by Eric Meyer
"John, it's good of you to come, and great to see you again. My word, you're looking good."
Last time they met, Paul Vann had done everything short of hiring a hitman to kill him.
"You, too, Paul." He glanced around at the sumptuous furnishings; everything with the deep, rich patina of the kind of style only big money can buy, "Business is good it seems."
He shrugged. "We scrape by. Can I offer you guys coffee?"
They both nodded, and he pressed a button on his phone. "Carol, would you bring in fresh coffee for three." He looked up, "Did Joe give you an indication of what this is all about?"
"Something about Mariyah and Russia. A stolen heirloom, that's all I know."
He pursed his lips. "Yes, it is indeed an heirloom, and yet, it is rather more than that." He seemed to be trying to gage how much he could trust them, or maybe how little, "It's complicated. I'm not sure how to begin."
"How about the beginning?" Raider suggested.
A flash of worry crossed his face. Or maybe it was fear. Then he gave them a weak smile. "The beginning, yes. That would be...Mariyah's father."
"That's you."
He pursed his lips. "You've heard of Boris Yeltsin?"
They both shrugged. "Russian President before Putin. Who hasn't heard of him?"
"Of course. It all began with him."
"All? This is going to take a long time," Raider sighed, "Do you want us to come back another time?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's just difficult and rather painful. You see; I'm not Mariyah's natural father."
That was news. Raider was stunned. "How come?"
"It was a long time ago, when my wife and I couldn't conceive of a child. At the time, we lived in Ukraine, in the capital Kiev. I was handling certain legal transactions for a high-ranking Soviet politician. This was during the time of the communist regime, before the end of Communism. The guy had fathered a child by his mistress, and they were looking for someone to bring her up, to become her parents. There was no way this man could admit to his extramarital affair. It would have badly damaged his career.
He gazed at Raider. "I don't think I need to explain further about Mariyah's parentage."
"You're telling me I was married to the daughter of Boris Yeltsin, the former President of Russia?"
"That is correct."
"Jesus Christ," they both uttered in unison.
Vann stared at them. "This is between me and you two men. As far as she was concerned, Yeltsin was just one of my business contacts who visited her as a young child. I didn’t tell her about her parentage when she was a child."
They both nodded, and he went on, "At first, Yeltsin kept in touch with me and wanted to know about her progress. Then he made the decision to resign the Presidency, and he had no choice but to hand over to Vladimir Putin, who was then Prime Minister."
"No choice?" Joe cocked an eyebrow.
Vann nodded. "The former head of Soviet intelligence service had files on just about everybody in a position of power or influence inside the old Soviet Union. The file on Yeltsin was extensive and could have done a lot of damage. Boris decided to take the easy option and let him succeed to the Presidency. However, he always had concerns about Putin. He was worried that one day he’d make the connection to Mariyah and use it for blackmail, or even worse. There was always the worry he would try to force Yeltsin to hand over his considerable assets, and Mariyah would have been just a pawn in the game."
He stopped as the door opened, and the secretary brought in a lacquered Chinese tray with three coffee cups, a pot, milk, sugar, and a plate of freshly baked biscuits.
"Will there be anything else, Mr. Vann? There have been several calls. I told them you'd get back to them."
"Nothing else, Carol. And no interruptions, is that clear?"
"Of course, Sir."
When the door closed, he looked at them. "Where was I?"
"Blackmail," Raider told him.
"Right. Boris decided to take out an insurance policy. In 1977, when he was a party official in Sverdlovsk, he received orders to demolish the Ipatiev House."
He saw their puzzlement and went on to explain, "The Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg is the place where the Bolsheviks sent the Tsar and his family after they were taken prisoner. I'm sure I don't need to explain what went on in the cellar."
"The whole world knows what they did to that family, especially to those young children," Raider murmured. "It was cold blooded murder. Paul, this is more of a history lesson than an explanation. Can you cut to the chase?"
