Chapter 1
The polished silver wings of the Cessna Citation XLS sliced through the cerulean sky before descending upon the tarmac of Paphos International Airport in Cyprus. The private plane’s arrival was marked by the clock striking fourteen hundred hours. Gliding towards a secluded terminal parking area, the aircraft came to a halt before its door swung open to release a wave of sultry heat and the palpable heaviness of Cyprus humidity.
From the luxurious confines of his leather seat, Nikolai Gromov emerged, his senses awakening to the familiar scent of the humid Mediterranean air. Stretching his limbs, he barked orders to his dual-hatted bodyguards and personal assistants.
“Secure the suitcases and ensure they remain untouched. Our esteemed friend, Stelios, awaits our arrival!”
Stelios, a prominent Cyprus Border Control figure and successful low-tier real estate developer was the proud proprietor of a quaint network of small coffee shops scattered across the island. In Cyprus, it is customary to wear many hats, and Stelios was no exception. With the ripe age of fifty-three approaching, he had one eye on a comfortable retirement, his government position serving as a convenient vessel for his pension and the reins of his business likely to be passed down to his undeserving descendants.
The Cyprus government’s modest salary was a stark contrast to the lucrative dealings with wealthy Russians who would descend upon the island in their private jets; their cargo holds filled with caviar, cash, drugs, and beautiful women. For Stelios, the nature of their goods was unimportant; personal pleasure was their sole purpose, never for sale. The Russians came to Cyprus not to generate income but to lavishly spend it, and Stelios was more than willing to facilitate their indulgence. The standard remuneration of ten thousand euros per plane was the agreed upon price for his invaluable services.
In truth, Stelios knew little about the intricacies of Nikolai’s illicit business operations back home. The venture had flourished in recent years due to the crippling sanctions imposed upon Russia by the international community. Yet, the items Nikolai smuggled into Russia were far from the conventional. Instead of the usual smuggler business items, his cargo consisted of European cheeses and fruits, predominantly sourced from France and Spain. In a peculiarly Russian twist, these seemingly mundane items were transported to Belarus, repackaged in Gomel with “Made in Belarus” labels, before being clandestinely brought across the Russian border tax-free. The merchandise was then sold to Nikolai’s acquaintances, owners of sprawling supermarket chains; the proceeds split between them. It was an operation reminiscent of Nikolai’s early days in the smuggling trade.
With its convenient banking system, Cyprus provided Nikolai with the perfect sanctuary to stash his illicit gains. What he referred to as an “alternative landing strip,” was a contingency plan should Putin’s regime tighten its grip or should the threat of incarceration loom on his horizon. His world was one of impromptu decisions and transactions concluded with haste. Long-term plans were a luxury he could never afford; a million euros today was infinitely more valuable than a hypothetical hundred million five years later. Nikolai could be dead, imprisoned, or out of business by then. Cash was king, and Cyprus was his fortress. His security detail, consisting of two bodyguards, was more a status symbol than a reflection of any genuine concern for his safety in Cyprus.
Stelios wouldn’t know what was in those suitcases that he eagerly helped to log in the shipping manifests as personal items for relocation. But he had seen enough in his work to recognize when someone was hiding something. And yet, he looked the other way, content with the generous “bonuses” that Nikolai’s visits brought to his otherwise unremarkable bank account.
Labelled as “special”, this visit saw Nikolai transporting eight million euros in cash, encased in three cumbersome suitcases. With Stelios by his side, he was confident that the contents of his luggage would escape scrutiny as it had always done before.
“Nikolai! Welcome, my friend!” beamed Stelios as he enveloped Nicolai in a hearty hug.
“The heat’s unbearable,” remarked Nikolai, wiping his brow. “So, I’ve brought you a nighttime treat,” he added, presenting Stelios with a bottle of the renowned Russian vodka Beluga.
“Much obliged, Nikolai! Tell me, how fares Moscow these days?”
“The same old utter madness.”
The entire customs process lasted but a fleeting minute, and soon, Nikolai, flanked by his bodyguards, was en route to his destination in a sleek Mercedes Vito. As Stelios waved them off, the ten grand in cash was comfortably nestled inside the Beluga box.
After leaving the airport, Nikolai retrieved his phone and dialed a familiar number.
“Nikolai, have you touched down in Cyprus?”
The words were a formality—a veiled question probing the success of Nikolai’s latest venture.
“Yes, I’m here and all set. Let’s proceed,” Nikolai replied with a voice as smooth as aged whiskey, rich with undertones of a man used to getting his own way.
