by Greg Wilson
“But before I go on with that, Mr Chairman, there is something else I want to say and some additional evidence I wish to present without notice.”
Chisholm was glaring at him openly now, their pact broken.
“Last night, Mr Chairman, ladies and gentleman, an attempt was made on my life and the life of my daughter.” The room hushed to silence again, the audience hanging on Hartman’s words. “In the events that followed two people were in fact killed; one being our intended executioner, the other a gentleman who tried to intervene.” Hartman paused again. “I have reason to believe, Mr Chairman, that Mr Marat Ivankov and his associates were behind this attempt and the Federal Bureau of Investigation supports me in that conclusion.”
Behind him the clamor erupted again. Hartman waded through it, deliberately changing course. “Many of you may know that I was formerly an officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. My last posting in that regard was in Moscow in 1995. My last significant activity in that role was an attempt to exfiltrate from Russia an officer of the Russian Federal Security Bureau, or FSB, who had uncovered significant evidence of corrupt activities and associations between members of the Russian Government and the gentleman I referred to previously, Mr Marat Ivankov. That officer was a young man named Nikolai Aven. At the time I met Mr Aven, he and his family were, due to the information he then possessed and its potential impact, in very genuine fear for their lives. Before I could complete the arrangements to bring Mr Aven to safety that operation was blocked. Mr Aven was then arrested for treason, found guilty in a closed trial and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment.”
The surge of speculation was climbing again. Committee members at either side of Chisholm were firing questions at him but he was ignoring them, his eyes, behind his rimless glasses, fixed tight on Hartman. What the hell was this?
Hartman could see the question carved into Chisholm’s face, but the senator’s ego was too big to let anyone else know he was just as much in the dark as they were. Hartman pulled a breath.
“A week and a half ago Mr Aven escaped from a prison in a place called Novokuznetsk in south-central Russia. Mr Chairman, without going into detail at this time on how this was done, suffice it to say that last night’s events were orchestrated in a manner by which it was intended to appear as if Mr Aven had been my killer and that his actions had been motivated by revenge for my failing to honor my commitment that the United States government would provide protection for him and his family. In fact, last night Mr Nikolai Aven was responsible for saving both my own and my daughter’s life. I would seek leave now, Mr Chairman, members of the Committee, to introduce Mr Nikolai Aven to the chamber in these proceedings.”
Chisholm was pounding his gavel again, staring between Hartman and the door. “Order! The committee room will come to order immediately!”
Hartman swung aside, watching. Nikolai was stepping through the doorway into the hail of light, following the path Hartman had taken only minutes before. Half a dozen steps behind Kelly followed, Larisa beside her, clutching her hand. While the cameras swung to Nikolai they stepped aside, merging into the crowd at the back of the room.
“Mr Hartman!” Chisholm was halfway to his feet, his voice tight with anger. ‘This is totally irregular. Completely unacceptable!”
Nikolai was beside Hartman now, dragging back a chair, sliding into it, pulling it to the table. Hartman looked up at the figure looming from the dais, his voice controlled and even.
“I agree, Mr Chairman. What has happened to me and my family – not to mention Mr Aven – is completely unacceptable and, with respect, you and the members of this committee and the public are going to hear about it right here and right now and by way of that experience it is my fervent hope that our government and the people of this country will finally begin to wake up to what is going on and commit themselves to doing something about it.”
Chisholm was shaking with rage, his face crimson. His mouth began to open and he started to speak, but before he could the Deputy Chairman to his left extended a hand, pressing him back. Hartman saw it all. Before him and above, half a dozen times larger on the screen. Chisholm’s deputy was making his play. Hijacking the moment. He made eye contact with Hartman and nodded solemnly.
“We’re listening. Please go on, Mr Hartman.” Beside him Chisholm subsided to his chair.
Hartman nodded. ‘Thank you.” Beside him Nikolai had set the DVDs down on the table.
“If it pleases the Chair and the committee, we have two digital video recordings we would like to exhibit. These are copies of video tapes that formed the basis of the material information that came into Mr Aven’s possession nine years ago, which led to our first meeting and Mr Aven’s ultimate fate. The gentlemen who appear in these tapes are speaking in Russian, however,” Hartman’s hands moved to the pile of documents,” I have here transcripts of the dialogue translated to English which I can attest as true copies of the original Russian transcripts which Mr Aven provided to me at our first meeting at the Rossiya Hotel in Moscow in May 1995. The two gentlemen who appear consistently in each of these tapes are Mr Marat Ivankov and his then lieutenant, a Mr Vitaly Kolbasov. Mr Kolbasov as it happens was murdered in Moscow this last weekend. The other gentlemen you will see in these tapes were, at the time the original video was taken, high-ranking officials of the Russian government. I will explain more about each of them and the context of the meetings as we view the footage. For the record, I understand that both of these men are also now deceased.”
The Deputy Chairman had assumed control now. He nodded to an attendant standing beside the stenographer at the side of the platform. The man stepped across to Hartman’s table, consulted with him a moment then nodded, took a DVD in either hand and returned to the equipment panel in the corner of the room. The screen above the committee and its twin mounted high on the rear wall faded to black as he inserted the first disc.