He looked flustered. "I'm sorry, but it is necessary you know the background. Yeltsin carried out his orders, and in the process confiscated a jeweled, bronze chest that had once belonged to Tsar Nicholas II. It was known as the Ipatiev Chest. Afterward, he kept it in his possession, and I understand it had pride of place in his home. It is a beautiful piece, and he told me he wanted Mariyah to own it when she was an adult. He handed the chest to us and made us promise to look after it for her. Which we did, and on her eighteenth birthday, she took possession of the chest, including the contents."
"The contents?" Joe looked askance at him.
"The insurance policy," he explained, "The object of giving her the chest was more to do with the documents inside it, than with the intrinsic value and beauty of the artifact itself. You see; Putin was not the only one who could hold secret files on his political rivals. Boris kept extensive records of Putin's early career, including many of his questionable business dealings. Theft, bribery, murder, they were all part of his journey to power. It would not be unreasonable to say if the Putin file became public, it would bring him down, and possibly put him in prison for a very long period."
"Jesus Christ," Joe muttered again.
"Surely," Raider said, "If there's some kind of threat, she could use these documents to force Putin to sort out the problem. After all, he is one of the most powerful men in the world."
"Certainly, that's exactly what I'd do. If she still had the Putin file in her possession. It was stolen, the chest with the file still inside. We were in negotiations to return the file to Putin when it went missing. Somehow, the Russians found out about the theft, perhaps from the people who stole it, and they believe Mariyah was responsible. They accused her of selling the documents to one of Russia's enemies. They told her to get them back from whomever she sold them to, or else they'll take action. Punitive action. The problem is, she doesn't have them."
"Putin said this?" he asked, incredulous.
"Not Putin, no, he knows nothing. His head of security is handling it, Yuri Malenkov."
"Malenkov."
"I understand you met him when you were in Ukraine."
"You could say that."
He recalled Yuri Malenkov, built like a block of granite. As tall as his President was short, he had shoulders almost as wide as a small car, and a body that was solid muscle. A former Spetsnaz trooper, and graduate of the KGB training school, he'd gained his post as head of Presidential security by virtue of his lethal fighting skills, and his well-earned reputation for the maximum application of force. Malenkov had thought Raider and his team may be targeting his President, and they were lucky to escape with their lives. Even now, months afterward, the ruthless Russian was undecided about his motives and had kept Raider on his target list.
"It's Malenkov who's threatening to hurt Mariyah if the documents are not handed over to him," Vann went on, "I think we can assume the threat extends to members of her family, including her daughter Abigail…"
"Our daughter Abigail," he corrected him.
"Of course, you're her father, I'm sorry. Believe me, he could hurt a lot of people." He grimaced, "He could even come after me."
Something in the way he said it put him on alert. "You've had dealings with Malenkov?"
"It's complicated." His face had reddened, and he looked almost hunted, "I handle some business for him on occasion, to do with import and export licenses, things like tha
t. Minor stuff."
Raider drank his coffee while he mulled over the implications. One thing he knew for sure, Vann was lying. About what, he'd no idea.
"Paul, who does have these documents, this Putin file? If it's not Mariyah, and not the Russians, who is it? The Ukrainians?"
The elegant lawyer sighed. "Not the Ukrainians, no. I believe it had to have been a Russian right wing organization, Pamyat, who carried out the theft. They're more than capable, well armed and equipped, and many of their members are former Special Forces. Their plan will be to use them to force Putin to invade and occupy Ukraine. The chances are they'll succeed. According to Malenkov, the material is so explosive, Putin will have no choice but to agree to Pamyat's demands and invade. Assuming they don't get them back."
Raider's mind was spinning. The situation was so absurd. "Why do they think Mariyah, a devout Ukrainian nationalist, would pass them onto a right wing organization committed to the destruction of Ukraine?"
