Murder by Conceit: The Blake/Garnier Murder Mystery Series, Book 1

By Steve Graybill

About the Book
Following the grisly murder of three former colleagues, Jacob Blake and his partner, Natasha Romanova Garnier (a French-Canadian with an aristocratic Russian heritage), are coerced out of retirement to identify the perpetrator and prevent any more deaths... only to discover they are next on the hit list. Against their will, they are drawn back onto the global stage of high- stakes private equity funds and its seductive and corruptive atmosphere of multibillionaires, power brokers, heads-of-state, and a steady stream of millions in cash available for the taking.
Set in New York City, Moscow, and Prague, Murder by Conceit follows Natasha and Jacob as they race against the clock to stay alive while battling international intrigue and conspiracies, duplicity, and some old and deadly enemies with scores to settle. It soon becomes apparent that the only way Jacob can stay alive is to identify his mysterious enemy and convince them to cancel the hit contracts, a cancelation that would cost the killer millions of dollars and a lifetime in prison. At the same time, Natasha must reconcile her past relationships with the Russian Mafia and the GRU in an effort to save Jacob’s life.
About the Author
Steve Graybill spent more than thirty years as an executive in the high- stakes world of international consulting and private equity, working and living in over twenty countries. He now lives in Arizona with his wife and their Goldendoodle. He served with the US Army in Vietnam. “Murder by Conceit” is his first novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889255642

Book preview

Prologue

Three and a Half Weeks Ago – New York City

He was sitting at his desk in his office on the Renaissance Group’s Executive Floor at 222 East Forty-First Street. It was slightly after midnight in New York City, and, he noticed, a bit after 11:00 a.m. in Kyrgyzstan. He was smiling broadly. He had just finished his phone conversation with his contact in southern Kyrgyzstan, and the contact had confirmed what had already been reported to him in the written communication. The murders of three of his colleagues had been successfully carried out … just as he had planned. He was elated.

The written report, although terse, contained the details he was both looking for and expecting:

Six weeks ago, Tracey Williams had walked out of the lobby of the Intercontinental Hotel in Prague, the Czech Republic. She had an early dinner and took an evening walk over to the historic Pinkas Synagogue. About an hour and a half later, she was walking back to the Intercontinental when a man approached her, pulled a pistol out of his jacket, and shot two rounds right into her heart. Death was immediate.

He dragged her body off the path, but still in an area that would be seen by the public. He poured a flammable liquid over the corpse and lit it with a match. Then he lay down on the ground a short distance away and bit into the cyanide capsule that had been supplied to him. In a few seconds he was dead.

Five weeks ago, in Almaty, Kazakhstan, Darwin Vogel had driven his rented car up to Medeo and Chimbulak, the ice-skating rink and ski area about an hour’s drive outside of Almaty. As Darwin was finishing his hike, a male Kazak approached, withdrew a handgun from his coat pocket, and fired two shots directly into Darwin’s heart. He was dead immediately.

The man dragged Darwin’s body to a nearby empty taxi. He put Darwin in the passenger seat beside the driver’s seat, then got behind the wheel and started the engine. He drove just a bit down the road until he came to the first sharp turn, and then stopped the car. He turned the engine off, put the car in neutral, and jumped. Then, with one push, he sent the car over the edge and down into the ravine, tumbling as it went. Next, he sat down on the ground just off the road and bit into the cyanide capsule that had been supplied to him. In a few seconds he was dead

Four weeks ago, Bob Wolff was spending the weekend at the Przewalski Horse Refuge in Hustai National Park, about an hour outside of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. He had just finished his communal evening meal and was going for a walk down the path from the yurts to the nearby corral when a herdsman wearing the traditional deel, a wrap-around coat that stops just short of the knees, approached him. As they closed in on each other, the Mongol withdrew a handgun from his deel and shot two rounds into Bob’s heart. Bob fell to the ground, dead.

The herdsman took from his saddle pack the device he’d been given, and quickly and neatly decapitated Bob’s head from his body. The herdsman then sat down beside the body, and bit into the cyanide capsule that had been supplied to him. In a few seconds the herdsman was dead.

He finished reading the report and laid it on his desk. Yes, the three kills had been carried out exactly as he had planned and directed … right down to the last detail.

