Mitchell Lanigan Books

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 a few 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 quite a contrast to the lucrative dealings with wealthy Russians who would descend upon the island in their private jets with 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 discreet services. In truth, Stelios knew little about the intricacies of Nikolai's illicit business operations back home. The venture has flourished in recent years due to the crippling sanctions imposed upon Russia by the international community. The items Nikolai smuggled into Russia were far from the conventional. Instead of the usual smuggler business stuff, 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 ironic "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, and 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 the suitcases that he eagerly helped 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. He chose to look the other way, happy with the generous "bonuses" that Nikolai's visits brought to his otherwise unremarkable bank account. Labeled as “special,” this visit saw Nikolai transport eight million euros in cash encased in three cumbersome black suitcases. With Stelios by his side, he was confident that the contents of his luggage would escape scrutiny as they had always done. “Nikolai! Welcome, my friend!” beamed Stelios as he wrapped 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 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 hidden question probing the success of Nikolai’s latest venture. "Yes, I’m here and all set. Ready to 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 that I won’t be back in Cyprus until tomorrow night.” “Fine, I’ll be waiting for your call then,” responded Nikolai. “And the additional funds will be delivered as 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 it will be a fine addition to your portfolio." The hotel was a front for Nikolai's labyrinthine dealings. In this place, money could rest as quietly as 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 disguised threat was delivered pleasantly, hinting that Nikolai's affable businessman persona was just one facet of a much darker and more 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 originated from Stelios’ phone, a precaution taken after learning of the potential customs issue involving Nikolai’s suspiciously frequent flights. An anonymous call about Stelios’ covert operations involving Russian planes alerted the police, 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’ help. 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 with the police. “Stop the car! We’re in hot water. The police could pull us over any second for a suitcase inspection,” Nikolai barked at the driver. His bodyguards, Slavik and Zhorik, former FSB agents with decades of experience, immediately sprang into action. “Boss, over there!” Zhorik pointed to the Athena Royal Beach Hotel they were driving past. “It’s the perfect hiding spot for the suitcases.” “You’re right, go!” Nikolai agreed, 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.