Corruption!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  “That’s interesting. We have a couple of levers there already, what with his elderly mother and that simple sister of his. Plus, what Boris knows from their past. But an extra hold never goes amiss. What do we know about her already?”

  “Very little so far. She’s someone they met when they were on holiday earlier in the year. She came out to Russia a couple of months back, staying in the Grand Hotel Europe no less.”

  “She’s not short of money, then?”

  “It wouldn’t appear so. But she only stayed in the hotel for a little while. Then she relocated to the family apartment and has been there ever since.”

  “You say she came out to Russia. Where does she come from?”

  “Sorry, didn’t I say? She comes from England. Our man in St Petersburg has a rich British women living in his apartment.”

  “And what do we know about her background?”

  “Not a lot so far. The driver only talked about her in passing. He didn’t even know her name. But I’ll get hold of Boris in the next couple of days and find out what he knows. As you say, another lever over Anton would be good. He’s already baulking at what he’s being asked to do. He may be a problem we have to lean on at some point soon. And if we do, the three women in his life are sure to be his weak spots.”

  Chapter 31

  Two days later, Walter Mukooyo left his shabby hotel at just before 9am and presented himself at the offices of the Federal Customs Service, located on Naberezhnaya Kutuzova, the embankment on the southern side of the River Neva, not far from the back of the Winter Palace. He’d been trying to get this appointment ever since he arrived in Russia, but the level of co-operation between different government departments was fairly low at the best of times and he certainly wasn’t going to get anyone to talk to him just on his say-so. In the end, he’d reported back to his bosses in Geneva and left them to sort it out while he took the trip to Kharkiv with Suzanne. And if he was honest, he wasn’t expecting even the senior World Health Organisation officials to get anywhere with the Russian Customs. So, he was pleasantly surprised when he arrived back at his hotel on Wednesday night to find a message waiting for him. The way had been cleared for his intervention. He wasted no time in setting up the meeting.

  Walter was no stranger to conflict and had come across a fair amount of racism, especially since starting to travel for the World Health Organisation. And, as he had joked on more than one occasion, to a black African of the Kikuyu, used to inter-tribal hostility and occasional violence, the harsh words and hostile looks he received from some white folk, especially in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union countries, was like water off a duck’s back to him. He ignored the sour looks and sniffs from the receptionist in the foyer of the building. He was less comfortable about surrendering his passport, although he knew this was common practice in public buildings in Russia, and there was never any trouble in reclaiming it before leaving the building. Reluctantly, he handed it over, knowing that without this more or less symbolic gesture, he’d be unable to get into the offices or hold his meeting.

  He was also prepared for a certain degree of hostility from the customs officials themselves, especially considering the way he’d gone over everybody’s heads to get the meeting. But once again, he was pleasantly surprised. As he got out of the elevator on the ninth floor, someone was waiting for him.

  “Dr Mukooyo? I am Ivan Ospanov. I’m deputy director for the North-Western Customs Administration here in St Petersburg.” The slim young man had slicked-back black hair. His eyes and cheekbones spoke of a Eurasian ancestry. He smiled and pumped Walter’s hand vigorously up and down. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please come this way.”

  He led the way down a dimly lit corridor, where, as Walter had observed in several public buildings since he’d arrived in Russia, only one in three of the light bulbs appeared to be operating. When they reached the end, he opened the door into a light, airy office containing three desks. At each one, young women were consulting reference books, riffling through piles of papers and typing notes on what, even to Walter, looked like ancient word processors. None of the women looked up, so intent were they on their tasks.

  Ivan directed Walter across the room and through another door into a much smaller space containing just a single desk and two chairs.

  “Sit down, please,” he said. “I’ll arrange for coffee.” He paused and looked at Walter with a sly grin. “Unless you’d prefer something a little stronger?”

  But Walter laughed and shook his head. “Thank you, but coffee will be perfect. I’ve not yet managed to adopt the Russian habit of drinking so early in the morning.”

