by J M Dolan
The steak sandwiches arrived with the usual sort over who had ordered what. Once organized, they dug in without interruption to savour the first few bites.
“It’s not bloody likely, that Veronika Koval would be the owner of the unidentified fingerprints at Abi’s. DNA from the blood samples, fingerprints and time of death, all rule her out.” Sam looked over at Jamee. “Where does your theory go from there?”
“Well, I dinna ken,” she affirmed with a rich Scottish brogue. Jamee unconsciously ran her fingers through her hair. A motion, Sam noted she had a habit of doing when she was preoccupied or puzzled. “The rest of my theory gets a little crazier.” Jamee paused to make sure the men were still with her.
“It’s common, according to my research, for sex trade workers to be told that they need to pay back money for their passage and any additional debit they’ve incurred. Frequently, that added debit is for loans they’ve been encouraged to take, enabling them to send money back home to family.
“What if Odessa was here as a sex trade worker in order to pay back borrowed money. She comes to Canada thinking it will be the realization of a better life. Instead fantasyland ends up being Never Neverland. Supplementary to that, the traffickers could be making a little extra on the side by selling the forged visas to a secondary buyer. Veronika Koval was somehow hooked up to that source and used Odessa’s documents to cover a second period of employment in Canada.” Jamee paused at that point. She wasn’t sure that last bit made sense, even to her and, it was her theory. The men were silent. Likely they were trying to make judgment, as to the viability of her scenario.
“What we know,” said Jamee “is that the three women are linked. Kaminski maybe wasn’t part of the plot to forge documents but, and this is a big but, she brought the documents in when she entered as an exotic dancer. Maybe Kaminski wasn’t a victim, but the handler. Kaminski’s exotic dancer gig could be just a front. A convenient ploy, used to get her back and forth with the human merchandise.
“I’ll back you on this,” said Sam, “but it’s a big leap.”
Jamee sent him a grateful look. “What we need is more on Kaminski. All we have is her name on a flight manifest and a copy of her passport. We need to confirm, if she was here three years ago and what her activities were during the time her whereabouts were unknown. Her fingerprints could be the unidentified prints at Abi’s house.”
“Wouldn’t they be running a huge risk bringing Odessa to Canada?” speculated Thomas. “What if she told someone about the Live-In-Caregiver permit? Wouldn’t that blow Veronika Koval’s cover?”
“Greed is a powerful motivator,” Sam observed. “Odessa could tell all to someone back in the Ukraine too, once she realized she’d been duped. Getting her out of the country may have been the best use of their resource. I think the predators would want their money, as well as what they could generate for the visa with the switched identity. One way to do that would be by trafficking Odessa.”
Another thought struck Jamee. “Conceivably, Odessa may have helped to get Veronika Koval to Canada the first time around. Maybe this time Odessa Koval was supposed to be legit, as reward for her past service, and they simply threw her to the wolves. If we look beyond the money, what have we got,” asked Jamee?
“We’ve got a fraudulent immigration consultant agency, fraudulent CIC agents and crooked CBSA officers. That’s a lot of palms to grease,” said Avery, “so the operation would have to be worth a buck or two.”
“I’ve been staying current with CBSA,” said Sam. “It takes a while to go over financial records, but so far, it’s not looking so good for a couple of border services guys working the shifts when the women made Canadian clearance. I haven’t heard anything yet on the investigation of Immigration’s Embassy people. My guess is the bad apples in CIC are likely on foreign soil, someone stationed in the Embassy where the approvals were made. They’ll look for changes in behaviour such as the tone of emails or employees who are flush, that kind of thing. Generally, any extreme changes in conduct. They’ll track them down, but it might take some time,” concluded Sam.
“It’s not always just the money,” stated Thomas quietly. “There’s another reason foreign nationals value coming to Canada on the sly…and that’s spying. There’s a lot more spying going on in this country than government and companies let on. It wouldn’t be good for business for the size of that threat to be widely known. Makes you seem to the rest of the world like an easy target.”
