Twisted Traffick

by Geza Tatrallyay

  “God,” Greg heard his wife say. “I can’t believe what happened there. I am sorry. I was so angry. But he--he had it coming to him.”

  Greg embraced her. “It’s okay, my love. He did deserve it, that’s for sure.”

  “You did good, Anne,” Labrecque said. “That man was the worst. Someone had to put an end to his depravity. The preying on young women.”

  “Do you think they were making another tape to use with Nadia’s father?” Greg, who had been thinking, changed the subject. “Or maybe even to blackmail the families of some of the other girls?”

  “Hmm. Good point, Greg,” Anne said. “Didn’t one of these teenagers--yes, I think it was Nadia’s friend, Sasha--say that Polyakov had mentioned that they needed to teach Nadia’s father a lesson, so that Brother Peter could get the HEU more quickly? That would certainly point to some intent behind--at the very least--this last video.”

  “Well, so much the better then that we nipped whatever they were up to in the bud,” Labrecque said. “The truth is, they could very well have gotten away with it this time. Another heist, I mean.”

  “Yeah, with security as lax as it is there at Mayak, no doubt, eventually they are likely to succeed,” Greg said. “Despite Interpol’s and the IAEA’s best efforts.”

  “We will put these crooks away for good,” Szekely joined in. “Don’t you worry.”

  “Yes, but the ringleader is still out there. And he knows how to reorganize.” Anne, too, was more pessimistic than her former colleagues. “Polyakov. He is the worst of the lot.” And then she added with a frown, “And don’t I know it.”

  “Those fanatical Sons of Jesus are still out there, too. That Brother Peter and his gang. As are other terrorist groups, of course,” Greg continued. “So if these guys do manage to pull off another heist, the threat of a major nuclear terrorist attack is still very real.”

  “Well, let’s make sure we have all these videos as evidence,” Radomir said. “I will take them with me and make sure they are not tampered with. You never know how far Brankovic’s corrupt power reaches.”

  “You know, I was just wondering,” Greg would not let up. “Do you think Polyakov might have had a camera filming what was going on up here at the same time? Here in the lounge? As in the bedrooms? If he did, we would know what went on between him and Billy--Brother Peter, I mean.”

  “Interesting idea, Greg,” Labrecque said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “We will check right away,” Radomir said, signaling to one of the two local policemen who had followed them into the lounge, then giving orders to him in Montenegrin.

  Within moments, the officer had brought up the ladder and was checking first along the recessed lighting above the bar, where Greg conceded would have been the best place to locate such a video camera. Indeed, it did not take the man more than a few minutes to find the equipment and another several to dismantle and bring it down.

  “Good work,” Radomir said, connecting the USB cable to it. “All right. Let’s see what this item produces.”

  “Could be interesting,” Labrecque said. “A discussion between the chief merchant of evil and the terrorist wanting to buy what he claims he has to sell. Or something like that.”

  “Okay, I’m ready,” Anne said, sitting back in an armchair as the picture came on.

  ***

  “Look,” Polyakov was saying, as he took a sip of his champagne. “The deal is the same as before. Exactly the same as what you guys paid for the other half. Fifty pounds of HEU for twenty-five million dollars.”

  “We’re okay with that,” Billy Crawford acquiesced. “But where is the pickup? Where will you deliver the stuff to? That, as you know, has now become very important.”

  “Sure.”

  “The last time, in Poti, we could only get half of what we had contracted for because Interpol and the Georgians found out about the exchange. You had to return the twenty-five million to Khalid, if I remember correctly, and we think that Interpol agent--Anne, whatever the fuck her name is, and her asshole of a husband got their hands on the twenty-five mil I transferred to Kallay. That could have been yours. Not even mentioning the many men, both on your side and ours, who lost their lives. We don’t want another cock up like that, Sergei, that’s for sure.”

  Greg had trouble getting over the gall of the man, ever since his brazen appearance in Vienna.