  “Me neither,” said Ivan, “and in fact, before I came west, I rarely drank anything at all, but I’ve found many of our visitors, especially Russian ones, expect it.”

  The two men chatted while waiting for the coffee to arrive. Ivan had been brought up in Kazakhstan and had worked for the customs office in Almaty. He’d moved to St Petersburg just before the fall of the Soviet Union and had been here ever since. As they talked, Walter realised the man across the desk from him was not as young as he looked. He must be at least in his mid-forties, Walter calculated, since the Soviet Union had collapsed in December 1991, nearly twenty years ago.

  One of the women from the outer office arrived with the coffee, poured two cups and left, all without a smile or even raising her eyes to look at the two men. Once he had sipped from his cup, Ivan’s smile faded, and he became completely business-like.

  “Firstly, I understand you’ve had some difficulty in getting this meeting set up, and for that I must apologise on behalf of the Federal Customs Service. We don’t play ball too well with other government departments. It’s an attitude I’m trying hard to break down.”

  Walter waved a hand dismissively. “Please don’t give it a second thought. Trust me, I fully understand all about internal politics and intragovernmental rivalry. The important thing is we’re meeting now, and I hope you can help me in my investigation.”

  “Of course. Now, I know a little bit of the background to your enquiry, but it would be helpful if you could tell me the whole story.”

  Walter told Ivan all about his investigation. About the growing number of deaths from krokodil across St Petersburg, Moscow and several other major cities in Russia. About how large quantities of codeine phosphate tablets had been seized by the Russian police. About how they didn’t have the resources or the capability to trace the source; and how the same was true of the Russian Health Ministry.

  “So, the guys in Moscow contacted the World Health Organisation. We took some samples of the seized drugs, tested them at our laboratories in Geneva and traced the source of the batches.”

  Ivan whistled.

  “You can do that?”

  Walter nodded.

  “Yes, with about ninety-eight per cent certainty. We compared our results with retained samples from batches of codeine phosphate tablets imported into Russia and found a match. The drugs are being made by a company in Ukraine, Kharkiv Pharmaceuticals. I visited them with Mrs Suzanne Jones, a British auditor, just a few days ago. It’s a truly magnificent facility; they must have invested heavily.”

  “Well, we know there’s a lot of money in the pharmaceutical industry, don’t we?”

  “True, but these products, and the others being made by Kharkiv Pharmaceuticals are really not high value or high cost. They’re mostly low cost, low sale-price generics. It’s difficult to see how or why the company has invested so much money in the facility. At least it was until I had some disturbing news from Mrs Suzanne yesterday.”

  Chapter 32

  “Disturbing? In what way”

  “Well, Mrs Suzanne is one of two sisters who run the Jones Technical Partnership in London. She has a background in manufacturing, which is why I asked her to go to Ukraine with me. But her sister, Charlie, is a bit of a whiz with computers and she managed to find out more about the company while we were there. It’s fairly well
-disguised, but apparently, the major investor and sleeping partner in the company is a gentleman called Stefano Mladov.”

  Ivan sat up even straighter than before. “The Mladovs? We’ve heard of them. Been involved in some very criminal schemes over the years, apparently. Although always from a hands off standpoint, as far as we know. We’ve never been able to pin anything on them, anyway. We’d love to be able to bring that particular dynasty down. And I know my Ukrainian colleagues feel the same way.”

  Walter nodded. “Yes, it certainly puts a completely different perspective on matters, doesn’t it?”

  “But what happens after the drugs are sold by Kharkiv Pharmaceuticals?”

  “That’s why I am spending time in this beautiful city of yours,” replied Walter. “The batches of codeine phosphate tablets are sold to a company here in St Petersburg, run by one Anatoly Vladimirovich Dimitriov. His friends call him Anton. I’ve met him, and he seems like a genuinely nice guy. He swears the drugs are being imported from Ukraine to Russia and are then re-exported to Africa. Part of a government contract to supply cough suppressants. I want to believe him. Not least because his family’s currently playing host to a friend of a friend.”