Those colleagues would no longer be an impediment to his continued success.

Chapter 1.

Day One: The Uninvited Guest

My story begins on what was a typical mid-autumn Wyoming morning. I was sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the front porch of the ranch house, sipping my coffee and enjoying staring at the leaves as they changed color marching from the ridgeline down the east side of the Wind River Mountain Range. There was frost on the ground, but the sky was clear and it would be warm by early afternoon. Perfect for working the horses in the round pen.

Jax, our ranch dog, heard it first. It roused him from the morning nap he was taking after he’d scared up a jackrabbit and given him a run for his life. With his head still between his paws his ears perked up, he raised his eyebrows, and then he gave a low-rumbled soft growl, warning me to take a look.

Off in the distance I saw a dark speck on the horizon that was coming steadily closer. I could faintly hear the thump-thump-thump of the chopper’s rotor blades.

The chopper became more visible, and louder.

Natasha walked out of the house onto the porch, and settled into the other Adirondack chair with her coffee in her favorite chipped blue enamel cup. She spied the chopper immediately. Is that who I think it is? Damn! How did they find us … and why? she said, the tension in her voice clearly audible.

The chopper was now hovering over the open field in front of the ranch house. A dark emerald green, it sparkled in the bright sunshine. I couldn’t help but notice the beautifully scripted R in Engravers MT font within a circle painted onto the chopper’s tail in a slightly darker shade of green. Significant, but muted. I could hear the Chairman’s voice in my mind saying, Jacob, luxury should never be ostentatious.

The chopper executed a perfect flair and touched down. The door opened and out stepped a rather tall, thin, and well-tailored middle-aged man of Middle Eastern origin that I knew only too well. Impeccably dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, silk rep tie, and bespoke shoes. A man I hadn’t seen in five years … and I’d hoped to never see again. Abdul Hadad, the Oxford-educated private secretary to the Chairman of the Renaissance Group. The personal assistant for every unpleasant task. The master of coverups and double-dealings. And, never a conveyor of good news.

"How in the hell did he find us in Wyoming? I wondered out loud. And why was he sent?"

He carried in his right hand a single manila folder.

Natasha and I watched as he closed the distance between us, looked at the ranch house with undisguised disdain, and walked up the three steps to the porch, trying to keep the dirt and dust off of his shoes. Without any greeting or preamble, he handed the folder to me and said, Jake, do you remember these three people?

Then he turned his head slightly. "Bonjour, Natasha." She didn’t reply.

I opened the file and looked at the three pictures—full color head shots. Of course, I remember them! I said. I worked with each of them during the twenty-five years I was with the company. The fact that I’ve been retired for five years hasn’t erased my memory. I held the files out to give back to him, but he didn’t take them.

I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of me asking him why he was asking me if I remembered them. Renaissance is one of the largest and most successful international private equity funds in the world, and its economic and political clout is almost unparalleled. It functions in the rarefied atmosphere of billionaires and multibillionaires, the world’s best hotels and restaurants, mansions and estates, exotic cars, private planes (really big planes), power brokers, heads-of-state, and a steady stream of millions in cash available for the taking. It’s an atmosphere of privilege and entitlement that’s both seductive and corruptive. My former position at Renaissance had enabled me to live and work in that atmosphere for so many years. On a daily basis I navigated the intrigues, conspiracies (either imagined or real), traps, and threats … and managed to keep my hands clean. Natasha and I escaped from that world five years ago by retiring and hiding out on our little fifty-acre horse ranch, our sanctuary. I had absolutely no intention of rejoining their agenda.

Glad to hear you still have your wits about you, Jake, Abdul said. These three were each murdered … in a rather grisly fashion … in separate attacks within the last six weeks. The Chairman is, shall we say, ‘requesting’ that you accompany me back to New York for a full Board Meeting at noon tomorrow. The Citation X is waiting for us at the Jackson Hole Airport.

What the hell are you saying? I stammered. "Three employees of Renaissance, that I worked with, were murdered? Didn’t just die … but were murdered?"

Didn’t I just say that? Abdul responded sardonically.

Still more than slightly stunned, I continued. So, what is it you want from us … from me? Sorry they were killed, but I don’t see how we fit into this? Why did the Chairman send you to find us … does he think I’ll track down the killers for him?