  “Okay, okay. Not Georgia, like the last time. Yeah, that was definitely problematic.”

  They could see on the video that Polyakov was thinking fast, as he stood up and paced in front of the bar.

  “And that would have only been the start of our problems,” the American said. “We would still have had to get the stuff to where we wanted to use it.”

  “How about Chechnya? Or here? We could do it here, in Porto Montenegro.”

  “Not good enough,” Brother Peter answered. “As I said, it is too dangerous for me to get nuclear material from here to where I want it.”

  “And where is that? Need I ask?”

  “In the US. And you know that, Sergei, so stop playing games.”

  “You’re crazy. Are you saying that you want us to get the HEU to you in America?”

  “Yes. And we would be willing to pay for it, if you do. How about it?”

  “What are you talking about? How much more?” Polyakov touched his hand to his chin, tempted and obviously reflecting.

  “We’ll give you another ten mil--how’s that, my friend? If you deliver in the United States.”

  “Where in the US do you want the stuff delivered?”

  “Anywhere in the Northeast--as I said, an extra ten million if we get it there. Plus, for that price, you need to help me get the fifty pounds I already have from the last time there as well.”

  “Holy shit! Aren’t we being demanding.”

  “Ten million dollars is a lot of money. Total of thirty-five, in your bank account. No questions asked. Half when you show me that you have the stuff, the other half after successful delivery.”

  “Well, let me think about it.”

  “No dice. You commit now, my friend, or I go to the Iranians. They would do it for far less, I am sure. They’re desperate for the money.”

  Polyakov thought another moment. “Okay, Brother Peter. You are insistent. You have a deal.”

  “And, what’s more, just to seal the transaction,” Billy Crawford said, seemingly certain that he had the upper hand, as he offered his palm for the arms merchant to shake. “I want that little Russian sweetheart thrown in. The one I chose, who’s waiting for me downstairs. Plus the other one you claim you need to help you get the stuff out...from wherever. Afterward, of course.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Or merchandise of similar quality,” the deputy of the Sons of Jesus terrorists said with a little laugh.

  The viewers of the video could see on his face that he knew he had driven the better deal. But Greg wondered whether his last request had in fact been for real. It seemed to be mere icing on the cake, and he thought it would be unlikely that the American terrorist would hold the Russian arms merchant to it. That is if he got his HEU.

  But he couldn’t be sure. Billy Crawford had always been a strange one.

  Chapter 32

  Greg and Anne were waiting in the lobby, while Radomir, Labrecque, and Szekely were going through the formalities with the hotel manager to have Polyakov’s penthouse suite opened up for them, when Greg spotted Julia coming in through the glass doors of the hotel.

  “Julia!” he shouted, going over toward her. “Come, we’re over here.”

  After hugs and greetings, their Russian friend quickly told them about her success at foiling the heist attempt at Mayak, and they brought her up to speed on where matters stood in Porto Montenegro.

  “Boy, you have been busy!” Julia said. “Too bad Polyakov and that Brother Peter got away again. But how are Nadia and the other girls?”

  “We just checked on them,”
Greg said. “They are resting up here in the hotel for now, and are just grateful to have their ordeal over with.”

  “We’ll have to figure out how to get them back to Ozersk,” Anne said, “but we first want to be present when the police tackle Polyakov’s place here. Apparently, he owns one of the two penthouse suites, and my former Interpol colleagues are just seeing the manager with the warrant to search it.”

  “Great, so I got back just in time for that.” Julia seemed pleased.

  “Here, why don’t I come up with you and you can drop your things in our room for the time being?” Anne said, grabbing the handle of her friend’s wheeled carry on suitcase. “Until we figure out what happens next. Plus, I am sure you would probably like to freshen up a bit after your trip.”

  “Thanks. That would be nice.”

  “I’ll tell them to send someone for you,” Greg said. “To make sure you can get in up there. Through all the security. Fifteen minutes?”

