by Steven Gore
Ninchenko’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment, then said, “The plate 0087 isn’t used by the State Property Fund, but by the Ministry of the Military Complex.”
He disconnected and reentered the van. “Do you think Matson brought the devices and code with him to Ukraine?”
“Probably. They’re easy to carry. The video and audio detectors are each about the size of a VHS cassette, and all of the documentation fits on a DVD. Schematics, software, everything. I suspect that Alla is guarding it all in their hotel room.”
Ninchenko’s eyes focused on the medical center. “Those generals may be crooks, but they’re smart. Their mistake was in their greed, not in their cunning.” He looked at Gage. “Is Matson smart enough not to get taken?”
Gage didn’t answer immediately. “Smart” wasn’t the right word. “It’s more a matter of instinct. He knows sales better than anything else and his instinct will make him hold something back until he gets at least part of the money.”
“And that would be?”
“The software. The code that gets embedded into the hardware. If I were him, I’d let them examine the devices and look at the schematics. That way they’ll know it’s real, but he keeps complete control over it because it can’t be reverse-engineered.”
Ninchenko said something in Russian to the driver, then glanced at Gage. “Let’s go. The others will stay with him. We’ll set up along the road so we can follow him back to the city.”
Gage took a last look at the medical center and then said, “Maybe we should tell Slava what’s going on.”
Slava was waiting for them in his Land Rover a half mile down a forest road on the outskirts of Kiev.
Gage climbed into the backseat with Slava, and Ninchenko got in front.
Slava reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a copy of the arrival card Matson submitted to Ukrainian immigration.
“Interesting thing,” Slava said, handing it to Gage. “My people get this at airport.”
Gage read it over. “Matson is traveling under a Panamanian passport and he’s using Alla’s last name. He can disappear anytime he wants.”
“You underestimate this man?”
“Maybe.” Gage passed it back. “But not who he’s involved with.”
Ninchenko related to Slava what they had discovered at the sanatorium.
“Does the meeting with the generals mean that the deal is done?” Gage asked.
Slava shook his head. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Not simple to do.”
Ninchenko nodded. “Since it would be a national security matter for the U.S., it becomes a diplomatic issue for Ukraine. Take Israel. If SatTek targeting devices were discovered in missiles landing on Haifa, it would lean on the U.S. and the U.S. would not only cut off foreign aid, but would pressure the World Bank and the IMF to cut off loans, and soon the poorest of Ukrainians would be starving.”
Slava pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Many more people in Independence Square if that happen.”
“Does that mean Ukraine wouldn’t buy it?” Gage asked.
“Not necessarily,” Ninchenko said. “Ukraine has only one reason for maintaining a defense industry. Export. The world only wants two things from Ukraine: steel and weapons. And that will be true even if the opposition takes power.”
“Ukraine not make radar and missiles because we think somebody attack us or we attack somebody,” Slava said. “Ukraine do because other people attack each other.”
“So the decision to buy would need to be made high up.”
“The highest. All of these decisions, what to buy, what to sell, are made by the president. Gravilov would take the deal to Hadeon Alexandervich, then Hadeon Alexandervich would take it to his father. It is his calculation how much diplomatic pressure the country will be able to withstand when the U.S. finds out.”
“And who to kill to hide president part in deal,” Slava added.
The words snapped the subject back from the abstractions of diplomacy to an image of Matson lying dead in a Kiev alley. Gage looked first at Slava, then at Ninchenko.
“Meaning what?”
“Remember when the president ordered the sale of the Kolchuga radar system to Iraq?” Ninchenko asked. “It was during the arms embargo against Saddam Hussein.”
“Sure. Through Jordan.”
“You know what happened to the link between the president and the deal?” Ninchenko asked.
“Malev. His name Malev, Valeri Ivanovich,” Slava said. “Head of State Arms Export Agency.”
“Murdered. Three days after the U.S. started investigating. It was made to look like an auto accident.”
