The Russian Crisis

by G. R. Daniels

  “And what the hell were you going to do with her when you ‘apprehended’ her?” Jackson matched the captain’s sneering. “Take her back to Moscow?”

  “Not at all,” Zaytsev said calmly. “We would turn her into your police. We would get our money back. Then we would all be friends again.”

  “We were never friends in the first place, pal,” said Jackson. “And tell us about the SD card the woman is carrying. Did you want that too?” Zaytsev blinked.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You do realize we have diplomatic immunity?”

  “Diplomatic my ass. How did Ms. Flores come to have millions of your money if it wasn’t paid to her for source code stolen from our company? You are full of bullshit, Captain Zaytsev.”

  “Stolen code? What a tale, Mr. Phillips. Why don’t you bring Ms. Flores here so we can ask her where she has our money? Or would you rather have an international incident that would tarnish the reputation of your company?”

  Jackson whispered to Brownley. Brownley turned and spoke to a security man behind the desk. The security man deftly took something from a drawer hidden behind the desk and, covering it with his hand, he passed it ahead to Brownley.

  Jackson continued. “You will collect your two men from us. You and your thug who likes to grab women will leave this building and go back to Ottawa. I’m sure the embassy will have a good reception waiting for you there. Mr. Sokolov here seems to be a decent sort so we’ll tidy up loose ends with him. Got it, Captain?”

  Zaytsev laughed, more of a sharp bark. “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Phillips. You cannot make us do anything. Even if this woman has a card to give us, you cannot touch us when we take the card. Now bring her here.” The captain crossed his arms and stood staring at Jackson. At least, thought the GRU captain, he would have something to show from this mission. Maybe the woman would come with them; she would know a great deal.

  Brownley revealed the gun in his hand surreptitiously and gave it to Jackson. He whispered, “What are you going to do…?”

  Jackson took a few steps toward the three Russians. “Move over there, Mr. Sokolov.” He waved the gun at the consulate staffer. Sokolov glanced at Zaytsev and moved away from him.

  Jackson raised the gun and shot Ernesto. A red blood spot appeared high on the shoulder of the Cuban’s T-shirt. The man cried out and grasped his shoulder. Some of his blood had sprayed on Zaytsev standing next to him.

  “What have you done?” yelled Zaytsev. “Are you crazy. We are diplomats.”

  “You’re as much as diplomat as I am crazy, Zaytsev. You’re nothing but a cheap thug trying to lay your thieving hands on Canadian software. You can hide behind your diplomatic immunity all you want but I’ve just shown you’re not immune to a bullet. This lobby is sealed tight. It is soundproof. Your communications have been jammed.”

  Zaytsev took his cellphone from a pocket and looked at it. It was blank. He tried to restart it. It stayed black and silent.

  “You can’t kill us, Phillips,” said the captain but he was sweating and there was a shake in his voice.

  “Why not?” The curiosity in Phillips voice drew smiles from Brownley and his people. The security staff were all ex-soldiers with overseas service. They were no strangers to violence or to the psychology of Russians. They could be counted on for confidentiality.

  Zaytsev looked at his man, blood now slowly spreading on his shirt, his face pale. Shock was setting in. The Cuban was still on his feet but he was sagging. While Ernesto’s physical condition didn’t concern Zaytsev a great deal, he was very conscious of the situation. How would the Russian Federation view the powerful GRU being held at gunpoint in a foreign country. How would the GRU take to a tough, trained Cuban, a guest of the GRU, being shot by an old man? How would Russia greet a captain who couldn’t deal with this retiree and a bunch of security guards? This was all about him, not the mission, thought Zaytsev.

  “We will go.” Zaytsev made the concession with a raised chin but no confidence. “I have to get help for my man.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you do but you will go now with your men. And we won’t hear from you again. Forget the money. Forget the card. Forget Ms. Flores. And forget Mr. Sokolov who looks like he will be glad to see your backside.”

  Sokolov couldn’t help himself. There was an appreciative glance at Jackson and a slight smirk on his thin lips.

