“Very well, then,” Martineau said, starting back to her desk.
“And thanks for the mulligan,” Charlie added just before he left. “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Charlie took his coffee back to his office and began to scan the headlines from one of the online English-language Moscow media outlets. He was engrossed in the lead story as he heard a light rap at the door, looked up, and saw Rob Brooker standing there with a coffee in hand. Two years into an extended three-year posting, Brooker worked mostly on property issues and seemed to know his stuff. Charlie had been out for beer with him a couple of weekends after he first arrived, and had found Brooker to be generous with his knowledge of the workings of the embassy, and of life in Moscow generally.
“Is that the leaked tax-shelter stuff?” he said, pointing at Charlie’s screen.
Charlie nodded. The leak — on a massive scale — of information about who was sheltering cash where and under which dodgy schemes, was making news around the world. In the Russian context, most of the money had been sent to Panama or Cyprus, which on its own was nothing new; the identities of many of the companies and wealthy individuals behind the money was, though. The mass disclosure was sending shock waves through Moscow’s elite, which included a significant component of organized crime, not to mention some high-level bureaucrats and politicians.
“There’s a lot of rich folks choking on their caviar and blini this morning,” Charlie said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Just wondering if you’re going to the reception this afternoon,” Brooker said, settling his large frame in the chair.
“Who am I to turn down a free drink?” Charlie deadpanned. He had already accepted the electronic invite to attend the informal event, which he had been told would be a good opportunity to meet some of the locals providing services to the embassy.
Brooker laughed. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up that a couple of brokers are going to be there, in case you get cornered and they start asking you about the status of the relocation project.”
Charlie frowned. “I didn’t know there was a relocation project.”
“There isn’t, really. But we’ve been looking at various options for years.” He glanced around the office and Charlie followed his gaze to the crumbling caulking at the edge of the windows, the cracks in the plaster on the walls, and the uneven floor. “Let’s face it — we can’t stay here forever.”
“It’s not so bad.” Charlie shrugged.
“Wait’ll you spend a winter here,” Brooker said. “You’re gonna want to stock up on sweaters. Anyway, one of the brokers, Oleg … I can’t remember his last name for the life of me. He’s a nice enough guy, but he can be a bit pushy.”
“I’ll consider myself warned.”
“He’s been pushing Petr Square on us for the past year.”
“Petr Square?”
“It’s a huge development up around Belorusskaya Metro station. It might actually be the largest in the city, but it’s had a lot of problems with permits and whatnot.”
“So I guess I tell him we’re still in the feasibility stage, if he asks?”
Brooker smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“And the truth is?”
“Petr Square is on our list of possibles, but it’s probably near the bottom, mostly because it’s too expensive.” Brooker sipped his coffee. “Plus, we just got wind of a refurbished building with a better location, and we’d be the sole occupant, which security seems to like. We’re still looking into the owner, though, and I certainly wouldn’t mention it to Oleg.”
Charlie put a finger across his lips. “Mum’s the word. Why are you looking into the owner?”
Brooker shrugged. “This is Moscow. You have to be careful who you’re dealing with.”
“You mean like … the mafia?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it that, but there are certainly some shady operators. People we want to steer clear of. You’ve probably heard of Dima the Great.”
“Who?”
“Vladimir Oligansky,” Brooker said. “He’s a big wheel in Moscow real estate and he’s rumoured to have some unsavoury connections. Turns out he was part owner in a couple of buildings we looked at in the past, so we had to keep looking, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s with the nickname?”
“He’s a former wrestler or something, and I guess that was his stage name. He goes about two-seventy-five — not someone you want to cross.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy.”
“Sure is.” Brooker nodded. “Are you gonna be working on property much?”
“A bit, maybe,” Charlie said, hedging. “But I think my main focus is going to be consular.”
“Right.” Brooker’s eyes darted down to his coffee cup, where he proceeded to conceal his face during an extended sip.
Charlie considered ignoring the elephant in the room — he knew that there were few secrets among embassy staff, especially not ones about the new guy being tossed in the drunk tank on the weekend — but decided to try and address it.
“I take it you heard how my weekend went,” he said, sensing the colour rising up his neck and into his cheeks.
Brooker gave a nervous laugh and looked back at his cup for a moment, seemingly as embarrassed as Charlie was. But when he looked back up, his expression was genuine enough. “Don’t worry about it. The Russians make a sport of picking us off when they can. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but I can’t help feeling like a moron.”
Brooker gave a dismissive wave. “I hear you met a fellow Canuck in … there.”
“Yeah, his name’s Steve Liepa, from Toronto. He said he was in on some trumped-up drug charge.” Charlie heard himself and realized that he must sound green — all consular cases, like all prisoners, were always innocent.
“So it wasn’t a total waste of your Saturday night,” Brooker said, as though Charlie had followed the consular handbook to its letter. “You got your first consular file.”
