“Not while we were listening,” said Rodney. “Since MI6 was already sitting on their take from Bogdanovich, they probably told Kulik not to mention our president. I’m sure they wanted us in the dark until they figured out how to handle the allegations.
“Come to think of it,” mused Rodney, “if MI6 told Kulik not to mention Walldrum, that might have alerted Kulik that the CIA was in on his debriefing.”
Rodney shook his head in wonder or disgust. “Involving the Agency in the Kulik interview was well intentioned, but it was a screwup from start to finish.”
A new name had been added to my sources. “Any idea how I can get to Kulik?”
“Yes. Moscow gave Kulik the additional duty of recruiting Brits to spy for Russia. MI6 created a cover story along those lines so they can debrief Kulik without arousing suspicion,” he added, “if, indeed, one can do anything that does not arouse Russian suspicions.”
“What’s Kulik’s cover.”
“That he has a romantic relationship with the secretary for a Whitehall intelligence cell the Russians want to penetrate. For SVR consumption, Kulik is cultivating her as a mole or an unwitting source. They meet once a week for lunch or sex at the same hotel. That’s where he passes intel to MI6 and they debrief him. There is a strict routine for these meetings that does not vary. Consistency is bad tradecraft, but it seems to work.”
London’s sights streamed by as a metallic voice from the bus loudspeaker described them. Rodney’s nose turned red. He shivered and put his gloved hands into the armpits of his overcoat. I couldn’t feel my nose and there wasn’t a coat warm enough to deflate my chill bumps. It occurred to me that this was nothing compared to a Moscow winter. If the Russians were following us, they were probably in Bermuda shorts.
Rodney described the routine Kulik, the secretary, and MI6 followed for their meetings. I listened with the urgency of a man dying of hypothermia, while Rodney droned on in the same slow cadence he used in the warmth of a Langley briefing room. “Based on Kulik’s schedule, the only place you could meet him without alerting Brits and Russians is at the hotel, when he’s supposedly banging the secretary.”
“Any surveillance on the lovers?”
“Not by MI6. Occasionally, the Russians tail both of them. It’s random.”
“What about the Agency?”
“No.”
“How do you know the details of Kulik’s meetings? Brits don’t share that stuff.”
Rodney hesitated. He was either going to lie or spill some beans he would rather leave in the pot. “Kulik is a potential intelligence gold mine. We wanted to prepare for the day when the Agency might have to tap into that mine without the knowledge or assistance of our MI6 cousins. Since we agreed to keep London Station out of the loop, we brought in a surveillance team from Langley to document how the Brits were handling Kulik. Now, we can get to him, should the need arise. Bearing in mind the delicacy of this arrangement, you must devise an elegant solution for your contact with Kulik.”
I had heard elegant solution before. It was Rodney’s code for mission impossible. He confirmed that assessment.
“When you contact Kulik, neither the Russians nor the Brits can know. If the Brits find out, they won’t take kindly to us approaching their asset. The special relationship between our two services would be damaged.”
“I’m not with the services anymore, remember?”
“You know that won’t fly. There’ll be hell to pay at Langley. Those of us who supported your efforts here will likely join you in the unemployment line … or in a cell.”
Maybe that was true, but I knew Rodney, and it was more than likely that he would tell the Brits and his Langley boss that I found out about Kulik through unauthorized access to some top-secret file while I worked at the Agency. Anyway, the subject was exhausted.
I said, “What about the legend I asked for?”
“Luckily for you, I was able to rush it through to fit your specifications.” Rodney took a cloth pouch from the inside pocket of his overcoat. I opened it with my near-frozen fingers. It contained a passport and wallet, complete with credit cards and driver’s license in my Dolby identity.
Rodney said, “Your company has a website. The address and password are in the wallet. Would it be asking too much for you to tell me why you need a legend?”
“Bogdanovich gave me a lead on one of his original sources. I need the help of a Russian mobster to find the source. I can’t be a recently fired CIA officer.”
