by Ed Kovacs
The newly installed Russian reformers in the 1990s had been wrong: it wasn’t a revolution for the people, it was a revolution for the Mafia. And Viktor Popov, like so many others, had intended to cash in on it.
Bigger things did come to Popov that decade, but so did trouble, as the ruthless Russian mob ranks in Moscow and elsewhere grew fat with brutal, greedy men bailing from the intelligence services and military. Massacres of rival gangs and even their families became common. To survive, Popov attached himself to an emerging oligarch. But that wasn’t enough; he needed more friends, powerful friends, and so in the late 1990s he sold some secrets to the Americans. Popov held many secrets; he had them to spare, actually, since he’d been the KGB general in charge of the Eighth Chief Directorate. He personally supervised the unit that had been responsible for successful penetration operations against foreign cryptographic outfits and personnel, like America’s NSA and Britain’s equivalent, GCHQ Government Communications Headquarters.
In return for Popov’s help in those unsettled times for Russia, the grateful D.C. intelligence wonks opened the doors to America—“The Big Store,” the Russian mobsters call it—and Viktor Popov walked through with his legions of thugs and cyber-crooks to settle in Los Angeles. He quickly made allegiances with the other larger, more-powerful Russian mob outfits. Seeing the need to specialize, Popov avoided the usual drug, gambling, prostitution, and fuel scams and insurance fraud common to the other Russian crime groups in the United States, and early on he concentrated on what he knew best: cyber-crimes and cyber-spying. He grew wealthy, but his personal wealth ran only into the tens of millions, not the billions, making him a minor player at best in très expensive Moscow, a town that had more billionaires per capita than any city on earth. Popov now spent half of his time in the Russian capital, currying favors with the rich and powerful—crime lords—and trying to weasel his way back into Vladimir Putin’s favor now that the quest to re-establish the old Soviet Union was out in the open.
He was tolerated by the police state of Putin, mainly because of the valuable information he provided gratis to the Kremlin. Information, in fact, had long been Popov’s stock-in-trade. There was less downside to obtaining and then selling sensitive data than there was to monetary theft. Steal money or material, and people come after you. Steal information, a more ephemeral commodity, and institutions and states don’t like it one bit, but they tend to write it off to the cost of doing business in a digital age.
So Popov’s people, experienced “black hat” hackers, vacuumed up facts, figures, statistics, gossip, plans, blueprints, proposals, secrets, strategies, and data of any value. Popov sifted through all of the stolen information and then brokered it, acting essentially as a freelance spy, a “paper merchant” or a “paper mill,” selling intelligence to the secret services of Iran, China, India, Brazil, France, Germany, Russia, the United States, and any other country with hard currency.
But now, here he was sitting across the table from Bennings with some kind of a proposition that he didn’t want taken to the embassy. Kit recalled Herb Sinclair’s earlier warning about Popov: “People trying to get something from that old spy bastard usually get dead.”
“I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars to marry Yulana. When you return to the States, take her with you. You won’t have to live together or anything like that. Your government doesn’t check on such things.”
Bennings stared at Popov for a long time with unforgiving intensity. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Humor me. We are speaking in private.”
Bennings shook his head. “You’re not joking?”
“No, I don’t joke when it comes to business. Wait just a moment, please.”
Popov suddenly stood up and crossed to a young Asian couple having breakfast with their daughter, who looked to be about two years old. Kit had seen him do it time and time again, whenever a toddler was present. Popov would always approach the parents and tell them what a cute child they had, inquire as to the age, and then gently touch the child’s fingers. He’d make small talk and then politely leave. The first few times, Kit was suspicious that the parents were agents of some sort and that Popov was passing or receiving information, so he always watched very closely. Finally Kit came to realize that the general liked kids. But since spies are not trusting types, Bennings never took his eyes off of Popov.
* * *
Viktor Popov absolutely loved the pure humanness of toddlers. The selfishness, the kindness, the overt manipulation of the parents and others, the emotional and physical needs and wants laid bare without malicious artifice. Oh, sure, toddlers could be arch-schemers, but without intent to hurt anyone.
It was the intent that made the difference. Every action in Viktor’s life, as far back as he could remember, had been a product of artifice, underscored with vile intent. Indeed, he’d become a grand master of ruthless maskirovka—deception. His endless machinations hurt people all the time, often in the form of collateral damage: his children, wife, lovers, family, friends, peers. But so what? Life was hard and unforgiving, and the bumps along the road, sometimes big bumps, could and should make one stronger for having survived them.
And then there were his plots designed to absolutely hurt others, “hurt” actually being too tame a word. People would be targeted to be financially ruined, their careers destroyed, their lives taken—necessary outcomes for his deceptions to succeed. This was part and parcel of the way he did business. Viktor held little but contempt for the weak, the losers, the victims.
As he stood towering over the Asian couple and their toddler in the lobby restaurant of the Marriott Grand, the child muttered baby talk and grasped Viktor’s index finger. The purity of the very young made him melancholy for something he’d lost. Doting on toddlers was no artifice for Viktor, but a form of worship, a ritual of remembrance that was possibly the most genuine action Viktor Popov was capable of performing.