  “But presumably, you’re having difficulty believing him when the drugs are turning up on the Russian black market?”

  “Precisely. And they can’t be in two places at once, now can they?”

  “Is this Anatoly Dimitriov exporting them himself?”

  “Well, no, and that’s where the story gets even more complicated. He’s acting as a middle man for an old friend of his, a small time politician called Boris Paulovic Lechkov. He’s the one who’s pulling the strings on the deal. He can’t do it himself as he’s not in the industry. In fact he’s mayor of a small town an hour or so outside St Petersburg. He’s using Anton because he has all the licences and permissions to buy and sell pharmaceuticals.”

  “But if Dimitriov thinks the deal is risky, why doesn’t he just stop the whole process? He would be cutting this Boris off from the drugs.”

  Walter nodded his head.

  “Very good question. I asked exactly the same one. But there’s something in the background; something no-one wants to talk about. I got the impression there’s some kind of indiscretion in Anton’s past, and Boris is holding it over him. I might need to dig a bit deeper into this.”

  Ivan rubbed his hands together. “This all sounds intriguing. And I understand you want to protect this Anton Dimitriov if he really is innocent, but the fact remains that young people are dying. And we need to see what we can do to stop it. So, Dr Mukooyo, what do you want from me?”

  Walter smiled and opened his briefcase, pulling out a sheaf of papers.

  “These are the batches we have positive identification of. Although there may well be far more of them than that. I suspect this could be just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I’d like to see the official customs records for their importation into Russia and, if possible, the papers relating to their re-exportation.” He handed them over and smiled. “And, if we’re going to be working together, please call me Walter!”

  Ivan took the papers and flicked through them.

  “This is going to take a little while,” he said. “We’re trying to get approval for full computerisation of our systems, but as I’m sure you noticed, our equipment is a little outdated and our budget is very tight. So much of it is still done manually.”

  “Would it be better if I left you to it and came back later, then?”

  “That would be perfect. How about I give you a call when I’ve got something for you. Hopefully it will be later this afternoon, or tomorrow morning at the latest. The office is closed every weekend, but I usually spend a few hours in here on a Saturday morning when it’s quiet. I can get lots more done that way.”

  Walter spent the rest of the day writing his report on Kharkiv Pharmaceuticals and catching up on emails. The internet link at his hotel was intermittent and he ended up going to the huge public telephone exchange and central post office, where he was able to purchase internet time by the hour.

  The call from Ivan came in just as he was about to leave for dinner that evening.

  “It took a little longer than I hoped, Walter,” he said. “But I now have the original documents for both the importation and the exportation. And they all tie up exactly. Every single batch is fully accounted for.”

  “Can I have copies of the papers?” asked Walter.

  “Certainly,” replied Ivan. “But I don’t see how this is going to help. The paper trail shows these drugs are only passing through Russia on their way to Africa. How are you going to prove otherwise?”

  “At the moment, I really don’t know, my friend,” said Walter with a sigh, “but if there’s anything there, I’ll find it. I have to. There are just too many lives at stake for me not to.”

  Chapter 33

  The following afternoon, Walter received a call from Ivan while he was sitting in his hotel room. The copies he’d asked for were ready. Did he want to come to the office to pick them up on Monday morning? Or was he free for supper that evening? Walter was always happy to meet someone for wining and dining, much preferring not to eat on his own. He happily jumped at the chance to meet that evening. The two men agreed to get together at eight o’clock in a little place just around the corner from the customs service office.

  “It doesn’t look like much,” Ivan warned him, “but trust me, it serves the best borscht you will ever taste.”

