“True. We assumed our attackers were after the book.”
“Okay,” said McFadden, “what does this mean? All these names, some of them codes for banks. What’s going on?”
“Let me show you another dozen pages so you can get a feel for the entire book.” Kurskov ran through more slides, pointed out more of the same names, explained which sums belonged to which name. Leaving another split image of a Russian page and its English version on the screen, he planted his hands on the table.
“The book is divided into three parts. The first two-thirds deal with money coming in and going out. Pretty straightforward. There are some footnotes on weights and margin comments about what I suspect are drug deals. Also found numerous notations about weapon shipments.”
McFadden asked, “So we’ve got drugs and arms deals going on?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Wolf, gesturing at the screen. “You think this is a record of state doings? Or mafiya doings?”
“Both. These days what Moscow bank isn’t mobbed up?”
“They’re all dirty,” fumed Wolf. “One big rotten family, including the Kremlin.”
“I recognize some of the oligarchs on these lists,” said Kurskov. “It’s impossible for anyone to do business in Russia today without rubbing shoulders with the Brotherhood—the Russian Mafia. Way too much money changing hands. Look at the amounts on these pages. That’s probably just the tip of the iceberg. One writer’s take on things.”
Wolf caught Kurskov’s eye. “What about State’s involvement? You said this was the kind of information that could topple governments and get people killed. How does what we’re seeing play into that?”
Kurskov called up another image. “Example. The eight banks listed on this page are major Ukranian ones. The Central Bank and seven private ones. Lot of money being poured in. Question: who’s doing the banking? Look at the outflow on the next page. It dates back five years. The last three look like a dam breaking. Out goes the money, leaving insolvent banks. No capital to work with. There are several major banks on these pages. Big players. Most of them in Kiev. Several in the eastern part of the country.”
“Russian pressure squeezing the government in Ukraine?”
“Absolutely,” said Kurskov. “It’s been going on for a while.”
McFadden stared at the screen. “Where does the money go?”
“My guess is that it ends up in Moscow banks.”
“And we know who controls the Russian banks,” groused Wolf.
“Are you saying this is a paper trail of an orchestrated effort by Moscow to collapse Ukraine’s economy?” McFadden asked.
“That’s always been suspected. This just confirms it,” replied Kurskov. “I want to do more digging to cross-reference these names. We know the ones involved with the banks…both Russian and Ukrainian.”
“And the others?” said Wolf.
“Probably mob figures or Kremlin inner circle.”
Wolf grumbled. “Hard to tell the difference.”
“True,” Kurskov agreed. “But it’s the Ukranian names that prove interesting. Just a guess, but I think it’s insiders selling out their country.”
Wolf slammed a fist on the table. “All things are possible when you’re talking this kind of money.”
“Always follow the money,” said McFadden.
Holding up a hand, Kurskov cautioned. “Do that and you will likely find this money going through Moscow and then overseas. It’s not a pretty picture, Sam.” He fast-forwarded to a new pair of pages listing prominent western banks. His viewers scanned the names.
“London,” sneered Wolf. “Switzerland. No surprise there. Vienna.”
McFadden drummed his fingers on the table. “Barbados. The Caymans.”
Kurskov tapped his keyboard, pausing his show. “New York.”
Staring at the ceiling, McFadden leaned back, let go a low whistle, arms behind his head. “If you take enough money out of a national economy, hollow out the banking system, and stimulate a little panic, you can collapse any government…or country.”
“That’s what we’re seeing here,” said Wolf.
“That’s the bad news,” answered Kurskov. “The least bad news.”
In unison, Wolf and McFadden said, “The least bad news?”
Bringing the screen back to life, Kurskov scrolled through four slides, again showing side-by-side Russian and English translations complete with footnotes.
“Holy shit,” exclaimed Wolf. “You sure about this?”
“It’s a word-for-word translation,” Kurskov assured him. “If you compare the money amounts and see what it’s being used for, you have to acknowledge what’s happening.”
