CHAPTER 7
Fall 2017, Night, Battersea, London,
Across the Street from Ironside’s House
THE MAN PEERING through his telescope at Ironside’s house cursed and dialed the Russian Embassy in London.
“Kostya,” answered the embassy man. His real name—which he never used—was Konstantine Zabluda.
“There is a problem at Ironside’s house.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I think MI6 is also watching the house. I was ready to send in my team. I sent Lenoid out to walk the dog and check the block before we went in. He saw a car stop behind a house directly across the street from Ironside’s. Two men got out and entered the rear of the house. Lenoid was suspicious. He hid in the bushes to observe.
“Minutes later, two other men came out of the house. Lenoid heard one of them say in English, ‘How long do we have to stay on this bloody graveyard watch?’ The other man answered, ‘Until Ironside returns from vacation.’ They got into the same car and left. I think MI6 is watching the house in shifts.”
“Neutralize them now and get into that house. Moscow wants to know his sources.”
“That is another problem. While the MI6 men were changing shifts, a British Gas van arrived at Ironside’s house. Four workmen got out and put up gas leak inspection signs. They are in the house now.”
“Are they a legitimate utility crew?”
“No. They’re searching the house. I’m using laser equipment to overhear them. I hear Irish, British, and American accents. What do you want me to do?”
There was a pause at the embassy end before Kostya said, “Irish, British, and American. They’re freelance, working for themselves or someone else, but not MI6. MI6 will either take them down or alert Ironside. If MI6 takes the gas crew down, wait until they leave. Then, take out the MI6 watchers and search Ironside’s house.”
“What if MI6 doesn’t take away the gas crew?”
“Split your team. Have one section follow the gas crew. Let them lead you to the sources, if they locate them. Have the other section search Ironside’s home. Maybe they can find something the gas team didn’t.”
“What about the MI6 watchers that Lenoid spotted?”
“I’ll send you some men to deal with them. Make it clean. We want the damage to be blamed on accomplices of the gas crew.”
CHAPTER 8
A Warehouse on London’s Outskirts
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Tommy was briefing me on the items taken from Jeffrey Ironside’s office, home, and garage. In turn, Tommy pointed to long tables containing computers and stacks of documents. “On the first table you have photographs of the items in his safe and copies of the documents we found there. Ironside did have documents in a file cabinet. Copies are on the second table …” Tommy gave me a tour of the remaining tables. The last one contained three laptop computers. Tommy said, “His hard drive is on the first computer. My man cracked his encryption for you—no extra charge.” He smiled. “Ironside’s password was ‘Churchill 1940.’
“His emails are loaded on the second computer. Hard copies are in the box next to it.
“The third computer contains digital copies of all the files and hard copies in this room. That’s in the event you have to decamp from this location in a hurry.” Tommy gave me a knowing smile. “We also created an index of hard copies, by table.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the tables. “You didn’t request it, but given the volume of documents, and the fact that you’re racing against time—and the competition—I thought you could use one. That will cost you extra, old boy. Say, twenty thousand to my account, if you’re successful?”
“I can manage that. Well done. You are a proper thieving villain.” We shook hands.
Tommy held on and gave me an intense stare. “If you’re doing what I think you are, you’ll have competition and some serious villains in your path. Should your operation go sideways, this can’t come back to me or my crew.”
“What’s bothering you, Tommy?”
“Is Ironside still in Ibiza?”
“Yes. He has several more vacation days. Why do you ask?”
“His place was wired like BBC headquarters. It took my team hours to locate and disable his surveillance cameras, alarms, and booby traps. I can’t guarantee that we found them all. If Ironside hasn’t bolted for home, that’s a good sign our intrusion didn’t alert him. In any event, I suggest you get cracking and find what you’re looking for before he returns to London.”
* * *
To keep the operation compartmented, I brought my crew in after Tommy, my thieving villain, departed. The eight of them arrived in a sedan and Mercedes van. I assigned them to the various tables and gave them their mission briefing.
