by Greg Wilson
He stared at his daughter with a searching look. How much did she remember, he wondered. How much could she possibly know?
His other hand closed on hers and held it tight and then they were moving, the engine flaring, the Range Rover leaping forward along Petrovskie Lane and Nikolai looked up and caught the reflection of his old partner’s eyes, watching him from the rear view mirror, black as coal and deep as night. Vari’s eyes flicked away and Nikolai’s mind returned to the thought. How much did Larisa know?
How much did anyone know?
And how much more was there that he didn’t?
28
By the time they reached Sheremetyevo it was close to eleven, the wide hemisphere of sky above the airport and the fields and forests around it glowing deep green in the slow transition to night.
Vari pulled the Range Rover into a forecourt awash with confusion. Private cars, limousines and cabs seized in a gridlock of chaos; departing passengers struggling cases around them while new arrivals fell outside, stunned to a sudden stop by the thick gray wall of heat, fending off taxi touts who darted between them trying one language first then another, then if that didn’t work, moving on, sidestepping luggage and trolleys in search of someone easier to scam.
He nosed the big SUV into a place at the curb, threw the transmission into park and killed the ignition. Climbed out and looked around, found a security guard and waved him over and the two went into a huddle exchanging words, Vari nodding back to the Range Rover, peeling notes from a fold and pressing them into the man’s hand. Nikolai looked across at Larisa, tracking the anxiety that shadowed her face. He reached across and laid a hand gently on her arm.
“You know where we are?”
She looked back. Nodded. “We’re at the airport. I’ve been here before. With Uncle Vitaly.”
Nikolai’s fingers tightened reflexively. He forced a smile. “Did…” He made himself say the word. “Did Uncle Vitaly take you somewhere?”
Larisa looked back to the window, shaking her head, her answer distracted.” No. We just came here once to meet some of his friends.” She turned back to her father, serious. “They weren’t nice people. I didn’t like them.”
Nikolai looked into his daughter’s eyes and felt his chest tighten. So much he wanted to know. So much he didn’t. He forced himself to hold the smile, feeling it growing brittle on his face, then Larisa’s eyes widened and began to gleam.
“Are we going on an airplane? I’ve never been on an airplane before.”
He squeezed her arm again and nodded. “Yes, sweetheart, we’re going on an airplane. We’re going all the way to America.”
Larisa’s eyes widened further with surprise and her mouth fell open.
“America?” Her voice rose in astonished delight. “Really?”
Nikolai nodded, sharing her pleasure. “That’s if you want to. If you don’t…”
“Of course I want to!” She lurched sideways and threw her arms around him and he felt her face pressing against his cheek and he hugged her back, breathing the sweet innocence of her scent. Then Vari was at the door, opening it, nodding to Nikolai that it was time. Time to go.
They walked through the doors together, Larisa between them; Vari on one side, clutching her suitcase, Nikolai on the other, holding tight to her hand while her fascinated eyes swept the bustling hall.
Vari spoke to Niko across the top of her head.
“She’s okay?”
Nikolai glanced down at his daughter, his answer breathing relief into the words. ‘She’s fine.”
Vari gave a tight nod. “Good.” He moved to the left, beckoning with his head, steering the way across the brown stone floor towards the check-in counters, his eyes travelling up above them to the panel of white on black signs then tracking down, working through the flights. The light beside the one-thirty a.m. Aeroflot to New York was locked on red, the check-in not yet open. He veered aside again and Nikolai followed, leading Larisa with him. When they reached the bank of black vinyl seats in the corner Vari set Larisa’s case down, turned to her and laid a hand gently on her shoulder.
“I have to talk to your daddy for a moment, okay? I want you to sit here and wait. You’ll be able to see us. We won’t be far away.”
