Page 13 of The Atlas Maneuver

Modern dacha owners were free to build as they desired. More of the reforms that came with the end of the Soviet Union and therise of the new Russia. Some re-created Chekhov’s idyllic getaway, others leaned more toward a Spartan place to write and read, most immersed themselves in nature. Samvel Yerevan chose something else altogether.

Obscene luxury.

A modernistic style dominated the multistory structure with sleek lines, soft colors, and few adornments. Plate-glass windows offered great views of the lake. A large terrace dotted with outdoor furniture faced the water. It looked more like a museum of modern art than a house. Through the windows she saw that the inside, lit by warm incandescent lights, was a collage of marble and stone.

On the terrace she found a glass door that opened.

Unlocked? Why not.

More of a rich man’s arrogance. Who in their right mind would break in? The repercussions would be swift, violent, and permanent. Which explained the lack of cameras or guards.

Yerevan was unique among the Russian oligarchs. As a class they all came into existence after the fall of communism when the collective ownership of state assets like oil, gas, minerals, and coal became cloudy. Informal deals were eventually made by well-connected entrepreneurs, with former USSR officials, to acquire or control much of that former state property. The name itself,oligarch, came from the Greekoligarkhia, meaning “rule of the few.”

And rule they did.

Lining the pockets of government officials while acquiring massive amounts of personal wealth. Yerevan made a fortune mining copper. But, of late, he’d amassed even more in bitcoin. In fact he was Russia’s self-proclaimed largest miner and investor in cryptocurrency. Which had surely brought him onto the Bank of St. George’s radar.

Bitcoin was legal to possess in Russia but it could not be used as payment for goods or services. As in the United States, and most of the world, it was treated as property, not legal tender, unrecognized as a monetary unit. All of the things that made it attractive—decentralization, confidentiality, financial autonomy,non-seizability, and accessibility—also made it suspect. For a while now oligarchs had been stockpiling cryptocurrency as a hedge against American financial sanctions, imposed on them for the Russian government’s various maligned activities around the globe. Yerevan had been one of the most prolific acquirors, quietly amassing over two billion euros’ worth.

Luckily, for all bitcoin’s sophistication, confidentiality, and modernization, stealing it was remarkably easy. Owners guarded their private online wallets in a multitude of ways. Some high-tech. Others not so much. Yerevan chose an old-school approach. He kept the key to his wallet protected behind a two-step process, one part of which he wore around his neck. The other was an outer steel cylinder consisting of twenty-four separate disks, axled together, with etched letters and numbers on each disk in random order. Separately the two parts yielded nothing. But when the smaller cylinder was inserted into the larger, then the disks twisted, notches in the smaller locked the disks in the larger into a preset order, revealing Yerevan’s twenty-four-character code—which, if her intel was to be believed, would open his wallet.

A one-of-a-kind device.

No way existed to duplicate the code with any other cylinders.

So she had to find the other half.

Her information said that Yerevan brought both pieces with him wherever he traveled. But this was a big house. She stepped inside and withdrew the small steel cylinder from her jacket pocket, considering where to start looking.

“Who are you?” a female voice asked in Russian.

Which momentarily startled her.

Her gaze shot to the staircase, another eclectic combination of steel and glass that seemed to float in the air. On one of the risers a woman stood. Tall, svelte, with long dark hair and skin to match, dressed in a yellow silk bathrobe that barely made it past her waist. The curve of her breasts against the silk seemed to promise pleasure, but the tight lines at the corner of her lips hinted at a price to be paid.

“A friend of Samvel’s,” Kyra said, keeping to the same language, her voice low and calm.

“He has no friends. He’s a pig. You look like you’ve been swimming.”

Beneath her jacket she still wore the neoprene bodysuit and her hair remained damp. “The water was invigorating.”

“Is he dead?” the woman asked.

“Why would you ask that?”

“What you’re holding. He never takes it off. Not ever. Nor does he allow anyone to touch it.”

The voice was matter-of-fact.

She held up the small cylinder. “Do you know where the other part to this is hidden?”

The woman descended the stairs. At the bottom she said, “I might.”

A formality dominated their interaction, and though it seemed congenial both of them were wary.

She told herself to stay friendly.

For now.

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