The Russia Account

by Stephen Coonts

Back in the SCIF, Grafton was finishing up a long day sending and receiving messages. I told him about my tail, and suggested that it would be nice to have a gun under my armpit.

  “Stay out of trouble,” was his response.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Truthfully—and I am truthful in these reports, even though I tell a lot of lies to people I meet in my trade—I was a bit peeved. I don’t go looking for trouble. I have a strong sense of self-preservation and I try to avoid it. Can I help it if trouble finds me occasionally, especially when I’m doing something nefarious, that Grafton told me to do? Shit happens, man—ask Joe Kitty. Fact is, I feel kinda undressed without a pistol. Screw Michael Bloomberg.

  The news about the bank broke on the fourth day we were in Stockholm. I had caught up on my sleep, been out for a couple of morning runs, and maybe gained a couple of pounds. The Swedes are good eaters. I was feeling like myself again.

  Grafton was invited to a briefing at some government office, so I went along as his aide. I carried the briefcase with my notebook and a couple of pens, just in case, so that Grafton had his hands free.

  The briefing was held in a small auditorium, and delegations from the U.S., U.K., and European Central Bank were there. They had either gotten the word or been invited. As I surveyed the crowd, I saw a small knot of Russians. The only reason I knew they were Russians was because I recognized one of them: a tall, cadaverous man whom I knew as Janos Ilin. He was the second or third banana in the SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the bureaucratic successor to the foreign intelligence directorate of the old KGB. He and Grafton had crossed paths in the past, and I had once had a one-on-one rendezvous with him. He was a nicotine fiend and ran his own private intelligence service, so it was a wonder he was still alive. One of these days they would put him against a wall and shoot him, if cancer didn’t get him first.

  I nudged Grafton and whispered, “Ilin.” The admiral didn’t appear to hear, but I knew he had.

  So the Russians had sent a delegation to see how much the West knew about Russian money laundering. Maybe those guys who tailed me weren’t Swedes. I vowed to renew my request to the admiral for a pistol as soon as this meeting was over.

  The briefing was a real production. The Swedish finance minister ate some crow and told the international audience that one of the branches of the Bank of Scandinavia had a large amount of suspicious transactions in the last few months. That was a lie: according to Penny Rogers, it was at least a year—probably more, perhaps as many as four years. After the minister made a statement, a translator repeated the gist in English, then in French, then in Russian. Same translator, all three languages. This thing was going to drag.

  Grafton whispered, “If Ilin goes to the men’s room, you go too.”

  I passed him my briefcase and went to the back of the room. The minister was explaining how the government’s routine bank oversight uncovered the suspicious transactions when I faded into the hallway. Only a few Swedish security guys were there, obviously packing heat, wearing little earphones and lapel mikes. Not a reporter in sight. I supposed the press briefing was going to happen later, after the Swedes tried out their story on the international banking community.

  I wandered around until I found both the men’s rooms on that floor. I was pleased to find you didn’t need a coin to use a toilet stall, as you did in France. Apparently that French contribution to civilization hadn’t worked its way this far north. Maybe next year.

  No one kept an eye on me. Since this was a huge government building, I was tempted to break into an office just for grins and steal some pens, but decided against it.

  Twenty-seven minutes after my exit, Ilin came out of the conference hall. He had another Russian with him. They walked toward the east men’s room and went inside. I was right behind and saw Ilin enter a stall while the other Russian unzipped at the urinal. I went into the stall beside Ilin’s, dropped my pants and sat down.

  In less than a minute, I saw a matchbook visible under the partition. I took it and pocketed it. Made some grunting noises, peed since this was a good opportunity, used some Swedish government toilet paper, pulled up my trousers, and left the stall. Took the time to scrub my hands and dry them on a paper towel, then left after a glance at Ilin’s Russian escort drying his hands so I would recognize him if I ran into him again.

  I went back to the conference room and stood against the wall. Three minutes later, Ilin and his escort came in and took their seats with their delegation. No one paid any attention to me. Officials from the various governments were taking turns grilling the Swedish banking official, who was trying to stick to the script. Things were tense. I stood there thinking about Audra Rogers.