The voice on the other end belonged to Demetris, a fellow entrepreneur with whom Nikolai had struck a deal to purchase a small 22-room hotel in Paphos, intending to invest some of his cash in real estate. The agreement was a 3-million-euro official sale, supplemented by a 5-million-euro
under-the-table cash transaction. Nikolai had already transferred the official sum from his Cyprus company’s account and brought the remainder in cash to uphold his side of the bargain. The suitcases contained not just the five million for the hotel purchase but an additional three million to be concealed in the vault at his Cyprus residence.
“A minor hiccup,” interjected Demetris. “My meeting in Belgrade ran over, so I won’t be back in Cyprus until tomorrow night now.”
“Fine, I will await your call upon your return,” responded Nikolai.
“And the additional funds will be delivered as we discussed?” asked Demetris.
Silence filled the air between them. Nikolai’s silence was his power, demonstrating his control over the conversation and the deal.
“Demetris, when have I not delivered on my word? Rest assured; our arrangement stands firm. I have with me what is required.”
Nikolai spoke of millions with the ease of someone discussing the weather. The cash, a heavy secret in his carry-on, was viewed as a tool, a means to an end.
“Very well, Nikolai. I’ll arrange for our meeting as soon as I’m back. The paperwork for the hotel is ready. I’m sure that it will be a fine addition to your portfolio.”
The hotel was a front, a facade of legitimacy for Nikolai’s labyrinthine dealings. In this place, money could rest as quietly as the tourists wandering its halls, oblivious to the structure’s true purpose.
“Excellent. Make sure everything is in order. I don’t need to remind you of the… implications should there be any… irregularities.”
The thinly veiled threat was delivered pleasantly, a stark reminder that Nikolai’s affable businessman persona was just one facet of a much darker and complex character.
When Nikolai ended the call, a text message flashed across his screen: “Police will stop you to check bags.” Panic coursed through him.
The message had originated from Stelios’ phone, a precaution taken after learning of the potential customs issue involving Nikolai’s suspiciously frequent flights. The police had been alerted by an anonymous call to Stelios’ covert operations involving Russian planes, prompting the dispatch of a special team to investigate. Fortunately, the squad had been delayed, working in their favor as Nikolai managed to slip through customs unscathed, thanks to Stelios’ intervention.
Stelios had used his burner phone, strategically hidden in the airport’s restroom, to inform Nikolai of the situation, acting on a tip-off from his contact in the police.
“Stop the car! We’re in hot water. The police could pull us over any second for a suitcase inspection,” barked Nikolai to the driver.
His bodyguards, Slavic and Zhorik, former FSB agents with decades of experience, immediately sprang into action.
“Boss, over there!” Zhorik pointed to the Athena Royal Beach Hotel. “It’s the perfect hiding spot for the suitcases.”
“You’re right, go!” concurred Nikolai, and Zhorik steered the car into the hotel’s parking lot.
“Here’s the plan, boss: we offload the luggage, you guard it while Slavik checks us in. Meanwhile, I’ll source new suitcases,” instructed Zhorik. Moments later, Slavik was already approaching the hotel’s main entrance. The plan went like clockwork.
With the luggage safely parked in the hotel lobby and Zhorik off to buy new suitcases, Nikolai felt a surge of adrenaline reminiscent of the chaotic 90s, rife with gang wars and underworld machinations.
Slavik returned with the porter, hoisting the suitcases onto a cart, and signaling to his boss with the plastic key card. The porter began wheeling the cart down the hallway, eventually reaching room 2145. The standard suite offered no view of the sea. The porter was compensated with a ten-euro bill before swiftly unpacking the luggage, placing one suitcase in the wardrobe and the other two in a corner.
“Stay put,” commanded Nikolai. “Should the police inquire about you, I’ll call you. I’ll tell them you’re out grocery shopping or something.”
“Understood, boss,” Slavik responded, easing into a chair as Nikolai departed the room.
The operation progressed seamlessly. By the time Nikolai reached the hotel lobby, Zhorik was already parking the car, wearing a triumphant grin.
“Mission accomplished. The suitcases, while a little different in style, are still black. They’re now filled with swimming and sports gear from a nearby tourist shop. I even threw in some vodka for good measure,” Zhorik reported as they exited the parking lot, adding, “No sign of the police so far.”
“Splendid,” replied Nikolai, though a wave of unease washed over him. His intuition warned him that something was amiss, resulting in an inexplicable surge of panic. Despite the smooth exit from
the hotel, the new suitcases, and the well-hidden stash of cash in the suite with Slavik standing guard, Nikolai couldn’t shake off the feeling of impending doom.
Upon approaching the Coral Bay roundabout, his fears were confirmed as they spotted police flashlights. Zhorik decelerated, and sure enough, they were flagged down by a policewoman flanked by two officers.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she greeted them with a smile. “In light of the ongoing anti-terrorism operation, we must inspect your vehicle and luggage. Is that acceptable?”
“Of course, officer” assented Nikolai, allowing the police to proceed.
