Page 86 of Dead Fall

After polishing a pair of Bruno Magli monk strap loafers, he selected his favorite wristwatch, a Patek Philippe Calatrava in white gold with a black alligator strap. He carefully folded an extra handkerchief, just in case she might need it, and placed it inside his left breast pocket.

Checking himself one last time in the full-length mirror, he was pleased with how he looked. He had maintained the same diet and exercise regimen over the years and still clocked in at the very same weight.Clothes may make the man, he thought,but it doesn’t hurt to start with a solid frame.

With a smile on his face as he anticipated the night to come, he reached for the closet door and removed his coat. He wanted to get to the restaurant a few minutes before her. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He also wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should bring a bottle of his own wine, as he had some exceptional vintages in a locked storageroom down in the basement, but decided against it. Even while Moscow was suffering under the crush of international sanctions, the White Rabbit maintained an impressive selection. He also knew that there were some very special bottles not on the wine list that the manager and sommelier had hidden away.

Certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything, he gathered up his wallet, keys, and money clip and exited his apartment.

The evening air was chilly, which was probably a good thing, as he had been perspiring.

He walked a couple of blocks and hailed a taxi. Climbing in, he told the driver to take him to Smolenskaya Square. Halfway there, his phone rang.

Removing the device from his pocket, he looked at the caller ID. It was from a blocked number. Immediately, he thought it must be Inessa, calling from the oligarch’s residence, canceling their date because Tsybulsky’s plans had changed. Taking a deep breath, he answered his phone.

It was not Inessa. It was Beglov, President Peshkov’s advisor.

“He wants to see you,” said the advisor.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Peshkov? On a Saturday night?Grechko thought. This was the last thing he needed. Even so, he maintained his professionalism. This was the President of Russia, after all. “When would he like to get together?” he asked, hoping Beglov would suggest a time for tomorrow or maybe the day after.

“Now. Tonight. How soon can you get to the Kremlin?”

He wanted to say, “Not for several hours,” but, continuing to maintain his professionalism, replied, “Fifteen minutes.”

“Excellent,” the advisor replied. After telling him which gate to use, he was about to end the call when Grechko spoke back up.

“I am not wearing a tie,” the intelligence officer admitted.

There was a pause as Beglov covered the phone’s mouthpiece, presumably to speak to someone else in the room, and then uncovering it, said, “It’s your lucky day. The firing squad has the night off. Hurry up and get over here.”

What a prick, Grechko thought as he ended the call and gave the cabdriver his new destination.

The advisor was a prick not just for making such a tasteless joke—from inside the Kremlin no less—but for even calling him in the first place. Based on Beglov’s jocular attitude, it didn’t sound like there was a national emergency that required Grechko, of all people, to drop everything and hotfoot it over to the Kremlin. What’s more, it sounded like the advisor might have been drinking.What a night.

How the hell is this happening?Inessa had one night—tonight—available for him. And it wasn’t even the whole night. She had to be back before her “boyfriend” returned from whatever meetings he was having.

Grechko looked at his watch. There was no way he was going to make it to the White Rabbit in time for their seven o’clock reservation. He hated the idea of leaving her alone at the table, not knowing when he would arrive.

Opening his messaging app, he sent her a text:I am so very sorry. Something has come up. I cannot make our seven o’clock. Not sure how long it will take. May I text you as soon as I am out of my meeting?

He watched until he saw the bubbling dots at the bottom of his screen, indicating that she was composing her response. It didn’t take long.I understand,she replied.I will wait to hear from you. Good luck with your meeting.

Though she hadn’t said it, he knew she must have been as disappointed as he was. Being called to a meeting at the Kremlin was a pretty good excuse for missing dinner, but he had never revealed to her what he did for a living. As far as she knew, he was a banker. Though what kind of banker would have an emergency meeting on a Saturday night was something else altogether. He needed to get this meeting with Peshkov and Beglov over with as quickly as possible.

Arriving at the Kremlin, he was put through primary and secondary security screening. With the war going so poorly, Peshkov continued to be vigilant about assassination attempts. There were very few people who were able to get close to him.

Grechko was accompanied by a security team up to the lavishpresidential office, where, after being announced by intercom, the doors were opened and he was shown inside.

Three men sat in a seating area near the fireplace—President Peshkov, his advisor Oleg Beglov, and Inessa’s “boyfriend,” mining oligarch Arkady Tsybulsky.

What the hell is he doing here?Grechko wondered.

“Leo,” Beglov said as he stood to greet him. “Thank you for coming. Mr. President, here he is, Leonid Grechko.”

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