Oh, good Lord, no, Jake! We know who killed them. He wants you to determine why they were killed, and to make sure there are no more hits on the way.

I thought about that for a few seconds, and then said, If you know who the killers are, why not just ask them?

Abdul bent over so that he was looking directly into my face. It is no longer an option to ask the killers. Now we need to know who hired them … and why?

Natasha turned towards Abdul, and in a disgusted tone said, "Merde! You people haven’t changed one damn bit! How did you find us out here? And, how dare you? How dare you invade our home? Go back to the Chairman and tell him we’re not interested! And do not come back!"

Abdul turned his head back to her. "Excusez-moi, Natasha. How I found you is not pertinent to this conversation. If it was, I’d have told you. What is pertinent is that Jake fly back to New York with me right now. Or, to put it in fractured French that even you will understand, toot sweet! "

"Are you trying to say, ‘tout de suite,’ Abdul? Your French is even worse now than it was when I had to work with you!" she chided.

Oh Christ, I thought. Not this again. Natasha is fluent in French, Russian, and English. Abdul is fluent in French, Arabic, and English. On those rare occasions when they are on good terms with each other, they’ll jabber away in French. However, the long-standing animosity between the two of them is palatable and when they are not on good terms, which is more often the case, they’ll pretend to not understand a word the other is saying. Time to put a stop to this.

Look, Abdul, I appreciate that the Chairman thinks I can be helpful and that you flew all the way out here, but I’m retired. I … we … have absolutely no intention of rejoining Renaissance in any way at all! Besides, we’re very busy getting the ranch ready for winter, and Tash and I have to complete gentling four horses for the Quarter Horse Competition and Sale in Cody. So, with all due respect, tell the Chairman I said ‘no thank you.’

Abdul took the folder back from me and stood up straight. Jake, this isn’t just a polite request. This is serious, or else the Chairman would not have sent me. He said to tell you that this falls into the ‘you have no choice’ category. I’m sure I don’t need to be specific. And did I fail to mention that, in addition to the murder of three of your former colleagues, we believe that yours and Natasha’s names are next on the hit list? In other words, and I’m just thinking out loud here, perhaps you’d like to make a little effort to save your own life and that of Natasha?

"Excuse me! Our names are next on a hit list? You’re telling us that someone wants us killed?

Again … Jake … didn’t I just say that? You’re making me be repetitive. Yes, we believe so. Definitely you, and probably Natasha as well.

"Mon Dieu!" Natasha yelled at Abdul. First you invade our home, and then you tell us we’re going to be killed? Be careful with your next words, Abdul. You’re on very shaky ground! she warned him. Just who’s hunting us down … and why?

We don’t know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, he tried to defend himself. Both the Chairman and Hank are so concerned about you two being in danger that they went to considerable trouble to find you … and send me! So, Jake, please do me the favor of accompanying me back to the helicopter so we can get on the Citation and fly to New York where you will have your old suite at The Plaza. The Chairman will meet you tomorrow morning for breakfast in the Palm Court. You’ll be back here the following day.

Something that Abdul had said earlier just clicked with me. Abdul, did you say that this was a ‘full’ Board Meeting?

Yes, Jake.

With all of the Secretaries?

Yes, Jake. Every one of the Secretaries will be there.

I looked over at Natasha. She gave me one of those infuriating Gallic shrugs for which the French are so famous. "Jacob, you have no choice. You need to get to the bottom of this … right now! Bon voyage!"

And you expect me to leave you here, all on your own? I asked.

You know very well that I’m capable of taking care of myself.

I hesitated. All right, I said. Then turning to Abdul, Give me a few minutes to pack an overnight bag.

No need. Critically eyeing my faded Wrangler jeans, dusty boots, buckskin vest, and my favorite outdoor riding hat with my treasured Shoshone hand-beaded hatband, Abdul continued, The Chairman has taken the liberty to arrange for your business wardrobe and the necessary toiletries to be in your room at The Plaza when you arrive. You can travel just as you are. It’s only the two of us on the helicopter and the Citation, and Joseph will meet us on the tarmac at La Guardia and take you directly to the hotel. He’ll have your room key; you won’t even need to stop at Reception to check in. And, please leave your sidearm here. If it’s determined that you need one, it will be provided.

