Conspiracy in Kiev rt-1

by Noel Hynd

  “I speak Russian,” she said in Russian, “and some Ukrainian. Mrs. Brown here is able to interpret and take notes. So any of the three languages are fine.”

  “I still prefer English,” he said.

  “That’s fine,” she said, relieved. The meeting began.

  Alex guessed that Kaspar and Anatoli wouldn’t have much to say in any language, particularly with the boss present. It turned out she was right.

  They couldn’t smile, and for all Alex knew, they couldn’t read either, because when files were placed before everyone in the room to present the topics of the meeting, unlike their boss, they ignored them. Instead, they sat there beside their boss, their four hands folded on the table, staring at her as if someone were holding a gun on them.

  “Why is there a note taker if we are anyway being recorded?”Federov asked.

  “Who says we’re being recorded?” Alex asked.

  “Why wouldn’t we be recorded?” he asked.

  “I want to talk about The Caspian Group,” she said.

  He looked first to Kaspar and then to Anatoli. “What is The Caspian Group?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of it.” His two peers understood enough to smile on cue.

  “Mr. Federov,” she said. “You’re not a mystery to the United States government. You do millions of dollars of business that are subject to US taxation. You’ll either pay your proper share or we will make certain that you no longer can do business in the US, even through one of your puppet companies. Am I being clear enough?”

  He went through the same charade. He laughed slightly. He took out a pack of cigarettes and pulled one into his lips. She intentionally watched him until he had lit it and inhaled deeply. There were tattoos on the backs of his fingers, common with Russian hoods. The rest of his body, not that she wished to see it, would tell an even larger story, she knew.

  “There’s no smoking in this room,” she said.

  “I’m smoking,” he said.

  “And you’re about to stop,” she said.

  He looked at his bodyguards and exchanged a shrug. They chortled.

  “Something funny?” Alex asked.

  “A lot is funny,” he said.

  “Put the cigarette out.”

  The look in his eyes mocked her. So did the contempt in his voice. “Yes, ma’am,” he finally said.

  He turned the cigarette around and tamped it down on his tongue without flinching. She was ready for the move and didn’t bat an eyelash. He flicked the remains of the butt across the room.

  “Very good,” she said next. “Now. I want to talk about The Caspian Group.”

  “What is The Caspian Group?” he asked again.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

  She held him in her gaze and flipped open the file in front of her.

  She began to read aloud.

  THIRTY-SIX

  T he destination of Mark McKinnon, an American with an important job in Rome, was a basement bar in Trastevere, a neighborhood of Rome, on the west bank of the Tiber, south of Vatican City, which felt more like a small Italian town than part of the capital city. Trastevere was a community of small streets lined with restaurants and cafe bars spilling out onto the narrow sidewalks. There were not so many tourists here, which was always nice for McKinnon. He didn’t like to run into anyone he knew, other than the individual he might be looking for.

  Normally four o’clock in the afternoon would be considered early to meet a contact for a drink and some chat. But McKinnon easily found one of his regular haunts for just such afternoon meetings. It was a small basement bar called San Christoforo, around the corner and down a few side streets from the Piazza di Santa Maria. McKin-non walked down four brick steps and pushed open a wooden door to a dark place, dimly lit with candles.

  As he entered, a dozen spooky figures turned to eye him from the bar. For a few seconds, McKinnon allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  Then, from a corner table shielded by shadows, rose a shy voice.

  “Mark?” it asked.

  McKinnon turned.

  In the corner sat a fit middle-aged Italian man behind a large glass of red wine, a small tray of bread sticks, and a votive candle.

  “Please have a seat, my friend,” the Italian said in softly accented but impeccable English.

  The men shook hands. McKinnon seated himself. The bartender sauntered over and without speaking, set up a second glass and poured a bold young Chianti from a jug.

  The Italian lifted his glass. “ Salud,” he said, with mock formality.

  McKinnon grinned and reciprocated with a similar toast. There was a moment or two of small talk. These men knew each other well but only met when they absolutely had to-maybe once or twice a year at most, and almost always in this place. Two of the figures at the bar worked for the Italian man and were armed accordingly.

  “Well,” McKinnon finally said, “we seem to have a problem. A couple of our people have been murdered.”

  “So it appears,” the Italian said.

  “Can you help us?”

  The Italian sipped more wine. “So it appears,” he said again.

  McKinnon started to laugh, exuding a sigh of relief at the same time. “I knew I could count on you,” he said.

  “So it appears,” the Italian said a third time.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I t took until Monday afternoon, February 12, before Federov would concede that he had an interest in a conglomerate called The Caspian Group, the bookkeeping of which existed only in his head. It took another two days for Alex to get him to concede that he might be liable for US taxes.

  Alex’s spirit’s got another boost that day. Despite how busy Robert was with his own trip preparation, he had managed to send her a Valentine by courier.

  Then on that same afternoon, the fourteenth, she started to wear Federov down as she documented everything she and the United States Department of Commerce knew on TCG. He finally allowed that his corporation might be inclined to file records with the US government and actually pay some taxes.