The trunk was opened, revealing the suitcases. “Would you mind opening these?” an officer asked Nikolai, who complied. The first suitcase was brimming with diving masks, fins, and beach toys.
“My, aren’t we the sporty types?” the policewoman commented.
“Trying to shed some pounds,” Nikolai quipped, his smile mirroring hers.
“Next suitcase, please.”
The second suitcase was similarly filled, albeit with two vodka bottles.
“Not quite so healthy,” she noted, now gesturing towards the third suitcase.
Before opening it, she queried, “I can’t help but notice the absence of personal items. No clothes, toiletries… Why is that?”
Unfazed, Nikolai replied, “Well, I own a property here. So, everything I need is already there.”
“I see. Fair enough, you’re free to go. Mr. Gromov, I hope you’ll remember to declare your luggage at the airport next time.”
“Will do. Thanks,” he responded, adding, “as you can see, there’s nothing to declare.”
The policewoman’s skeptical gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before turning on her heel and retreating to the police car, the two officers in tow.
Seatbelts fastened, Nikolai and Zhorik drove off, satisfied.
“We did it!” exclaimed Nikolai.
“All that’s left is to transfer the cash from the hotel,” Zhorik pointed out. “I’ll rent a nondescript tourist car for the job.”
“Agreed. But let’s assess the situation in the morning. There’s no need to rush, Slavik’s got the cash covered.”
With their plan in place, they entered the gated community of Sea Caves, home to some of the priciest real estate in the area. Approaching the front door, Nikolai was greeted by the sight of Olga, resplendent in a long, red dress. “Fuck!” was all he could muster in admiration.
She was a sight to behold as his third wife, boasting a youthful glow at thirty-seven, standing eleven years his junior. Nikolai was adamant that she possessed the most exquisite posterior he had ever laid eyes on. His first marital union, a quaint school romance, had endured for six years, producing his eldest offspring, Ivan. Ivan had pursued academia in the United States, eventually settling there. The father and son shared fleeting reunions several times annually, with Nikolai always wanting to extend his support financially or via connections. His second conjugal bond could have been more fruitful, lasting two years, characterized by constant bickering and devoid of kids. Several romantic entanglements later – spanning the gamut from brief live-in arrangements to dalliances with ladies of the night – Nikolai crossed paths with Olga. She was the balm to his restless heart, promptly blessing him with a daughter. The six-year-old resided in Cyprus, her mother serving as the vigilant custodian of Nikolai’s alternative sanctuary.
Post a passionate hour interlude with Olga, Nikolai emerged from the house, his spirit tranquil yet his body weary. The night was blanketed in an enveloping warmth, punctuated by a celestial tapestry of stars that appeared almost within arm’s reach. His musings inevitably drifted to the considerable sum nestled within the confines of a hotel room. Retrieving his mobile device, Nikolai dialed Zhorik’s number.
“Check on Slavik. And mind you, leave the Mercedes; take the bike instead.”
Nikolai promptly returned the phone to his pocket and ignited a cigarette, its embers glowing in the moonlight. An exhalation of dense smoke followed a contemplative drag; the cigarette subsequently extinguished underfoot. A lingering, inexplicable disquiet – often referred to as intuition – gnawed at Nikolai’s gut. With that, he re-entered the quiet domain of his home.
Chapter 2
Anton awoke with the formidable weight of a pounding headache and backache that felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His makeshift bed, a diminutive and antiquated couch in the corner of a basic hotel room, offered little comfort or solace. Last night’s rendezvous with a bottle of scotch only served to exacerbate his physical ailments, leaving him feeling utterly demolished.
The room was dominated by a king-sized bed, upon which his wife lay spread-eagled, her rhythmic snores a stark contrast to the tumultuous cacophony that seemed to reverberate within his skull. Summoning every ounce of willpower, Anton wrested himself from the clutches of the infernal couch, each movement sending shockwaves of pain through his beleaguered body.
Once upright, he rummaged through his bag and emerged victorious with a pack of aspirin. With a chemist’s precision, he dissolved three tablets in a glass of water and downed it in one fell swoop, knowing from experience that relief would wash over him in approximately ten minutes. The interlude was spent meticulously brushing his teeth, an activity that allowed him to reflect on the grand calamity that had been their trip to Cyprus.
The journey had been an unmitigated disaster, a last-ditch effort to save their four-year marriage that had fallen spectacularly flat. Anton, an IT engineer from Kyiv, was the avatar of the proverbial good guy. His academic credentials were impeccable, boasting two master’s degrees in mathematics and computer science, and he was the quintessence of politeness and decency.
But beneath his gentle exterior lurked a weakness that rendered him susceptible to people taking advantage of him, most notably his wife. In stark contrast to Anton, she was a bon vivant and a habitual drinker, content to while away her days in a state of idleness, only emerging from their apartment under cover of darkness to have fun with her friends.