  Brownley’s men and woman dragged the two injured men from the stairwell and out of the lobby through the back entrance which accessed the garbage dock. Zaytsev supported the Cuban out of the building in the same way. A black SUV with dark windows and diplomatic licence plates, called by Sokolov, picked up the four men and took them away.

  Jackson Phillips was still in a foul mood. He led Sokolov to a sitting area in the lobby and plopped him into a chair. He stood over the handler. “I was nice to you back there but I am not a nice person. I know intelligence people who make your FSB look like amateurs. Putin doesn’t scare me or my former mates in JTF2.” Sokolov knew who the special forces were and what they could do. His eyes widened involuntarily.

  “You think Captain Zaytsev is a bad guy. Named for a sniper. You know the longest sniper shot in history was made by a Canadian with my old outfit, don’t you?”

  “Da.” Sokolov’s eyes blinked.

  “You know what you can do with diplomatic immunity. It means nothing when you’re trying to steal our stuff and assault our people and send thugs like that…” Jackson shot a thumb in the direction of the exit doors “… to cause us grief.”

  Jackson spent the next couple of minutes mentally torturing the Russian GRU agent. A lot of the talk was strategic. He knew Sokolov would write a report for his superiors that would shift blame from himself to anyone he could think of. But the report would, ultimately, advise the consulate, the embassy and the GRU to leave JPI alone because its current code was going to be obsolete soon. Version 3.0 likely wasn’t worth the trouble to try to penetrate. It was mostly hype, Sokolov would claim. And, the report would suggest Jackson Phillips was an old man who might not be long at the helm of this company, so be patient. It was B.S. but the Ruskies might buy it from the handler.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Jackson had been mindful of Mariah and worried that she might be trying to deal with Carmen Flores on her own. After all, Carmen seemed the prime suspect as the person who shoved Max in front of a car, almost killing him. She might be armed. She might still be homicidal. Mariah might be with her. As soon as Zaytsev had agreed to leave the building, Jackson had asked Bill to go to Carmen’s office to check the scene and to corral the impetuous Mariah. He had heard nothing since.

  Jackson made his way to the office of the COO. On his way, he heard loudspeaker announcements telling residents of the building that all was back to normal. Residents were being told a group of unwanted protestors had entered the lobby of the building and services were shut down quickly to keep them away from building residents and their visitors. The protestors had been escorted off premises and everything was back to normal, the explanation went. The announcement had holes but was adequate to explain the quarter hour or so of disruption in the building.

  There was an eerie feeling to the hallway and reception area outside Carmen’s office. Not a soul was there. Jackson assumed they may still be making their ways up from outside or may have been moved away by Brownley’s security staff. Brownley stood in the hallway. When he saw Jackson, he shrugged but told the CEO he had heard a conversation going on inside Flores’ office.

  Jackson tapped at the door. When there was no response, he banged on the door with his fist. Mariah opened the door and smiled reassuringly.

  “Hi, Jackson. Come right in.”

  “God, Mariah. I was worried sick.”

  “No need. We’re having a nice chat.” Mariah turned and walked back into the office. Jackson followed her. It was dim in the room. A single table lamp was lit. The room was as Jackson recalled, an over-decorated living room, not
a working office. He felt like he had entered his aunt’s home or even an upscale home for the aged. He felt a touch of claustrophobia and his skin itched with the mustiness of the whole place.

  “Carmen?” Jackson could make out a figure in a wing chair drawn up to a fireplace. Thank god there was no fire in the thing in late July, Jackson thought. He moved toward the chair.

  “Hello, Jackson.” It was Carmen’s voice but it had a strained quality. “I’m sorry I caused all this trouble.” It sounded as if she were playing a role in an amateur theatre production of a bad costume drama. It failed to raise any sympathy in him.

  In anger, Jackson stood in front of the woman and looked down at her. “Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it, Miss Flores. You’ve stolen from this company. From 3,000 and more of your co-workers. You tried to sell our secrets to the Russians. The Russians, for god’s sake. Those bastards. You could have got thousands of soldiers and civilians killed, blown up… What the hell were you thinking?”