  Back at the embassy, I gave Grafton the matchbook and told him how I got it. He opened it carefully. Wedged under the matches was a tiny piece of paper with two words typed upon it, in Cyrillic. Russian isn’t one of my languages, so I left it to Grafton to enlighten me. He didn’t. He merely grunted and headed for the SCIF, carrying his treasure in a fist. I decided to postpone my request for a gun—Grafton had other things on his mind.

  I went to dinner. There’s something missing when you’re eating at a nice restaurant, with background music and white tablecloths, good dishes, a glass of excellent wine, and you’re all by yourself. I wished Sarah Houston were sitting across the table, listening to my repartee and smiling occasionally because she liked me. Really, I needed to think about another career. Something that meant I could come home every evening and find her there.

  But was it Sarah I wanted? I sat there toying with my food, sipping wine and thinking about that woman.

  After dinner, I was strolling across a bridge toward my hotel when a car pulled up in front of me. The driver and passenger got out: I was on the sidewalk when the passenger got in front of me and the driver got out of the car to get behind me.

  They were not big dudes, but they were fit.

  The rain had stopped so I was carrying my new raincoat over my left arm. I let it slide to the pavement as I walked toward the passenger. I could feel the driver coming up behind me, and got a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. Looked like he was planning to give me a kidney punch.

  I turned, blocked the punch, and staggered him with a right to the chin. I damn near broke my hand, but I grabbed him and threw him toward the guy in front of me. That guy sidestepped his oncoming buddy and leaped for a kick to my head.

  I managed to grab his ankle and lift. The kicker slammed down on the sidewalk pavement. The other guy was on his face. As the kicker tried to rise, I kicked him a good one in the ribs. That settled him.

  No one was watching the fight, which hadn’t lasted more than eight seconds, if that. I bent over, rifled the pockets of the kicker. Got his ID. It was all in Swedish. He was packing a gun. Looked to me as if some MUST guys decided to even the score for the Swede in Estonia whose head Armanti had cracked.

  He didn’t look to weigh more than a hundred and eighty, and was hors de combat for a few more seconds. I put his ID back in his coat, picked him up by a leg and ankle, twirled him and threw him over the railing into the water.

  The driver had a broken jaw, a broken, bleeding nose, and a badly skinned forehead from his face plant on the sidewalk. Another tough day at the office. I decided he didn’t need to go swimming.

  The car was still running, so I grabbed my coat, got behind the wheel, and drove away. Went to the train station and parked the car, a Saab. Nice car. I wiped the steering wheel, gear shift lever, and door latches. Locked the car and dropped the keys in a nearby storm drain. Massaging my sore hand, I walked back to my hotel feeling pretty good. Exercise will do that for you. That night I slept like a baby.

  The next day, a Saturday, I was summoned to the SCIF. Jake Grafton had a pile of paper spread out on a folding table. He was the only person there. A folding chair was next to his, so I parked my behind and looked at the stuff with him. I told him about the Swedish security guys last night. He l
istened, had no comment.

  “The name,” he said, changing the subject, “on the paper in the matchbook is Yegan Korjev, one of Vladimir Putin’s cronies, and a multi-billionaire. Ilin gave us nothing but the name, but that hint speaks volumes. All that money pouring from Russia into the branch bank in Tallinn couldn’t have gotten through the country without Putin’s knowledge and tacit approval.”

  “Okay,” I acknowledged. That wasn’t news. I had already gotten that far myself. Putin ran a tight ship.

  “We know only the accounts in the banks that sent the money and the accounts around the world it went to. The recipients that we have checked so far are all shell corporations, with few or no assets. And to the extent we have been able to check, the money went on from those shells—call them Layer A—to other accounts at other banks, Layer B. What we would like to know is where the money really came from and its ultimate destinations.”

  “It didn’t come from one source,” I speculated, “but multiple sources that the Russians would like to be friends with.”

