by Greg Wilson
One of the four walls was lined with bookcases, another crammed with cabinets and shelves. The third, behind her father’s desk, was a complete counterpoint. Technology Central. An entire wall of gleaming steel racks filled with video monitors and control panels and television screens and a whole raft of other gizmos Kelly assumed were the current adult equivalent to the latest version of PlayStation or whatever else a kid just had to have. She smiled. Ex-spook heaven. Let her eyes trail on across all the gadgetry back to the fourth wall.
The space to the left of the door was what her father called his thinking wall. The place where he played out his ideas.
Six feet of it covered with a huge shiny whiteboard where he scrawled his thoughts and notes, the rest covered with thick cork tiles that formed the backdrop for his evolving research. Her eyes swept past the whiteboard with its unintelligible multicolored notes and hieroglyphics, on to the plotted maze of pictures and diagrams and strings. She shook her head.
“I still don’t understand. I mean, if all of this is true…” Her brow furrowed.
Hartman glanced up over his glasses. “Think I’m paranoid, huh? Now you’re sounding even more like a journalist.” He traded the fork for the garlic bread. Took a bite.
“Christ, Dad!” Kelly groaned.” I didn’t mean that.” She carried her glass back to the antique mahogany partners’ desk that stood at the center front of Technology Central, fell into one of the worn green leather armchairs and trailed one long tanned leg across the other. The way she looked took Jack Hartman back twenty years. He set what was left of the bread down on the side of the plate and looked at his daughter.
“Let me try and explain something, Kel. They creep up on people, that’s what happens. They’re experts at it. They find a weakness – in the system or in someone’s character – and then work out how to exploit it.” Hartman looked across his daughter’s shoulder, nodding towards the photographs and press cuttings taped to the fourth wall.
“The guys you see up there – politicians, bureaucrats, company presidents – they were all probably suckered one way or another. Choose your poison. Beautiful girls,” he shrugged, “beautiful boys maybe. Or money for gambling, or those extra luxuries they always wanted but could never afford. Sometimes drugs or even just power. They wanted it, they got it and then they found out they were on a hook and their careers or their marriages – maybe both – would end up ruined if anyone found out.” A wry smile played Hartman’s lips. “And then along comes a nice, easy way out. Whatever it is they want they can just keep on having and no one need ever find out. All they have to do is play along.
Think of it, Kel. Think of how seductive a proposition that would be for most of us. How many guys who’ve taken the first bait and are caught already are going to fight the line?”
A minute passed and Kelly shook her head. “I must have missed something.” She frowned. “The books and all the articles. I thought this was all about hoodlums and thugs and extortion and rackets, stuff like that. You know… crime!
Hartman toyed with his glass, his face creased with frustration. “That’s where it begins, Kel, but it’s just the beginning. When I was writing my books I worked through it all from the start because you have to go back there to understand it. The history of Russian crime, how it developed and evolved in the old Soviet bloc, then how it evolved again after the communists were tossed out. But all along the message I’ve been trying to send is that what we’ve seen up to now is just the pointed end. There’s worse coming. Much worse.”
Kelly frowned. He watched her. Sighed and leaned forward. “Okay. The quick version. There are three levels to this thing. First you’ve got the hoodlums and the thugs, okay? Street crime, cheap rackets, enforcement, that sort of thing. They’re usually poorly educated but tough as all hell and they’ll do whatever they have to in order to survive.” He counted out on his fingers. “Level two is where it starts to get more sophisticated. These guys are either educated or street smart, usually both. They organize the level one muscle to work more sophisticated schemes like auto theft rackets and trucking heists, but this is the intellectual crime zone as well. Now we’re talking credit card fraud, insurance scams, cloning of mobile phones, ATM scams, stock and tax frauds, money laundering. This is serious stuff, Kel. Real serious.”
His daughter’s eyes narrowed. “And level three?”
Hartman threw a nod across her shoulder. “You’ve just been looking at it. Political and business compromise and corruption on a massive scale. Enough power and money to subvert an entire system.”
Kelly turned around slowly, staring at the maze of diagrams and charts.
“And so complex,” her father’s voice continued, “so unbelievable that it’s easier not to believe.” He paused. “You know your political history, Kel. Remember what Castro did during the Mariel boatlift back in 1980?”
She turned back. “Emptied out the prisons. Sent us all the dregs.”
Hartman sat back. “Exactly. Mixed in with the genuine refugees so we couldn’t tell who was who. And where do you think he got that idea?” He let the question hang a moment then answered it himself. “The Soviet Union is where he got it. Back in the ‘70s the Soviets loosened up their emigration laws and everyone thought that was terrific. So being the naive crazies that we are, what happens? Over the next fifteen years we take in around two hundred thousand people who are supposed to be mainly Russian-Jewish refugees. But the fact is, the Soviets sent us an exploding cigar then sat back and laughed. Even now we still have no idea how many of those people were genuine refugees and how many were just hardcore hoodlums the Soviets decided to dump on us.