  This he would do, he stressed, on one condition.

  “What condition is that?” she asked.

  “You accompany me to my favorite club in Kiev this evening, Miss Anna,” he said. “You come alone and you are my guest. You do this for me, and I file corporate tax returns.”Ellen Higgins rolled her eyes. Phil Ralston looked away.

  “That’s a highly unusual bargain,” Alex said.

  “You’re a highly unusual negotiator. Deal?”

  An unsolicited offer that would make her trip a stunning success if Federov followed through. And her assignment was to stay with him as much as possible. In a distant part of her mind, she recalled Cerny’s warning: Federov had a penchant for smart, beautiful, educated women.

  “Well?” he asked. “I am tired of these discussions. You have convinced me. I will obey your tax laws. I will put our agreement in writing if we have one. Yes or no?”

  All eyes were on her. “An agreement in writing would be excellent,” she said.

  “Then we will do it.”

  “Let’s make a few things very clear,” she answered, “The president of the United States arrives tomorrow and will be here for one overnight. My fiance, who works in the White House, will be here too. My fiance and I are going to be married in July.”

  “ Pozdorovlennia,” Federov said. Congratulations.

  “The day after tomorrow, I will also be leaving with the president.”

  “Yes. So? Then we should go out and celebrate the visit and your engagement,” he said. “We will go to my favorite club and drink to your fiance’s safe arrival.”

  Federov’s assistants’ eyes were on her like those of a pair of terriers.

  She thought about it further. “We draft a deal memo on receiving your corporate records and on proposed taxation. We do that this afternoon,” she said. She glanced at her watch. It was 3:45 p.m.

  “If it’s complete by 6:00 p.m
.,” she said, “I’ll go to your club with you.”

  “Excellent!” he said.

  “I expect to be back at my hotel by midnight.”

  “Midnight is very early in Kiev. How about 3:00 a.m.?”

  “This is completely inappropriate.”

  “All right. Midnight. But you wear the sexiest garment you have with you.”

  “I only brought normal clothes,” she said.

  “Pity,” he said. His two guards laughed. She was getting angry.

  “Will we get a deal memo drafted this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have your deal,” she said.

  “And you should have some new clothes,” he said.

  “But I don’t,” she parried. “If I had something worthy of a Kiev nightclub, I’d wear it, I promise you. But I don’t, so, end of discussion.”

  He opened his hands and looked helpless to his bodyguards, who smirked.

  “One of us has outwitted the other,” he said with a tinge of regret.

  “At no small effort.”

  The American staff called in two stenographers who successfully took a draft agreement from Federov. It was complete by 5:30.

  “Great,” Alex muttered to Richard Friedman when she reported to him at the end of the business day. “I’ve been here a week and I’m dating the worst gangster in town.”

  “He’s only the worst temporarily,” Friedman answered. “Putin is scheduled to visit after the president leaves.”

  “That makes me feel so much better about everything,” Alex said.

  She put the memo on file and sent it by secure fax back to Washington.

  Then she returned to the hotel to change for an involuntary evening out.

  Federov, meanwhile, was one step ahead of her.

  When she arrived back in her hotel room, she discovered that Federov had sent over a change of clothing that she had unwittingly agreed to wear.

  A new dress, a deep burgundy silk, from one of the top Italian designers, a low cut with a high hem, material that was as light as a feather. The type of thing that cost three thousand dollars in Rome, Paris, or New York. She tried it on and walked to the mirror and stopped short. The neckline was lower that anything she had ever worn in her life. The hem was at least ten inches above the knee. For several seconds she stared at herself, hardly believing what she saw. At first she thought, no way. She didn’t dare wear it and wouldn’t do it. She would pretend that she hadn’t received it.

  Then a change of mind came over her.

  All right. She would live a little on the edge. If this was what it took to get a deal out of Comrade Federov, full speed ahead. Then she’d save the dress, wear it for Robert and let him go crazy over it. He could have his fun removing it from her. That also reminded her. She found the bracelet Robert had given her just before she had departed. She put it on her wrist. Part of Robert would be with her.

  Meanwhile, if this was what Federov wanted, she’d let him have it.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I t was not a Valentine’s Day evening that Alex was looking forward to. In fact, she was downright unhappy with it.

  Robert was already in transit with the Presidential Protection assignment out of Washington. He would arrive with the president the next afternoon. She and her fiance had already made plans to meet in a restaurant near her hotel in the late afternoon, when his shift would be over. In the embassy, all other protective people had drawn assignments as security tightened around the president.

  Yet suddenly, what Alex was doing was secondary to the entire trip. The goals of the American president were to get to the cathedral the next day, lay a wreath, and exit the country as quickly as possible. And trouble continued to hang in the air.

  For a moment, at a few minutes before nine that evening, Alex knelt quietly in a quick prayer in her hotel room. Then she inserted a loaded magazine into her gun and packed it into her purse along with her cell phone. She wore the new dress that Federov had sent over. Against the cold, she pulled on a pair of boots and a heavy wool overcoat.