Despite the glaring disparity in their personalities and values, Anton had exhibited a baffling degree of patience with her shenanigans. His aversion to confrontation meant that their arguments invariably ended with him capitulating, his feeble attempts at logic and reasoning no match for her stubbornness.
Their vacation to Cyprus, without the usual distractions of friends and family, was supposed to be a panacea for their ailing marriage. Alas, it had only served to lay bare the depths of their incompatibility. The final nail in the coffin had been their latest conflict, a futile attempt by Anton to broach the subject of her drinking habit, which ended in anger and recrimination.
As the bitter taste of toothpaste mingled with the lingering effects of last night’s scotch, a sobering realization struck Anton. The love and passion that had once fueled their union had long since dissipated, leaving a seemingly impossible void in its wake.
The aspirin had begun to work its magic, acting as a salve that slowly dispelled the fog clouding his vision and mind. The previous night’s events replayed in his head like a surreal film: the heated argument, his wife storming off to the hotel bar, and his subsequent solitary descent into the amber depths of the scotch bottle. He hadn’t heard her return, but the sonorous symphony of her snoring indicated that she had indulged in her usual libations.
Standing in the middle of the chaos that was their hotel room, Anton took in the scene. His wife’s clothes were strewn haphazardly around, a testament to her carefree abandon. A pair of shorts
and a shirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. As Anton bent down to retrieve his shoes, his eyes were drawn to a torn condom wrapper that lay entangled in the fabric of her shorts.
A wave of nausea swept over him, so potent that he barely made it to the bathroom before losing the contents of his stomach. His mind raced, frantically attempting to concoct a plausible explanation for the presence of the wrapper. Perhaps it had been inadvertently left behind by the room’s previous occupants and had somehow become entwined with his wife’s clothing. But the cold, unyielding voice of reason in the recesses of his mind whispered the truth of the matter. He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, what had happened while he had been drowning his sorrows.
The blood rushed to Anton’s face, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Resolutely, he splashed his face with cold water, the chill anchoring him to reality. Slowly, methodically, he began to gather his belongings, each movement bringing him one step closer to the edge of a life-altering decision.
***
The morning found Slavik in high spirits, buoyed by the previous night’s events. Still in bed, he recollected what had happened.
His mind had been teeming with thoughts of the cash stashed in the suitcases, and the waiting game in his room had begun to take its toll on him. He decided to venture out for a drink to assuage his restlessness. A quick stop at a nearby kiosk had seen him purchase an assortment of fruits and vegetables as a plausible cover for any police inquiries, after which he had made his way to the bar.
There, nestled amidst the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation, he met a woman whose attention was fully occupied by her iPhone. One drink led to another, and before long, they had stolen away to the bar’s restroom for a quick fling, followed by a second round in his room. The woman, while an enthusiastic participant, had been drunk to a degree that Slavik found distasteful. Nevertheless, he cast aside his reservations and indulged in the moment.
Finally, he walked her down the hallway and left her in the same bar, having ordered her another glass of wine. His return to the room was punctuated by a call from Zhorik, who had discreetly taken up residence on his motorbike in the shadows of a bougainvillea bush near the beach, having wisely chosen to avoid the hotel’s main lobby. Their brief conversation had reassured both men that all was well, and with a contented sigh, Slavik drifted off to a peaceful slumber, while Zhorik left for Nikolai’s guest house.
***
The dawn of a new day brought with it the comforting sight of the cash, still nestled safely within the confines of the suitcases. The golden rays of sunshine streamed through the window, bathing the room in a warm glow and signaling that it was time to initiate the next phase of their plan. True to their agreement, Zhorik had rented a silver Toyota RAV4 with red tourist plates, blending seamlessly with the many rental cars that dotted the landscape. The ubiquitous nature of the vehicle made it an ideal choice for their purposes, allowing them to move about unnoticed.
Once at the hotel, Zhorik called Slavik. “The car’s ready, let’s get moving!” he declared.
“Great! Get the suitcases downstairs while I settle the bill. Have you scoped out the area?” Slavik inquired.
“All clear. Did a sweep, no sign of any police or tails. I even stopped at another hotel and had a coffee just to be sure. This is Cyprus after all, relax. ” Zhorik responded, his tone casual yet reassuring.
With a final nod of affirmation, Slavik ended the call and readied himself for their departure. Downstairs, Zhorik had maneuvered the car into a spot adjacent to a taxi parked next to the front door, thereby minimizing the distance they would have to walk with the suitcases. Satisfied with his parking, he entered the hotel, ready to execute the next step of their plan.