“This is where it gets dicey,” said McFadden. “If what you’re showing us is genuine…”
“It’s a faithful translation. You can vet it with another source. I wouldn’t be offended, Sam.”
“No need to,” said McFadden. “I trust your work.” He pointed in turn to the money figures and the written explanation beneath. “This is history repeating itself. This is a recipe for disaster.”
Chapter 40
Fog settled like cotton over the coast, softening the distant lights of San Diego, and crept inland. Wolf and McFadden finished dinner and came outside to talk poolside. Reggie had joined them briefly before being driven indoors by the hilltop’s chilly night air. Nursing two San Miguels, their faces glowing from the pool’s underwater light, the two friends sipped in silence.
Wolf broke the quiet with his usual bluntness. “Kurskov’s notes tell me we’re looking at a blueprint for a proxy war, Sam. You know I’m right. Look at those funds going for secret militias.”
McFadden shrugged. “Maybe. For the sake of argument, let’s say that what Kurskov showed us last night is true. That would mean these plans were already in the works. If that’s the case, then things over there are going to get a lot worse.”
“It has all the right signs. I know I’m on to something.”
“You’re like a broken record.”
“They don’t make records any more, Sam.”
A short laugh and McFadden turned glum. “You know what I mean. I’m skeptical but I’m open to your arguments. I need to say this: is it possible that Colter brought you in on this as a straw man? You know, wanted to have you be part of this to provide some sort of cover for what he was involved in?”
“No way,” said Wolf. “Colter never would have done that. We were tight, Sam. I’m frankly surprised you asked that question.”
“Had to ask. Just seems odd that you and Colter hadn’t seen each other for a while and then he shows up for this trip to Russia. I wanted to get that out on the table in case someone else asks the same question. Okay, what about a course of action? I’d like us to be on the same page when we’re done talking.” Wolf nodded in agreement.
“All this might explain why somebody in Washington is interested in what you and Colter found. It could prove embarrassing.”
“It’s potentially embarrassing because somebody’s off the reservation and doing this on their own. Maybe some half-assed idea that started out as a drawing on a cocktail napkin…or, it goes even higher up the food chain, maybe the White House.”
“Whoa,” said McFadden, “I don’t think we’re there yet.”
“Point taken. But let’s think about the Russians,” said Wolf. “My guess is both the Kremlin and the mob would like to see those names, find out who’s screwing them out of their money and who’s involved with setting up anti-Russian militias. It’s not only about money…which is considerable.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” answered McFadden. “This lays bare what’s been going on for years. How can Kiev counter this kind of campaign? Hell, they were broke to begin with. The Kremlin yanks the energy chain whenever they want just to keep them in line. Kiev’s been outflanked from the get-go.” He added, “It doesn’t help when some of your own people are in bed with the enemy.”
“Mus
t pay well,” said Wolf. “These Ukrainian guys feather their nests and no one’s the wiser.”
McFadden took a long pull on his bottle. “The facts speak for themselves. Follow that money and you’ll embarrass a lot of people, maybe some of them still in government over there. It’s a list of people on the take. Any words of wisdom?”
“Always. First, my money says most of these scum are probably connected to the mob. Second, they’re likely skimming whatever cash there is and coughing up the rest to their mafiya buddies.”
“And what about our own people?” said McFadden. “Let’s say you’re right. If word got out the White House was setting up a proxy war using confiscated mob money, they’d be on the hot seat.”
“Nobody does this kind of thing without putting up a lot of firewalls.”
“If the media gets hold of this, we’re gonna see a lot of unhappy people in high places,” said Wolf. “Here and in Russia. Though I can’t imagine the Russkis being as embarrassed about it as the West. Plenty to go around when it hits the fan.” He got up to stretch. “Don’t forget, Sam, the person who gave us this book wanted the facts to see the light of day.”
“Define ‘light of day,’” said McFadden.
“The media. The idea was to get this out in the open.”
