The Ghost Pattern Read Online Free Page B

his torch lighter, and puffing a few times. Then he let out a long sigh, together with some bluish smoke, but not even that calmed his pain.
    He opened the window and let in some fresh air, then took in the cityscape of downtown Moscow, with the massive Kremlin a little to the left, and numerous government buildings crowding the central area of the city.
    He used to like this game, but not anymore. For the most part, he still liked playing God, more than anything else, and did so every opportunity he got. But he hated being so close to his friend and unpredictable sociopath, President Abramovich. He hated feeling vulnerable, at Abramovich’s whim.
    He’d been fearless ever since he’d started amassing wealth at unprecedented rates. He had everything. He had numerous prosperous businesses in various countries, some of which offered no extradition, just in case he’d ever need that some day. Myatlev was one of the richest men in the world, having broken into Global Fortune 50 a few years back. He had good health, with some minor issues, of course, but still he was doing all right. And he had the same insatiable lust for power and achievement that had propelled him to where he was, and continued to fuel his unrivaled drive.
    Only one man could crush all that in seconds, and that man was Abramovich. Myatlev hated how he felt about Abramovich and the power he had over him. He’d heard somewhere that genuine power is held by the person who can destroy what you value the most. How true.
    At times, Myatlev had thought of killing Abramovich. It would be so easy. Thirty-five years of friendship didn’t mean much to Myatlev, who hated being vulnerable more than anything else in the world. He also knew that, if the right circumstances would align, the same thirty-five years of friendship wouldn’t hold Abramovich back from sending Spetsnaz after Myatlev with an order to kill on sight.
    Then why not beat Abramovich to it and take him out? Myatlev let out another smoke-engulfed long sigh thinking about it. Yes, it was about money. Lots of it. With a favorable, at least for now, Russian president watching over his interests, and with Dimitrov as defense minister, money kept flowing in from all directions. Tax exemptions, official or unofficial. Countless privileges. Government contracts, military and civilian, they all came his way. In turn, he shared the cash with his two friends, and agreed to help Abramovich and Dimitrov rebuild Russia.
    But there was a catch, a wrinkle in this fantastic arrangement. It kept Myatlev awake at night, despite almost being in an alcohol-induced coma every night before his head fell on his pillow.
    He’d committed to deliver masterful plans in intelligence and covert operations, to acquire weapons and technologies through a wide net of foreign-based assets, most of which were deployed in America. His unrivaled imagination had delivered strategies that, at a global level, could shift the balance of power in the world in Russia’s favor, almost overnight. He had the audacity to deploy foreign intelligence asset arrays in a manner seen only in computerized big data models. He’d crafted unexpectedly innovative solutions to all of Abramovich’s frustration with the Americans, and to Dimitrov’s military needs.
    The problem that was fueling Myatlev’s gastritis-soon-to-become-ulcer and his growing fear of Abramovich’s retaliation was that his most recent plans had failed to deliver the promised results. No doubt, Abramovich was becoming frustrated with his delivery. No matter how carefully he had planned every single detail, no matter how closely he’d been involved in managing every aspect of the plans—and he hated that—they still failed. It was almost as if he had an unseen enemy out there, one who understood what hid in the deepest corners of his mind and could think ahead of him, taking away the advantage of surprise.
    He had thought, at some point, that his identity might have been exposed,