  ***

  Greg was overwhelmed by the opulence of Polyakov’s penthouse suite. Exquisitely furnished, the views were magnificent from anywhere in the living or dining rooms, both of which opened onto a wrap-around terrace, as did all three bedrooms and the study.

  After quickly checking the other rooms, they concentrated their search on the study and the master bedroom. The Interpol agents did not hesitate in seizing the iMacPro and the iPad on the desk, Labrecque commenting that, “We will have our experts tackle these back in Vienna where we have more resources. I am sure that we will find a lot of incriminating evidence on them.”

  Greg was looking through the drawers of the desk, when he heard a shout in what, he assumed, was Montenegrin, and, within moments, Radomir appeared in the doorway. “It seems that an officer has found a safe built into the wall behind one of the pictures in the master.”

  “Excellent! No doubt we’ll find some interesting material there,” Labrecque said, looking over from his task of checking through a closet.

  “Fortunately, one of the policemen we have with us is a specialist safecracker, so with some luck, it won’t be impossible for us to open it,” Radomir continued. “But it could take a while.”

  “That’s at least something,” Anne said, looking at Greg. “Because apart from what might be on the laptop ant the iPad, there doesn’t seem to be a lot here.”

  They all followed the Montenegrin agent into the master and watched as the expert cut away the wall on the side of the safe.

  Radomir had no doubt seen this before. “I’ll have them call us when they’ve broken through. I see what he is trying to do--first he drills a small hole on the side of the safe, then he will insert a bore and scope the change keyhole, allowing him to get at the combination. This is what you need to do with such hi-tech safes that have manipulation proof locks and glass re-lockers. We may as well relax and have a drink on the terrace, courtesy of our Russian friend while we wait for results.”

  They made their way into the living room, where Labrecque went behind the well-stocked bar. Addressing Anne and Julia, he asked, “What would you ladies like? Let’s see if there is any champagne in the fridge here to celebrate our success, freeing those girls and capturing all those criminals. Yes, something sparkling would go down well right now, before lunch.” The Frenchman opened the refrigerator and saw that it was full of bottles of champagne, white wine and rose, exotic beers, and vodkas, as well as mixers of all sorts. He leaned down and pulled out a magnum of Roederer Cristal 2004. “Well, well. I haven’t had one of these for quite a few years.” And he started pulling out flûtes from the glass cabinets and pouring the golden drink into them.

  They enjoyed the bubbly on the terrace with a view over the marina and looking out into the bay. After a toast to their success, talk turned to anything but the case at hand. They all relished the chance to dip back into normalcy, away from the depravity and sordidness of this human trafficking and arms trading affair they were trying to untangle.

  “I am worried sick about my mother,” Julia said. “I hate to leave her even to go to the office, and now it has been more than a week since I’ve seen her.”

  “She seemed to be holding up well when we left her in Vienna,” Anne tried to reassure her. “Her main concern was for you.”

  “Well, I need to call her as soon as we finish here.”

  “Of course.”

  Just then, a policeman came over and said something to Radomir, who got up, announcing to the others, “He’s through. We’re about to open the safe. Let’s go in there and see.”

  They all piled in the master suite, as the dusty officer who had stripped down to his T-shirt to cut through the wall and penetrate the safe, waited for Radomir to give the okay.

  When the Interpol agent nodded at him, he started turning the dial on the front of the metal box, and, after a couple of changes in direction, the door popped open as if by magic. The safecracker policeman turned to them with a smile, saying something in the local language which Greg surmised must have meant something like “All yours,” because Radomir went up to the safe and pushed the door open, allowing everyone to peer inside.

  The Montenegrin agent started pulling papers out, as well as stacks and stacks of dollars and euros, passports from different countries--no doubt fake--along with several sets of keys and three chamois bags, all of which he placed on the bed. Lastly, from way in the back, he extracted a somewhat weathered looking cardboard container marked with printed red Cyrillic letters, and tied closed with string.