  He was certainly right about the first part, thought Walter as he arrived at the little restaurant just before eight. The paint was peeling on the wooden door and window frames, and the mortar was chipped and flaking out from between the ancient-looking bricks. But there was a brightly-coloured sign over the window: Mama Katya’s, Walter was able to translate. Sounds more like a brothel, he thought. But, then, he’d eaten in far worse places than this back home in Kenya. And he was happy to follow the recommendation of Ivan, who he was beginning to think might become a friend as well as a business acquaintance.

  Ivan was already there when Walter walked through the door and jumped up with a wave and a big smile. The two men shook hands and then sat facing each other at a round table in the back of the room. It was a small, dark space, lit by tall candles at each table and in sconces around the walls. Walter revised his opinion; this was more like a monastery cloister than a brothel. Not that he’d ever visited a brothel. Well, not as a customer anyway. But it had been one of his many jobs early in his political life, to visit establishments of that kind to check the girls were being well-treated. It had been an aspect of his job he’d hated, finding it all far too hypocritical, and he’d not been sorry to give up that part of the role when he moved onward and upward in his journey towards the cabinet.

  The candles looked well-used. They were of variable heights and all had rivulets of wax running down the sides. Their flames flickered in a faint draught coming from the kitchens at the rear and played gently moving lights on the warm-looking brickwork. In here, the damage to the mortar looked less severe, although Walter knew it could just be a trick of the light. Huge vases of dried flowers and bulrushes decorated shelves around the room, interspersed with decorative wrought iron railings and shelves. There was a tiny bar next to the door into the kitchen. There were only twenty tables in the place and nearly all of them were already filled.

  “Mama Katya only books the tables for one party each evening,” said Ivan. “Goodness knows how she makes a living, but it makes for a wonderfully relaxed evening for the diners.”

  “And if that’s true, then my ambition is satisfied,” boomed a deep voice from behind Walter. He spun round in his chair and found himself looking up at one of the largest women he’d seen since coming to Russia—or ever for that matter. She was tall, probably well over his height, but also very broad. And from the look of her overhanging belly, pendulous breasts and swinging batwings, she was no stranger to food herself. But she was obviou
sly completely relaxed about her appearance, since she was dressed like a young peasant girl, in brightly coloured clothing, with short sleeves and a tight skirt. This despite the fact she must have been well into her seventies. Ivan jumped up and held out his arms.

  “Mama Katya. It’s wonderful to see you.”

  Walter watched with amusement as his slim companion was engulfed in a mountain of flesh as Mama Katya pulled him to her, burying his head in her chest. When he came up for air, he turned and pointed across the table. “This is my new friend, Dr Walter Mukooyo. He’s come all the way across the sea from Africa to taste your wonderful cooking.”

  “Well we mustn’t disappoint him, then,” replied the woman, giving Walter a strangely shy smile, which revealed a mouth full of gold fillings, and bobbing a tiny curtsy which somehow didn’t seem at all out of place, coming from this huge woman.

  And Walter had to admit, the build-up Ivan had given Mama Katya’s kitchen was totally justified. They began with the promised borscht, which was spicy, earthy and hot, cooled only slightly by the dollop of soured cream and chopped dill on the top. Then they moved on to stuffed cabbage; smaller than the rolls Walter had been presented with in other restaurants, and with the stuffing delicately flavoured with nutmeg. The main meal was barbequed lamb with cheese-filled flat breads called khachapuri. Mama Katya told him her husband, who was the chef, came from Georgia and this was a speciality of his. They finished with jam filled dumplings, or pirozhki as Ivan referred to them. And the whole thing was washed down with spicy red Georgian wines.

  Finally, Walter pushed his chair away from the table and held up his hands in submission. “That’s it, my friend, I am completely stuffed. I can’t eat one more mouthful.”

  “Well that’s a pity,” said Ivan, pointing towards the kitchen, “because here comes Mama Katya again. And, if I am not mistaken, she’s carrying a dish of her homemade chocolate-covered plums which go perfectly with coffee. You really must try at least one.”