by Mark Terry
I shrugged.
"Yeah. You don't follow politics much. Steve Wellton is Senator Fred Duncan's Chief of Staff."
#
Dr. Derek Stillwater met me at Ronald Reagan International. He was standing by the luggage carousel with a sign that read: Sandy Beach.
When I walked up to him he grinned. "You're going to have to show me ID, ma'am, because you wouldn't believe how many people have come up to me and told me they’re read if I’m ready."
"You're such an asshole."
He laughed. I'd worked with Stillwater a couple years ago on a case in Chicago. He was with Homeland Security at the time, an expert in biological and chemical terrorism. About six-foot, former Special Forces, he had blazing blue eyes, thick brown hair, a lot of muscles (not that I noticed) and an interesting way of coming at investigations from weird angles.
When the Steve Wellton/Ivan Sabitov case led to Washington, DC, I called Derek and asked for a favor.
As we walked to what turned out to be his vehicle, a Dodge pickup truck, I said, "You said something about not exactly being with Homeland anymore."
"Technically I am, at least for a while. But I've been on loan to the State Department recently."
"Doing the same thing?"
"Doing whatever Bob Mandalevo wants me to do, mostly."
Bob Mandalevo was the U.S. Secretary of State. I was not on a first-name basis with any high-level politicians. Stillwater was. My impression was he would call them by their first name whether they wanted him to or not.
#
Stillwater took me to a bar not far from the Watergate Hotel complex called Muse. It tried awfully hard to be both hip and genteel, sort of like Queen Elizabeth dancing the Funky Chicken. I drank a Long Island Iced Tea and Stillwater ordered a microbrew beer called American Badass.
"Okay," he said, leaning forward. He'd slipped out of his leather jacket. He wore a T-shirt that said: You Have to Be Odd to be Number One. "All you really said was you had a murder case that tied into Senator Fred Duncan and you wanted some help getting around DC if I had the time. For you, I've got the time. Plus I'm not out of the country. But I need to know a little bit more."
I told him about the case.
"So Duncan's Chief of Staff was hiring a hooker?"
"I don't think so. From what she says, Wellton wasn't paying her. She was more of a present."
Derek studied me for a moment. "For…?"
"That we don't know."
"What does Duncan say?"
"He says he knows nothing."
"Of course he does. So why are you here?"
I leaned back in my chair. "Because the Mayor of Chicago is a Democrat and is thinking of running for senate and Senator Duncan is a Republican."
Derek sighed. "Um, any real leads?"
"Well, Ivan Sabitov pretty much ran Chicago's Russian Mafia, such as it is. They're rather heavily into rackets, hookers and probably at least some of the drug trade. And undoubtedly other things we're not aware of."
"Which makes Wellton's death in his company rather problematic. Is there a connection between the Senator and the Russian Mafia?"
"That's what I'm here to find out. I'll talk to Duncan's staff, and there's a guy at the Bureau I want to talk to about the Russian Mafia. Another reason I decided to come to Washington DC is that Ivan Sabitov's brother, Sasha, is here."
"Another mobster?"
I shrugged. "I believe he is portrayed as a successful businessman. I'm going to go and talk to him, if possible, and see what he says. And maybe I'll be able to dig up some connection with Duncan, although we haven't been able to find anything yet."
Derek nodded. "Barring any real leads you might have, I know just the guy to talk to." He pointed toward the door. "And here he is now."
#
A tall, very broad-shouldered, white-haired man in what to me looked like a tailored navy blue Armani suit, champagne silk shirt, and Hermes silk tie walked over. I knew clothes. And this guy knew clothes. And cared. Stillwater, not so much. The man said, "Stillwater. You need something?"
Derek gestured to me. "Lieutenant Sandy Beach, Chicago PD, meet Austin Davis, political consultant."
Davis sat in the booth next to Stillwater and offered his hand. I realized immediately that the white hair was not an indication of his age. He was probably in his forties, certainly within a year or two of my own age. I said, "I'm not sure how a political consultant will help."