  “So one suspects. If Yegan Korjev put this laundry scheme together, or was told by Putin to make it happen, he must have records that show the sources and the final destinations. That is information we want.” Jake Grafton sighed. “However, given enough time and investigative resources, the police and banking authorities will come up with payors and payees. The golden nugget of this scheme is the identity of the person or persons who thought this up. Did this brainstorm originate in the Kremlin or elsewhere?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And how do you propose to get this information?”

  Grafton shuffled through the papers. He pulled out a sheet, pointed to it, and said, “Korjev owns a dacha in the Moscow hills, not far from Putin’s, but he likes to hang out on a mega-yacht that he keeps in the Med, Catherine the Great. She’s six years old, 560 feet long, has a 65-foot beam, and a top speed of 30 knots. Has a helicopter on board and several boats for ferrying people and supplies to and fro. The damn thing is too large for most of the traditional Mediterranean yachting ports of call, so must anchor out and be refueled from fuel barges.”

  “I wish I had been born rich.”

  “This tub is the size of a destroyer, has a crew of at least fifty, and can accommodate forty or so guests in the lap of luxury. There are twelve staterooms plus an owner’s suite, a swimming pool, gymnasium and steam bath.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Capri.”

  “Is Korjev aboard?”

  “We think so. You’re going to find out.”

  Why did I know this was coming? “Why do we think so?”

  “This yacht has more communications gear than NASA. We’ve had an E-2 Hawkeye in range for the last twenty-four hours to capture every electronic beep she emits. Catherine has been lighting up the ether. If Korjev was in Russia, Catherine wouldn’t be transmitting like she is. Everything is encrypted, of course, but NSA is trying to crack the codes. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know, Tommy.” Jake Grafton wasn’t one for pumping up the troops with hot air.

  Still, I was beginning to lose my temper. “So what do you want me to do? Hang out in Monaco until Catherine comes steaming in, bankrupt Korjev at Baccarat, then swim out and take over the yacht?”

  Grafton eyed me frostily. “No.”

  Smarting off to Jake Grafton is never a good idea, but I didn’t like the sound of any of this. “That’s good. I don’t own a white dinner jacket, a bow tie, or a Walther PPK. And you aren’t M.”

  He didn’t say anything, just turned back to his stacks of paper. I kneaded my right hand, which was aching.

  “This sounds like a job for the SEALs or Marines, not little ol’ me. I’m just a thief, for Christ’s sake.”

  Jake Grafton ignored my comments—he’s good at that. After some silence, he focused his eyes on me and said, “Here is what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it.” Then he told me.

  Chapter Five

  Capri is an island in the Gulf of Naples, rocky, with a peak about two thousand feet above the ocean. I suspect it’s an old volcano, but I’m not a geologist. The ferry from Naples was a nice ride, with day trippers and the yachting crowd. I didn’t think I had been followed from the airport, but I kept a wary eye on my fellow passengers: in this business, it gets to be a habit.

  The little village in the harbor of Capri came into view, picturesque with the big mountain behind it. As soon as the ferry entered the old harbor, I saw Catherine the Great anchored on one side of the roadstead. I looked her over as we slid by. The helicopter was on the helo-pad, chained down. People in uniform were on deck doing sailor things, and a couple of voluptuous young women in bikinis were strolling near the rail, showing off their assets. They were tan and gorgeous. Apparently Yegan Korjev liked some light diversions in the evening—perhaps in the morning and afternoon, too.

  I watched the ferry dock and joined the crowd going ashore. Pulling my little wheeled carry-on, I wandered along the quay taking in the scene. There were boats of every size and description, yachts moored stern-first to the quay, the so-called Mediterranean moor, and a holiday crowd, even though this was the end of the weekend. Some of the boats looked like they belonged to working fishermen, getting fresh fish ready for the restaurants.