Larisa looked up at him, serious, then across to her father. Nikolai nodded to her and smiled. She hesitated a fraction and then slipped into one of the seats, poised upright, searching around again, taking everything in. Vari took Nikolai by the arm and drew him aside, slipping a hand into his pocket and drawing out a folded page. He kept his voice low, so low that it was almost lost beneath the swirling background.
“You saw the passports. Your name is Peter Alisenko. Your daughter is Larisa: I’ve left her name the same so that she is not confused. You are on holiday, visiting family in New York. Your visas are for thirty days.” He unfolded the paper and passed it to Nikolai. ‘This is the address where you will be staying and here…” he pointed to a line below, “and this is the name of your cousin, Sergei Surikov, okay? And his wife is Katrina,” his stubby finger slid down to the following line. “And this is their telephone number.”
Nikolai’s eyes scanned the page. He looked up. “Who is he?”
Vari’s eyes locked his. “A friend. That’s all you need to know. He knows you are coming. He’ll meet you at the airport. He’ll have a sign with your name on it so you must look for it when you get outside. Remember. Peter Alisenko.”
Nikolai nodded.
“Good. You will stay with Sergei and his wife until he gets your new papers. They will give you permanent residence. After that it’s up to you.” Vari’s eyes searched the younger man’s face.
Nikolai hesitated. ‘The hotel… Kolbasov. There was no problem?”
Vari shook his head. “None at all.” Hesitated. “Why would there be? He got what he wanted.”
Nikolai answered with a single nod. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket, his fingers tracing the sharp angles of the pistol. He glanced around, making sure no one was looking then eased it out. “You’d better take this. It belongs to your friend with the bar.”
Vari’s eyes flashed down to the gun. He nodded and his big hand moved out to cover it, sliding it from Nikolai’s grasp, slipping it under his jacket and into the waistband of his pants. His eyes travelled past Nikolai’s shoulder to the departures board.
“It’s open now. The sooner you get inside the better.”
Nikolai looked across his shoulder. The red light beside the New York flight had turned to flashing yellow. He turned back, his lips pressed together in a grim smile. Reached forward and gripped Vari’s shoulder.
“I owe you a great deal, old friend.”
Vari shook his head abruptly. “No you don’t. You don’t owe me anything.”
Nikolai searched the coal black eyes, nodded once and his hand released. He began to turn away towards Larisa then stopped. Swung back again.
“There’s one last thing. Something we didn’t discuss. Something I need to know.” His eyes captured Vari’s. “You said the Americans double-crossed me. What really happened that night? What part did Hartman play?”
Vari drew a breath and broke the connection, his gaze lifting again to the board, holding there for a long moment, then his head started moving slowly from side to side. He exhaled the words. “I don’t know. I never saw him again.” His eyes fell back to Nikolai’s. “I left it a week before I tried to make contact with him in case I was being watched, then when I did, he’d gone. Left the embassy. Left Russia.”
Nikolai watched him, reading his face. “The shooter, Vari.” The softness of his voice polished the words.” It never made sense. Who was he? Why was he there? Was Hartman behind that?”
Vari held his gaze through a long silence. Nikolai watched his own reflection in the older man’s eyes, trying to see beyond it. Vari’s jaw moved forward slightly, tugging the muscles of his face.
“You’re going to America, Niko. Maybe you should ask h
im.” He blinked slowly. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to look him up.”
Sometimes – if you were patient enough – you just got lucky.
Jack Hartman rolled the tension from his neck and massaged his eyes. How sweet it felt to be so close after all this time.
He bounced forward, scooped up his glasses and slid them on, studying the screen again, re-reading the email that had dropped into his Inbox five minutes before. This was it. The final connection.
He already had the evidence that linked Malcolm Powell to Marat Ivankov through Ivankov’s US investments. Already had Ivankov placed irrefutably in control of the raft of offshore companies. And now – thanks to his friends in the FBI and the Drug Enforcement Agency and the three bankers from Charleston who had agreed to trade information for immunity – now he had the last piece: enough to close the gap. Enough evidence to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that Ivankov’s offshore companies were funded, in part at least, by cash – huge amounts of cash – that had been washed illegally through the system.