"He's a special political consultant," Derek said.
"Meaning what?"
"My particular specialty," Davis said, "is solving politicians' problems, sometimes personal, sometimes professional."
"He makes their problems go away," Derek said.
"If I can."
"I still don't—"
"Why don't you tell me what the issue is and maybe I can understand why Derek thinks I might be helpful."
"Fair enough." So I told him.
"Ah," Davis said. "Fred Duncan. You've heard the old expression about an honest politician?"
"I didn't know there was such a thing."
"An honest politician," Derek said, "is one who, when he is bought, will stay bought."
"Ah. And Duncan is an honest politician?"
"Fuck no," Davis said.
#
Sasha Sabitov came out from behind his desk, which was an enormous slab of tinted glass on what looked to be two large granite blocks. Sasha Sabitov was a tall, powerfully-built man with steel-gray hair swept off a high forehead, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and a hooked nose that made him look predatory. He was an unusually handsome man, but the nose made him look a little cruel, which I suspected he was. His brother had been fat and old and dumpy. Sasha's age was hard to pinpoint, but he was not fat and he was not dumpy.
"So, Lieutenant Sandra Beach. I must say, I like your name." He shook my hand and turned to Derek. "And who are you, sir?"
"Dr. Derek Stillwater."
They shook hands and Sabitov studied Derek for a moment. "Are you also with the Chicago PD?"
"No, I'm not," Derek said with a shake of his head.
"Who are you, then?"
"Dr. Stillwater," I said, "is providing me with support while I'm in Washington, DC."
Sabitov's gaze flickered toward me, then back to Derek, frowning. "Washington PD? FBI?"
"Homeland Security," Derek said.
"Homeland Security is investigating my brother's murder?"
"I'm just helping Lieutenant Beach while she's in town. Unofficial chauffeur."
"I see. Well. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Soda? A cocktail?"
Derek indicated a Diet Coke would be fine. I took coffee. Sabitov strode to the door of his corner office overlooking the Potomac, with glimpses of the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument and the Capitol Building. He said something in Russian to the young redhead in the outer office and sat down on a cream leather chair at angles to us.
"So. How can I help you?"
"I was wondering if you had any theories about who might have murdered your brother."
"My brother…" Sasha shook his head. "I loved my brother, but as you may know, he was a criminal. I would assume that he was murdered by a competitor. Chicago, I understand, has quite a bit of crime."
"What," Derek interrupted, "did you know about your brother's business?"
Sasha Sabitov shrugged. "We did not talk business. I tried to keep my own business interests very separate from Ivan's."
The redhead came in with a glass tray. There was a glass of Diet Coke on ice, a coffee cup for me with a sugar container and a cup of real cream, and a cut-crystal glass of a clear liquid on ice that I was fairly certain was not water or 7-Up. Derek's gaze flickered over the redhead, who was young and gorgeous, with waves of auburn hair, a white silk blouse, and a very tight black skirt that ended about four inches above her knees. Her heels would have been more appropriate at a
nightclub, but I was fairly certain her job description included things that made the heels desirable.
Sabitov said something in Russian to her. It seemed more complicated than, "Thank you." She nodded, left the tray and walked out.
"What exactly are your business interests?" I asked, adding cream and sugar to my coffee and taking a sip. It was excellent.
Sabitov shrugged. "I have very extensive business interests. Software, IT. Electronics. Investing. Banking. But what does my business have to do with Ivan's death?"
"Hopefully nothing," I said. "I was just curious. Did your brother have any enemies?"
Again with the Russian shrug. "Obviously. Somebody shot him. Or perhaps the real target was the man he was with and my brother was, how do you say it, collateral."
"Steve Wellton," I said. "Yes, that's a possibility. I have an appointment with Senator Duncan. I understand you know the senator."
With a shoo-ing gesture of his right hand, Sabitov said, "I know many, many members of congress."
