City of Exiles (9781101607596)

by Nevala-lee, Alec

  He slid the pistol into his belt, then reached down for a second, bulkier bag, which he lifted out of the container. Removing the polyethylene, he found a composite Remington shotgun that held six rounds. He checked it carefully, and found that it, too, was in good working order.

  Karvonen slung the shotgun over his shoulder and rapidly went through the rest of the cache’s contents, which consisted of ammunition, a holster for the pistol, and spare clips. A can of methyl chloroform for degreasing the guns sat at the bottom, among a few scattered packets of silica gel.

  After clearing out the cache, Karvonen cleaned up the site, tossing his tools into the vacant box, along with the explosive charge. Sliding the lid back into place, he locked it again, then loaded the equipment he had retrieved, including the shotgun, into the canvas bag. The pistol he left in his belt.

  Around him, the woods had grown darker. Taking the shovel, he tossed the glass jar and pipe into the hole again, then filled it in, tamping down the dirt with care. He dragged a few dead branches over the spot, taking a step back to consider it. Finally he flung the shovel into the underbrush, put on his coat, picked up the bag, and went back the way he had come.

  It took him only a few minutes to return to his car. Karvonen unlocked the trunk and carefully put the canvas bag, as well as the pistol, in the space beneath the spare tire. He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and began the long drive back to the city. To his right, the sun was going down.

  29

  On the wall above the desk, there was a map of Napoleon’s retreat from Russia. It began with a fat line representing four hundred thousand soldiers marching out from the Neman River. As the line went east, it diminished, until only a hundred thousand men arrived at Moscow. Then, on its way back, it dwindled further, until finally, when it returned to its starting point, fewer than ten thousand remained.

  It was a famously remorseless image, and Powell knew it well. Studying the version above the desk of Howard Archer, founder of the Cheshire Group, however, he noticed a small but telling difference. In front of all the numbers on the map, someone had drawn a dollar sign.

  Archer looked wistfully at the map. He was a small, tidy man whose demeanor had grown even more subdued in the aftermath of Morley’s death. “The map tells most of the story. Until recently we were one of the largest foreign portfolio investors in Russia. The idea was to invest the fund in public companies, then conduct our own investigations to uncover inefficiency and corruption. If the government took steps to address these issues, the share price went up, benefiting everyone involved. That’s the theory behind activist investing, anyway.”

  Powell saw an ironic gleam in the fund manager’s eyes. “And how did it work out?”

  “Rather well, for a while. At first Putin was on our side. We were fighting the same thing, oligarchs who were buying up state companies and channeling funds into their own pockets. Then, five years ago, everything changed.”

  “I’ve read something about this,” Powell said. “You were detained at the airport?”

  Archer nodded. “I was flying back to Moscow, where I had been living for more than a decade, when I was told that I could no longer enter the country. I was held for a day, then sent back to London, under the pretense that I was a threat to state security. I’ve been banished ever since.”

  “Along with Morley, I hear. And what was it that caused such a sudden change?”

  “The short answer? Gaztek. The most powerful natural gas company in the world, and the largest company of any kind in Russia. Five years ago, it was put under state control, meaning that the government stood to benefit from the same internal corruption we had been trying to fight. Suddenly our presence in Russia became very inconvenient. In the end, our offices in Moscow were raided, and the men behind it secured a massive payoff from the Russian government.”

  “So one part of the state was stealing from another,” Powell said, knowing that such transfers of wealth were not unusual. “And when your lawyers contested this, they were arrested?”

  “Only one. The rest were smart enough to leave the country. The one who remained was thrown into prison, where he was beaten and denied medical attention. Six months later, he was dead.” Archer smiled grimly. “If you want to understand Morley, you need to begin there. He was furious about it. I was aware of this, but I hoped he would channel this rage into his work.”

  Powell looked down at the file in his hands. On the first page was attached a snapshot of the painting in Morley’s office, the fund manager’s face spattered with orange and red. “So what did his work involve?”

  “Most recently, he had been focusing on Gaztek’s upcoming move into Spain. Gaztek supplies a quarter of Europe’s natural gas, but it has never been able to penetrate Spain or Portugal. It recently began drilling for gas in Algeria, which would allow it to enter this last region, completing its stranglehold on the continent. Morley was watching this development closely.”

  Powell wrote this down. “And what was it about this move that concerned you?”

  “It should concern all Europeans,” Archer said simply. “Gaztek isn’t interested in earning a profit for its shareholders, but in furthering the goals of Russian foreign policy. It cut gas supplies in Ukraine after the Orange Revolution, and nearly did the same in Belarus. And it could easily apply such pressure to the rest of Europe. If it were to cut off gas in the winter, half the continent would freeze to death. This is our greatest vulnerability in the area of national security.”

  Powell sensed that this was a speech that Archer had given many times before. “So if Gaztek enters Spain, its control over the continental gas supply will be complete. And Morley was trying to keep them out?”