  Mariah touched Jackson’s arm. She asked him, in a quiet, concerned voice, to sit down. She even offered tea, that he refused. He didn’t want any bloody tea. He wanted explanations.

  “Carmen has been talking to me,” said Mariah. “She was in love with Maxim. From the day she came to work here last year. He was her ideal mate. He asked her to marry him. Isn’t that right, Carmen.” Mariah looked at the woman who was still sitting, cowed, in the wing chair. Carmen gave a slight nod and there was the sound of a sniffle.

  “Then, it all changed. Max treated her terribly. He would tell her how wonderful and great he was and how she didn’t deserve him. He hit her once, in the face. He told her he didn’t want her around and threatened to fire her if she came near him again.”

  Jackson gave Mariah a disgusted look. “Look. I don’t care about Romance on Yonge Street or whatever tale she’s spinning. None of that justifies what she’s done. You two are mixing up a little love affair with multi-million-dollar commerce and the dirty end of international affairs.” He sat back realizing how tired he was after the busy day he had endured.

  “Where’s the card?”

  “I’ve got it,” said Mariah, digging the SanDisk 2T Card out of blazer pocket and handing it to Jackson. “Carmen gave it up right away.” It sounded like Mariah was congratulating the thief for returning a sucker instead of licking the thing to the stick.

  Jackson thought for a moment. He called Payne and asked the CFO to come to Carmen’s office. He told the two women to give him a minute to get his thoughts together.

  The three sat in the gloom of the office in silence except for the odd sob from Carmen. Jackson couldn’t tell if she was faking with the occasional croc tears or weeping without a break. By the time Payne arrived, Jackson was fed up with the whole thing.

  Jackson let Mariah repeat her explanation of the love affair to Payne. At the end, Payne turned to Jackson. “Did she push Max?”

  “How about it, Carmen,” Jackson asked. Did you push Max into traffic? Did you try to kill your ex-boyfriend in a fit of pique?”

  Mariah broke in. “Maybe we should wait for the police. And get Carmen a lawyer. She’ll need one.” Jackson turned to her with a look that spoke of betrayal. Mariah put her chin up.

  “I feel like a lawyer, god forbid. I’ll tell you nothing said in this room would be permissible in a court,” said Jackson. “From you, Mariah, me and Payne, it’ll be hearsay and from Carmen, it’s not under oath and probably will be remembered in three different ways anyhow. For my curiosity, did you, Carmen, push Max into traffic?”

  Carmen raised her head. “Yes. I pushed him and I’m glad. That son of a bitch put me through hell.” Once she began it was like a flood from a broken tap. She explained how her affair with Max started to wither. At that point, she hatched a plot, partly in anger and partly to replace the future she envisioned with Max for a future with enough money to live in style. She suspected something was mentally wrong with Max. He was acting like a lunatic. She preyed on his illness to make him both narcissistic and paranoid. After all, the woman did have a PhD.

  “But,” said Brownley, “the guy had a brain tumour, for crying out loud.”

  “I didn’t know that, did I?” Carmen argued. “Besides, why should I suffer because he got sick?”

  “Weird,” Brownley told the room. Carmen glared. Brownley went out saying he had ‘real business’ to handle.

  Carmen continued. “When I was ready and certain he wouldn’t do anything about it, I stole that goddamned code using his access to the servers. I offered it to the Russians because it was the worst thing I could think of doing to this company and to Blax. I deserved the twenty million. I would have had that and more as Mrs. Blax. He should have married me even if he was sick…”

  She cried this time. The sobbing and retching went on for three or four minutes as Payne and Jackson squirmed and Mariah held the woman.

  Payne held up his hand. “Okay. Here’s what is going to happen.” Slowly, Carmen stopped her weeping, responding to the command in Payne’s voice. “Just shut up and listen. We have the source code back. The Russians may have a little sample as Barry and Jean think but it’s not serious. So, we are not going to press to prosecute Carmen for theft.” Carmen’s head raised at this. Mariah clapped her hands together.

  “This is not a favour to Carmen. You…” he pointed directly at Carmen. “You will be going to jail for trying to kill Mr. Blax. We’ll all testify.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t admissible.” Mariah was incensed.