“God, I hate spy cases,” said Jamee. “Run the names through CSIS and they’ll coordinate with Interpol.
“For the heck of it, include Volkov’s. Beastie’s, a right evil bastard and I am sure he’s up to his neck in it. He could be our recruiter in the shadows,” surmised Jamee. She turned to the man beside her.
“Sam, in that initial RCMP report wasn’t a casino chip listed as part of the contents in Odessa Koval’s handbag?”
“That’s correct. Dunbar checked out the chip’s cash-in value to be a thousand dollars, a good sized chunk of pocket money, but not as rare as you might think. Casino’s issue thousand dollar chips on a comparatively regular basis.”
“That chip might just play into the spy theory,” suggested Jamee. “I read somewhere that it’s a common practice, used to get cash into an operative’s hands without creating a paper trail. We might have stumbled onto a foreign intelligence sleeper cell.”
“That’s a jump, putting him in the middle of this,” said Thomas. “But, we haven’t hit it off with the Inspector, that’s for certain, and Volkov’s employers sure aren’t vouching for him.”
“Something definitely stinks because his assignment is bogus,” said Sam. “The obvious answer is a cover up. I think Jamee’s right. He’s lied to us all along. It’s time to throw Volkov under the bus and include him in our criminal investigation.”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” conceded Thomas. “I’ll admit he’s been on the wrong side of the truth.”
Jamee couldn’t stop the smart ass remark, “Gee, could a liar also be a spy?”
“Love the irony,” Sam responded. “I’ll authorize Dunbar to run all names and the DNA and fingerprints from the case through CSIS, after all they’re the spy masters.
“It’s some dance,” said Jamee, “one step forward and two steps back.”
***
Jamee drove, after all, it was her car. When they left Thomas, he was putting together an interim report to update the Minister of Public Safety with cc to the Attorney General. Sam said the forward would save him time on the paper work. Once this was all over, Jamee suspected they’d all be tied to a desk for a while. The final report would be lengthy, if what they suspected were true. Sam had apparently been working on a paper for his Master’s Degree in Criminology. The subject of this case would merit a thesis paper that might actually get published. For her part, she was thinking – some beach, somewhere, once things settled.
Her phone rang, breaking into the music that filled the car’s interior. She glanced to her passenger. He looked relaxed and appeared to be enjoying the ride. “Sam, would you check that message for me?”
Jamee had both hands on the wheel, her head bobbing to the classic rock station she had on preset. Her rich contralto boomed out the chorus with a huskiness that was velvet sex.
“Where’s Suri and Blue Tooth?” he asked.
“Not a fan.” Her reply was short, as Sam reached for the phone and brought the text into view. It was from Franie Le, at CIC. He started to read and then pitched his voice above the music.
“You might want to hear this.”
“Shoot,” said Jamee as she turned down the volume.
“Franie’s, Russian contact got a hit on Veronika Kaminski’s name and some Russian history. It’s an old military record of some sort. Kaminski is referred to as, “The Stone”. Franie’s taken the initiative and forwarded the information from her contact’s email to Thomas Avery. Seems, she’s not far behind us on one thought. She says she’s suggeste
d to Avery to run the name through Interpol. She’s included an FYI from André at CBSA. He’s confirming Kaminski’s plane ticket to Canada was open-jawed.” Sam looked pointedly to Jamee, “And, her travel route originated in St. Petersburg, Russia.
“I’ll venture a guess,” said Jamee, her eyes never leaving the road, “that our next meeting with Thomas is going to deal with the elephant that was in the room earlier today. The spy theory is gaining merit.”
“Aye, with the Russians it always about secrets and abuse,” concurred Sam.
The SUV came up out of nowhere. One minute it wasn’t there, and the next it was way too big a vision, in her rear view mirror. The black monster, tapped her bumper, a maneuver taken at great risk given the speed the two vehicles were traveling.
“What the hell?” Sam cranked his head to look behind them.