***
In a fugue of adrenaline, Anton quickly loaded his small suitcase into the backseat of his white rental car, feeling the pulse of his headache but paying it no mind. The car rolled smoothly out of the parking lot when a realization struck him like a lightning bolt – he had left his phone in the hotel room. He hadn’t even bothered to check out, as his wife remained in the room, still wrapped in her drunken slumber. Spying a taxi pulling out, he swerved into its vacated spot by the entrance, leaving the car unlocked as he rushed upstairs.
Meanwhile, Zhorik was involved in his dance of deception, trying to transport the suitcases surreptitiously via the stairwell to avoid prying eyes. As he emerged in the hallway, the eagle-eyed porter, with the scent of easy money wafting in the air, zeroed in on him.
“Sir, allow me to assist you,” he insisted, his voice resonating louder than necessary through the lobby.
Zhorik, though reluctant, didn’t have the luxury of refusal with so many witnesses around. Nodding, he agreed, giving directions toward a Toyota RAV4 by the entrance before smartly creating distance from the porter and the suitcases lest he be caught on camera. The plan was simple: let the porter load up the car, get paid, and by then, Slavik would be ready to go. Sure enough, Slavik was at the reception desk, finalizing his checkout.
The porter soon returned, grinning as he pocketed the ten euros Zhorik handed him. A job well done.
Meanwhile, having retrieved his phone, Anton jumped back into his car and took off. His destination: the airport. Any flight, anywhere, just as long as it took him far away from the ruins of his marriage. Rage was his only companion, thoughts of revenge his only plan.
Back at the hotel, Slavik and Zhorik emerged to find the empty parking spot next to their Toyota.
“A bit cramped in here,” Slavik observed, trying to adjust the seat. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see the suitcases piled up, but instead saw nothing. A sense of dread unfurled within him.
“Stop!” he commanded. “Where are the suitcases?”
Zhorik hit the brakes, the car halting in the middle of the parking area. Both men turned to confirm the obvious – the suitcases were gone. In unison, they stepped out of the car, shock etched on their faces.
“That damn porter was supposed to load them!” Zhorik exclaimed, his mind racing.
With grim determination, they marched back into the hotel and up to the third floor, where they found the porter busily tending to another guest’s luggage. Opting for caution, they observed him from a distance, gauging his demeanor. Nothing seemed amiss; his smile was genuine as he spotted them.
“More luggage, gentlemen?” he inquired cheerfully.
“No,” Slavik replied, moving closer to scrutinize the porter’s badge. “George, did you load our luggage into the car?”
“Yes, sir. The white Toyota RAV4 parked right by the entrance next to the wall,” George responded, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Is there a problem?”
“Next to the wall? White?” Zhorik interjected. “There was a black Mercedes taxi there, not a RAV4.”
George’s frown deepened. “No, sir. It was a white RAV4, with another car, silver perhaps, parked next to it.”
Zhorik felt his legs give out, and he had to steady himself against the wall. A white RAV4. Not their silver one. Panic clawed at his insides.
“I did exactly as you asked,” George insisted, a note of fear creeping into his voice. “The suitcases are in the white RAV4 by the entrance.”
“Yes, you did,” Zhorik acknowledged quietly, a sense of dread washing over him as he turned and headed for the elevator.
“I need a drink,” Zhorik declared, echoing Slavik’s internal turmoil. The gravity of their situation hung over them like a storm cloud. Nikolai, their formidable employer, was not known for his mercy or understanding. Their futures seemed to have plummeted to a watery grave in the depths of the Mediterranean Sea.
“So, what’s the plan?” Slavik queried, his mind racing as he grappled with their limited options. “We need to find that damn car. Whoever’s driving it is blissfully ignorant of the fortune stashed in the back.”
“That’s assuming they haven’t found it already,” Zhorik countered grimly. Using nondescript, lock-free suitcases to avoid arousing suspicion at customs had just backfired spectacularly. “Most people can’t resist a peek inside when there’s nothing to stop them.”
“We’ll need to split up. I’ll head to the airport; most probably whoever has left in that car is headed there; you stay here, work with the hotel management, check security cameras, get the guest list, and get the info on rented Toyotas RAV4 through our friends with the police. And you need to call Nikolai to fill him in. We’ll need his help – and additional resources – if we’re to have any hope of recovering the money,” Slavik decided.
With a nod of agreement, Zhorik fished out his phone and began dialing Nikolai’s number while Slavik made a beeline for the airport in the rented car.
The call was a stormy affair. Nikolai’s initial fury gradually subsided as he processed the information, his mind shifting into tactical mode. The time spent berating Zhorik and Slavik for the loss was wasted. He knew them well enough to trust they were telling the truth.