  “Not exactly,” Archer said. “It’s too late for that. But we can do our best to hold back the mechanisms of corruption. You see, the major pipelines run through what we like to call the New Silk Route, a criminal highway for arms, drugs, cash. To protect its investments, Gaztek needs to reach an accommodation with various unsavory elements. They subsidize gas for the Transnistrian government, for instance, to the tune of fifty million dollars a year. It’s the price of operation.”

  Powell studied the map. “So at the top of the chain, you have Gaztek. At the bottom, you have criminals who allow it to operate in the worst parts of the world. And to connect those two levels—”

  “—you need an intermediary,” Archer concluded. “Which is Russian intelligence. Wherever there’s money to be made, you’ll find them. They take over operations on the ground and siphon off hundreds of millions of dollars. In return, they provide the crucial link between the politicians at the top and the criminals at the bottom. As a result, Gaztek becomes a state unto itself. To protect the pipelines, they can even raise their own military forces.”

  As Powell listened, he found himself wondering whether he had entered the wrong line of work. He had spent most of his life pursuing such connections in law enforcement, but they could also be followed in the financial markets, where, as in forensics, every contact left a trace. “And what was Morley doing about this?”

  “Our assumption is that we can undermine the top of the pyramid by knocking out the foundations. By tracking where the money is really going, we create a climate of transparency that will make it less practical to use the energy supply for political ends. That’s what Morley was working on.”

  “I see,” Powell said. “Is that why you had a former intelligence officer on your staff?”

  Archer hesitated. For the first time, Powell saw something like wariness in the fund manager’s eyes. “How did you know?”

  “It wasn’t hard. Levchenko’s résumé says he worked for years as a diplomatic translator. To me, that sounds like Dignity and Honor.”

  After another pause, Archer nodded. “Yes. Levchenko had been with us for years, as a security consultant. If you look at other Russ
ia funds, you’ll see similar men on the payroll. But I have no reason to believe he was doing anything illegal.” He glanced at the clock. “Unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend. We can resume this conversation later. In the meantime—”

  “I’ll be in touch.” Powell closed his file and notepad, then thought of something else. “One last question. Did Morley or Levchenko ever mention something called the Dyatlov Pass?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Archer said. “I can check our records, if you like. What is it?”

  Rising from his chair, Powell shook the fund manager’s hand. “A ghost story. Thank you again for your time.”

  Powell left the office. For his own part, he suspected that the simplest explanation for Morley’s last words was that they meant precisely nothing. From his own father’s illness, he knew that a man could say anything once his mind was gone. In any case, how a man died was rarely as interesting as how he had lived, and Morley’s activities had been instructive indeed.

  Passing the secretary at the front desk, he thanked her, then took the lift down to the lobby. He was heading out to Golden Square, his mind already turning to his next move, when the phone in his pocket rang. Pulling it out, he saw an unregistered number on the display. “Hello?”

  “I see that you’ve met Howard Archer,” a man’s voice said on the other end. “Did he have anything useful to say?”

  Hearing this, Powell took a step back, scanning his surroundings. A handful of people were visible in the park, none looking his way, but he sensed that he was being watched. He thought he recognized the voice on the phone, but wasn’t sure from where. “Who is this?”

  “Only someone who wants to help,” the man said. “My name is Victor Chigorin.”

  30

  Begin with the cell. It measured three paces by five, the walls painted a dirty green. There was a single bed, a table, a chair. Against one wall sat a steel washbasin and toilet; on the other, a cupboard with two narrow shelves. Beside the cupboard was a window equipped with four iron bars. Through the window one could see only the brick of the opposite block, without a trace of sky.

  Across from the window stood the door to the cell, which was made of heavy steel. Its only opening was a Judas hole the size of a large letter box, through which a passing guard would occasionally peer. There was no handle on this side of the door, which was scratched and pitted with layers of graffiti. And that, really, was it, as Ilya had confirmed more than once to his satisfaction.

  At the moment, he was shaving. Because the sink lacked a proper plug, he had filled a plastic soup bowl with warm water from the tap, and was using this as a basin. Shortly after his arrival, he had been issued a shaving brush, a cake of soap, and a safety razor. Belmarsh was obliged to provide its inmates with razors, allowing them to maintain a decent appearance, although prisoners were required to hand over the used blade each night before receiving a new one.

  Above the sink, a steel mirror, about four inches across, was bolted to the wall. As he lathered up, describing tight circles in the cake of soap with the brush, he reviewed the events of the past day. He had spent the night in the medical ward, in a cell that lacked a flush toilet. Every hour the lights would stutter on in their overhead cage and the Judas hole would slide back, so that the guard on duty could make sure that he hadn’t killed himself. The following morning, he had been moved to the induction block, which was where he was currently residing.

  He finished lathering his face, then carefully began to shave, the razor leaving a clean stripe of pale skin with every pass. On the table next to the sink stood the remains of his breakfast, consisting of a wedge of stale bread and an egg. The breakfast had been given to him in a bag the night before, along with his supper. Ilya had wanted to avoid the food, but forced himself to chew and swallow it, sticking to the vegetables and potatoes and steering clear of the meat.

