by Steven Gore
“And the opposition?”
“Opposition politicians gather their own intelligence to try to control the president and his entourage. I provide it to them. So does Slava.”
Gage felt slightly off balance, as on his first day in Bulgaria ten years earlier, where people nodded when saying no, and shook their heads when saying yes.
Ninchenko smiled, watching his words impact Gage, then pushed on. “And Slava gives the opposition more than just intelligence. I suspect he put the equivalent of ten or fifteen million dollars into the opposition presidential campaign.”
“Ten or fifteen million?”
“Like he said yesterday. Politics is business. It’s an investment. He’ll get it back twenty-fold.”
“But only if the opposition wins.”
“Of course.”
In the silence that followed, Gage found himself viewing Ninchenko as larger than the role Slava had put him in.
“Pardon my saying so,” Gage said, “but you don’t seem like the kind of guy who works for a man like Slava.”
“And you don’t seem like a guy who works with a man like Slava.”
“Touche. But you know what I mean.”
Ninchenko looked over at Gage, appraising him. “You and I aren’t that different. We grew up reading Mark Twain and Jack London and Tennessee Williams. You studied philosophy in college. Me, Marxist theory. We both went into law enforcement. You left to attend graduate school and didn’t go back. I left to attend law school, and did go back. We both work in the gray area. You, light gray. Me, dark gray.”
“I see you’ve done a little research.”
“Just made a call. You’ve been in Ukraine three times before. Once in a money laundering case, once to locate a Russian fugitive from the States, and once as part of a delegation from the International Association of Fraud Investigators. State Security has a file.”
“You know why I’m here this time, but you haven’t answered why you’re with me.”
Ninchenko wiped away condensation from his window.
“You know what that is?” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as they turned left onto a broad boulevard crosshatched by trolley lines.
Gage looked over at the desolate expanse of dead grass, leafless trees, and a stark television tower piercing the gray sky.
“That’s Babiy Yar,” Ninchenko said. “Grandmother’s Ravine. We’re still in Kiev. Thirty-three thousand Jews were murdered here by the Nazis in two days. A million people heard the shots and the screams of victims being buried alive. There was no secret, but Ukraine denied it to the world for fifty years. Why? Because they wanted them dead. And some still do.”
“Like who?”
“The OUN, Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists. It’s a terrorist group that wants to drive everyone out of the country who doesn’t meet their criteria of Ukrainians. Russians, Poles, Jews.”
“You say that like you’re Jewish.”
“Literally, I’m not. Figuratively, all Ukrainians are Jews, they just don’t recognize it. Stalin intentionally starved to death six million Ukrainians during the Great Famine in the thirties. But now forty percent of Ukrainians believe life was better back then. They still don’t understand that Ukrainians were the Jews of the Soviet Union. And those forty percent are most of the people who support the president.”
Ninchenko’s window clouded over as he spoke.
“So why Slava?” Gage asked.
“Why Slava?” Ninchenko paused as if preparing to explain something that he’d thought through. “Because he provides a real service. He doesn’t deceive himself about who he is. He’s a man of his word. He has a sense of fairness.”
Ninchenko glanced at Gage. “Why is he helping you? He’s pretty sure you can get Gravilov indicted in the States without him. He probably could simply wait, then make his move. But he did you wrong by not trusting you in the natural gas deal, so he owes you.”
Gage had seen Slava’s rage and had looked up the barrel of his 9mm. Both had impaired his view of Slava as a dispassionate public servant.
“He’s not what anyone would call a saint,” Gage said.
“Of course not. Has he killed? Who knows how many times.”
Gage didn’t ask the question that came to his mind: What about you?
“Slava lives in the same kind of a parallel universe you’ve seen all over the world,” Ninchenko continued. “The rules are the same, they’re just applied differently. You and I are just visitors there. Would I kill for Slava just so he can grab somebody else’s money? No. And he knows it. Would I kill because it must be done? Of course. You have and you will. That’s why he brought me in on this job and why he’s willing to work with you even though you’re an outsider. He says you have heart.”
Gage wasn’t sure how to take that kind of compliment from a man like Slava-but he didn’t have time to consider it.
Ninchenko pointed ahead toward the wrought-iron gate and guardhouse of a fenced pine forest.
“Puscha Voditsa. A military sanatorium. They’ve already turned in.”
Gage’s head snapped toward Ninchenko.
“Military?”
His mind raced ahead before Ninchenko could respond: If Matson was willing to betray SatTek shareholders by selling SatTek’s intellectual property to Mr. Green, would he be willing to betray his country by-
Gage knew the answer before he had even fully formed the question. He felt his body tense in self-reproach. He should’ve guessed it weeks ago.
“Matson didn’t come to Kiev to hide,” Gage said. “The punk is here to sell missile and anti-terror technology to Ukraine.”
“That’s insane.” Ninchenko shook his head in disgust. “Transferring that kind of expertise to Ukraine is the same as releasing it to Iran and Syria.”
“Can you get us inside?” Gage said, eyes fixed on the sanatorium entrance.
Ninchenko nodded. “We can use my old SBU identification. They’d be afraid to look too closely at a major’s documents.”
Ninchenko’s cell phone rang after the guard had waved them through the gate. He engaged in a quick conversation, then said, “They’re headed toward the medical center.”
They drove past an iced-over lake surrounded by tennis, volleyball, and badminton courts. They passed an empty swimming pool and a dining hall, finally arriving at a white stucco building, where the driver parked in a lot filled with black Mercedes and BMWs and a scattering of camouflaged Morozov personnel carriers.
“They give medical-sounding names to things soldiers simply like to do,” Ninchenko said. “A steam bath is called climate therapy. A hot tub is called balneotherapy. A sanatorium is really just a place to hide out from the family-”
“And buy the technology to build radar and missile targeting devices.”
“No better place.” Ninchenko opened his door. “Let me take a look.”
Ninchenko blended in with the men entering the medical center. The driver assumed his waiting position: seat back lowered, window a crack open, cap over his eyes. Gage pulled his coat up around his neck, then slid down in his seat as the cold air seeped into the van.
Ninchenko returned ten minutes later and Gage rolled down the window.
“You’re right,” Ninchenko said, leaning down toward Gage and glancing back toward the entrance, “Matson met with two air force generals in the bar, then they headed off to the sauna. They must be pretty far along in the deal. They wouldn’t have taken Matson with them unless they considered him part of the team.”
“Who are they?”
“Traitors. They raided their own squadron and sold off a dozen MIG fighters to Iraq, then tried to keep all the money for themselves. They must’ve kicked back a lot of it to Hadeon Alexandervich after they were caught in order to stay out of jail.”
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.”
&nb
sp; 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 that 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,” Nin
chenko 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.”