Hartman leant forward again towards the microphone.
“There is one final point I would like to make before the committee views this material, Mr Chairman. During the period in which the original videotapes were recorded, and at the time of my attempt to lift Mr Aven and his family to safety, I believe it is significant to note that the United States Ambassador to Russia was Mr Malcolm Powell.”
Malcolm Powell had stayed in all day. Even cancelled his lunch with Haysbert at the India House Club on Hanover Square just so he could be sure to be available when the media started to call. He’d loosely fashioned what he would say last night before going to bed then slept on it and spent the morning refining the words, practicing them in front of the mirror to make sure he really did look sincere. The radio and press he could handle by phone but the networks would want vision so it was important he got the expressions just right.
At two in the afternoon the news stations were still running the story but as yet there had been no report that the second body had been identified and Powell was starting to wonder whether he may have gotten ahead of himself. It was always possible, he supposed, that Aven had been incinerated beyond recognition, but then Ivankov would almost certainly have thought of that and made sure there were enough pointers laid along the path. Still, maybe it was going to take more time yet for the police or the FBI, or whoever was in control, to sort it all out.
He considered that for a while then ran the volume back down on the monitors and spent the next hour working, sorting through papers and correspondence and reviewing investments until three, when he decided to reward himself with a generous single malt. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet propped on the edge of the desk, nursing his scotch when he heard the chime of the doorbell followed by the commotion in the hall. A moment later Cora, the maid, knocked at the study door.
“Yes, Cora,” Powell called from his desk. “What is it?”
The study doors slid apart enough for the maid to bob her head inside.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Powell, sir,” her voice sounded unusua
lly anxious, “but there’s a whole lot of television people out the front with vans and cameras and everything and they’re wanting to speak to you, sir. They asked if you were home and I told them you were, I hope that’s all right. They were terribly rude, pushing and shoving one another.”
At last! Powell swung his feet aside and drained his drink. ‘That’s all right, Cora. I’ll be right there.”
There was a trace of doubt in Cora’s reply. “You’re sure, sir?”
He slid back the door and smiled down at her. “Of course I’m sure. You run along. Leave it all to me.”
She dipped her head. “Yes, sir.” Left the door ajar and hurried off down the hall.
Good heavens! Could you believe it? The impatient bastards were actually ringing the bell again. Ringing the bell and even pounding on the door. Powell shook his head. Remembered the scotch and thought to pull a small spray of breath freshener from his pocket to dust his mouth. Attention to detail: that’s what it was all about. That’s what made the image and the image made the man.
Through the drawing room window he could see the vans in the street. Not just in the street, blocking the street. Now that was ridiculous. Where did these people get off. He strode down the hallway and reached for the brass knob, turning it, pulling it inwards then stumbling to an abrupt stop at the threshold, his face frozen in confused astonishment. Not just two vans, but half a dozen. As many cameras, if not more. Twice that number of reporters, jostling and pushing, thrusting microphones towards him, pressing forward up the steps, closing in.
Something was wrong.
Malcolm Powell felt an awful hollowness in the pit of his stomach.
They were all talking at once, firing questions, calling out at him, trying to grab his attention.
He pulled back a step and raised his hands as if that might keep them at bay, his eyes darting from one demanding face to the next, trying to make out words, trying to piece them together.
Nikolai Aven… What do you know about… Hartman… Ambassador to Russia. Attempted murder… Mr Powell, do you have any comment?
So it was about Hartman’s death after all.
Powell’s tension began to subside. He almost smiled, then he remembered the circumstance. Held up his hands again and patted down the air, his voice steady and somber.
“Please… Ladies and gentlemen, please.”
For a moment the swarming throng grew quiet, like the calm before the storm, then someone at the back broke ranks, calling the question.
“Mr Powell, what do you have to say about this afternoon’s events?”
There was accusation in the tone. Certainly no deference. Powell’s brow furrowed. What events? His head spun to the right as the second question tore at him.
“What can you tell us about your relationship with Mr Ivankov?
To the left, with the third.
“Do you deny you are aware of Ivankov’s involvement with Russian organized crime?”
The questions were flying now, Powell’s head spinning with each new implied accusation, a cloud of horror descending over his face.
Did you know Viktor Patrushev? What about Stephasin? Are you aware of how he died? What do you have to say about your involvement with Mission Technologies?”
They were closing in and he was trying to move. Trying to edge backwards. Trying to shut them out but they were already inside, tugging at him, so close he could smell their breath, feel their hands grabbing at him and their spittle streaking his face. Closing in around him like a pack of starving wolves.
39
MOSCOW
Marat Ivankov regarded himself in the mirror.
It had been a difficult time but the storm was passing and he had weathered it all with remarkable ease.
He lifted his head, his fingers rising to his neck, adjusting the bow tie.