Vann looked haunted. "It's my fault. I told Svoboda, the Ukrainian nationalists, what she had. I thought they could use the knowledge of their existence as a wedge against Putin's actions in Eastern Ukraine. Someone must have blabbed to Pamyat, probably the organization is riddled with Russian informers, and as soon as they knew, they sent in a team of operatives to seize them."
"Svoboda?" Joe asked.
"The All-Ukrainian Union, they're opposed to any kind of Russian interference in Ukraine."
Joe nodded. "Yeah, I recall the name now. They started out as the Social-National Party of Ukraine, National Socialists. Nazis."
"Perhaps. But they are bitterly opposed to anything Russian. And it would have worked. Putin would have pulled back from Eastern Ukraine."
"If she still had the file."
He inclined his head. "Yes."
The former SEAL sighed with exasperation. "So Putin's hitman, Malenkov, believes she sold out to Pamyat, and he thinks he can put the screws on Mariyah to get this stuff back."
"That's about it. John, I want you to get that file back. I'll do anything, pay anything, but it's absolutely essential the Putin file doesn't stay in the hands of Pamyat. If they threaten to make it public, Putin will have no alternative but to invade Ukraine. Then Malenkov will come gunning for Mariyah out of revenge."
"Which puts Abigail in the line of fire," Raider said, his voice bitter.
The lawyer didn't reply. Joe stared at him.
"Do you have a line on the whereabouts of the file?"
He nodded. "It's in Moscow. Pamyat has a museum close to the Kremlin, what used to be the Aleksey Arakcheyev Museum before it ran into financial trouble and they took over the building. They guaranteed to preserve the exhibits, but as soon as they moved in, they tossed them out onto the street. There was a mad scramble to save them from the rain and snow, but most were lost. The building has high security, and it's the logical place to keep them."
"Why doesn't Putin just go in and get them, especially if they're near the Kremlin."
Vann grimaced. "It would certainly be an end to the whole problem, but sadly, it's impossible. Pamyat has the place under heavy guard. There is a company of their militia stationed there, and they're well trained and heavily armed. They also have informers at every level of the military and the FSB, the Russian intelligence service. The moment they thought Putin was planning a strike they'd publish the contents, probably on the Internet. Malenkov believes Mariyah sold the file, and the only way is for her to get it back. Then hand it over to him."
"So you want me to get this Putin file back, is that the plan? You're aware I have a warrant outstanding in Russia for my arrest? The last I heard, it's a shoot on sight warrant."
"I appreciate there may be some difficulties, but I'm sure they can be resolved."
"How?"
Before he could reply, his desk telephone buzzed. He picked it up and listened. He nodded, said, "Right away," and put it down.
"I think we're about to get the answer to your question, John."
At that moment, the door opened, and a man walked into the office. A man he'd sworn several months back to avoid for the rest of his life. Alexander Dragan, master manipulator. A Lord of War who'd supplied large quantities of arms to Ukrainian patriots, in order to fight the Russian invasion of Eastern Ukraine. A well-known Ukrainian Jewish philanthropist, and a man he'd wanted to put a bullet in on more than one occasion. Still did.
Chapter Three
The Kremlin, Moscow, Russian Federation
Malenkov waited outside the door that gave entry to the holy of holies, the sanctum sanctorum, the Kremlin office of the President of the Russian Federation. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, former head of the FSB, successor to the KGB, and currently the man who ruled Russia with a rod of iron. A rod of iron consisting of more than one million troops under arms, including regular army, militia, border guards, an air force, and a navy. Through the thick, polished oak door he could hear his boss screaming into the phone, and he had a good idea of the reason. Blackmail was an ugly word, but nothing else would describe the tornado that had struck the Kremlin, a tornado with a name. Pamyat.
The shouting stopped, and the green light over the door went on. He went inside and was face-to-face with one of the most powerful men in the world. A man whose power had been shown to be built on little more than a house of cards, power that could crumble in an instant.