I got out of my chair, walked over to Natasha and leaned down to kiss her. She raised up halfway to meet me. Be careful of the uninvited guest, she said.

Are you referring to me, Natasha, as the uninvited guest? Abdul insinuated.

"No, you stupide man! I was referring to death. Death is always the uninvited guest. Nezanny gost!" she finished in Russian.

Chapter 2.

The Homecoming

A Cessna Citation X is the fastest nonmilitary production plane made. It has a cruising speed of 587 mph, a range of 3,460 miles, a flight ceiling of 51,000 feet (so high you can see the curve of the Earth), and carries a flight-deck crew of two and twelve passengers. It flew the 2,166 miles from the Jackson Hole Airport to La Guardia in New York City in four and a half hours. Allowing for the three-hour time difference between Jackson and NYC, and considering that we took off just before noon local time, we arrived at La Guardia at 7:30 p.m.

It had been a quiet ride. Abdul and I barely spoke, mostly because, although we respected each other’s abilities, we’d never liked each other and we had little to say. He had work to do, and I tried to read the latest Clive Cussler book. Clive has written more than twenty New York Times best-seller list thrillers, and there’s always a collection of them on board because they’re the perfect read for a three to five-hour flight. But I couldn’t help but let my mind wander to the situation that had just been presented to Tash and me.

In an earlier life, I’d dealt with people trying to kill me, and then later some of the assignments I’d taken on for Renaissance had been a little dicey, but I’d thought at my current stage of life that was all in the past. Recently, my biggest concern had been not falling off my horse… ingloriously!

As I mentally sorted through those in my past life that I might have offended to the point where they wanted to kill me, I came up with only a few names. But those guys, I knew, would not contract a hit on me. They’d want the personal satisfaction of pulling the trigger.

Even more troubling was the question of Tash also being on the list. She was right. She is more than capable of taking care of herself. She’s no easy target. But, she and I both knew that if someone was intent on killing us, and had enough resources, eventually they would be successful. So, she was right when she said I had no choice but to get to the bottom of this.

But, I suspected that she and I had slightly different expectations of what getting to the bottom of this meant. And those different expectations would raise their heads sooner rather than later.

It was already dark as we began our approach into La Guardia, and I asked the pilot if, as a favor, he would please take one lap around the Statue of Liberty. Looking down on her lighted profile at night from altitude is always a thrilling sight that never fails to inspire.

Perhaps the greatest luxury in life is traveling by private jet. No hassles, no public terminals, no security checks, no baggage claim, no waiting for street transportation. As we coasted up to the private terminal, I could see that it had been raining, and that Joseph was already standing beside the car to take me directly to The Plaza.

It would, in fact, be hard to not see Joseph. He’s a very large and powerfully built Black man about twice my size, now in his early-sixties, with just enough gray in his hair to make him look dignified. Always dressed in a suit and tie, with the suit appropriately tailored to fit the concealed handgun he carries. He’s been the Chairman’s driver and bodyguard beginning long before I joined the operation, but he and I share a special bond. Both of us are graduates of the US Army Airborne School (better known as Jump School), Army Ranger School, and had the privilege of serving with the 101st Airborne Division. Me in 1970 in Vietnam, and Joseph about ten years later. Nothing builds a bond quite like jumping out of airplanes.

Abdul walked down the stairs from the Citation and went directly to his car without another word. Joseph met me at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped me in a big bear hug, and whispered in my ear, Damn, Jake! Watch your back. There’s all kinda stuff going on here! And, I hear you’re on a hit list. Best to follow Moscow Rules.

Then he took me by the arm over to the car and smiled conspiratorially. The Chairman wanted me to pick you up in the Bentley, but I know how much you like the Maserati… so here it is, buddy. And, no, you cannot drive! Welcome back to New York City.

We kept up a constant dialogue about nothing as Joseph weaved his way through the traffic, across the Triboro Bridge, and into the City. How’s Natasha, how are you doing with old age, what’s life like on the ranch, and why would you want to live there when you could choose NYC? The usual stuff. Joseph does his work so effortlessly that it can be hard to recognize just how good he is at it. He’s one of the few civilian graduates of the Secret Service’s Defensive and Evasive Driver Training School. He can drive the Bentley at 60 mph … backwards. What he can do with