“Murder not solved. Investigation end.” Slava spoke in a tone that reported a rule, not an exception. “Matson not understand that they always break chain.”
CHAPTER 64
Lovers’ quarrel,” Ninchenko said after he disconnected his cell phone. He and Gage were parked a block away from the Lesya Palace. “Alla just ran out of the hotel restaurant where they were having lunch.”
“What did Matson do?”
“Apparently just turned red and sat there eating his borscht.”
“Any idea what the argument was about?”
“The only thing Slava’s people heard was her crying as she got into the elevator.”
“It’s out of character. Gangsters don’t cry.” Gage thought for a moment. “It may have something to do with the meeting at Puscha Voditsa. Maybe a little you-don’t-trust-me-with-the-money manipulation.” He glanced over at Ninchenko. “I’m not sure we understand all the ways she may fit in.” Gage smiled. “And what acting school she went to.”
Gage recalled Slava telling him in Geneva that he and Alla’s father had sat together on an underworld tribunal.
“Slava and Petrov Tarasov served on a skhodka last year. Maybe he can pry some information out of her father without alerting him that we know what she’s up to.”
After Ninchenko made the call to Slava, Gage asked, “Do you know where Gravilov and Hadeon Alexandervich are this afternoon?”
“Gravilov has been in his apartment since he arrived in Kiev. The radio reported that Hadeon Alexandervich was at Rima Casino until 5 A.M. I expect he’s still sleeping it off.”
“Sounds as though the Destroyer likes to party.”
Ninchenko shook. “Not party. Humiliate women. The strippers at Rima dread him. They never know if he’ll stuff thousands of dollars in their thongs or urinate on them. Or both—and his father isn’t much better. Once he made all of the cabinet ministers strip to their underwear at a banquet and sing the national anthem.”
“Why would they put up with that?”
“You mean why would they pay to do it? It costs anywhere between a million and five million dollars to buy a spot in the Cabinet of Ministers, depending on how much money can be made in the position. Energy and defense are the most lucrative, so they’re the most expensive. One energy minister skimmed eighty million dollars in just one year. Whenever the president needs a little money, he just fires an official and sells the job to someone else.”
“And when the kid wants money?”
“Until the last few months he didn’t want money, he wanted things, big things. Now it’s all about cash on hand. If the opposition wins, they’ll try to take back all the factories he and the other oligarchs stole. There hasn’t been a privatization of a major steel works, truck factory, defense plant, farm, or electric generation facility that he doesn’t partly own through nominees or dummy companies. And it’s all at risk.”
Gage watched the passing traffic as he tried to fix in his mind the relationship between Hadeon Alexandervich and the president. “I was assuming the son was just a nominee for his dad.”
“Hadeon Alexandervich got some things on his own and some things he got because people thought they were paying off his father. Not that different than what the European press used to say about the second George Bush and his oil interests.”
“Assuming tha
t Hadeon Alexandervich decides to buy what Matson is selling, he has either got to flip it quickly or take it with him when he flees the country.”
“My guess is that he’ll flip it,” Ninchenko said. “He needs assets that are liquid.”
Gage pointed down the street. “There’s 0087.”
They watched the government Mercedes pull to the curb in front of the hotel, followed by a dark green BMW 530i.
Matson and Alla stepped out the hotel entrance and waited at the top of the steps.
“It looks like the lovers’ quarrel isn’t over,” Gage said. “I saw her in London, a scowl is not her normal expression…I hope she’s not armed. I want Matson to live long enough to go to jail.”
“I better find out who owns the BMW,” Ninchenko said. He made a call, then read off the license number and waited.
“No such number is registered,” he reported a minute later. “It’s probably State Security.”
“Matson’s having a big day,” Gage said. “Sauna with the generals, fight with the girlfriend, protection by SBU.”
“And probably a meeting with Hadeon Alexandervich. That’s Gravilov’s Mercedes SUV pulling up. There are only a couple of G55s in Kiev. Everybody knows which one is his. It’s better armored than most banks in Ukraine.”