McFadden straddled his chair, facing Wolf. “You still think that’s wise? You realize what this would do if the public finds out? Kurskov’s right. This kind of news could topple a government…or get people killed.”
“You think I don’t know that? Colter already paid the price.”
“You’re right. But did he agree with you about airing this?”
“That was our plan.”
“You sure about that? Why would he want to do that? I mean, he was working for our side. Blowing this wide open would make the old red, white, and blue look bad.”
Wolf sat down, McFadden’s words in his ears. “Colter said not all proxy wars are created equal. He felt passionate about the prospect of Ukraine being left on its own. He thought it was a lousy idea; thought the West couldn’t be trusted to back Ukraine if their role in this ‘Splendid Little War’ went public. They’ve been hung out to dry before. He thought it was bound to happen again. Colter said the best way to sabotage this was to make sure the public had a right to know.”
“You’re talking whistleblower, Wolfman. I can’t see Colter playing that card. He was a patriot. Wouldn’t this be betraying the country?”
“Betrayal, hell. Aren’t you paying attention? He thought the whole scenario was fucked up after he read the book’s notes about funding guerillas in the eastern part of Ukraine. We’ve all had friends killed in the line of duty, Sam. You of all people know what that’s like. Maybe it was some desk jockey in the West Wing deciding the boys in the Kremlin should pay a price for their land grab. What better way than to fund a campaign in their own backyard? Tapping the Kremlin’s overseas accounts before they figure out what’s happening had a certain appeal to someone with the balls to try it.”
“Kinda far-fetched,” said McFadden. “What kind of resistance could you buy to go up against the Russian steamroller? Ukraine is split along fault lines as it is. Any resistance would be crushed by pro-Russian militias working with Russian troops.”
Wolf scoffed. “Don’t sell short the potential of little men in the woods. Remember how that worked out for Moscow in Chechnya?”
McFadden shot back. “Aside from a few Black Widows blowing themselves up now and then Chechnya’s been pretty quiet.”
“Granted,” said Wolf. “But we weren’t in the business of rerouting mob money to fund jihadi nutcases were we? Ukraine is different. Maybe it’s all about our side keeping the Russians busy. Colter was thinking ahead. Maybe it’s about Ukraine today, Latvia and Estonia tomorrow. Hell, Sam, I don’t know what these pointy heads in Washington are up to and neither do you.” Throwing up his hands, he said, “The one thing I do know is that proxy wars always find a way to come back and bite you in the ass. Getting someone else to fight a war for you is a cheap way of doing things. And using Russian mob money to do it is immoral.”
“The money’s neutral,” said McFadden.
“The hell it is, Sam. It’s dirty cash. And somebody walked off with it.”
“I was thinking more about the problem of all that money floating around out there,” said McFadden. “Let’s say the White House authorized seizing laundered mob funds before they went back to Russia. Where are those dollars? Who’s holding them?”
“Colter was convinced they were being set up to fund a proxy war and someone intercepted them along the line. If it was done on this end, maybe it was the Russian mob operating out of Little Odessa—Brighton Beach.”
“But we don’t know who was orchestrating the siphoning of the cash.”
“The usual suspects. Take your pick. White House, CIA, the Pentagon.”
“We’re talking about tens of millions,” said McFadden. “Can’t be Congress. That place leaks like a sieve. Couldn’t happen without the media knowing.”
“That means it’s probably coming from the top, Sam.”
“That’s your paranoia talking again.”
Wolf downed his beer. “That’s why I’d put it out there. Smoke ’em out. Let the people know what the government’s up to. It might bring the whole scheme to a stop.”
McFadden scoffed. “As if the public gives a rip.”
“But it’s mob money, Sam. It’s the principle.”
“You think the public cares? As long as their sons and daughters aren’t asked to do the fighting they’d be content to let other parties go at it.”
“Hey,” said Wolf, “don’t go all preachy on me.”
“Sorry. I’m just not sure going public is the way to handle this.”
“It’s what Colter wanted.”
“So you say.”