Sometimes you just got lucky and that was exactly what had happened.
The bankers from South Carolina had dropped into his lap, hooked just a few weeks before in a sting that the DEA had set up over a year back. The whole thing had cost the Agency a bucket load of money but at the end of the day it had paid off.
Two agents with East European backgrounds re-established in Prague with expensive cars and clothes and apartments and tough bodyguards and an apparently endless supply of cash. For close to nine months they’d had a ball, throwing the money around like confetti, building credibility as middlemen with serious connections. Then, when their cover was set, one of them had placed a call to a number in Bermuda, to an outfit called Trust & Fidelity Investments, a subsidiary of a Charleston-based bank the Feds had been watching for over three years. The caller told the Bermuda manager of T&FI that he’d been referred to them by an associate – another of their clients, a gentleman from Colombia – and gave the name. It was a referral he knew would check clean, since the gentleman from Colombia was already on the hook with the FBI. He was calling from the Czech Republic, he explained, where he and his partner operated a business. A very successful business. So successful that they now found themselves in need of some serious and urgent financial planning advice.
T&FI’s Bermuda operation was staffed by locals, overseen by an executive from head office, with the president and VPs from Charleston flying in and out together as needs arose to handle their more important clients. After receiving the call from Prague their man in Bermuda reported back to head office and the head office guys did their homework and ran their checks which all came up clean – or dirty, depending on how you looked at it. So they cranked up the Gulfstream and piled aboard and ran it down to the islands to meet the new clients from Prague and cut a deal: 20 per cent on a minimum movement of five million a month with a scaled back discount kicking in after that, the net proceeds cleared back out to wherever they wanted within seven days, guaranteed untraceable to origin.
The guys from Prague were clearly impressed. In the end it took less than an hour to wrap up the business then after that the Charleston bankers took their new clients out for some serious recreation, island style.
For the next three months the agents in Prague pushed cash from the Czech Republic to Bermuda in amounts that made their bosses’ eyes water – particularly since only 80 per cent of it came back. Then in the fourth month the FBI and the DEA made their move.
Next time the Gulfstream landed back in the States there were five black Buicks waiting for it inside the hangar – and eleven straight-faced men in sunglasses from the joint FBI-DEA taskforce standing around in a big horseshoe-shaped welcoming committee to greet the guys from the bank as they came down the steps. While the bankers were being hustled away a twelfth agent climbed on board the aircraft and made his way through the cabin, hand over hand along the backs of the plush beige leather seats, shaking his head at the burled walnut trim and the cut crystal glassware, ducking into the cockpit, flicking his credentials to the pilot and co-pilot and telling them, in his relaxed southern drawl that they all needed to have a little talk.
From the airport the Buick convoy ran unmarked to the Federal building downtown where over the next three hours the deal had been set behind closed doors. The clients from Prague had insisted their laundered cash should be run back to T&FI’s parent bank in Charleston, where their new best friends could keep an eye on it for them. If the Carolina bankers hadn’t been so keen to please it might have been different but now, as things were, they’d been busted red-handed in control of the laundered funds on US soil, inescapably pinned behind a whole lattice of Federal laws.
That was the bad news, they were told, and they could call their lawyers right now if they wanted to. The good news, on the other hand, was that in exchange for their full cooperation they would be given complete immunity and allowed to keep everything they had – everything except the 20 per cent on the Prague funds which the DEA treasury understandably wanted back before the auditors blew through the door. Still, what a deal. The guys from Charleston couldn’t believe it!
Option one: fifteen years plus in a Federal can. Option two: life on earth as before.
Fuck any privacy laws in Bermuda, they’d hand over everything. Books, records, journals, computers, ex-wives, kids… just name it, no problem. They’d happily close down the shop, walk away, retire and rehabilitate themselves as upstanding members of society.