"Do you donate money to all of their campaign funds?"
"You might be surprised."
No, I wouldn't. Austin Davis had already taken care of that for me.
#
Resting his elbows on the table, Austin Davis said, "Duncan's not much different from most pols—once in office, they spend most of their time trying to stay in office, and for the most part that means raising money. Lots of it."
Stillwater said, "Are you aware of any connection between Ivan Sabitov and Senator Duncan?"
Austin Davis's grin seemed like cynicism incarnate. "Senator Duncan will take money from anyone and everyone. Hard and soft."
I cocked an eyebrow. "Hard and soft?"
"Hard money means it's regulated by law. Soft money, in politics, refers to money that's not regulated by election laws. For instance, companies or unions or even individuals might donate money to a political party, supposedly in support of that party. The relationship between the candidate and the party might have something to do with how much of that soft money ends up in their campaigns, or goes toward party ads supporting them." He seemed bitterly amused by something as he spoke. "Of course, it could mean that stacks of hundred dollar bills appear in a briefcase in your office."
"So you think Duncan's corrupt."
Davis seemed a little confused by the word "corrupt."
"Of course he's corrupt. He's in office, isn't he? He's stayed in office. Whatever morals you have coming in get killed pretty quickly in this town."
"Do you have anything like proof?"
Davis sighed. "Hang on." He pulled out his phone and made a call. "BB? Do a quick run on Senator Duncan and cross-check with a last name, Sabitov. Could be Chicago, could be DC. Sure. Thanks."
He clicked off and said, "Should be a couple minutes."
"How's BB?" Derek asked.
"Good."
To me, Derek said, "Austin's business partner was Special Forces back in the day. We crossed paths a couple times."
"I'm not sure this is helping me," I said.
Davis smiled. "Okay. Without my information from BB, I can tell you that Duncan is one of the worst weather vanes in the senate, that he chairs the Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs, and sits on the Finance Committee, Small Business and Entrepreneurship Committees, and on the Joint Committee on Taxation. I can tell you that one of his pet topics is regulation of banking, especially these days with the areas of tax shelters, money laundering, and online banking and security."
"Weather vane?"
"He goes whichever way the wind blows. And if the wind happens to come bundled in tens and twenties, even better."
"So what would a Chicago mobster want from a guy like him?" I said.
"Influence," Davis said. "Racketeers like Sabitov want to keep their options open with money laundering and off-shore accounts. Funny enough, so do most large corporations. Another example: there's a lot of pressure for U.S. banks to crack down on their credit card security systems. Make all U.S. cards EMV-enabled."
I looked blankly at him. Stillwater flashed a brief smile. I said, "You know what he's talking about?"
"Yeah. EMV-enabled credit cards have a microprocessor embedded in them that encrypts data differently each time you use them. Gets rid of the magnetic strip. Much, much harder for hackers to steal credit card data. The U.S. has been very slow to adopt."
"And Duncan wants this?"
"He's pushing a bill requiring it. Banks and credit card companies in the U.S. are basically for it, but they don't want to be forced into it," said Davis.
"And there's money to be made?"
Both men laughed. Yes, of course it was a naïve question. "Okay," I said. "Tell me how someone makes money."
"They manufacture the chips," Austin said. "Or the software. Or sell the plastic that makes the cards. Or the readers. Or run a booming business in counterfeit cards with microchips in them."
"So," I said slowly, "someone who was really into software and electronics might very well be interested in this happening if they were involved in that industry."
"Sure."
"And Sasha Sabitov has a lot of business interests in software and computers."
Austin's phone played a blues guitar riff and he answered it, listened for a moment and said, "Thanks."
Austin frowned, seemed lost in thought. After a moment's silence he said, "Ivan Sabitov personally donated $2,600 to Senator Duncan's campaign, which is the maximum limit for an individual. He donated slightly over $30,000 to the RNC, and another $10,000 to the Illinois RNC. Basically the maximum for an individual. Although that's not quite what's going on here, really. Sabitov was also a bundler. So is his brother, Sasha."