“If he was here, he’d back me up, Sam.”
“So, who gets to tell the story?”
“That’s where you come in. I thought you might know someone we could trust to give this the treatment it deserves.”
“You determined to do it this way?”
“I owe Colter, Sam.”
“Okay, I’ll help. But if it goes south you’re on your own.”
“I think it’s the right thing to do. It may not change the outcome, but it will throw some sand in the machinery for a while. Maybe give some people pause about what they’re doing.”
“You always were an optimist, Wolfman.”
“So…you have someone in mind? Who do you know?”
McFadden said, “There’s this guy, used to be a reporter for the LA Times. Won a Pulitzer chasing dirty cops there but moved on. Met him in the sandbox. Mosul. He humped with us on a couple missions. Kept pace. No whining. Told it straight. Earned the team’s respect.”
“This isn’t about Special Ops, Sam. This is about people’s deep shit and dirty laundry. Politics. Moving money.”
“He’d fit right in. Used to write for the Times when he lived out east. Bonus for you is he’s written a lot about the Russian mob, a lot more than he should have. If you’re determined to do this, he’s your man.”
“Damn. You been holding out on me, Sam? You mingling with the literati? Hanging with the beautiful people in my absence?”
“Not likely. Remember, he only tagged along with me once.”
“What’s this guy doing now?”
“Freelancing. Did some time in Syria. If you’re serious…”
Leaning close to McFadden, Wolf said, “I’m determined.”
“He’s back and forth on both coasts. Has a place near Santa Barbara, I think. I’ll make some calls, track him down.”
“Appreciate it.”
“The White House could make your life miserable.”
“They’re amateurs, Sam. A fresh set every four years.”
“And the mafiya plays for keeps, Wolfman.”
“So do I.”
Chapter 41
Clubbing for Dimitri Ivanov was a means to an end. It had not always been that way. Blinded by Brighton Beach’s nightlife as a young man, Ivanov had plunged into the fleshpots, a different woman—sometimes two—every night. A case of too much, too soon earned Boris Levich’s disapproval. What would have been a fatal misstep for others in Levich’s employ turned out to be a learning experience for Ivanov. The old Russian mobster had apparently seen something in Ivanov worth salvaging. A short-lived, unhappy exile from Levich’s court to the streets and a verbal scourging taught the jaded Ivanov a hard lesson. Though not a monk, he adopted moderation in his vices.
Ivanov’s humbling pleased his patron. Once back in Levich’s good graces, he resumed his career as the godfather’s chosen one. With Ivanov in tow, the old man gave up the club scene for all but the highest level sit-downs. He now trusted his anointed to act in his place. Power was as much about fear and perception as it was about visiting that savagery on enemies or doubters. Violence had its place.
The clubs were now more about being seen. Content to sit back and watch others make fools of themselves, Ivanov paced himself with both the alcohol and the women. As Levich’s feared enforcer, Ivanov was guaranteed the same choice corner booth where he and his crew could watch that particular club’s dance floor. Courted in turn by those seeking a favor or flattered by low-ranking gangsters hoping to be noticed, Ivanov reigned with a nod, a smile, a wink, or a handshake. Having learned the subtle signs at Levich’s elbow, he now acted as the godfather’s eyes and ears. No one’s coming or going escaped his eye. As much an object of curiosity to the club’s glittering crowd as he was feared, Ivanov was young, handsome, and at the top of his game. Only the recently arrived Konstatin Verlov had similar access to Levich’s ear, a nagging mystery to Ivanov.
The Caspian Nights, a nightclub in which Boris Levich owned a controlling interest for his money laundering, drew a mixed crowd—weekend moths drawn to the same flame. Beautiful women, over-sexed male poseurs for whom the word “no” does not exist, ear-pounding music, and bottomless vats of chilled vodka in one hundred flavors. Manhattan millennials seeking cheap thrills rubbed shoulders with real and imagined gangsters. Around this circus mix predatory Russian thugs circled like reef sharks.
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