  “That says, ‘Top Secret’ on it!” Julia was the first one to focus on the old box, as the others were mesmerized by the hundred or so diamonds Radomir was pouring out of the first little sack onto the bed cover. “It looks very official.”

  Szekely stared in stunned disbelief. “God! Those must be worth many millions.”

  “What would a carton marked ‘Top Secret’ be doing in the hands of Polyakov, the arms merchant?” Greg was intrigued more by the tarnished old box than the plethora of diamonds. “Wow, it looks like it’s from another era.”

  “I’ve seen this before--or something like it,” Julia said, obviously racking her brains, as Radomir undid the string that tied the second bag, pouring more diamonds onto the bed. She, too, refused to let the jewels distract her.

  But Anne asked, “Do we think these are blood diamonds?”

  “They could be from Yakutia. In Siberia,” Szekely opined. “They mine diamonds there too.”

  “Let’s take a look at what’s in the box,” Anne said, picking it up from the bed. “Julia, you are the only native Russian speaker here. So come, you should be the one who looks through this. That is, if you agree, Radomir, George, and Nicholas.” She remembered that she was no longer with Interpol, and the men were officially in charge.

  “Of course, that makes sense,” Labrecque agreed. “We’ll peruse these other papers meanwhile. Most seem to be in English. They seem more recent, too. And probably more relevant as evidence. And we also need to do another more thorough search of the rest of the apartment.”

  “Anne, actually, let’s take the box over to the study,” Greg said. “Where we can all sit down, and Julia can take a proper look at what’s in there.”

  ***

  Anne put the carton down on the desk and undid the string, then stepped aside to let Julia open it. The Russian girl took the lid off gingerly. Inside, there was a stack of browning and fading documents, letters, and files. She picked up the first one, then turned pale and immediately sat down, the hand holding the piece of paper trembling. “Oh God! This is the certificate confirming my Aunt Katerina’s handover to officials at Camp Zone Number Three at the Chelyablag Gulag.” And then handing it to Anne, she looked up. “Now I know where I have seen this type of box before. At the GARF--the official Archives of the Russian Federation in Moscow. That’s where all the gulag documents are supposed to be kept. I told you the ones for Chelyablag were all missing when I went there.”

  “Amazing. Somehow Polyakov
got his hands on these,” Greg said. “But how? And why?”

  “No wonder I couldn’t find anything on Katerina in Moscow!”

  “Never mind for now. It doesn’t matter how this crook got these files. Let’s see what else is in the box. Maybe that will give us some clues.” Anne raised her hand. “But hold on a second,” she added enthusiastically. “Julia, can you read this signature? Here at the bottom.”

  Julia took the tattered piece of paper back from her friend and looked at it closely.

  “‘Aleksandr Ivanovich--’ No it can’t be! But yes, it says ‘Polyakov.’”

  “Holy shit!” Greg exclaimed. “Whoever’s signature that is, must be related to our friend here.”

  “What does the rest of the paper say?” Anne asked.

  “It says ‘This is to confirm that Katerina Efimovna Pleshkova was admitted to Camp Zone Number Three at the Chelyablag Gulag for incarceration for a period of XXX years commencing on the date below. Signed Aleksandr Ivanovich Polyakov, Commander. Dated September 17, 1950.’” Julia displayed no emotion as she was reading this. “The ‘XXX’ must mean she was to be in there indefinitely,” she added in a hoarse whisper.

  “So we know now that Lenkov handed Katerina--who, by the way, we think was pregnant, probably with Beria’s child--over to an Aleksandr Polyakov, who was Commander of Camp Zone Number Three at the Chelyablag Gulag,” Greg summarized as dispassionately as he could. “Let’s see what else we can find out.”

  Julia took the next piece of paper out of the box. It was lined, and obviously torn from a notebook, with both sides filled with writing in a very small hand. She turned it over and searched at the bottom for a signature.

  “A letter from my Aunt Katerina!” Turning it back over, she added, “To her parents, Efim and Ludmilla.”