“Please have a safe trip home, and take good care of your little girl,” said Viktor, smiling and with a slight bow.
As he crossed back toward his table, he shifted his thoughts back to the proposal he’d made to Bennings, and he knew he’d never have another pleasant conversation with the man. It was a pity, because he liked talking about flying with the American spy. But business trumped everything else.
“Visiting from Japan,” said Popov as he sat back down. “An adorable little girl. Twenty-one months old.”
“How old are your grandkids now?” asked Kit, making an obvious effort to direct the conversation to other topics.
“They are all spoiled, troublemaking high school brats,” said Popov without warmth. “My wife and I had four children, but only my two sons survived past the age of three.”
“Your twin daughters were murdered.” The words had been uttered gently, but Bennings’s gaze bore into Popov’s, as if looking for his reaction.
Viktor realized that this was the first time Bennings had ever brought up an event from his past, especially such a sensitive one. “Yes.” For a brief moment, Popov’s eyes clouded over. He pulled a gold locket from his pocket and opened it, revealing two black-and-white photos of his girls. “By mobsters. I’ve tracked down and personally killed every man responsible, except one.” He turned to Kit. “The murders of my daughters is not common knowledge,” he said, without emotion.
“I’m a spy, remember?”
Viktor waved off the remark as if it were meaningless. “If you say so. Anyway, you don’t have children, Major. But I can assure you that they are so precious the first few years of their lives. They are such a gift. When they’re older, they become assholes like everybody else.”
“I’m truly sorry for the loss of your daughters.”
“Thank you. So you see I am something of a father to Yulana,” said Viktor, swiftly shifting the conversation back to business.
“Children are precious, and so is the sanctity of marriage,” said Kit.
“Sorry to
inform you, but marriage, even in the best of circumstances, is a business deal. I know you are aware that in the past, more than a few of the embassy marines have gotten thirty or forty thousand dollars for a fake marriage to get a U.S. visa for a Russian woman.”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect. And I’m sure those marines came under suspicion.”
“But nothing was done to them. They remained in the service.” Before Kit could interrupt, Viktor went on: “Chinese regularly pay fifty thousand dollars to be smuggled into the U.S. illegally. With no legal status once they get there.”
“Illegal immigrants to the USA don’t have much to fear these days, do they?”
“That’s beside the point. You have a much higher status than a marine, Major Bennings. One hundred thousand dollars to you is a fair price.”
Kit looked at Viktor evenly. Popov could tell the man was trying to rein in his temper. “I’m sorry you think so little of me to even consider I might be for sale or for rent, for a hundred thousand or for one hundred million. Please go find a marine for fifty thousand, is my advice. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”
“She’s my niece. Even though it’s a fake marriage, I want it to be with a good man, a person with integrity. With you. I’ll make it two hundred thousand. Cash. Untraceable bills.”
“You think I have integrity? That’s why you’re trying to bribe me? You said you wanted her there legally, but she and I would be committing fraud. We could both go to federal prison.” The irritation in Bennings’s tone had ratcheted up a notch or two.
“If I offered one million dollars—I could have it delivered to you within the hour—would you consider it?”
“I would consider that you were trying to co-opt me, and that it had nothing to do with marrying your niece,” said Bennings.
“And your answer would be the same?”
“Of course.”
“In my experience, Major, everyone has their price. But just to clarify, I’m not offering one million, I’m offering two hundred thousand, which is a lot of money for a U.S. soldier, and only because Yulana is my family.”
Bennings stood. Popov watched him carefully; he’d gotten under the major’s skin, and Bennings seemed to work hard to muster up a pleasant countenance. “General Popov, thank you for all of your valuable time that you have so generously given me in the past. Good-bye, sir.” Bennings didn’t reach to shake Popov’s hand but turned and walked away.
Popov had been 95 percent certain that he wouldn’t take the bribe. But since he liked Bennings, he wanted to give him the opportunity to accept the money and therefore avoid a much darker outcome, a hurt that would be foisted upon Kit and his family as a result of the current deceptions that should make Viktor Popov the wealthiest man in Moscow.
Everyone does have a buying or selling price, but sometimes the payment isn’t rendered with money. You will be the one paying a dear price, not me, my American friend, thought Popov, reaching for his cell phone as he watched Bennings leave the restaurant.
CHAPTER 6
As Bennings sat at his desk in the Embassy of the United States, Moscow, Russia, he considered what to include in his report on the meeting with Viktor Popov. Yes, his cover was an assistant defense attaché, but that meant he was a real defense attaché and had to perform as such. No one in the DAO, the Defense Attaché Office, or in the entire worldwide program, not even General Alexander, commander of the Moscow attaché office, knew Bennings was really in town working undercover to catch American traitors.