Rodney nodded his understanding and, to my surprise, informed me, “I’m staying in town to manage any blowback from your meeting with Kulik. You can contact me by leaving a message with your hotel concierge. I gave him a generous tip to get that champagne lunch up to you.” He added, hopefully, “Will you keep me informed of your talks with Kulik and the mobster?”
“No.”
I left the bus at the next pub sign and went in to drink up and thaw out.
CHAPTER 12
THAT EVENING, IN Sherri’s hotel room, she briefed me on her encounter with Viktor Lukovsky’s mother, Elena. “I followed her to the theater and we struck up a conversation over drinks during the first intermission.”
“What was your impression?”
“Nice lady, but she drinks vodka like a true Russian.”
“Did you work me into the conversation?”
“Yes. I told her I was visiting London with a friend who was trying to find his Russian mother and that I heard her Russian accent when she ordered a drink.”
“Was that moving too fast?”
“I think not. She was interested, but intermission ended before we could get into you. I avoided her for the second intermission so she wouldn’t get suspicious.”
“What’s our next move?”
“Tomorrow, we go to Fortnum & Mason for high tea and accidentally bump into her. You tell her your story and ask for an interview with her son, the Russian mobster.”
“How do you know she’ll be there tomorrow?”
“I checked. She has a reservation.”
* * *
The next day, a taxi dropped Sherri and me at Fortnum & Mason. All the way there, I worried over how to smoothly parlay our chance meeting with Ma Lukovskaya into a meeting with her mobbed-up son, Viktor, while not making the whole thing appear contrived. This woman had lived most of her life in Soviet Russia’s underworld, where survival depended on her talent for spotting mob intrigue, government lies, and secret police spies. It was more than likely she had a finely tuned bullshit detector and that I would not fool her into thinking her theater encounter with Sherri, bumping into us at tea, and me asking for an audience with Viktor were coincidental. If she distrusted me from the start, I wouldn’t get near Viktor or, if I did, he might be the last person on earth I’d see. Neither outcome would get me closer to ten million dollars.
I was still wrestling with the problem when we entered the Fortnum & Mason tea room. As we were shown to our table, Sherri whispered, “Black hat with yellow flower at eleven o’clock.”
I stole a glance at the woman under that hat. She was heavyset with broad peasant features and looked younger than her eighty-plus years. A long black fur coat was draped over one of the three spare chairs at her table. I looked away, but before we got to our table, Lukovsky’s mother yelled a delighted, “Sherri!” and waved us over.
Ma Lukovskaya enveloped Sherri in a bear hug, and said, in her thick Russian accent, “Sherri, darling, you surprise me!” They did a kissy-face routine after which Sherri said, “Mrs. Lukovskaya, this is Richard, the friend I told you about.” We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.
Ma Lukovskaya issued orders: “Come, sit here.”
We sat. I pretended interest while Sherri and Ma reprised their theater experience. Finally, Viktor’s mother addressed me in so-so English. “Sherri tell me you looking for mother.”
To ease the conversational strain on her grammar and my ears, I replied in Russian. “Yes. My mother lived in St. Pe
tersburg when I was born.”
I saw a slight stiffening in her expression and posture when I mentioned St. Petersburg. I figured I had just a few sentences to establish my credibility. I continued in Russian, “This is embarrassing, but my mother worked the streets. My father was American and she was his mistress. I’m on my way to Russia to try and find her. I have been looking for Russians in London who might help me. I was told that your son, Viktor, was a businessman in St. Petersburg when I was born. So, meeting you is not an accident. I was hoping you would ask Viktor if he could help me.”
Mom Lukovska stared at me, her body perfectly still.
“I’m not a policeman. Here’s my business card.” I placed it on the table in front of her. “I would be very grateful if you would ask your son to meet me, at his convenience. I’m staying at the Savoy. Thank you. Excuse me.”
I stood and put a hand on Sherri’s shoulder, signaling her to stay. I left.
I tried all evening to contact Sherri. She didn’t answer her phone and her crew didn’t know where she was. Worried, I finally drifted off to sleep.