“You know how it works. Immigrants from ethnic groups tend to congregate in particular areas until they become familiar with the language and culture and feel comfortable moving out into the broader community. New York had the strongest Russian community in the States – still does – so that’s where most of those Soviet immigrants chose to settle. Then within New York, Brighton Beach became the core of that community so it became the hub of Russian crime.
“It’s the same pattern with every immigrant ethnic group. Always has been. While the new imports are finding their feet most of their criminal activities are focused internally. Take Brighton Beach for example. The majority of the folk who live there are good, hard-working, honest people just trying to make a living and get along like the rest of us. The thing is, that actually makes them the softest targets. So to begin with ethnic criminals prey on their own. Extortion, loan-sharking, protection rackets, prostitution. All the usual stuff. But then these guys are in the Big Apple now, mixing it with the boys from LCN – La Cosa Nostra – and the triads and others, and they’re good at what they do and that doesn’t go unnoticed, so before long other opportunities begin to unfold. Enforcement, contract hits, providing manpower for other jobs.
“The cops didn’t pay them much attention to begin with. They had too much on their plates already and on top of that the language barrier meant it was just all too hard to handle, so for a couple of decades the Russians were left pretty much alone to find their own direction. Then suddenly the old Soviet Union disintegrates and anyone who can afford a passport and a visa can travel and overnight the opportunities become boundless.
“Think of living in Soviet Russia, Kel. Hell, you were there. You saw it. Think of all the tricks they had to learn. How tough they had to become, just to survive. Forging papers and ration books, getting oil for the heating when there wasn’t any, just putting food on the table for Christ’s sake. Now think of America and how naive and gullible we were when Russia opened up – still are for that matter – and then you get the idea. All these guys had to do was adapt what they’d already learned and haul it over here and they could start writing their own checks. And to make it even easier for them there’s already a switched on, fully functioning local network all set up and ready to go, just waiting to help them out.
“So come the late ‘80s and the early ‘
90s the next wave starts linking up with the local assets and level two is operating overnight. It’s only when we start losing two and three billion a year, every year, in oil tax fraud alone, that we start waking up to it. But by then it’s already out of control and we haven’t got a damn clue what’s happening. And to make matters worse we can’t even speak the language or read the goddamned writing.”
Kelly looked at him. “But everyone knows about that.” Her brow furrowed and she turned again to the wall, shaking her head. “They don’t know about this. This is high-level corruption.”
Hartman paused to take a drink. Ran the wine around his mouth and held it a while before swallowing.
“And therein lies the problem. They don’t want to know. Hell! You rip off the federal or state government or maybe an insurance company or two and you’re almost a folk hero. And if the boys back in Brighton Beach maybe cut someone up once in a while… cut off some guy’s lips or maybe put a bullet through someone’s ear, then what the fuck? It’s probably someone who deserved it anyway.” He looked up, his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Unless it happens to be some old retired CIA guy trying to live out his retirement in peace up in Pocantico Hills. But then they’re the risks you take when you start sniffing around someone else’s doorstep and taking a piss on their shrubs.” He let out a long, tired sigh.
‘The problem is, that’s not where it stops, Kel. It might have stopped there if people had started listening sooner but they didn’t. It was always too hard. Or too political. Or the people who were trying to sound the alarms were all decried as a bunch of paranoid crazies. We had what we wanted. Russia had turned around overnight and embraced democracy and capitalism. Why spoil the party? But you know what capitalism really was for the guys at the top, Kel?” He answered his own question. “Just a new way of slicing up the cake, that’s all. Sure, it meant they had to cut some new players into the action but what of it, there was plenty to go around. And if they let the right players into the game they knew the cake was going to get even bigger.” His lips bent in a cynical twist. ‘The new entrepreneurs. Guys who were smart enough to understand economics and international business and who knew their way around the system inside Russia. The guys at the top knew that if they were given a clear run and protected, pretty soon they’d be able to take on the world.” He tossed his head towards the wall. “Men like that, for example.”
Kelly unwound her legs and turned back following her father’s gaze.
Taped to the wall at the end of the maze was an oversize photograph of a huge bear of a man with swept back hair and a dark goatee, streaked with gray. In his fifties, Kelly guessed. Good-looking in a Russian sort of way. He wore a black tuxedo and a broad, confident smile and he was standing beneath the south portico of the White House, shaking hands with the President. And the colored strings that threaded around the brass tacks pinning the other photographs and clippings and reports to the cork tiles all came together wrapped around a single four-inch nail that pierced the photo’s edge.
“Men like Marat Ivankov,” she heard her father say. “Take a look at this, Kel.”
Kelly turned back again. Her father was shifting papers aside, turning the computer screen towards her. She set her glass down and moved in closer, staring at the rows of shimmering letters and numbers. There was a company name at the top, glowing in bright blue capitals: ELECTROSET. In brackets beside it a string of letters she recognized as a NASDAQ code. Beneath the heading a list of dates and numbers and prices. Recent trades in the corporation’s stock. She looked up from the screen towards her father, her eyes asking the question.