  Finishing his shave, he rinsed off the razor and brush and splashed water from the tap on his face. He was drying himself off when a bell rang outside. After hanging his towel on the edge of the sink, he pulled on his shoes, then waited until his door was unbolted for the morning’s exercise.

  When the door swung open, he joined a line of other prisoners from his spur, where he was given a body search by the nearest guard on duty. Then he marched with the other inmates down three flights of steps to the exercise yard. He was very aware of their eyes on his face. For a man accustomed to invisibility, this endless scrutiny had been the hardest part about his new situation.

  Outside, in the yard, it was easy to wonder if the destination had been worth the trouble. It was enclosed by a wire fence, a furlong on each side, with a tired lawn in the center. The sky above was like the inside of a skull. All the same, it was his first taste of natural light in almost a day, so he lifted his eyes to it, blinking, like a nocturnal animal brought into the sunshine.

  For fifteen minutes, he made a solitary circuit of the yard. Then he noticed that another prisoner was coming his way. This inmate was a few years younger than he was, with crooked teeth and a broken nose, and as the man drew closer, Ilya found that he recognized him. Removing his hands from his pockets, he glanced over at the guards by the gate, who did not seem to be looking in his direction, and wondered whether the crucial moment had already come.

  As the inmate continued to approach, Ilya braced himself, then saw the other man halt a few steps away. The prisoner gave a quick bob of his head. “Now, then. You remember me, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Ilya said, relaxing only slightly. “Grisha. How are you doing?”

  Grisha offered up a barely perceptible shrug. The last time Ilya had seen him, years ago, he had been an obliging crook and identity thief, attaching skimmers to convenience store cash registers to snare credit card information. “Six months of porridge. Shit and a shave, really.”

  He fished out a pack of cigarettes, extending one, which Ilya declined with a shake of the head. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” Grisha said, igniting his own cigarette with a snap of the lighter. “Just a friendly chat. Heard about you getting nicked in Kensington, after all those years on the run, and for nothing. Bloody shame, innit?” He blew smoke through his broken nose. “As long as you’re here, though, you have some friends who want to reconnect. One in particular would like a word.”

  Grisha motioned with his cigarette toward the fence, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Following his gesture, Ilya found that he could see into the exercise yard of the adjacent block, which was separated from this yard by a second fence and thirty feet of concrete. Standing behind the fence in the other yard was a group of five inmates, all of them looking in his direction. An old man, bundled up warmly, stood at the center. It was Vasylenko.

  Ilya felt himself slip, inexorably, into the moment he had been anticipating ever since his arrival. Without looking away from the vor, he spoke to Grisha. “What does he want with me?”

  “Just a word or two,” Grisha said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Come on, then.”

  He headed for the fence. After a pause, Ilya followed. He tried to retain something of his usual impassivity, but found that it was already gone, and that memories he had long repressed were swiftly crowding in.

  It was only twenty paces to the edge of the yard, but the walk seemed to take a very long time. When they arrived, Grisha stood aside, his purpose fulfilled, and turned discreetly away.

  Ilya looked through the fence at the old man on the other side. With only ten yards between them, it was the closest they had been in many years. Vasylenko had aged in the interim, his hair whiter than before, but his face had not changed. For a second, Ilya felt himself back in Vladimir, barely more than a boy. Then his vision cleared, he came back to himself, and he remembered that this was the man who had ordered the death of his parents.

  Vasylenko spoke first, in Russian, his voice carryin
g with surprising ease across the intervening space. “It has been a long time, Ilyushka.”

  Hearing these words, Ilya thought back to their last conversation, over the phone in a house on Long Island, an ocean and lifetime away. He had to raise his voice to be heard. “A very long time.”

  “It must come as a shock to find yourself behind these walls,” Vasylenko said. “I did not expect to see you again, at least not in such a place as this. How have you been managing?”

  Ilya sensed the vor circling around the real subject, perhaps because of his men, who were listening closely. The inmates ranged in age from their early twenties to over fifty, and while the older ones had visible tattoos, the youngest, he noticed, did not. “Well enough. And you?”

  Vasylenko smiled. “I am an old man. And I have grown older. They say that I am going to die here, although I have no intention of proving them right.” He paused. “I was sorry to hear about Marbella. You may not believe me when I say this, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know,” Ilya said. “He had a white tattoo, not a blue one. An eagle. And I know that you no longer have any power there.”

  He could see the other men react unfavorably. For the first time, Vasylenko’s voice hardened. “It has been a trying time for the brotherhood. But I am not so weak here. You would do well to remember this.”

  Ilya heard the hint of a threat in the old man’s tone, which seemed unnecessary. He wanted to ask Vasylenko if his men knew that he had worked for the Chekists. Before he could speak again, however, a bell rang, indicating that exercise period was over. From his side of the fence, he watched as Vasylenko held his gaze for another moment, then turned away with the others. The last man to depart, a pockmarked inmate of thirty or so, spat thoughtfully on the ground before he left.