Charlie nodded, though up until this morning’s meeting with Martineau, he had been more concerned about saving his own skin. But now he saw some serendipity in being given the chance to pay Liepa back for saving his ass in the holding cell.
“I know everyone’s innocent in our line of work, but he really didn’t strike me as someone who should be in prison.”
“You should follow your instincts.” Brooker nodded. “How about your friend — the one you were with Saturday night. He okay?”
Charlie shuddered at the prospect of Shawn Mercer returning to Calgary to share his war stories at the water cooler, no doubt self-serving versions featuring Mercer rescuing Charlie from the sasquatch, or the hookers, or both. “That reminds me. I’ve got to check on his temporary passport. His flight leaves tomorrow morning.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Brooker stood. “See you at the reception.”
Charlie returned his attention to the online article, then entered Oligansky in the search box. Finding nothing of particular interest, he clicked the article shut, drained his coffee, and pulled Steve Liepa’s consular file from the corner of his desk. An image sprang into Charlie’s mind of Liepa’s fading smile as the cell door slammed shut. He could almost smell the stench of the place as he flipped the file folder open and looked for a contact number for the prison.
Chapter 5
Charlie accepted a glass of white wine from a passing server and checked his watch. He had already been at the reception for almost thirty minutes, and he had no intention of staying for more than an hour. Considering he barely knew half of the embassy staff, he felt at a bit of a loss and had spent most of his time hovering on the edges of conversational clusters. He was surveying the large room, which
had become crowded and stuffy since he had first arrived, when he heard his name from behind him and turned to see Rob Brooker standing there, next to a tall man with hard features.
“Charlie Hillier, I’d like you to meet Oleg Sukov.”
The Russian’s face opened into a broad smile as his pinstripe-clad arm shot forward, adorned by the chunkiest timepiece Charlie had ever seen.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hillier.”
“Call me Charlie,” he said, accepting the hand and returning the smile.
“You have just arrived in Moscow?”
“I’ve been here a couple of months.”
“Is a nice time of year to arrive,” Sukov said. “Before the cold comes. But you are from Canada, where winters are not so warm, yes?”
“That’s right.” Charlie watched as Sukov reached into his suit pocket and came up with an oversized business card, which Charlie accepted and scanned. It indicated Sukov as an account executive with Horizon Property Consultants.
“You’re in the real-estate business?” Charlie avoided Brooker’s grin.
“Yes, we offer broad services. For you, I think, brokerage is most relevant. I understand you are looking to relocate embassy?”
Charlie took a sip of wine. “Well, we’ve been considering a move for a long time, as you probably know. Whether it’s going to happen anytime soon is another question.”
“Indeed,” Sukov said, looking around the room. “This building is quite charming, but not really convenient for an embassy, I think.”
“That’s probably a fair statement.” Charlie waited for the pitch. He needn’t have worried. Sukov was reaching inside his jacket pocket again, this time to pull out a folded, glossy one-pager showing an architect’s rendition of a shining office tower.
“All you need is right property, at right price,” Sukov said, proffering the document.
“This looks nice.” Charlie took the brochure and scanned the details below the title: Petr Square — The New Standard for Business. The square metres meant little to him, other than to suggest a massive development. He could feel Sukov’s gaze on him, like a cat eyeing a plump sparrow.
“It is largest commercial development in central Moscow,” Sukov boasted as Brooker leaned in for a look. “Also, most modern.”
“How far along are you?”
“About eighty percent completed.” Sukov beamed.
“And where, exactly, in central Moscow is this?” he asked, as though Brooker hadn’t already pointed it out to him on a map. Sukov leaned in and pointed to the flip side of the brochure, where a red star marked the development’s location. It was within the Garden Ring, but at the northern extremity of the central core.
“It’s perfect location,” Sukov rolled on, launching into a detailed explanation of the main intersections and amenities nearby and the adjacent Metro stop, which connected to two main lines.
Charlie did his best to look impressed. “And how long to finish the last twenty percent?” he asked, curious as to whether the eighty percent figure was anywhere close to reality. From what Brooker had said about the permit problems, he was guessing they had barely progressed beyond digging the hole. Sukov made it sound like they could move in next week.
“It’s perfect time for tenants to get space custom-tailored — like a good suit, hey, Charlie?”
Charlie took in Sokov’s slim-cut, two-button charcoal number, accessorized with flashy cufflinks and matching silk tie and pocket square, and felt suddenly self-conscious in his off-the-rack blazer and grey cotton-polyester pants. There had been little need for suits in Havana, but people seemed to dress more formally here.
“I heard there were some problems with the building permit.” Brooker jumped in, as Charlie became absorbed in an internal sartorial debate over whether his ensemble made him look more like a department store security guard or a high-schooler on his first job interview.
Sukov’s disdain at the mention of permits was evident in the theatrical wave of his hand. “Is overblown bureaucracy,” he railed. “You are new here, Charlie, but you will soon see how process can be frustrating.” He waved his hand again. “But that’s in past.”