Sure there was a risk that some of their clients would be pissed, but so what? This sort of thing came down all the time. The Feds stumbled on an operation and it had to fold, but the probability of the authorities being able to work up any watertight case against a particular client was so slim as to be almost non-existent. So, what the hell! At least that was their reaction until they heard what the agent in charge in this particular instance had in mind when he talked about full cooperation, then they began to get a little nervous.
What he had in mind was that they wouldn’t be closing down. In fact, they’d be carrying on business exactly as before except now they’d be working for the US government, following orders. Wearing wires, recording phone conversations, videotaping meetings – tap dancing and singing if that’s what they were told to do – then passing it all back to the Feds so they could beaver away, building cases that would eventually nail as many as possible of T&FI’s clients.
There was a problem with that of course. A potentially fatal problem as far as the bankers from Charleston were concerned. Eventually – when their deception was discovered as it inevitably would be – they were going to have a whole cartload of very unhappy customers.
Sure, the Feds had promised that when the time came to close down the operation they’d all be given new identities and slotted into witness protection. But the bankers knew their clients, which meant they knew witness protection was going to be about as effective and useful as a tissue-paper condom. Still, being as smart and practical as they were, when the three were left alone together to talk things over in a room specially chosen for its steel furniture, harsh lights and latent smell of urine and vomit, they got their heads around the equation real fast, balanced downside against upside and reached the unanimous decision inside five minutes that life as before – however brief – was an infinitely preferable proposition to the alternative. And so, Jack Hartman accidentally got lucky.
Since quitting the CIA, he had slowly and painstakingly rebuilt his relationships within the security community, focusing most of all on connections he had developed within the FBI. Senior people. Old friends and friends of friends who knew his background and were sympathetic to his cause. Over the years it had become a two-way street; a quiet, shady avenue of trust and respect where passing figures sometimes paused to talk a moment, or to hand across or receive slender envelopes containing cryptic notes, accepting or giving silent nods of acknowledgment in return.
Dropping the names of Ivankov’
s offshore companies to a key contact in the Money Laundering Unit of the Bureau’s Financial Crimes Section at Quantico and asking him to keep a watch on any links that came up had been a desperate long shot that had paid an unexpected dividend.
Hartman’s guy in Financial Crimes had been on the fringe of the Charleston sting. When the deal with the bankers was bolted down and copies of the first batch of files from Bermuda had been loaded onto the computers in Washington he’d decided to try a just-for-fun search, running the names Hartman had given him against the Bermuda files and to his surprise, voila! Three hits! Cash incoming from Russia, bathed and laundered through Bermuda, then moved on through a series of wire transfers to intermediaries, ending up finally in banks in Cyprus and Monaco, deposited into accounts held in the names of three of the Ivankov companies. And to Hartman’s delight, best of all, they were the companies through which the Russian had been buying and consolidating his MISSION TECHNOLOGIES stock.
The problem for Hartman was he couldn’t use it. Not publicly anyway. Couldn’t confirm the source since doing so would compromise his contact and bust the Charleston operation wide open just as it was taking off. Which meant he had to find a way around it. Another way to prove the link between Ivankov and the source of the money: the guy who showed up in the T&FI records as their client.
Hartman’s eyes scrolled the lines of the email message and settled on the name:
Kolbasov, Vitaly.
He plucked his glasses from his nose and ran the end of one silver arm between his lips, thinking. After a moment he closed down his email, tapped a command into the keyboard and waited for the main page to load. It had cost thirty grand for an IT expert to set up the database for him but it had been worth it. After ten years at this he had so many Russian names swirling around in his head it was beginning to feel like a bowl of borsch.
Five seconds and it was all there.
Vitaly Kolbasov. Name, photograph, profile.
Hartman clicked on the thumbnail of the photograph and watched it bloom large, studying the cold, narrow face. Then he killed it and went back to the profile, scrolling down the lines.