  “I may have lied,” said Jackson. “So, sue me. But our testimony won’t be needed because Carmen will confess to get the lightest possible sentence. But you know that already, don’t you Carmen. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  Mariah frowned. Payne took over from Jackson.

  “We want the money you got from the Russians as a down payment. Since Petrenko got a million of that and we have that already, we’ll be giving most of your nine million to Toronto Western and other major hospitals in the city. Anonymously.”

  Jackson smiled at Carmen. “You’ll appreciate that, won’t you, Carmen?”

  Carmen glowered at Jackson.

  “If you don’t give us your bank account details, the code theft charge will magically reappear with an Official Secrets Act rider that will put you in prison for life.”

  Payne licked his lips. “Petrenko’s million also goes to a hospital. I’m thinking Sick Kids.”

  Mariah actually smiled.

  “Can I keep…” Carmen began to ask question in a feeble voice.

  Jackson answered. “What you will get, Carmen, is enough to pay your lawyer’s bills and not a penny more. Those bills will come to me and I’ll pay them or you get nothing.

  “I don’t know whether to tell you this or not, Carmen.” Jackson avoided looking at Flores as he spoke. “Max said something.”

  Carmen took her hoodie off her lap and wrapped it around her shoulders. Even though her office was uncomfortably warm, she shivered. She stared at the floor in front of her wingchair.

  “It may not be you but he asked me to tell ‘her’ he was sorry.” He waited a beat. “Does that mean anything?”

  Carmen raised her head slowly. Her black hair hung over a side of her face. The visible side was twisted into a mask of sheer hatred, something like the mask of the Phantom of the Opera.

  “It means nothing to me. Tumour, no tumour. He treated me like dirt after I worked so hard to make him marry...” She threw out a hand and swept it over her cartoon of a living room. “I’m glad he’s dying.”

  A small cry could be heard from Mariah. Jackson looked at her. She turned to Carmen. “I see what Jackson means, Carmen. You are a vicious creature.” She turned to Jackson. “I’m sorry, Jackson…”

  There was a knocking on the office door. Payne was nearest so he got up and opened it. Bill Brownley filled the entrance but, as he moved into the room, he was trailed by a quartet of police officers. Two were in plainclothes while
the two behind were in their blue uniforms.

  “Welcome, detectives,” said Jackson in a cheerful voice. “I’m afraid I stood you up.”

  Detective Sergeant Jaya Kumar stopped in front of Jackson’s chair. “I understand you’ve been busy. Mr. Brownley tells me you had some unwanted guests - unlike us. Demonstrators?”

  Jackson simply looked at Kumar.

  “The good news, Mr. Phillips. You’re off the hook for the murder of Mr. Petrenko. We have three of his hoods for that. The idiots were covered in blood spots and had the murder weapon in their car when they were stopped near the U.S. border.”

  Ontario Provincial Police had pulled over a car when they saw it speeding along the Queen Elizabeth Way about five miles away from the turnoff to the Rainbow International Bridge at Niagara Falls.

  “They wouldn’t have gotten across the border, even without a wall there,” said Brownley with a chuckle.

  “Yeah.” The second plainclothes officer laughed. “Especially with Russian and Jamaican passports. Like we said, idiots.”

  Kumar backed up and formally introduced herself and Detective Sergeant John Chambers to the JPI group. She distributed business cards.

  “The morons tell us they were trying to get their shares of a million bucks Petrenko had been paid for something. Said they deserved some money. You know anything about that?” Kumar kept her eyes on Jackson.

  “No idea.” Jackson seemed mystified. “Anyway, you have your killers. So, let’s move on to what we have for you.” Jackson stood and moved to hover over Carmen Flores.

  He introduced the figure in the wingchair. She had put her legs up and was curled in a fetal ball in the chair. Dressed in her black track clothes with a dark grey hoodie over her shoulders, she was almost invisible in the dimly-lit room. Brownley flicked a switch on the wall near the door and overhead lighting turned the office into day. Now, Carmen came into plain view in the red fabric wing chair. There was no place she could hide.