I didn’t know what magic Sherri worked with Viktor Lukovsky’s mother, but I received a call early the next morning that Viktor’s Rolls-Royce would pick me up at 10 a.m. The car arrived on the dot. The driver opened and closed the door for me and didn’t say a word until we got to South Dock at Canary Wharf in East London. He stopped the car, looked in the rearview mirror, and said, “Go with Ivan.”
A tall crew-cut bruiser in a dark overcoat opened the car door for me. As he did, I glimpsed some serious artillery under his coat and noted a receiver in his ear. Ivan motioned for me to follow him. As the Rolls rolled away, Ivan—Mr. Silent-but-deadly—led me up the gangplank of a stunning eighty-foot yacht. The hull and superstructure were black, contrasting beautifully with the blond wood decks. If this is how the mafia rolls, where do I sign? The problem is that the mafia, like any society, has its princes and paupers. Lukovsky had risen to princely status by climbing over lots of dead bodies. I was damned sure I didn’t want to sign up for that.
Awaiting me at the top of the gangplank was another big fellow in white from head to toe, hair to shoes. His white hair was slicked back into a ponytail, accentuating a broad face that matched his prizefighter’s body. He smiled and extended his massive hand. “Richard, I’m Viktor Lukovsky. Welcome aboard the good ship Payback.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Lukovsky.”
“Viktor! Nobody calls me Mister except servants.”
“Call me Ricky.” I picked a nickname that was soft and non-threatening.
Viktor led me under the shelter provided by an extension of the superstructure. A table had been set for two just out of the sun and there were sleek electric heaters to keep us comfortable in the chilly breeze. We paused to enjoy a great view of the harbor.
“Usually on Sundays,” explained Viktor, “I take my party girls sailing. I make exception today because my mother asked me to see you.” Viktor, like his mother, did not embrace articles—such as “an” and “a”—as essential elements of English grammar.
“I never deny my mother anything.” Viktor looked past me into an unpleasant memory. “When I was boy—after my father died—my mother slept with brutal KGB scum to put food on our table. I knew this asshole was sleeping with women all over Leningrad.” For my benefit he added, “Today, it’s St. Petersburg.
“I followed him one night and waited for him outside another woman’s house until two in the morning. He came out drunk and pussy-whipped. I cut his throat and left him in the street with his fly open and the smell of her still on him. I made promise to myself that my mother would never want for anything again, no matter what I had to do.”
He came back to the present and gave me a stern look. “If my mother had told me to kill you because you interrupted her tea, you would be dead now.”
I believed him. “I’m glad I didn’t displease her. I approached your mother because I’m desperate. I would like your help—”
Viktor waved me off. “We talk business later. First, we eat. I have good Russian dinner for us.” He smacked me in the gut with the back of his hand. “You could use few more pounds.”
Viktor sat on a padded bench along the rail, his back to the water. I sat across from him. He performed some magic invisible to me. A couple of stewards in white jackets appeared and served dinner. Both wore earpieces and jackets loose enough to conceal guns. Neither was Ivan. If this meeting went badly, the odds were at least four to one against me. Pray for peace.
The first course was a hot appetizer: mushroom caps, baked over with cheese and served in a crème sauce. The garden salad was served with feta cheese, olives, sliced hardboiled eggs, and homemade—yacht made?—Russian dressing. The entrée consisted of pancakes with sour cream, green onions, more chopped hardboiled eggs, and salmon. All good, but nothing to drink. According to Viktor, “Drink interferes with your full appreciation of the food.”
Throughout the meal, Viktor gave me a verbal tour of the posh London marina. “Ever been to the docks before, Ricky?”
“This is my first time.”
“Not many yachts here now, but you should see this place when the rich and famous sail in. Me, I like small, intimate boats. I want to enjoy all of my guests. Some of these yachts are ridiculous, floating hotels. One Russian guy got yacht with two helipads, two swimming pools, ballroom, thirty cabins with bathrooms, service staff, and security. With all those people around, how you gonna know who’s on board? Fucking Jason Bourne could be hiding in a food locker, waiting to put a bullet in your head. You’d never know it until he whacked you.” Viktor uttered a short laugh.