“This company, ELECTROSET is a NASDAQ listed technology company. Up until a few months ago Malcolm Powell was on the board. Those trades you’re looking at represent around 40% of the stock changing hands while he was a director.”
Kelly looked between the open file and the screen, trying to make the connection. It wasn’t there. Or if it was, she couldn’t see it. Hartman rolled his lips.
“Stay with me here, Kel. From ‘92 I was second in charge of the Russian Division at Langley. That was when I started to realize how big a threat the whole Russian crime issue really was. The link between the politicians and the security forces and the new entrepreneurs, and where it could all lead if it wasn’t taken seriously. Back then all of our agencies were falling over one another trying to protect their territories but it occurred to me that if we didn’t put together some kind of cohesive structure to deal with this problem as a whole we were going to lose control. So I started lobbying for support. It took a long time but finally I broke through. Tom Gaines came around first, then the Deputy Director of Operations and finally the Deputy Director and even the Director as well.
“When I went back to run the Moscow station in ‘95 one of my priorities was to pull together evidence that would support our case and I was only there a few weeks when exactly what I needed dropped into my lap. A young guy from the Russian Security Service – the FSB – stumbled onto some videotapes that showed a clear connection between some heavyweight political figures on the take,” he paused, lifting his eyes beyond his daughter, “and the guy at the end there. Ivankov.”
Kelly watched her father’s gaze drift aside.
“His name was Aven. Nikolai Aven.
“I only met him once but after you’ve been in this game as long as I have you get a feeling about someone. He was a decent guy trying to do his job and he’d ended up with a live grenade in his hand.” He paused, reflecting, chewing his lip. “If I could have gotten him out with the evidence that would have been all we needed.” He drew a breath. Turned back slowly towards his daughter. “But they crashed the operation, Kel. At the last minute someone back here came in over the top and tied my hands. Then Aven was arrested for treason and that was the last we ever heard of him.”
Kelly stared at her father, her mind playing back to the days and months following his sudden return from Moscow. His distance. The distraction. So that was what it had all been about. The gray shadow of frustration and guilt and betrayal. And now she saw it all again in the cast of his face and the leaden fix of his eyes. He looked at her, meeting her gaze.
“Malcolm Powell served as Ambassador to Russia between 1994 and 1997, Kel.”
He paused, letting her reach her own conclusion. Her head moved aside a fraction and her eyes narrowed.
“And you think it was him? That he was the one who intervened?”
Hartman shrugged. “Had to be.” His eyes drifted aside again. “How he did it I still don’t know. I sent a secure email back home with my request to lift Aven, then even before I got the response Powell was in my office telling me to butt out. That there were political issues involved and I was to get my nose the hell out of the whole affair. Someone back home in the chain of command must have alerted him as soon as my request came through then, somehow or other, through his connections he managed to pull the rug.”
Kelly leaned closer. “And you think Malcolm Powell was involved with this…” she cast around for the name, ‘… this Ivankov, even then?”
Her father opened his hands. “How else? Whether it was Ivankov directly or someone else in his network I don’t know. Either way, Aven’s exfiltration was pulled.” His eyes flicked up to meet his daughter’s. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, Kel. It’s all still classified. But I’m sick to hell of it, all the compromise and the deceit. Aven had a wife and a little girl. I was going to bring them all out. I promised him they’d be safe.” His eyes fell to the desk and his voice drifted lower. “In the end I tried to pull Aven and his family myself but that didn’t work.” He drew a long breath and let it run out. “You know what the worst part was, Kel? I was there when they took him and he saw me and I saw the look on his face and there was no mistaking it. He thought it was me. He thought I’d double-crossed him.” Hartman paused, looking up. “A year or so after I quit the Company I went back to Moscow, you remember?”
Kelly nodded. “You said
it was for research.”
Her father smiled. “Up to a point it was, but there was something else as well. I had to try and find them, try and find his wife and kid. Christ knows what I thought I was going to do if I did, but I had to do something – anything!” He drew a breath and shook his head. “I was too late, Kel. Their building was empty and no one I spoke to had a clue where they’d gone.” The room ran to silence, the intermittent whir of the computer’s hard drive the only sound. Kelly slumped in her chair staring down at the half-empty glass. A minute passed.
“So, all these years.” Her voice was gentle. “This crusade. That’s what it’s been about.”
Hartman shrugged again. “Some of it, I admit that. And some of it has been just trying to do what should have been done earlier. In the end it’s just coincidence that the same characters are the key.”
Kelly nodded, slowly. “So,” she flicked a glance back at the computer screen. “Malcolm Powell, ELECTROSET, MISSION TECHNOLOGIES, this guy Ivankov… Where’s the fit?”