They watched Matson and Alla walk down the steps and enter Gravilov’s G55. The procession pulled away, speeding along Shevchenko Boulevard, skirting the main part of Kiev, then into the exclusive Pechersk District of wide boulevards and expensive apartments.
“Looks like the meeting is at Hadeon Alexandervich’s apartment,” Ninchenko said. “We’ll need to break this off when we get close. There’s too much security. Many government officials live in that building. Video cameras sweep all sides and the streets.”
“So it’s a black box?”
“Yes, a black box,” Ninchenko looked over at Gage. “How would it play out if they make a deal?”
“My guess is that Matson would give them at least one low-noise amplifier and one video amplifier to test. Then they’d have to negotiate a price. At some point he’d have to give up the software. And then the money would have to be moved.”
“So it will take a few days.”
“Probably,” Gage said. “Any chance of searching his hotel room?”
Ninchenko considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “Too risky.”
Gage fell silent as Ninchenko directed the driver to break off the chase. He felt a wave of frustration. He’d been reduced to a spectator, watching Matson travel from place to place, powerless to intervene, not even knowing how far along Matson was in the deal.
Then a moment of self-blame. He should’ve prevented Matson from leaving the U.S.—but maybe it wasn’t too late to backtrack. He reached for his cell phone and called Alex Z.
“Did you find out where FedEx delivered the MMIC chips?”
He heard Alex Z yawn before he answered. It was 4 A.M. in San Francisco.
“They dead-ended at a mail drop in Trenton, New Jersey. The receiving company is registered in Delaware, but is owned by a Florida corporation.”
Gage sent Alex Z back to bed, then disconnected. He had his answer about where the chips went: into a maze. And it would take a month of dead ends to get to the other side.
He was still a spectator.
CHAPTER 65
Ninchenko bumped Gage with his elbow as they drove toward the center of Kiev, then pointed up at the building housing the Cabinet of Ministers, a stucco monstrosity resting on granite blocks.
“That,” Ninchenko said, “along with most of Kiev, was leveled by the Nazis during the Great Patriotic War.” He gestured toward the building as they passed by. “The government kept German prisoners for two years after the war was over to rebuild it. As slave laborers. Some of them were just twelve-and thirteen-year-old children forced into the army by the Nazis in the last days of the war.” Gage heard regret in Ninchenko’s voice, as if it was a crime he had failed to prevent. “And not all of them survived.” He shook his head. “I hate even to look at it.”
Instead of turning west toward Independence Square and the apartment, the driver continued north, up a long, curving cobblestone street past the National Philharmonic, a yellow brick building looking to Gage more like a place of commerce than culture. They crested the hill and looked down at the blue Dnepr River and the four-story cruise ships moored for the winter at the Podil embankment terminal.
Gage didn’t mind the ride. He needed to think, and preferred to do it outside the confinement of the apartment.
Ninchenko’s driver wound his way up Castle Hill, then pulled into a space near the Orthodox church at the top. The few trees surrounding the small structure were bare and the parking lot was empty.
“Let’s get out here,” Ninchenko said. “I want to show you something.”
Gage followed Ninchenko to a low wall overlooking the city.
“This is where Kiev was founded,” Ninchenko said. “Not by the tribes living in the area, but by Lithuanian invaders. Ukraine, the word, means nothing more than ‘borderland.’ A gap, a void, an emptiness. One that is usually filled by others.”
A sharp gust blew up from the river. Gage turned up his collar and pulled down on his ushanka to cover the tops of his ears. Ninchenko shivered, then did the same.
“You don’t seem to be particularly proud to be Ukrainian,” Gage said.
“Ukraine is the product of hundreds of years of madness. It’s the Blanche DuBois of Europe, relying always on the kindness of strangers. Strangers gave Ukraine its capital, its industry, its culture, its religion. Russian was even the national language until a few years ago. And the world subconsciously recognizes it. Most people in the West think Kiev is part of Russia. They even refer to it as ‘The Ukraine,’ as if it was merely a region and not a nation.”