"Malenkov!"
The burly security chief inclined his head. "Mr. President."
"Tell me this isn't true. Your people failed to retrieve those stolen documents. Yet you told me you would get them back."
"It was all arranged, Sir. We had an operation ready to go. Unfortunately, Pamyat got there first."
"You think I don't know that! Do you know who I just had on the phone?"
"No sir, I don't know."
But I can guess.
"Sergey fucking Zefirov, the head of fucking Pamyat. Do you know what that mad bastard wants me to do? Invade Ukraine! I've never heard anything so crazy in all my life."
Malenkov grimaced. "Perhaps the American woman will succeed in retrieving the documents. I made it clear she will be at risk is she does not cancel her deal with Pamyat."
"You're assuming she's in a position to do that. What if Pamyat stole the documents and there was no deal? In which case, she may not be able to get them back."
Malenkov gave him a thin smile. "Mr. President, the woman's father is Paul Vann, is a prominent Ukrainian émigré, with strong links to Alexander Dragan." Putin closed his eyes at the mention of the detested name, "I'm certain Vann and Dragan will do everything possible to ensure the return of the file, and they can do so without coming to the notice of the Pamyat sympathizers inside our ranks. You should remember they have much to lose. Including the possibility of our troops crossing the Ukrainian border if Pamyat threaten to make the file public."
"You think Dragan may succeed where we don't?"
"He's very resourceful, as we know from that business in Ukraine last year. Yes, he's sure to put in place an operation to try to regain the file. He's very close with Paul Vann, Mariyah Kingsley's father, and the threat to her family will force them to do everything possible to get it back. As soon as they have it, of course, we'll be waiting."
Putin gave one of his rare smiles. "Yuri, you're in the wrong job. You should have been a chess player."
"I do enjoy a game of chess, Mr. President. Although I prefer the game of politics."
"The game we play is power, not politics," he corrected his security chief, "I'm not happy about the involvement of Alexander Dragan. They could recover the file and refuse to hand it over."
Malenkov shrugged. "He can always be taken care of. I have a man inside his organization. He will protect our interests."
"He can be trusted?"
"He will forfeit his life if he fails. That should ensure his loyalty."
"Good. When we have the file it will be time to put a stop to Dragan. Once his flow of weapons stops,
our problems in Eastern Ukraine will disappear. We can move our troops into the region and absorb the entire country into the Russian Federation, just as we did in Crimea. Make sure Dragan does not interfere."
"If necessary, he will meet with an accident."
The President gave his security chief a chilly smile. "Good. But the first priority is the file. I want my documents back, and I don't care what you have to do or who you have to kill to get them back."
"It will be done, but there'll be blood, Mr. President," he cautioned, "A lot of blood."
This time, the smile was warmer. "I'm counting on it, Yuri. I'm counting on it."
* * *
New York City Offices of Vann, Ruben, & Turner
The Ukrainian billionaire had almost caused his death, along with the deaths of Al, Waite, and Joe, during an operation to rescue Joe Nguyen from a prison cell in Sevastopol, Ukraine. Alexander Dragan, fanatical Ukrainian nationalist, and a man with tentacles in so many shady business deals he'd lost count. A chess genius, a childhood math prodigy, and a man who'd arrived in America virtually broke, before he transformed his remaining funds into a multibillion-dollar enterprise.
He recalled all too vividly the desperate chase across Ukraine. After they'd spirited Joe out of prison, a grim, Gothic castle outside of Sevastopol, the might of the police and military fell upon them in their full fury; local cops, Ukrainian militia, pro-Russian separatists, and even an assassin who at the time was targeting Vladimir Putin. They'd barely got out of Ukraine ahead of the opposition, only for him to wind up a wanted man on both sides of the Atlantic.
"John, it's good to see you again."
He held out his hand to Raider, in vain. When his offer of a handshake was refused, he shrugged.