  Two minutes later she was in the lobby. A Mercedes limousine was already waiting. Federov stepped out and beckoned. She sighed and went forward to the vehicle.

  “Get in,” he said. “We’ll have a great evening.”

  The things she would do for her country.

  Dancing with the stars. Dancing with the gangsters. Well, this was part of the assignment too. Find out as much about this thug as possible. Keep him in sight. Who knew? Maybe some tidbit she picked up could put him in jail for two hundred years. She could always hope.

  They were alone in the back of the limousine, where it was warm. They spoke Russian. The vehicle began to move. There was much room in the backseat. Alex stretched out her legs, loosened her coat, and tried to get comfortable. After a moment Federov reached to her and opened the coat, pushing it aside. His eyes devoured her in her new dress.

  “You are quite beautiful,” Federov said.

  She sighed. “I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, Federov-”

  “Please call me Yuri,” he interrupted.

  “I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, but I explained to you, I’m engaged. I’m not interested in any relationship other than our professional one.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Do you?” She sounded skeptical.

  “What am I doing wrong?” he said. “You are very safe. I’m making sure of that. And I am being a gentleman. We are conducting business, you and I. And so perhaps I like going out with a beautiful American woman seen on my arm? Is that so wrong?”

  They came to a stoplight. The driver ignored the red and eased through with impunity.

  “By itself, no,” she answered.

  “Then where’s the problem?”

  “We just need to understand each other.”

  “We do,” he said. “So I need to understand something too?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why does your government want to kill me?” he asked. “And why do they use you as their instrument?”

  “What?”

  He repeated.

  “I know of no plans to have you killed,” she said.

  “Of course. They would use you, not tell you.”

  “You’re making me angry, Yuri. I’m not lying to you.”

  He studied her carefully and shifted gears. “Then maybe a kiss,” he said. “One kiss.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “I doubt it,” she said.

  “Then you don’t know the Russian system,” he said. “If I can’t get what I want the proper way, I steal it. When you’re not looking, when you least expect it, I will have a kiss from you.”

  “I’ll be on my guard,” she said, trying to parry his advance and defuse it.

  “I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure.”

  He sat back and relaxed.

  The driver took them through the snowy streets of Kiev and into a neighborhood that was lively with neon and flashing marquees. Alex tried to memorize the route but it was impossible. Federov kept her talking and she guessed that was the reason.

  Clubs and bars were packed one next to another along a trendy urban strip. The car stopped in front of a place named Malikai’s.

  Federov’s driver jumped out and opened the doors for them. Alex felt like a gun moll. A skin-headed bouncer guided them past a waiting line of people, and they entered the club. People seemed to know Yuri Federov. Everyone was quick to jump out of his way.

  They walked down a flight of steps, through a dark corridor. Alex could barely hear above the blasting techno beat from the sound system.

  “Is this a restaurant or a club?” she asked.

  “Both,” Federov answered.

  But it wasn’t that easy. Restaurant, Federov explained, meant bar in Ukraine, whereas nightclub meant restaurant and bar meant nightclub, which is where they were. And not to put
too fine an edge on it, even though Malikai’s was a nightclub, it also had a bar and restaurant.

  “Very confusing, isn’t it?” Alex said.

  “Not as confusing as Russian-Ukrainian politics,” he answered.

  “Quite right,” she agreed, still in Russian. “Politics works in strange ways,” she said.

  The noise in Malikai’s was deafening. Federov had to incline his head so that Alex could shout into his ear. They moved past the line that stood waiting for a table. Federov obviously never waited to be seated.

  “The owner, Malikai, is a friend,” Yuri said. “His brother plays ice hockey in North America. We share a love for ice hockey. And beautiful Western women.”

  They obviously shared a love for something, because Malikai himself turned up a moment later and embraced Yuri. Then Malikai turned and bellowed over the music.

  “Natalka!”

  Natalka, a hostess, materialized out of nowhere. She got another tight hug from Yuri too, one that lifted her straight off the ground. She was a trim woman in a sleek black dress and a ruby on the left side of her nose. She looked as if she was used to getting manhandled in this place and took it in stride in exchange for a solid paycheck.

  The crowd on the floor parted for them, and Natalka led them to a semicircular front row table in a corner that was midway between a bar and a stage. One of Federov’s friends was at the table, a man named Sergei with his own friend, Annette. Annette wore a gold minidress that was as short as Alex’s. In a good American touch, she seemed to be knocking back a Jack and ginger. She also looked as if she were quite plastered already. Sergei had a pistol on his belt that he was making no effort to conceal.

  In terms of booze, Federov didn’t even have to order.

  An ice bucket appeared, as did caviar, blinis, and a tray of hors d’oeuvres, presented by a mustached man in a red tunic who assisted Natalka. He said nothing but no one would have heard him if he did.

  Then, almost by magic, Natalka produced from nowhere a bottle of vodka that bore a blue and yellow Ukrainian label. She opened it with surgical precision, poured four generous shots, and plunged the bottle into the ice.