***
Meanwhile, Anton had abandoned his plan to head to Paphos Airport; he knew that most flights to Kyiv only departed from Larnaca, the main airport in Cyprus, a good hour and a half drive from the hotel. His journey was interrupted by an overwhelming thirst, a by-product of the adrenaline and scotch coursing through his veins. He pulled over at a kiosk outside Limassol, purchasing two large bottles of St. Nicolas water. No sooner had he stepped out of the kiosk, was the first bottle already half empty. He then caught sight of the suitcases in his car trunk through the back window.
A chill of foreboding swept through him. Anton flung open the trunk to find three unfamiliar black suitcases. The truth hit him like a punch to the gut – it could only have been the porter who mixed up the cars.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “Now I’ve got to go back to the hotel to sort out this mess.”
But then, a thought struck him. Was it really his problem? He could just leave the suitcases at the kiosk and inform the hotel of their whereabouts. Decision made. He reached for the first suitcase, his muscles straining under its unexpected weight. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, a dark suspicion unfurling.
The thought of there being a bomb inside flashed across his mind, realizing his fingerprints were now all over the suitcase.
Curiosity piqued, and Anton slowly inched the zipper open, peering inside. However, the opening was too small to reveal much, so he reluctantly widened it. His jaw then dropped. Neatly stacked inside were bundles of €50 and €100 bills. Anton’s eyes widened in disbelief as he opened the suitcase; the sheer volume of cash left him speechless. This was more money than he had ever seen in his entire life. And it was just one suitcase.
With his pulse racing and adrenaline running through his body, Anton stood beside the car, the trunk filled to the brim with cash. His first powerful instinct, impossible to ignore, urged him to return to the hotel. The clarity he sought eluded him initially, but soon enough, the fog in his mind lifted, revealing two distinct paths before him.
Option one was to head back to the hotel, park the car, and lie in wait for the rightful owners of the money to claim it. Anton was reasonably sure they were already on his trail. The critical unknown was whether anyone had witnessed his departure from the hotel. He vaguely pieced together the events leading to the windfall, concluding that a porter’s mistake was the most plausible explanation. Anton recalled crossing paths with the porter on his way out of the lobby. A lapse of just two minutes had resulted in the cash ending up in his car. There was a strong likelihood that the porter could identify his vehicle and a fifty-fifty chance he had noted the license plate.
To complicate matters, Anton knew that the money’s owners were far from benevolent. The second option was to flee with the money and take his chances. A high-stakes gamble that could see him emerge wealthy or dead.
Anton moved his car to the remotest corner of the deserted parking lot, pausing to take a few deep gulps of water. As he set the bottle down, his mind began to race, teetering on the edge of a pivotal decision that felt like both an ending and a beginning.
Born on the fringes of Kyiv, Anton’s childhood was a patchwork of scarcity and modest joys. His parents’ marriage unravelled early, leaving him to navigate a world that seemed to reward those with wealth and punish those without. The crumbling apartment complex of his youth was a stark contrast to the gleaming towers he saw on rare trips to the city center. Those trips planted a seed in young Anton—a deep-seated desire for a better life, a life where struggle wasn’t a daily companion.
He found solace and hope in mathematics, where numbers and equations offered a refuge from the instability of his home life. His aptitude led him to the prestigious Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, where he immersed himself in computer science, driven by a vision of a future where the constraints of his upbringing didn’t define him.
Anton’s diligence paid off. He emerged as a skilled software engineer, his talents opening doors that had once seemed permanently closed. He found a decent job, saved diligently, and eventually bought a modest apartment—a far cry from the luxury he dreamed of but still a testament to his hard work.
Love, too, seemed to be on his side when he met Natalia at the university. She was vibrant and full of life, a striking opposition to his more reserved nature. Their romance was swift, and for a time, it seemed to complete the picture of the life Anton had worked so hard to build.
But as the years passed, Natalia’s occasional drinking evolved into a dependency that slowly eroded their marriage. The arguments, the broken promises, the nights waiting up for her—all of it culminated in a painful life that left Anton questioning the very trajectory of his marriage.
Anton’s efforts to mend their fractured relationship were like trying to hold water in his hands—futile and draining. Each attempt to bridge the growing chasm between them only widened the gap. The trip to Cyprus was his last-ditch effort, a hope to rekindle a spark that had long been extinguished. He had meticulously planned every detail, hoping the change of scenery would bring a change in their dynamics. But the trip unfolded as a vivid illustration of their failing relationship—Natalia’s indifference to the beautiful surroundings, her growing disinterest in his attempts at romance, and the increasing visits to the hotel bar.
In the midst of this heartache, the discovery of the cash was like a sudden jolt, a rude awakening from his long-endured slumber of denial. It was in the silence of this remote parking lot Anton realized the inevitable truth. Their marriage was beyond repair; it was time for him to let go. The suitcases full of cash, almost mocking in their unexpected appearance, now symbolized a new beginning. A chance to start afresh, far away from the shadows of a love that had turned bitter. This was his exit door from a life that had become a loop of disappointment and heartache.