“What is it,” Jamee shouted.
“Drive Jamee. Drive”
Jamee accelerated. The threat changed abruptly as the SUV shot out into the passing lane and came up along the driver’s side until it was barely a vehicle width ahead.
Her brain calculated the new danger and as her foot moved off the gas, the SUV cut sharply into her lane.
“Christ, he’s coming at you again.” Sam braced himself for impact.
The brake lights came on; she threw her car into neutral and went for her own brakes. The Mustang bucked like a wild thing as the other vehicle careened towards her driver’s door. She cranked the wheel, but still the SUV made contact, clipping the Mustang’s bumper and sending the car into a skid. The little car fishtailed sharply. Jamee counteracted to keep rubber on the road and prevent a roll. Using speed, she straightened out the front end, but the correction took her onto the shoulder and at the last moment she caught the edge. Still fighting a roll-over and with no choice, Jamee made use of the four on the floor, geared down to reduce speed and took the ditch. Steering as her father had taught her, she went straight in to avoid the flip.
Using the brakes with a lover’s touch, Jamee guided the car to a stop. The Mustang sidestepped it all the way down the deep ditch, but thankfully came to rest on all four wheels.
“H-o-l-y c-r-a-p.” Jamee’s words came out stuttered and breathless.
She put the gearshift into park before clutching the steering wheel with both hands to control their trembling. She turned to look at Sam and let out a shaky breath.
“You alright?” Concern laced every syllable. There was no sign of the other vehicle now.
“I’m fine. Are you?” Sam unhooked his seatbelt, reached over to undo hers and gathered her to him. “Way to go, Mario,” he smiled warmly. “Nice bit of driving.”
She was concentrating on keeping her breathing slow and even. She let out a shaky breath. “I feel like God, just gave me a slap on the back of the head – smart’n up.” Her heart rate was beginning to return to normal. “Bloody Effen Hell, what was that about?”
“Volkov,” Sam, snapped out the name. “I think that was Volkov driving the SUV.”
Sam got out his phone to report the hit and run and text RCMP Dunbar. “We need more than Interpol. I’m sending the team back in,” he said to Jamee. “And this time, I’m including a vehicle search of your Mustang and my BMW.”
“What will they be looking for?” she asked.
“Bugs, sweetheart — bugs” was Sam’s terse reply.
Chapter Seventeen
Aleksey Volkov called for a taxi to pick him up from behind the car rental building and deliver him to his four-star hotel. From there he would walk to a predetermined location where a vehicle would be waiting for him. Meeting with his associate to discuss some unpleasant business was on top of the agenda. He’d been living a life of entitlement and he didn’t plan to let that change even if it meant stepping into the gutter.
Volkov laid out the pictures on the coffee table of the low budget hotel. They were copies he’d taken on the sly from Craig’s originals. Technology today was impressive. The most mundane of objects could be a camera.
He studied the angles, and wondered for the hundredth time how the woman ended up dead on a concrete sidewalk. The gruesome pictures were part of the proof he intended to present to the men he answered to. But, they didn’t go nearly far enough. With Veronika dead, the operation was in crisis. He’d have to offer up a valid explanation to cover the situation, and quick action to resolve the problems her death created. His loyalty was about to be tested and that took him back to the beginning.
Veronika was a skank when he found her. Eighteen and beautiful, a consummate actress, living on the streets of St. Petersburg, doing whatever it took to survive. He’d recruited her and brought her to Moscow to begin her education with a specific purpose in mind.
Now, everything was unravelling. Veronika, a.k.a Koval was dead. Dead, dead, the Stone was buried and dead. It sounded like a children’s rhyme. He hadn’t cared for her, but he’d needed and used her. He had other assets, but Veronika had been one of his best. She’d had a knack for recognizing hard intelligence, and those talents were a big part of his present success. She would be hard to replace.
The woman, who had become The Stone, grew up a single child in a dysfunctional family. He’d bet his bottom dollar that what got her killed was her need to control everything and her Narcissistic ego.