“You Americans, almost as bad. Paul Allen, the Microsoft guy, his yacht cost $170 million.” Viktor went on to regale me with his descriptions and disgust of the super-rich.
As I listened, I’m thinking, I hear you, Viktor, but we’re sitting on an 80 WallyPower yacht and I’m guessing this baby cost slightly south of ten million, maybe more, depending on the custom fittings.
After dinner, Viktor said a jovial, “Come inside, Ricky. We have drinks.”
I followed him into the cabin. We sat at a large driftwood cocktail table that didn’t match the décor, but if you own this boat, you can have whatever you want.
Again, through the miracle of invisible communication, a jacketed staff member appeared—this time, Mr. Silent-but-deadly—with a decanter and a plainly visible belt-holstered Glock. He put the decanter on the table. “Vodka” was carved into the crystal.
Viktor said to him, “Give the boys a couple of hours on the dock.”
Ivan disappeared below deck. Minutes later, the stewards who had served dinner left the boat. Witnesses were jumping ship. Ivan and his Glock were still aboard. What did that mean?
Viktor poured us shots of vodka and raised his glass. “To the best president Russia ever had … Ted Walldrum.” He downed his vodka and laughed like a mental patient. I was still holding my shot glass in the air while Viktor convulsed and turned red. Between gasping for breaths, he managed to say, “You … you should see your face!”
Well, ha, ha, ha. I smiled and downed my shot.
Viktor poured us another couple of rounds and downed his shots in one gulp. There was a brown leather box on the table, the size of a laptop computer, but two inches thicker. It had two covered compartments that ran the length of the box. One was long and narrow.
My host pressed one of two brass buttons on the side of the box. The top on the narrow section popped open to display a row of cigarettes and Cohiba cigars. Viktor took a cigar, snipped the end, and lit it with a gold lighter. He rotated the box to me.
“Smoke?”
“Thanks. I don’t.”
Viktor rotated the box toward himself, popped the top on the larger compartment, and removed an automatic pistol with a silencer attached. He blew smoke into my face and said, “Secondhand smoke can kill you just as quick.” He wasn’t laughing.
I
raised my arms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to ask for your help.”
“You can bullshit my mother. You don’t bullshit me. Give me your wallet.”
I rotated my left hip toward him so he could see that I was going for the wallet. As I slid it across the table, Ivan appeared. He was leading Sherri by the arm. Her hands were bound behind her and she was gagged. Ivan sat her in a chair next to me. She appeared intact, but there was concern in her eyes, not panic.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She nodded that she was.
Viktor tossed Ivan my wallet and he took it below. As I sat there looking at Viktor’s gun, the words of FBI Special Agent McNair came to mind: “Don’t be fooled by his good ol’ Ukrainian peasant act. Viktor Lukovsky is a made man in the Russian mafia and a stone killer.”
Viktor wasn’t talking. I guessed he was waiting to receive my credit score from below deck. I began inspecting as much of the yacht as I could see.
Viktor asked, “You like this boat?”
“It’s very nice.” I was looking around for something to throw at Viktor, if Ivan returned with bad news.
“This?” He looked around it with some disgust. “This just payback.”
“For what?”
“Everything. In 1933, Stalin starved millions of Ukrainians to make political point. My grandparents died, so did my wife’s. Friends took in my mother and father and fed them. Ten years later, my father fought Germans at Stalingrad. He was hero. A year after war, agents from Ministry of State Security came to our home. They accused my father of being counter-revolutionary. They take him away. We never see him again. My mother was afraid. She moved us to Leningrad where secret police screwed us again.” Viktor looked around the yacht and made a grand wave with his cigar. “That’s what this is for.”
I sat in uncomfortable silence until Viktor addressed me in Russian, “My mother tells me you speak good Russian. Where did you learn?”
I answered in Russian. “For as far back as I can remember, I had Russian nannies and Russian tutors. My father wanted me to be able to speak to my mother in her native tongue … if I ever met her.” That was my legend. The truth was, I studied Russian for three years in college and another year at the CIA, adapting it to the spy business. That CIA year was prep for my posting to Moscow Station.
The President’s Dossier Page 6