“Focus on the period between June 2015, when Walldrum began his run for the presidency, and January 2017, when the dossier on his alleged Russian activities was reported in the news media. During that period, Jeffrey Ironside developed the dossier. Your job is to identify his sources for the allegations in that dossier. I want a twenty-four-hour log of his travels and everyone he communicated with by any means—in person, by phone, email, snail mail, or smoke signal. I don’t care if it was his maid or his pizza delivery boy. I want his bank and credit card statements, utility bills—anything that happened in his life during that period. I want to own Ironside’s history.
“When you find anything in the hard copies or computer files related to that period, give it to Sherri. She’ll maintain the master events log.”
Sherri wore jeans, boots, and a fleece-lined jacket. She removed the jacket and dropped into a chair.
Just in case they had been on another planet for the past year, I told them, “Ironside was a Russian expert for MI6. He is also a meticulous record keeper. So, we have his daily calendars.
“Benny here—” I turned to a thin thirty-year-old in glasses, a green cardigan, and tan corduroy pants—“is going to check those calendars for anything related to Sherri’s master events log.
“If you find documents in Russian or about Russia and Russians, give them to me or Sherri. We speak and read Russian.
“Okay. If there are no questions … let’s get to work.”
Over the next eight hours, Sherri collated documents from the crew and built the master events log. Suddenly, she said, “Max, I think we’ve got something. Look here.”
I scanned the wall projection of the log spreadsheet while Sherri guided my attention with a laser pointer. “During the twenty-month window you gave us, we can’t find anything remotely related to Russia or Russians.
“Ironside took only two foreign trips, both on direct, round-trip flights to the United States. Based on his credit card and bank account statements, he was reimbursed for both trips by Synthesis-PSG, the firm that hired him to investigate then-candidate Walldrum. I’m guessing the first trip in the summer of last year was a hiring interview. The second trip was in December. Again, I’m guessing, but that trip was probably to deliver the dirt dossier to Synthesis-PSG.”
I asked, “Did you check our copies of his passport?”
“He has two. One under an alias, but no Russian stamps or visas in either.”
“Either he had a third passport,” I speculated, “or Ironside didn’t go to Russia to collect the dirt on Walldrum. Where did he go? Did he buy train tickets, bus tickets?”
“We found no records of those,” replied Sherri.
One of the computer operators piped up. “He used his credit card to buy petrol—gasoline—outside of London after his first trip to the States.”
I said, “Put it up.”
The receipt appeared on the wall screen. Ironside bought gas on July 28th.
I turned to Sherri. “Let’s see the events log for that week.”
Ironside’s calendar for the month of July appeared on the screen next to the petrol receipt. Sherri announced, “On the 25th, he printed a D beneath the date. On the 27th there’s an L, and on the 28th, he’s inked in R
. He bought gas on the 28th. Maybe R means he returned home on that date. D could mean the day he departed for his trip.”
I chimed in, “And L could be a source.”
I told one of our hackers, “Ironside drives a 2016 Audi Q5 SUV. Pull up the specs and get me the gas tank capacity and average fuel consumption—in gallons and miles, none of that liters and kilometers crap.”
Sherri said to her crew, “Somebody, get me a map of Great Britain up here.”
A staffer produced the map and taped it to the wall beside the screen.
Seconds later, the hacker announced, “The Q5’s tank capacity is 19.8 gallons; average miles per gallon is 18 in the city and 26 on the motorway.”
“Ironside bought gas on the 28th?”
“Yes,” confirmed the staffer.
I said, “Assume that he topped off his tank. How much gas did he buy and where?”
Sherri had the answer. “Seventeen gallons at Penruith station on the M6 motorway.”
“If he was visiting a source—let’s call him Source Lima, for the L on Ironside’s calendar—it would have been bad tradecraft to gas up in the same town. So, he drove, maybe, fifty miles back toward London and still had about three gallons in his tank before filling up at Penruith.”
