by David Pepper
London.
Kazarov.
My momentary excitement of getting to travel like the one percenters faded as I imagined Oliver Ariens sitting in this very seat, just as comfortably, two years before.
Also on the way to London.
* * *
LONDON
The jostle of the plane’s initial descent woke me. From the air, at least, it was a perfect evening. A bright, full moon illuminated both the sky around us and the ocean 35,000 feet below.
A line of flickering lights moved right to left across the oval cabin window—probably the western coast of Ireland. I looked up at the digital map, which confirmed it. We crossed north of Limerick as the plane descended through 30,000 feet.
On this clear and windless night, there were almost no bumps on the way down. And as the plane entered its final approach, few lights shined up from below. This was not London, although the map showed we weren’t too far from the capital. Must be a private airport.
The plane landed smoothly, and as we taxied to the airport’s sole hangar, Mr. Holmberg reappeared from a seat in the front. “We will take you to Mr. Kazarov’s estate for the evening. Get some rest, and you and he will meet in the morning.”
It was the first time anyone had said the tycoon’s name. Still, he said it casually—we both knew exactly who I was visiting.
A gray Rolls Royce met us five feet from the plane, and we sat down in the back.
“This is a real step up from that Suburban. Better-looking driver too.”
Holmberg allowed himself a smile, as did the driver, who looked more butler than brute.
Ten minutes later, we entered a thick stone archway, drove up a long gravel driveway, and came to a stop in front of a grand estate suited for British royalty.
The driver scurried around the front of the car to open my door, and Holmberg led us up five stone steps before a second well-dressed figure, a real butler, opened the door. Behind him, the grand foyer featured a twenty-foot high atrium, shimmering chandelier, marble staircase, and a statue of a young Peter the Great at its center.
“Welcome. Follow me,” the butler said in a sharp British accent, with a tone so calm you’d think we were entering a modest London flat.
We proceeded down a hallway as ornate as the foyer, walking over a red carpet that ran down the middle of a black and white checkered marble floor. Every ten feet, smooth off-white walls on both sides were interrupted by a column. And on each wall, in the middle of each pair of columns, hung a colorful work of art framed in dark wood. No art connoisseur, I still recognized a number of the paintings—stylistically at least, if not the exact painting itself. One looked similar to a Van Gogh I had once seen in a New York museum; another resembled a Monet print one of my college girlfriends hung in her room. These were clearly the originals.
After thirty yards, the butler stopped on a dime and gestured with his right hand toward a doorway.
“You will bed here. There are towels and toiletries in the adjoining lavatory, along with a robe and a change of clothes. I will fetch you in the morning at 7:00 a.m. so you will be ready for your meeting with Mr. Kazarov at 7:30. Good evening.”
* * *
A hard knock on the door woke me from my slumber. It took about twenty seconds to get my bearings. The outskirts of London, not Youngstown.
“Mr. Sharpe, I will return in twenty minutes. Please be ready to meet with Mr. Kazarov.”
I quickly showered and shaved, and put on the black slacks and the light blue shirt that lay folded on a chair next to the bed. Both fit perfectly. If this was the end, I’d at least be going out well tailored.
The butler knocked once again five minutes later and opened the door.
“Please follow me.”
We walked back down the hallway, past the foyer, and into a library. The butler motioned toward a couch on the opposite side of the room. I sat down, sinking deeply into the soft leather cushions.
Dark wood bookshelves were built into three of the four walls surrounding me. One displayed books about Rockefeller, Edison, Armand Hammer, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, John F. Kennedy, and Ronald Reagan. Another held great works of literature, from Tolstoy and Pushkin to Melville and Hemingway. Somewhat out of place was the Clancy novel—The Hunt for Red October. Now this was a library fitting of the architect of Marcellus!
After a few minutes, a large door from the side of the library creaked open. A wiry figure in a dark suit emerged from behind it. About my height, but barely half my weight. His skin was abnormally pale, accentuated further by his jet-black hair, which he combed straight back.
I rose to greet him, but the man motioned to sit down—not in a rude way, but simply to say my gesture was not necessary. He sat down in a chair facing my couch, crossed his right foot over his left thigh, and flashed a small smile.
“Welcome, Mr. Sharpe.”
An elegant accent, mixing British and his native Russian. Sophisticated, but cold.
“Thank you. I assume you are Mr. Kazarov.”
He removed a cigarette from his shirt pocket, a lighter from his pants pocket, and lit up. He took a slow puff, and exhaled equally slowly, appearing to enjoy the first drag immensely. He offered a cigarette to me as well.
I declined.
“I am. I hope you enjoyed the journey over.”
“For a kidnapping, I must say, it wasn’t bad.”
As comfortable as my surroundings were, I did not want to leave without protesting the hostile way in which I had arrived. Also hoped a joke might calm my nerves.
Kazarov ignored the sarcasm.