“You’ve got all the permits?”
“I tell you, the permit is … imminent,” Sukov proclaimed with pride, whether over the status of the project or the latest addition to his vocabulary.
“That’s great news,” Charlie said, looking at Brooker. “So I guess that makes it easier to rent the space now.” Brooker had mentioned that one of the reasons they had never seriously considered the Petr Square development was that no other tenants had committed to the space. As if reading their minds, Sukov leaned in and grinned again.
“Indeed, Charlie. We have just signed anchor tenant.”
“Who’s that?” Brooker asked, his interest evident despite the casual tone of the question.
Sukov cast a conspiratorial glance around the room before he spoke. “I really can’t say. Is still with lawyers, but it is big multinational.”
Charlie nodded and noticed Brooker scrutinizing Sukov, no doubt testing out his bullshit metre, but the broker seemed to revel in their curiosity.
“So you see, gentlemen, what I have been saying for many months now is true. Petr Square is well on way to full occupancy.”
“How many floors did they take?” Brooker asked.
“Most of large tower,” Sukov said. “We come to terms for rest soon. As for other tower, the choice is still yours, but space will go fast. I have already a lot of interest, but you can get very good rent, being such prestige tenant as Embassy of Canada,” he added with an unctuous smile.
“We’re still in the feasibility stage.” Charlie shrugged.
Sukov’s smile flattened. “Of course, I try to hold best floors for you, but I cannot promise.”
“Well, thanks for the update,” Charlie said, tapping the business card and handing the brochure to Sukov, who pushed it back.
“Is yours. It was pleasure to meet you, Charlie. You give me call when you are ready to discuss terms,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “But don’t wait too long,” he added with a wink before heading off toward the other end of the room.
“That’s big news,” Brooker whispered as soon as Sukov was out of earshot, “if it’s true, of course.”
Charlie nodded. “Maybe whoever it is knows something about the permit no one else does, if they’re willing to commit.”
“As full of shit as he is, Oleg’s right about one thing.” Brooker swallowed the last of his wine. “The rest of the space will go fast if he really has signed up a major anchor tenant. I’d better get on the horn to Ottawa and see if there’s any interest in exploring terms.” He checked his watch, then held out his hand for the brochure. “If you don’t mind, I’ll scan that thing right away and ship it off to HQ. I’ve got a regular call with the property bureau tomorrow and I’d like to have this on the — Oh, hi, Ekaterina.”
Charlie turned to see who Brooker was talking to and found himself at eye level with a woman in a business suit.
“Charlie, meet Ekaterina Dontseva. She’s with Black & Berger.”
Charlie put on his best smile and accepted the woman’s slender hand. “Charlie Hillier.”
“Ekaterina. A pleasure.” She had the prominent cheekbones so common among Russians, but her bright, friendly eyes softened her face and made for a less intimidating effect.
“Ekaterina does a lot of legal work for the mission,” Brooker said. “Mostly HR-related, but she’s helped me out a couple of times on property files.”
“I don’t suppose you deal with consular files,” Charlie said hopefully.
“Charlie’s just joined us as consul,” Brooker said, glancing at his watch. “I’m going to have to run if I want to connect with Ottawa. That’s the problem with being nine hours ahead. Excuse me.”<
br />
“So, what kind of law do you practise?” Charlie asked after Brooker had left.
“I’ve been doing a lot of work for international companies — mostly British or American — setting up here in Moscow,” Dontseva said. “Real estate, mergers, and acquisitions. Whatever they need, really. That led to some work for Western embassies, including yours.”
“You don’t practise criminal law, though?”
She shook her head. “Not for quite a while. You’re thinking about your consular case?”
“Sorry, I’m not trying to get free advice —”
She put up a hand. “Please. I’d be happy to help you as much as I can. What sort of case is it?”
“Well, he’s a Canadian, obviously,” Charlie began. “He’s probably early thirties, a technical writer who’s been in Moscow for less than six months. He says he went to a party where there was some marijuana, and then the cops showed up and grabbed everyone and questioned them. They let them all go, except for Steve. He says he’s never sold so much as a joint in his life.”
“Do you believe him?”
Charlie considered the question for a moment. “Actually, I do.”
“Drug cases are taken very seriously here, I’m afraid,” Dontseva said, a delicate frown clouding her expression.
“I’ve heard that.” Charlie watched as she sipped her wine with full, coral-painted lips. “I also understand there’s a whole different set of rules when it comes to drug cases.”
She nodded. “It can certainly seem that way, depending on the nature of the offence — or alleged offence in this case,” she added with a flash of white teeth. “Have you been given access yet?”
“Not really,” he said quickly, keen to avoid how he first came into contact with Steve Liepa. “I have a visit scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Does he have a lawyer?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I could refer to you to some colleagues who specialize in criminal law, if you’d like.”
“I’ll be sure to find out if he’s represented, and I may take you up on that.”
The Moscow Code Page 3