If he wrote up the report indicating Popov’s attempt at a bribe—a significant one at that—it could unleash a series of events that would pull in the embassy CIA spooks and go all the way to the ambassador. They might even want him to accept the bribe and use him as some kind of bait in an attempted sting against Popov. Since that kind of attention was unwelcome, Bennings opted to write an incomplete report, omitting any mention of the marriage-for-money offer, and he silently cursed Popov as he wrote it.
After finishing the report, he considered the pros and cons of bugging the embassy communications room so he and Sinclair could spy on Julie Rufo. Planting a surveillance device in such a sensitive area would be terribly problematic and probably counterproductive, so Bennings abandoned the idea. He planned to follow Rufo when she took her lunch, but then he was ordered by General Alexander to go to Sheremetyevo Airport. Not only was Secretary of State Margarite Padilla arriving in Moscow today, but one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a four-star army general, was traveling with her. Which meant that as a mere assistant defense attaché from the army, Kit Bennings had to go and carry the luggage for the four-star. Ah, the glamour of being an attaché posted to a major foreign capital.
* * *
Bennings made it back to the embassy by five and was able to follow the suspected mole, Julie Rufo, from the embassy all the way to her apartment block. He saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, and that irritated the hell out of him. By the time he got back to his own apartment, he was exhausted and failed to make his usual call home to Chino Hills before dropping off to sleep in his clothing.
* * *
Gina Bennings finished her third cup of strong Italian coffee in her flower-adorned hilltop kitchen, but she still felt tired. Either the medications she took made her tired or the depression the meds were supposed to treat made her tired—she wasn’t sure which. She had good days—enough time had elapsed since the accident to ensure that—but the bad ones outnumbered the good. This was a bad day.
She’d led something of a charmed life from the moment she’d met Tommy Bennings in Milan almost forty years ago. But for the last four years, since the deaths of her husband and youngest son, Michael, her charmed life had become a dark place.
Yes, she was grateful for her children Staci and Kit, but no parent should have to bury a child. It wasn’t fair. And now, with the development that someone had stolen her life savings and sent her deep into debt, well, she prayed daily to God that he take her to join Tommy and Michael.
The phone ringing startled her out of her self-pitying interior monologue.
“Hello.”
“Hi, this is Paula Duvan from Town and Country Bank. Is this Mrs. Gina Bennings?”
“Yes.”
“You’re aware of the problems we’re having with your account?”
The female voice sounded vaguely European to Gina, but she couldn’t place it. Her bank had become so multicultural over the years, she sometimes wondered if there were any American-born employees left. Of course, Gina Bennings wasn’t American-born, either.
“Yes, but my daughter, Staci, is taking care of all those things.”
“Can I speak to Staci then, please?”
“She’s at work. Can you call her at—”
“Mrs. Bennings, since it’s your account, is there any way you could come in to the bank this morning? I don’t think it’s necessary to bother your daughter at work. It’s a mere formality. We need your signature on some documents.”
“Just a signature?”
“Yes. We’re trying to get all of your money put back into your accounts, so if you could come in right now, that would help a lot.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, can you do that?”
“All right, I don’t see why not.”
“How soon can we expect you?”
Gina checked her watch. “Thirty minutes.”
* * *
“She’s backing out of the driveway now,” said the Russian speaker, acting as lookout on the street opposite the Bennings residence.
“All units copy. We are a go,” said the cute blonde with the cutie-pie smile: Lily Bain, who had gone by the name of Paula Duvan a few minutes earlier on the phone with Gina.
Lily sat in the front passenger seat of a Lincoln Navigator holding a two-way radio. Dimi, one of Viktor Popov’s thugs, worked on a big wad of chewing gum as he sat behind the wheel. Both the Navigator and a Ford panel van stood parked on the shoulder of Carbon Ca
nyon Road, just down from Gina Bennings’s home.
“Unit two copies.”
“Three, copy.”
“Four copies, moving in behind her.”
This would be a snatch using four vehicles. Lily, whose real name was Ludmilla Babanin, had executed many such kidnappings, and had in fact executed many people. In cold blood. A hardened street prostitute at age fourteen, she’d been recruited at age seventeen by the SVR, Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the foreign intelligence service of the Russian Federation, and excelled in all aspects of training. At age twenty-four she went to work in America for Viktor Popov. Life had been mostly good ever since.
“Unit four to unit one: she’s turned onto Carbon Canyon. I’m behind her and now dropping back.”
“Copy,” said Lily.
Unit four was a pickup truck with amber lights mounted on the roof, and metallic signs stating: EMERGENCY VEHICLE. The truck slowed, allowing Gina to disappear down the hill, then turned on its flashing lights, slowing all other downhill traffic.
An identical pickup, unit three, had already done the same thing to uphill traffic. As Gina Bennings entered a series of sharp S turns, there was no one else on the road …
… except for a black Navigator and a white panel van now blocking Carbon Canyon Road. Lily and some thugs stood next to the vehicles.
Lily Bain had carefully calculated that in the middle of this S curve not visible from any houses, Gina would have plenty of time to stop. Her goons would then grab the old lady, toss her into the panel van, and one of them would drive Gina’s car to a rendezvous point. It would be over in less than thirty seconds.