Working her calculator, Sherri announced, “He burned about fifteen gallons to get to his source. That would put the source about three hundred fifty miles north of London, somewhere in a search fan east or west of the M6 motorway.”
“What’s out there?” I asked.
“Not much,” replied Sherri. She had drawn the search fan on the map.
One of our hackers announced, “Ironside has a news article on a Russian colonel named Vasili Bogdanovich in his computer.” Sherri and I went over to read it.
I noted, “The colonel died in a plane crash near Cape Town in 1998.”
Sherri read down the article. “It says none of the bodies were recovered.”
I said, “Put up Ironside’s address book and go to the Ls.” There were no L entries. “Check the Ks and Ms. Look for addresses outside of London.”
“Wait.” Sherri snapped her fingers at the man on the third computer. “Check the black bag team’s index for his garage. Did they download the GPS from his SUV?”
“Sorry, no.”
A solution occurred to me. “You’ve got the vehicle identification number for the SUV. Can you hack into his GPS?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. Download his directory and give me all addresses between two-fifty and three-hundred-and-fifty miles north of London near the M6 motorway.” Sherri and I watched over his shoulder as the hacker worked his digital mischief.
Minutes later, he told us, “There’s only one address in his GPS that fits your criteria. It’s in the town of Dumfries.” He printed the address and gave it to me.
Sherri went to the map and stuck a pin in the town’s name.
I went to the office and called Rodney on the satellite phone. When he answered, I said, “It’s me. I may have located a source.” I read the address in Dumfries. “I need a history on who lives there and everything you have on a Russian colonel named Vasili Bogdanovich. Email the info to me ASAP.”
Rodney hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.” He added, “I was about to call you. Your friend just left Ibiza prematurely and didn’t check out of his hotel. He’s traveling on a yacht owned by a company affiliated with his former employer.”
“Can you have local assets block calls to the Dumfries address for the next eight hours?”
“I’ll try, but they’ll be hanging out in a brisk British wind. You’d better bring bacon.”
As I ended the call, Sherri came in. “What’s up? You look stressed.”
“Ironside just snuck out of Ibiza on a MI6 yacht. He—they—may know about us or Tommy’s team. We need to speed things up. We’re taking the security team to Dumfries. Let’s go see if Source Lima checks out.”
* * *
Two hours later, with most of my crew back at their hotels, Sherri and I were in the sedan, speeding north on the M6 motorway toward Dumfries. I was behind the wheel. She was riding shotgun with my computer on her lap. Our four-man security team followed in a van with DHL delivery service markings.
Sherri read from the email Rodney sent us. “Source Lima’s name is probably Lucas Novak. He was born in Czechoslovakia and became a naturalized British citizen in 1999. He’s a retired construction engineer. His last job before retirement was with a British construction firm in Dubai. The firm went out of business in 2000, the same year Novak retired and purchased the Dumfries house.”
“The L on Ironside’s calendar is for Lucas,” I guessed. “What did we get on Colonel Bogdanovich?”
Sherri read more from the email. “Vasili Bogdanovich started his professional life in the KGB. He was an up-and-coming young major in 1991 when Yeltsin did away with the KGB. Bogdanovich survived subsequent reorganizations of the spy and security services, which evolved into the Federal Security Service—FSB. His survival is attributed to his father-in-law, General Grishin. The general and Bogdanovich worked in the FSB directorate responsible for subverting tourists and businessmen visiting Russia.
“In 1998, Putin took over and reorganized the FSB. He purged the top leadership. Bogdanovich was on his way to South Africa when his plane crashed into the sea. All aboard went missing and were presumed dead.”
I tried to fit the pieces together. “And one year later, Lucas Novak becomes a citizen. Two years later, he buys a house in Scotland.”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” asked Sherri.