Of course the banks had panicked for a while and that had caused some problems. In fact for three months it had been one nightmare after another. The US investments frozen. The stock values plummeting in the wake of the publicity. The taint of it all rolling on to Europe and even causing problems back here in Russia. But everything was stabilizing now and even his lawyers were becoming increasingly optimistic about the likely outcome. There would be charges laid by the American SEC of course, he accepted that, but his people had already begun negotiating a settlement and it was looking like a billion or two at most in penalties and fines. Then for a while he would have to put up with the inconvenience of having everything tied up while the FBI nosed around with the criminal investigation, but his lawyers were already assuring him that was going to be a non-event. With Kolbasov out of the way, Malcolm Powell was the only one who could link him to the attempt on Hartman, and if Powell tried to do that he would be admitting complicity himself. His lawyers had already pointed that out to Powell’s in one of their many discussions. So the media could speculate all they wished but, in the end, nothing would come of it. His people would see to that.
There were still a few problems arising from the tapes to be resolved back here in Russia, but that would all be taken care of in due course, he had no concerns about that. The necessary insurance had been bought and paid for a long time ago. If he had been ten years younger he would have stopped at nothing to establish the origin of the copies and settle the score, but with time and experience he had become somewhat more philosophical. Best to get on with life and carry no grudges. Grudges only impaired one’s judgment.
Anyway, that other world was a thing of the past. He had moved on now. His connection with the underworld had been completely severed, the deal wrapped up and settled early. Discounted heavily for cash, of course, but that was the way things went. The eternal paradox: when you needed money you had to pay the price. But so what? Sometimes you won; sometimes you lost. All that really mattered was survival.
He reached behind him for the jacket of his dinner suit and shrugged into it, regarding his reflection, patting down the lapels. He found it amusing that the number of invitations he received to social events such as this evening’s had actually increased with his notoriety. He doubted it would have been the same in the West but then this was Russia, and Russians saw things differently. To be truthful he had to admit that he was actually beginning to enjoy his newfound celebrity. He took a last look, turned away from the mirror, collected his overcoat and white silk scarf and made his way towards the door.
Just two bodyguards now, one doubling as a driver. He was economizing and besides, they were really all he needed. The man from outside the door fell in behind, following him down the hall, held the elevator door for him and followed him inside.
Ivankov pulled on his coat and draped the scarf around his neck, watching the lights dropping down the panel as the elevator descended. The doors opened onto the Kaminski’s lobby and he strolled out. The staff who recognized him stopped and nodded deferentially as he passed. He nodded back, smiling, looking beyond them to the sleek black Maybach 6.2 saloon waiting in the forecourt. His new toy. The most expensive automobile in the world. It had been his gift to himself. There were times when it was important to make a statement.
He nodded as his bodyguard opened the door, then slipped inside, sinking into the rich soft leather, spreading out his overcoat and settling it across the seat. The bodyguard moved to the front of the Maybach and took the seat beside the driver, turning expectantly.
“The Bolshoi,” Ivankov instructed without looking up.
The driver nodded and hit the central locking. It occurred to Ivankov that was an exceptional precaution but the man was relatively new and he had come well recommended. He wore a patch over the eye he had apparently lost fighting in Chechnya. It looked impressive, Ivankov thought. A solid image. He settled back in the huge seat and hit the remote, turning on the personal television, scrolling it through to CNN as the driver pulled the limousine out into the traffic. Didn’t even notice the silenced Glock as the man beside the driver swept it back through the space between the two f
ront seats.
Coincidence.
Nothing sinister. Just random coincidence, that was all.
The woman was preoccupied as she had been last time, closing the door, buttoning her coat, tucking her keys into her purse, then she turned and saw him and drew up with a start. Her hair was a shade darker now and a good deal softer. She wasn’t wearing the same amount of lacquer and it suited her much better, Nikolai thought. The lines at the edges of her eyes and mouth seemed more pronounced but that may have been because of the dryness of winter. He allowed her that benefit of doubt. Their gaze touched as it had the last time and her lips moved again as they had before. Nikolai smiled and nodded and kept on walking, along the corridor through the lilac- perfumed air.
If they had passed on a street or in a restaurant he doubted she would have recognized him. His appearance had altered considerably over the last five months. He had put on weight. Not a lot, but enough to flesh out the hollows of his face, and his eyes and skin were clearer, he was better dressed and his hair was longer now, and well cut. But she had recognized him because of the coincidence. Their first encounter had been a random moment defined by time and place and now, by coincidence, that same moment had been repeated. The problem was, of course, that now she had noticed him she would be able to recognize him again when questions were asked. It was a nuisance. But then the problem could be fixed. By the time she had had a quiet chat with the man with one eye any memory she retained of Nikolai would forever be erased.
Five months and he was here again, no longer Russian now, but a citizen of the United States.
I owe you one.
That was what Hartman had said to him the night of the fire.
Since then he had more than settled the debt. In fact, he had settled everything. With the police and the FBI first – the incident with Sergei had complicated matters a little but not, insurmountably – then with the Immigration authorities and, after that, calling down favors from people in high places to pressure the Russian government into clearing his slate. Of everything, that had taken the longest but this was, after all, still Russia. Sometimes those at the very top could be obstinate but ultimately they were always pragmatic, particularly when it was made clear just where further investigation into the money trail might otherwise ultimately lead.
