Gambit David Hagberg (most read books in the world of all time TXT) 📖

eight the next morning. The weather had been overcast and cool, and Susan was in one of her bitchy moods, which usually came on when she was without an audience.

That night, they were well up the Strait of Georgia, and on the second midmorning, Vancouver to their south, Captain Rupert Miller called Hammond in the saloon.

“We have a helicopter, Canadian registry, requesting to land on deck, sir.”

Susan was watching a rerun of one of her older movies, even bitchier this morning than she had been yesterday. No one else would be joining them for at least four days, and she freely admitted that she had no idea how she would cope without going absolutely stir-crazy.

“Have we done something wrong? Is it a police or military helicopter?” Hammond asked, something clutching at his gut.

“No, sir. It’s a civilian helicopter. The pilot says he’s bringing a friend.”

“Did he give you a name?”

Susan had turned down the sound of the television and was looking at him.

“No, sir.”

Hammond didn’t need something like this now. Especially not one of his financial advisers—or worse yet, one of Susan’s hangers-on. He had purposely wanted isolation of his ship on the inside passage up to Alaska to think things out, consider his next move. Or even if there should be a next move.

The reality of the little game he was playing, engaging in a manhunt, especially a man of McGarvey’s capabilities, had become troublesome, even daunting. He hadn’t wanted it to be over with just the two attacks. He’d wanted it to continue, and yet now that both assassins had failed, he was having serious second thoughts.

“What shall I do, Mr. Hammond?”

“Reduce speed and let him land,” Hammond said.

“Yes, sir.”

Hammond put the phone down, and the yacht immediately began to slow. He went aft and watched out the sliders as a sleek blue helicopter with Canadian markings slowly approached. At the last moment, it flared and expertly touched down on the helipad.

The passenger-side door opened, and Mikhail Tarasov, wearing jeans, a dark pullover, and khaki jacket, jumped down and, keeping low beneath the slowly rotating blades, came forward to where Hammond was waiting.

“Who the hell is it?” Susan asked.

“Mikhail.”

“Shit,” she said, getting up. “I’m going below; call me when he’s gone.”

“You might want to stay and hear what he has to say.”

“Push it, Tommy boy, and I’ll jump ship and take my friends with me the instant we dock somewhere civil.” She gave him a glaring look and took the stairs below.

A crewman had appeared and was chocking the helicopter’s wheels as Hammond opened the slider for Tarasov. They shook hands.

“I’m a little surprised to see you,” Hammond said. “How did you find us?”

“After that cheap stunt on the television in Seattle, it took just a few calls to the marinas to find out where you were and the fact you’d headed north.”

“So what?”

“So your operator failed and you run for the hills. How obvious can you get?”

“How do you know he failed?”

“McGarvey showed up in person in Petawawa aboard one of the navy’s Gulfstreams that the CIA uses.”

It was the news Hammond was afraid Tarasov was bringing. “What the hell is Petawawa?”

“It’s the Canadian Special Operations base where your shooter was trained.”

Hammond’s fear suddenly turned to anger. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you supplied me with the contact info on both those guys. And they failed.”

“You wanted them to fail, Thomas. You specifically wanted to give McGarvey a challenge that he would be likely to win. Well, it worked. Not only did he show up in Canada, he’s just now on his way home from South Africa.”

“So what?”

“He traced the shooters to their home bases.”

“Again, what’s your point?”

“Both of those guys had contact with Russia.”

Hammond suddenly got it, all of it. “You recommended the shooters, so was it unfair for me to assume that they would be clean? No Russian connections? No SVR or GRU connections?”

Tarasov glanced out the slider at the helicopter. “Neither of them has a Russian intel file.”

“Any Russian connections they may have had will carry no real weight with McGarvey. One of them was a Canadian, the other a South African. What are you worried about?”

“You.”

Hammond spread his hands, actually relieved. “Life will go on.”

“I meant what do you want to do next? Continue with the game, or quit?”

“Actually, I was thinking about ending it as is. But I don’t like to lose.”

“You may in the end, despite your money.”

“You’re in the same position.”

“No, Thomas. You have wealthy friends and money managers. All of whom would drop you in an instant if they thought you were creating a risk.”

“Again, you’re in the same spot.”

Tarasov shook his head. “You have movie stars on your side, hangers-on; I have a different class of friends.”

“The ones who recruit killers for you.”

“Da, and they don’t give a damn who their targets are, as long as the money is right. So the question I came to ask you is still on the board. What do you want to do next?”

Hammond didn’t have to think about it. “Continue the game, providing you can give me someone better qualified.”

“As you wish,” Tarasov said. He took a regular number 10 envelope from inside his jacket and held it out. “A man and a woman this time, and very capable. They’re called the Chinese Scorpions.”

Hammond laughed. “Theatrical.”

“Do not underestimate these people. One of their conditions is that they meet you face-to-face.”

Hammond had started to reach for the envelope but stayed his hand. “Why?”

“Their philosophy is a simple one. If they’re hired to do a job in which they might lose their lives or their freedom, they want to know who hired them.”

“If they’re incompetent, they should fail.”

“It’s not a matter of incompetence. It’s a matter of betrayal. If you are found out and give them up, they will hunt you instead of McGarvey.”

Still Hammond hesitated.

“This isn’t only about money now. So take care, Thomas.”

“I was fucked over by the son of a bitch and his wife. And