"Bundler?"
"There are always loopholes in finance funding," Austin said. "Bundling is more or less a way around campaign finance laws. Let's say you're rich and you want to give a huge campaign donation. But you can't, legally. But you can give, just to make it simple, $1,000. And you've got a lot of rich friends, relatives and business associates. Maybe even the executives of your company. So you get them all together, each of them donates $1,000, and you give the campaign a big bundle of money."
"And the Sabitovs are involved in this?"
"It seems likely," Austin said slowly, "according to BB, but that's information from our database and sources, nothing official."
"If you donate money, you have to report it, right?"
"Not exactly. Part of the law says a candidate only has to reveal the sources that happen to be registered lobbyists. In the 2008 presidential campaign both Obama and McCain voluntarily disclosed every bundler who raised over $50,000 for their campaigns. But in 2012, Romney refused except for the ones who were lobbyists."
“And Trump?”
Austin made a face as if he’d swallowed a rotting grape.
"Is there any way of knowing if, say, Sabitov personally donated $100,000 to Duncan's campaign, but claimed to have bundled it from thousands of his closest friends?"
Austin shrugged. "It's murky. But that money number might be low."
"It's sort of depressing," I said. I also wondered if I had a hundred friends with a spare $1000 to give to me.
Derek said, "So you and BB are pretty sure Sabitov has bundled money to Senator Duncan."
"Oh yes. That's clear."
"Something bothering you?" Derek asked Austin.
"Another name that came up," Austin said. "You familiar with Chet Reynolds?"
Derek shook his head.
I said, "Oh shit."
With a sigh, Derek said, "Fill me in."
"Well," Austin said. "Chet Reynolds is a Chicago real estate developer—"
I interrupted. "It's casinos. He's got casinos all over the world, but he owns about five in Illinois."
#
I smiled at Sasha Sabitov. "Your brother and you had no joint business interests?"
The Russi
an's gracious manner slipped slightly. "As I said, I was aware my brother was involved in criminal enterprises. Yes, he had some legitimate business interests, but those are, I suppose, a front for other activities."
"How about S&S Electronics," I said.
Something dark and dangerous flitted across Sabitov's features, like a shadow cast by a passing vulture. With a wave of his hand, he said, "Yes, I believe Ivan had a percentage of that company. Before we went our separate ways."
"You and your brother weren't close?"
"We went our separate ways," Sabitov repeated.
I steered it back to S&S Electronics. "So what exactly does S&S do?"
"They manufacture electronic games, such as electronic poker and blackjack, slot machines."
Derek shifted in his chair. He had deigned to change clothes for this interview. Still jeans. Still running shoes. But he'd added a beige dress shirt and brown sport coat.
Sabitov turned to him. "What do you do for Homeland Security, Doctor?"
"Troubleshooter."
The Russian blinked. "That is a job title?"
"For a few of us."
"What do you troubleshoot?"
Waving his hand in a gesture similar to the Russian's dismissive waves, he said, "I investigate terrorism threats. I've been on loan to the State Department for a while now. I appreciate your curiosity, but I'm not here in any official capacity. I'm just helping Lieutenant Beach get around town and connecting her to people I think might help her investigation. If you prefer to think of it as anything beyond that, think of me acting as a consultant."
Sabitov looked troubled by Stillwater’s answer.
"Do you have a business relationship with Chet Reynolds?" I asked.
"No, although, of course, I do know Chet."
I didn't understand the "of course," but I ignored it. I had a card to play here.
#
After Austin Davis mentioned the connection between Chet Reynolds and the Sabitovs, I immediately hauled out my phone and gave Orv a call.
"Where are you, Sandy? It sounds like a bar."
"It is, although it's a chi-chi Beltway bar over by the Watergate Hotel. I'm here with Stillwater and another guy."
"Stillwater shoot anybody yet?"
"Not yet."
"I'm so happy for you. What's up?"