Damn her. Why didn’t he ask to see proof of death right from the start? Craig’s pictures would have told him it was Veronika who was dead. With that information, he might have redirected the investigation away from sensitive matters.
The Canadians had determined the dead woman wasn’t Odessa Koval. Who the hell was putting this all together for them? How in the world did they clue into fingerprinting and DNA tests? His gut told him Blair was the lynch pin. Now, Interpol’s involvement was a viable threat. It was one Volkov didn’t know how to squelch. The whole thing was a God damn nightmare.
Sobs filtered through from a room down the hall. That was a good sign. He’d brought in a few new women, to entertain his associate and keep the mood light. Mstislav always preferred if they cried and begged. It put him in a good mood.
He was hoping to mitigate Mstislav’s displeasure. Behind that displeasure was a violent temper which could explode. Roar and rage was something Mstislav was infamous for, and it usually ended in pain or death. Volkov was confident he could escape unscathed, but his associate was going to be infuriated with the news of Veronika’s death and Odessa’s disappearance.
He had given some thought to using prepubescent girls and boys to seal the deal, but he didn’t trade in children. Not that morals held him back, children were just too much trouble, despite the undeniable profit. Women, and an occasional man, were his bread and butter and, a safer commodity. Human trafficking was just one component of the operation, corruption, money laundering, extortion, fraud, and abduction rounded out the balance. Russia was ripe for criminal operations and he could add drug trafficking, black marketeering, murder for hire, arms trafficking and the export of contraband and smuggling to the list.
Mstislav was a human trafficker and Volkov’s business dealings with the man were two fold. He piggy-backed Mstislav’s operation in order to get his spy operatives into Canada as exotic dancers. In and out, on the quick was the rule. Veronika had been the exception. He’d used Veronika as a mule to occasionally deliver women to Mstislav. Supplying fresh meat added some coin to Volkov’s pocket.
Coming up with the immigration placement agency had been a gold mine. Both his bank account and ascent up the political ladder were growing. Getting value for the money he’d invested in Veronika had become a problem. The live-in-caregiver switch was brilliant. Even the benefit of simply acquiring legal documents such as passports, driver’s licences and education documents could be used as a basis for future forgeries. Yes, using Odessa had been a brilliant scheme. Using a Russian immigration consulting firm as a front gave him a natural capacity to find short-term spies suitable for their spy operation, and human trafficking made up a
profitable side business.
The sobs from the bedroom changed to passive moans and whimpers. Volkov was aware of Mstislav’s goons outside the hotel suite, lounging patiently in the hallway awaiting their master. They were morons with over-sized muscles and gonad-sized brains. Capable of only taking orders, it made them a dispensable commodity but he was nervous about their presence. He didn’t like the attention they might attract from other guests.
Mstislav choose that moment to come down the hall still fumbling with his zipper.
“Don’t worry Alek, one’s a simpering mess, but the other’s got some miles on her yet. You can throw them to the stable, make a few bucks, yeh.”
The man was disgusting. With his hand still at his crotch adjusting and scratching, Mstislav moved into the room.
“So where’s the new woman The Stone was to deliver. Stone’s a few days late, Comrade. Don’t think that little treat you brought me will save you from penalty. Time is money, you know,” the Slav warned. His face was jowly with little piggy-eyes sunk under a protruding brow. His oversized torso looked chunky and stout, short legs didn’t serve to enhance the picture any. But many a man had underestimated Mstislav’s orangutan strength.
“Why, you here anyway?” he bitched. Sparing Volkov a glance, he jerked open the room’s mini bar and grabbed a pint-sized bottle of liquor. He knocked it back like a shooter.
“Field work’s not your usual gig. Must be quite the sacrifice to be away from the fold.” A sneer twisted Mstislav’s features. “What, got caught humping the dog. It must have been some rodeo to pull you away from your cushy office. I hear all you boys in Kiev have lavish digs.”