I moved on, hoping to get a feel for the man.
“You have a fascinating library,” I said.
“My parents were both professors in St. Petersburg, so I read from a young age: literature, science, history, poetry.”
I gestured toward his Western books, which were directly behind him.
“Along with American business and politics.”
“Yes. The great inventors and famed businessmen of your country were my heroes. While Soviet leaders instructed us to fear capitalism and its consequences, I dreamt about its wonders.”
“It looks as if those dreams came true.”
“Indeed,” he said, looking back over his shoulder for a moment. “I learned much from these men.”
A long pause ended the small talk. Then he launched directly into the more pressing matter.
“I brought you here, to my home, to talk to you about your Abacus story. It is an important and historic story. I want to make sure you have the correct information.”
I’m sure you do. This was going to be an interesting discussion.
“We are concerned that you believe that our Energy 2020 team played a role in the Abacus plot you so wisely discovered.”
More up front than I would have thought, a directness I respected.
“I had not reached that conclusion yet. But the circumstances that brought me here certainly have raised questions.”
“I brought you here to clear Mr. Ariens’ good name, and to personally assure you that we would never engage in such behavior.”
I nodded, amused that the Russian was making this about his dead lobbyist as much as himself.
“Kidnapping me, threatening my son’s life, do not boost my confidence in your adherence to the law.”
I was testing how far I could push him, but the Russian responded calmly.
“I apologize if Eastern business tactics are more rough than yours in the West. Of course, as you know well, you have your own forms of crime and corruption. But I think you will agree that this was the only way to get your attention.”
“A free Gulfstream ride to London would have gotten it done,” I replied.
Judging from Kazarov’s reaction—no expression whatsoever—I was the only one amused by
the comment.
“Mr. Sharpe, we know you have questions about Oliver Ariens. We do not. He was a good man. We were impressed by his integrity and so saddened by his death. As you can imagine, it was a huge blow to our efforts on Energy 2020.”
I said nothing in response. If Kazarov had something to tell me, I’d let him do so without interruption.
“You may be interested in something he sent us shortly before he died.”
Kazarov held up his right hand and rotated his second finger in a small clockwise circle. Through a speaker on the wall behind me, a voice spoke in a distinct New Orleans accent.
“I have closely watched a near-defunct company called Abacus over the last few months. Based on my experience with Diebold, their behavior establishes a very suspicious pattern. . . .”
I was speechless.
The speaker was only a few feet behind me. It was as if Oliver Ariens himself was calmly talking in my ear, answering one of my final remaining questions. The lobbyist had discovered the Abacus plot but he was not part of it.
“. . . They were acquired by a mysterious buyer, dramatically invested in new technology, and turned around a wholly new product in record time. But then they have aggressively marketed this product in only a few places. And sold at a price that guarantees a substantial loss on each sale.”
Kazarov held his open palm up in the air, and the voice stopped.
“Oliver sent us this tape days before he died. We believe this information is what got him killed, and that he sent it to us knowing his life was in danger.”
“Can you play more of this tape?”
“Of course.”
Kazarov circled his finger again.
“The plan looks clearly to be to position voting machines in dozens of swing districts around the country. I do not believe there is any reason to do this except to alter the results of next year’s election. The Abacus business strategy makes no sense. But the political strategy is brilliant, nothing short of a coup in an otherwise unwinnable election.”
Kazarov twirled his finger counterclockwise, and the tape rewound to its beginning. Ariens again, “This memo should be sent to both Speaker Williams and Minority Leader Marshall as soon as possible.”
Kazarov held up his palm one more time.
Another key data point. Ariens had not simply figured out the plot, he decided to stop it. This also confirmed that his death, happening when it did, was no natural heart attack.
Kazarov accurately read my mind.
“It seems clear that Congressman Stanton was behind his death, just as he orchestrated the entire Abacus plan, as you have discovered.”
Of course, I had never mentioned the name Stanton.
“But is there any part of the tape where he mentions Stanton’s involvement?”
“No. I don’t believe Oliver knew who was behind Abacus. But we believe he shared these concerns with Stanton, his oldest and closest friend, who then arranged for his death.”
“How would you cause a heart attack?”
“Simple biology, Mr. Sharpe. There are ways for that to be done, and then to be hidden. You must know that the CIA mastered such techniques decades ago.”
No, I had no idea such an assassination technique existed. But Kazarov clearly did. And wasn’t shy about it now.
But I moved on.
“Why would Ariens have sent this tape to you?
“He and I spent many hours getting to know one another, including in this very room. We discussed politics at great length and built a good friendship. We trusted one another. And he knew that if he was concerned about such a plan, that we would be concerned as well. He was our lobbyist, after all. Our eyes and ears.”
“And why would Stanton, after years of being in office and reaching the pinnacle of power, decide to become a murderer as well as a traitor?”