As he sat in his rented car in the middle of a foreign country, alone, his marriage in ruins, another moral quandary unfolded in his mind. This fortune wasn’t his. He hadn’t earned it; it had simply appeared in his life as if by some twist of fate. The ethical part of Anton screamed that keeping the money was wrong, that it belonged to someone else. But another voice, born from years of longing and struggle, whispered seductive justifications. Anton grappled with these thoughts.
He knew the money was tainted, a byproduct of deeds and worlds he had always steered clear of. But the allure of what it represented was overwhelming.
He weighed the risks, the palpable sense of danger mingling with a surge of adrenaline. This kind of money came with strings attached, the kind that could pull you into the depths of the
underworld. The kind of money that whispered of dark deals and dangerous liaisons. Yet, there was also the promise of a life free from financial woes and limitations.
Anton’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he flipped open his laptop and connected to the mobile internet. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he hacked into the hotel’s security system in a matter of minutes. To his relief and amazement, he discovered that the video surveillance cameras were out of order, having recorded nothing during his stay.
At that moment, the decision was made. Anton Gorin, the boy from the outskirts of Kyiv who had clung to dreams of a better life, decided to take the leap. Unknown to him, this choice would catapult him into a world far beyond anything he could have imagined—a world where every step was fraught with danger, but the rewards were greater than he had ever dared to hope. Anton started the engine and set off towards Paphos, his mind intricately weaving the threads of his plan while adrenaline coursed through his veins, enlivening his resolve.
***
Several hotels down from Athena Beach was a four-star establishment named Aquamare, complete with a luxurious spa. Anton was familiar with the hotel because his wife had used its spa services a few days prior. He drove into its underground parking lot, extracted a bundle of fifty-euro bills from one of the suitcases, and headed for the elevator.
Nestled along the vibrant coastline, the Aquamare Hotel beckoned with its contemporary charm, a stark contrast to the ancient allure that Cyprus often conjured. The modern architecture boasted clean lines and expansive glass facades that mirrored the azure of the sky and the sea, blurring the boundaries between the built and the natural.
As Anton strolled towards the reception, he was greeted by the minimalist elegance of the surroundings. Neatly trimmed hedges and geometrically precise lawns offered a manicured welcome, leading to a sleek, airy lobby that hummed with understated luxury.
The interior was a haven of calm, neutral tones, where the artistry of simplicity held sway. The reception desk was a modern design statement, staffed by professionals whose attire echoed the hotel’s palette of sand and sea. Soft, ambient lighting complemented the natural light that flooded in, casting a gentle glow over the tasteful furnishings.
A subtle scent of citrus lingered in the air, a nod perhaps to the island’s abundant groves, as the distant sound of water from a strategically placed indoor feature played a tranquil soundtrack. The Aquamare Hotel was a portrait of contemporary hospitality, promising a stay as refreshing as the Mediterranean breeze that whispered through its open spaces.
A young Cypriot manned the reception desk with a friendly smile.
“Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?”
“Hi there! I’d like to book a room,” Anton replied.
“Of course. We have several available, what type of room would you prefer?”
Anton leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Here’s the thing. I checked into the Almira hotel three days ago and ended up hooking up with a girl I met at the bar. She told me she was alone, but as it turned out, she was here with her husband, who is now out for my blood. She even knows my name. I could really use some help. I’d be eternally grateful if you could check me in without any paperwork.”
As he spoke, Anton slid a hundred euros across the counter.
The receptionist hesitated, glancing from Anton to the money before breaking into a smile.
“Of course, I can help you. However, I must inform you that the rate will be higher without paperwork.”
“That’s not an issue. I’m prepared to pay double.”
“Very well,” the receptionist said, tapping away at the computer. “How long will you be staying for?”
“Four days.”
“Done.”
Anton handed over the cash, received his room key, and returned to the parking lot. Moments later, he was standing in his room on the fourth floor with the suitcases neatly arranged. A cursory rearrangement of the bed covers and a few items from his own suitcase created an occupied room.
Chapter 3
Zhorik and Slavik were running against time. Their investigation into the missing suitcases quickly became a masterclass in frustration and dead ends. Their first major setback came when they learned that the hotel’s security cameras had been out of commission for a week due to cable damage while renovating lobby parts.
In the dimly lit underground parking lot, they poured over the checkout info they had acquired through a hefty bribe to the hotel clerk. Through their local police contacts provided by Nikolai, they obtained a list of rentals of all Toyota RAV 4 cars in the area within the last two weeks. The
cross-check of the hotel registration and the rental lists found three matches– a British couple, a Ukrainian couple, and a German guy. The data sprawled before them pointed to three primary suspects, but without visual confirmation from the cameras, it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. All three rented a Toyota RAV 4 and stayed at the hotel. The Brits and the German guy checked out this very morning; the Ukrainians did not.
