No Apologies and No Regrets

Despite the late hour, cheers went up the moment the stock market began to fall. Krug and Monte Cristo cigars were passed around the luxurious Milan offices of the international hedge fund, Grosserkopf, Hasslich & Archloch.

  “To the Golden Boys and to our own success,” a man proclaimed in a Russian accented baritone voice.

  “To us.”

  The party, in the firm’s stainless steel and leather upholstered aerie would go on unabated throughout the night as the intoxicated fund managers tallied their growing profits. By the end of the following day the firm made more than a hundred million euros for its principals. One particular client in Moscow would be quite pleased.

  Serge Malroff, the founder and managing director of GHA hoisted his glass in what felt like his hundredth toast.

  “To our success, everyone.” A round of cheers went up from the crowd as he continued. “Today is Friday and a most successful one. I must leave you now, but I ordered the caterers to serve food and wine until you all go home or pass out!”

  A thunderous ovation greeted the surprising and generous gesture on the part of the self-absorbed boss. Applause lasted until Serge left the room. Barely acknowledging his employees he strode into an elevator to be whisked down to the parking garage where a silver Maybach and liveried chauffeur awaited his arrival. Serge swept imperiously into the car and motioned for the driver to “go”.

  “To the lake house, Friedrich.”

  “Sehr gut, mein Herr,” the dapper Austrian responded.

  “Danke schoen, Friedrich.” Serge raised a partition between the front and rear seats and picked up the phone. His first call went to his villa at Lake Como where Duccio, his major domo, answered on the first ring.

  “Is Penelope there?” He inquired without greeting.

  “Ci, Lady Goldman arrived this afternoon.”

  “Please make certain she is taken care of. Let her know I will be arriving in an hour or so. We are celebrating tonight, Duccio.”

  “Very good, sir. Did you know that Lady Goldman brought a guest with her?”

  For a moment Serge felt the anger boil up in his throat but restrained himself and asked, “Who is her guest?”

  “The gentleman who accompanied her on her last visit, sir.”

  The thought of the effete gigolo made Serge relax. He almost laughed aloud.

  “Fine. I cannot understand why she travels with that fool. No matter, he’ll need to find a way to entertain himself tonight.”

  “Yes, sir. What may I instruct the chef to prepare for dinner?”

  “Let her decide, but make sure she understands, it’s a celebration for two.”

  “Of course, sir. A safe journey to you, sir.”

  Serge hung up without responding. Malroff mechanically punched the buttons on his phone, but wondered if he was calling his boss prematurely. While the Rusikovs worked for him, he in turn was beholden to a far more forbidding master, one who would not tolerate slip ups.

  “Good evening, this is Serge Malroff. May I speak with the Prime Minister?” His tone became deferential this time and he waited patiently for the familiar voice to come on the line.

  “Congratulations, Serge, your plan seems to have worked as promised.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. Congratulations to you as well. Your investment paid off handsomely and we deposited your profits into your account as instructed.”

  “Good, but tell me, Serge, can the event be reproduced?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.” He answered in haste.

  “Excellent. I am in no hurry, but I need to know that such tools are available.”

  “Yes, Excellency. I assure you, they will be at your disposal.” Serge remained wary. The cagey Prime Minister never wasted his breath. Every sentence he uttered had meaning and his demeanor was unchanged from their days as comrades in KGB.

  “Well done, Serge Ivanovitch.” The line went dead before Serge could respond, but he was relieved to hear he had some time before his services would be called upon. He just didn’t know how little; or how much.

  While Serge’s comfortable car cruised into the northern reaches of Italy the twins luxuriated on an Air France jet somewhere over the Atlantic.

  They had partied too hard on the leg from Las Vegas to New York and missed their original connecting flight. By the time they boarded the plane they were still buzzed. Ilya absorbed himself in a hand held video game while Ivan remained tense and tight beneath his thin veneer of poise and polish. At some point during the flight Ivan managed to connect with a cute brunette cabin attendant named Sophie-Ann. She volunteered to give him a personal tour of the aft facilities on the plane and, having done so, he returned to his seat a little more relaxed and carrying vodka on the rocks, a double. Surprisingly, his awkward brother was making conversation with a beautiful Swedish girl sitting two rows ahead. Apparently she was a fan of his latest video game. On closer inspection Ivan judged her to be young, perhaps college age, but altogether stunning. Had he not been recovering from his recent encounter with Sophie-Ann he might have been compelled to claim her for himself. Maybe later, but before he could make a move Ilya returned to his seat and announced a last call for drinks before service would be discontinued.

  “I can’t believe they’d cut us off from liquor. We paid a small fortune for these seats.” Ilya, quite the moderate drinker, became uncharacteristically annoyed.

  “Well, you know there are more regulations. With all the terrorists in the world it's become a dangerous place. Anyway, what are you worried about? You’re a rich man, and Europe is full of liquor and beautiful women. By the way, Ilya, who’s your new friend?”

  “Oh, her name is Madeleine. She’s going home to Stockholm from a semester abroad. She may stop over in Paris for a little sightseeing. I hope she does. How long are we staying?”

  “A few days at least. We owe ourselves a celebration.”

  “True. We can connect with Serge in person later this week.”

  “Yes, what can he do without us?” Ivan laughed and seemed, for a moment, to loose sight of what Serge could do to them.

  “Does he know that?”

  “As I said before, he didn’t ask and I didn’t tell him.”

  “Good,” Ilya spoke indifferently without looking up from his video game.

  Ivan became silent as he eyed the sexy young Swede thinking how much better a tour guide he would make than his brother.

  6.