“I don’t want to offend you,” Gage said, “but there does seem to be a certain hollowness in Ukraine. I feel it every time I come here. Americans expect a certain depth, maybe a certain weightiness, in this part of the world. Cossacks, plagues, famines, suffering. The kinds of things that create great art and literature.”
“All of that only taught narrow-minded self-interest,” Ninchenko said. “That’s why Ukraine will sell arms to anyone. In fact, ethnic cleansing in the Balkans wouldn’t have been quite so effective without the weapons supplied by Ukraine. Too many Ukrainians live like there’s no tomorrow, and they expect that no one else has the right to.”
Ninchenko pointed north. “You know what’s just up that way?” Gage’s gaze followed Ninchenko’s arm toward treed, rolling hills. “Chernobyl. One hundred kilometers. A wind in this direction would’ve brought radiation to Kiev in two hours. You know how long it took the government to warn the people of Kiev about the nuclear accident? Two weeks. And you know what the government sent to the contaminated people in the zone? Red wine and instructions to wash their floors. Five hundred thousand people were evacuated, but not until they were fully bathed in the fallout and condemned to death.”
Ninchenko turned toward Gage. “But we didn’t come here to discuss history and literature and culture.”
Gage smiled. “I think we did.”
Ninchenko shrugged, not at all embarrassed to have been found out. “Apparently I’m not as subtle as I thought.”
“I get your point: Matson needs to be stopped before he turns over the technology.”
“But you came here to do more than that.”
“I think I may be trying to do too many things. Clear my friend. Recover the money. Expose Gravilov. Stop the sale. And snagging Matson would be the linchpin for doing it all.” Gage shook his head slowly. “There isn’t time to do everything.”
“What is there time to do?”
Gage turned toward Ninchenko. He not only wanted to hear Ninchenko’s answer, he wanted to see it—for the city tour could end in the infamous State Security dungeon.
“How much of a risk are you willing to take?”
Gage asked.
Ninchenko kept his eyes locked on Gage’s, but pointed once again toward Chernobyl. “My older brother was a police officer. Among the first on the scene of the fire.” His eyes moistened and his voice quivered, but he didn’t look away. “He died within hours.” Ninchenko tilted his head at the church. “We had his memorial here. You know what my mother asked the government representative? She asked him what was the half-life of grief—and he just turned away, pretending he hadn’t heard her.”
A gust of wind rattled the frozen leaves at their feet.
Only then did Ninchenko glance away, back toward the Cabinet of Ministers in the distance. “I despise those people as much as they despise us.” He then folded his arms across his chest. “What do you need?”
“You have a place I can stash Matson?” Ninchenko didn’t flinch at Gage’s words. “We need to grab him, Alla, and whatever he brought with him.”
“And then what?”
“Get them out of Ukraine.”
Ninchenko’s gaze swept north and west. “Poland, Russia. Too hard to cross the borders.”
“We need to get him to a NATO country,” Gage said.
“Romania or Hungary or Slovakia. But those are also difficult borders.”
“What about Istanbul? By boat across the Black Sea from Odessa.”
“I’ll see if Slava is willing to set it up.”
Ninchenko made the call as they drove down the hill.
“He agrees,” Ninchenko said, after he disconnected. “But says that we better snatch them tonight. He just found out that they made plane reservations to Dnepropetrovsk tomorrow morning. Hadeon Alexandervich owns an electronics factory there. Slava thinks that’s where they’re going to test the devices. He wants Matson stopped before that happens.”
“He wants Matson stopped? I thought politics was just a form of business to him.”
“Remember what I said about Ukrainians being the Jews of the Soviet Union? Slava isn’t a figurative Jew, he’s an actual one. Aboveground, he travels on an Israeli passport, and he doesn’t want any more weapons falling into the hands of Israel’s enemies.”
