Thiswas more like it. He was looking at a weakness that was going to finally bring Drake down.

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