“The Brits,” Zhorik muttered, finger tracing their names on the list. “They’re our best shot right now. They did not go to the airport as they listed a local address with the reception, so they must be residents of Cyprus”.
Slavik was already on his feet, grabbing his keys. “I’m heading to the town of Polis then. If they have the suitcases, they won’t be able to hide them that fast. It’s been only two hours since they left.”
As Slavik sped toward Polis, Zhorik focused on the German suspect working the phones. The information from Stelios, their great friend at the airport, was a cold shower – the German left Cyprus with only hand luggage. It was a disappointing but clear dead end.
***
In the serene coastal town of Polis, the sun cast a warm, golden glow over the quaint streets. The town, with its laid-back vibe and picturesque settings, was the last place anyone would associate with clandestine investigations. But for Slavik, it was just another day’s work in the pursuit of a fortune in cash.
Slavik had parked his car a safe distance from the British couple’s house, a charming villa nestled among lush gardens. With years of experience in surveillance, he blended into the surroundings like a shadow, his eyes sharp and observant. He watched the couple leave for the grocery store, their behaviour casual and unburdened, the very picture of everyday normalcy.
Seizing the opportunity, Slavik moved with a predator’s grace. He circled the property, scouting for any overlooked entry points. Finding an unlocked window at the back, he silently slipped inside, his movements as fluid as water.
The interior of the house spoke of a comfortable, ordinary life. Family photos adorned the walls, and a gentle breeze fluttered the curtains, bringing in the scent of the sea. Slavik’s eyes, however, were fixed on the couple’s luggage from their recent trip, casually left in the corner of their bedroom.
With meticulous precision, Slavik examined each suitcase. He rifled through clothes, souvenirs, and the usual travel paraphernalia but found no trace of the cash. The ordinary contents of the bags screamed innocence. As he zipped the suitcase closed, a sense of frustration crept up on him. This was turning out to be a fruitless endeavour.
Stepping back into the sunlit street, Slavik watched from a distance as the couple returned, their arms laden with grocery bags. They laughed about something trivial, their laughter floating in the air like music. To Slavik, they looked like any other retired expats enjoying their golden years in Cyprus.
As he drove away from Polis, the town receding in his rear-view mirror, Slavik couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of hitting a dead end. Yet, he wasn’t one to give up easily. He made a mental note to revisit the couple if the elusive suitcases didn’t surface soon. For now, though, the trail had grown cold, as cold as the shadows that were slowly creeping over the landscape with the setting sun.
***
Back in Paphos, Zhorik and Slavik regrouped, their energy waning but determination still burning. They revisited the list of suspects again and their next target became glaringly obvious – the Ukrainian couple.
Zhorik briefed Slavik with a tone of measured certainty, “While you were canvassing Polis, I gathered some intel. Our Ukrainian couple is still registered at the hotel, booked for another four days. What caught my attention, though, is the woman’s habitual intoxication, according to the hotel staff. I’ve located their rental – a RAV 4 parked just one level below. Checked it inside out; predictably, it was empty. Their room, 3775, hasn’t offered much yet; I haven’t seen them. Looks like they are inside the room, possibly still drunk from last night. I had a word with the porter as well,” Zhorik continued, detailing the conversation. “He couldn’t recall the car plates; too preoccupied with his tasks, he operated on autopilot – saw the Toyota at the entrance, loaded the suitcases into the trunk, and moved on. He didn’t remember seeing anyone near the car. There were guests in the lobby, sure, but he insisted the area around the car was deserted. He did recall loading the British couple’s car, but theirs was parked here in the underground garage. As for that Toyota he loaded our suitcases into, he never saw anyone drive away. His suspicion did flare up at some point, and he repeatedly hinted at getting the police involved. I downplayed the situation, assuring him it was merely personal items we were after, nothing valuable. I wanted to keep his concerns to a minimum.”
Slavik’s response carried a renewed vigor, “Alright, that narrows our focus for now. Time to check if the Ukrainians are our missing link to the cash. “And here’s my take, Zhorik,” he added with a note of caution, “We need to tread carefully with this suitcase situation at the hotel, especially considering our run-in last night during the police check. If this word reaches the cops, Nikolai will find himself in a world of trouble.”
As the duo navigated the hotel’s corridors, they stumbled upon the very couple they were discussing. Stepping out from room 3775, the pair strolled casually towards the pool area, blending seamlessly into the mix of everyday tourists inhabiting the hotel. Slavik immediately understood who he had had fun with but mentioned nothing to his partner.