“You can guess as well as I can, but it appears that frustrated political ambition drove him. He had not reached the ultimate pinnacle he sought, and knew he never would without a dramatic change. Your system of politics is so broken, he probably realized that only an intervention would bring him to his ultimate goal.”
I nodded. Fair assessment.
“What do you mean when you say broken system?”
“Oliver and I talked at length about your political system, and how deeply flawed it is. Gerrymandering, as you call it, has made it impossible for any change to take place through the elections themselves. And in between elections, it also makes your politicians act in such counterproductive ways. In England, in Russia, we would never stand for such a paralyzing system.”
I almost laughed aloud, but then remembered I had made the same arguments in the newsroom over the years, of course excluding Russia from my examples of more upstanding democracies.
“But Stanton figured out that the very system that guaranteed the outcome of most districts simultaneously opened the path to steal an election. Alter the results in a handful of districts and, voila.”
“So why did you not intervene when you received this tape from Mr. Ariens?”
Kazarov crushed what remained of the cigarette into a small bowl next to him. He promptly lit a second cigarette.
“We were unsure if it was true, and I did not feel that it was our place to interfere. Ariens’ death came as a shock, and we had to work hard to keep 2020 moving ahead. When the election turned out the way it did, it appeared he had been correct. And when your story came out a few weeks ago, we were certain.”
“But you must have been thrilled by the election results. It was exactly what Marcellus needed to move forward.”
“Of course we were. We finally can advance our plan to help the communities that we work in: To provide clean, low-cost energy to our customers. To build success for them, as well as our workers. As we have done all over the world. Even your town has benefitted—look at the new factory producing pipes for our wells.”
This man was clearly the brains behind Marcellus. If Mason had given that answer, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now.
“Now that your story has revealed the Abacus plan, our greatest fear is that because of its clear benefit to Energy 2020, poor Oliver and our good company will be blamed for the Abacus coup.”
“And you have kidnapped me, hit me over the head, threatened my son, followed me for weeks, simply to convince me how innocent you are?”
“Indeed, but all unharmed, I might add. This is very important to us. How is Scott, anyhow? Seems like a fine young man.”
I gritted my teeth in anger at the mention of his name, an implicit threat.
“Indeed he is. Thank you. Do you have children?”
At least turn the tables.
“I do not, Mr. Sharpe. My business activities have kept me too busy to create a family.”
“That’s too bad,” I responded. “I consider being a father my most important role.”
Kazarov grinned for the first time. But it was not a friendly look.
“Your ex-wife does not seem to agree with you.”
I had gotten under his skin. Time to dig deeper.
“Mr. Kazarov, how long have you watched Mr. Stanton?”
“For some time. We know you have your suspicions that he killed both his research aide and Congressman Kelly. We share that view.”
Again, I never mentioned these suspicions. They must have searched my stuff thoroughly, tapped my phone. Probably both.
“And how did you figure this out?”
“Looking at the same facts as you have. After Ariens died, the congressman became our greatest champion in last year’s election. Now we know why.”
“I must ask you, I have received several envelopes in the mail that have been very helpful in developing my story. Like the tape you just played. Did you send these?”
“What envelopes? What was
in them?”
“Photographs implicating Congressman Stanton. A memo from his research aide. Critical pieces of evidence.”
“I know nothing about these things.”
Earlier in the meeting, when Kazarov was disingenuous, it showed. But these most recent statements did not set off my bullshit detector. If he was lying, he was damn good at it.
“I ask because whoever sent them was intimately close to the Abacus plot. Most likely a partner or accomplice in the plot itself, and the crimes associated with it. For example, the memo could only have been acquired by someone who entered the dead aide’s apartment. And that would only be possible if they used the keys taken from her as she lay in the park dying.”
“Perhaps a comrade regrets being part of it, and is now willing to turn Stanton in.”
I chuckled. Or perhaps that “comrade” wants to pin it all on Stanton and get off scot-free.
Kazarov interrupted my line of questioning with his own.
“Mr. Sharpe, I know you realize the historic opportunity your story provides.”
“And what is that?”
“To fix America’s broken political system.”
“Is that right?”
“Of course. You have found that one of the most important officials in Washington stole a Congressional majority due to the weakness of the American electoral system. The gerrymandering. Flawed election systems. Once exposed, the outrage of this political scandal may offer the best opportunity America will have to reform itself.”
I had casually considered this previously, but never as clearly as this foreign observer had just presented.
“As you know, the Watergate scandal did not only lead to Nixon’s resignation, but to reforms of the American political system. Your story is bigger than Watergate. The reaction, and demand for reforms, will be bigger as well.”
He was right.
“You are being distracted by your hunt for secondary accomplices. They will only diminish from the political ramifications of the story. And Congress and the politicians will do anything they can to blame someone else for their broken system. But your story now, focused on Stanton, makes it clear that the blame is entirely on the system itself. The politicians will have no choice but to fix the mess they have created.”