“I’m thinking it took a year in a safe house for MI6 to wring Colonel Bogdanovich dry from his dip in the Atlantic, along with everything he knows about Russian spying. Then, Bogdanovich—alias Lucas Novak—was off to a quiet retirement in Dumfries and a pension, courtesy of the British taxpayer.”
“That’s what I thought you were thinking.”
* * *
An hour later, Sherri and the security team squeezed into the sedan. I switched over to the van with the phony delivery service logo. We continued to Dumfries. The security team set up a discreet perimeter around Novak’s home. With a dummy package in hand, I walked to his front door and rang the bell.
From the speaker above the bell, a Russian-accented voice asked, “What do you want?”
In my best British accent, I said, “DHL. Package for Lucas Novak.”
“Leave it at the door.”
“You have to sign for it, mate.”
Long pause. “The door is open. Come in. I’m upstairs bathing my dog.”
I entered a narrow hallway, wall to my left, living room to the right. I took a few steps forward and fell over the tripwire, landing facedown on the floor.
Novak bounded out of the living room, gun in hand, and jammed his foot into my back. “Move and I’ll kill you.” He searched me quickly and found no weapons.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m not a threat. I just want to ask you some questions about the Ironside Dossier.”
“What happened to your British accent?”
“I’m an American.”
Novak grunted. “What makes you think I know anything about that dossier?”
“You’re the only person Jeffrey Ironside visited after he was hired to get Russian dirt on Walldrum. He didn’t go to Russia; he came to you … Colonel Bogdanovich.”
“Are you CIA?”
“No. I used to be. I’m freelance now. I’m being paid to verify the contents of the Ironside Dossier. I believe you were Ironside’s source. That’s why I’m here.”
“Who’s paying you?”
“An American citizen has offered a reward to anyone who can verify the dossier. You help me and I’ll pay you a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Besides you, who knows about me?”
“I don’t know, but I’d bet a lot of people are looking for you. If you don’t help me, they’l
l keep coming.”
“Maybe I’ll shoot you as a warning to them.”
“You would be committing suicide if you did,” warned Sherri. Novak looked up to see her standing in his hallway, pointing her pistol at him. She had entered through the back door.
“Drop the gun,” Sherri ordered.
While Novak was considering his next move, I rolled over and twisted the gun from his hand. Getting up from the floor, I assured him, “We didn’t come here to harm you. We just want information.” I gestured Novak to a chair in the living room. “Tell us about Jeffrey Ironside and the dossier he compiled on Walldrum.”
Novak ignored me and glared at Sherri, who remained standing, casually holding her gun at her side. He shifted his hostile gaze to me. “Why should I help you? If Moscow discovers that I’m alive, I’ll be dead in a month. Your money will be of no use to me.”
I said—and I meant—“I didn’t want to do this, but we’re pressed for time.” I tapped a number into my cell phone, but didn’t dial. I showed the display to Novak. “Recognize this number?”
“No.”
“It’s the Russian embassy in London. If you don’t talk to us, I’ll call it right now and give them your real name and this address.”
“That won’t get you the information you seek. Why would you feed me to Moscow?”
“Because you’re standing between me and ten million dollars. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll make damn sure you don’t talk to anybody.”
“You are a ruthless man, Mr. Who-Ever-You-Are.”
“Believe it. So, who will you talk to, me or Moscow?”
Novak studied his shoes before saying, “It’s going to be a long night. There is a bottle of vodka and glasses in the cabinet over the kitchen sink.”
Sherri got the vodka and a glass for Novak and bottles of water for herself and me.
Novak downed a shot of vodka and began his story. “Russia in the 1990s was like the Wild West. Okay, the Wild East. The Berlin Wall was gone, along with the Soviet Union. The new government in Moscow was privatizing oil leases, minerals, everything. It was a buyers’ market for oligarchs and the mafia. They—and the government officials helping them—were stealing more money than you can imagine. They couldn’t buy enough caviar, dachas, and Mercedes to soak up all of it.
The President’s Dossier Page 3