  The thought occurred to me that dinner would be nice, so as the shadows lengthened, I entered a sidewalk café and scored a seat on the sidewalk at a little table. I ordered a local red wine and a fish dinner. The scene looked like something from a post card: splotches of blues, yellows, and reds, the little cafés, the picturesque quay. I had to pinch myself. It was too good to be true. I work for the CIA, and with only a few exceptions, the places I spend my working life aren’t anything like this. To top it off, the sunset was spectacular, the air superb, the zephyr of a breeze perfect. I envied the locals.

  As I sipped wine and stretched my meal to make it last, I kept an eye on Catherine. Indeed, that was a ship, not a yacht. When I had drunk a couple of glasses of the vino, which had a real body, and finished my excellent repast, I paid for my meal with euros and left a nice tip, courtesy of the American taxpayers. Ah, the simple pleasures of a civil servant on per diem.

  I walked along until I found the stepped path that led to the peak, Mount Solaro. I started up, keeping an eye out for street signs. When I found the street I wanted, it led off to the left on a level grade along the slope. The house that Grafton had told me about was on the downslope side of the street. There was a peephole in the door, so after I knocked I arranged my handsome mug to show my best side, and smiled benignly.

  I knew the guy who opened the door. His name was Rod or Robert—I don’t know which—but his last name was O’Shea, so everyone called him Rick. I had done some operations with him over the years; he was competent and pleasant to be around.

  “Hey, Tommy,” he said. “Come on in.”

  He closed the door behind me. That’s when I realized he had a pistol in his hand. He put the pistol in his pocket. I left my little suitcase in the hallway and followed him into the living area. A wall of windows looked out on Capri harbor; we were at least three hundred feet above the harbor on the side of the mountain. In the middle of the room was a platform, and on the platform was a large telescope and a chair. It was far enough back in the room that no one in the town or harbor could see that this was an observatory.

  After we caught up, I asked Rick how long he had been here. “Three weeks,” he said.

  “When did Catherine the Great come into the harbor?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Why did they send you here?”

  “The powers that be have had us keeping an eye on Catherine and some other yachts, some of the big ones the Saudi princes own. Keeping tabs on who comes and goes from them. I’m an eye. We have others up and down the north side of the Mediterranean, from Gibraltar to Istanbul.”

  “Uh-huh.”


  “It’s a job, Tommy,” Rick said. “Nice work if you can get it. Beats the hell outta Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, and a few other shitholes I could name.”

  “I’ll put in for this when I do my next dream sheet.”

  “Anyway, you get the little bedroom. There are three of us in here working shifts, so it’s a little tight. The other guys are eating dinner somewhere. That’s one of the perks.”

  “I suppose.”

  I climbed onto the platform and inspected the telescope, which was a big one. No doubt if you pointed it skyward you could see the American flag waving on the moon. There was a digital camera mounted to the thing, so the operator could snap a photo at any time.

  I climbed back down. “So you take photos of people coming and going?”

  “Yeah, when they come in on one of the yacht’s tenders. But the gold is photos of people getting into or out of that helicopter she carries. The distance is a bit over a mile, so sometimes the atmospherics interfere.”

  “Atmospherics… Got any pics I can see?”

  “Got an assortment.”

  He led the way to a table in the dining room, which was covered with computer printouts of photos. He held up one, and I gave it a look. It was me, getting off the ferry. I gave it back and took my time inspecting the ones spread on the table. I pointed at one of a guy with a gut, in his sixties, maybe, balding, wearing a sport shirt and shorts. “Who is that?”

  “Yegan Korjev.”

  “I can pick ‘em, can’t I?”

  “That was taken last week when he came in on the tender to meet a couple of whores he had flown in to Naples. They came over on the ferry. The girls couldn’t have been a day over sixteen. From the Ukraine, I think, but the company can’t identify them, so they said.” He pointed to their pictures. Yep. Future super models.

  I inspected every photo. Many of the crew guys looked like they were military age, and suspiciously buff. The yacht guests were older and rounder. I wondered if there was a gym on Catherine. Of course, I told myself. I studied each picture, trying to ensure I would recognize them if I met them ashore.