Authors: Greg Wilson
What he had in mind was that they
wouldn’t
be closing down. In fact, they’d be carrying on business exactly as before except now they’d be working for the US government, following orders. Wearing wires, recording phone conversations, videotaping meetings – tap dancing and singing if that’s what they were told to do – then passing it all back to the Feds so they could beaver away, building cases that would eventually nail as many as possible of T&FI’s clients.
There was a problem with that of course. A potentially fatal problem as far as the bankers from Charleston were concerned. Eventually – when their deception was discovered as it inevitably would be – they were going to have a whole cartload of very unhappy customers.
Sure, the Feds had promised that when the time came to close down the operation they’d all be given new identities and slotted into witness protection. But the bankers knew their clients, which meant they knew witness protection was going to be about as effective and useful as a tissue-paper condom. Still, being as smart and practical as they were, when the three were left alone together to talk things over in a room specially chosen for its steel furniture, harsh lights and latent smell of urine and vomit, they got their heads around the equation real fast, balanced downside against upside and reached the unanimous decision inside five minutes that life as before – however brief – was an infinitely preferable proposition to the alternative. And so, Jack Hartman accidentally got lucky.
Since quitting the CIA, he had slowly and painstakingly rebuilt his relationships within the security community, focusing most of all on connections he had developed within the FBI. Senior people. Old friends and friends of friends who knew his background and were sympathetic to his cause. Over the years it had become a two-way street; a quiet, shady avenue of trust and respect where passing figures sometimes paused to talk a moment, or to hand across or receive slender envelopes containing cryptic notes, accepting or giving silent nods of acknowledgment in return.
Dropping the names of Ivankov’s offshore companies to a key contact in the Money Laundering Unit of the Bureau’s Financial Crimes Section at Quantico and asking him to keep a watch on any links that came up had been a desperate long shot that had paid an unexpected dividend.
Hartman’s guy in Financial Crimes had been on the fringe of the Charleston sting. When the deal with the bankers was bolted down and copies of the first batch of files from Bermuda had been loaded onto the computers in Washington he’d decided to try a just-for-fun search, running the names Hartman had given him against the Bermuda files and to his surprise,
voila!
Three hits! Cash incoming from Russia, bathed and laundered through Bermuda, then moved on through a series of wire transfers to intermediaries, ending up finally in banks in Cyprus and Monaco, deposited into accounts held in the names of three of the Ivankov companies. And to Hartman’s delight, best of all, they were the companies through which the Russian had been buying and consolidating his MISSION TECHNOLOGIES stock.
The problem for Hartman was he couldn’t use it. Not publicly anyway. Couldn’t confirm the source since doing so would compromise his contact and bust the Charleston operation wide open just as it was taking off. Which meant he had to find a way around it. Another way to prove the link between Ivankov and the source of the money: the guy who showed up in the T&FI records as their client.
Hartman’s eyes scrolled the lines of the email message and settled on the name:
Kolbasov, Vitaly.
He plucked his glasses from his nose and ran the end of one silver arm between his lips, thinking. After a moment he closed down his email, tapped a command into the keyboard and waited for the main page to load. It had cost thirty grand for an IT expert to set up the database for him but it had been worth it. After ten years at this he had so many Russian names swirling around in his head it was beginning to feel like a bowl of borsch.
Five seconds and it was all there.
Vitaly Kolbasov. Name, photograph, profile.
Hartman clicked on the thumbnail of the photograph and watched it bloom large, studying the cold, narrow face. Then he killed it and went back to the profile, scrolling down the lines.
VITALY KOLBASOV
Born:
Vladimir: 24 January 1960
Current Place of Residence:
Moscow
Military Service:
Soviet Infantry 1978
–
1988. East Germany; Poland; Kaliningrad; Caucasus; Afghanistan, rising
to Captain. Retired 1988.
Commercial Career:
1988–1998.
Personal assistant to Marat
Ivankov (
former commanding officer) in establishment and conduct of Ivankov commercial operations (Ref: ZAVOSET).
Hartman allowed himself a grim smile. Connection made.
1998–Present.
1998 Interpol and FSB intel confirms Kolbasov assumes full control of all former Ivankov and ZAVOSET black and gray operations. Records confirm Kolbasov network active throughout Russia and Eastern Europe in illicit activities including: black market; auto-theft rackets; extortion; prostitution; credit card fraud; drug distribution. Legitimate front operations include clubs, casinos, fashion boutiques and other retail chain operations. Net cash flow from operations impossible to calculate however based on known figures from smaller operations tracked by FSB, estimates range $150m -$500m p.a. FBI reports connections to US based Russian groups in NYC, LA, San Francisco and Chicago suspected but not yet proven.
Hartman sat back and tugged his lip. Vitaly Kolbasov. The last link in the chain.
He flicked back to the email and read it again. Over one hundred and fifty million US washed back by Kolbasov into three of Marat Ivankov’s companies in the last year alone, and presumably neither Kolbasov nor Ivankov were stupid enough to place all their eggs in a single basket; presumably T&FI Bermuda was one of a string of contract launderers working on the same problem.
So now he had the final connection but as far as the DEA and the FBI were concerned Kolbasov was just one of a whole chain of bottom feeders using the T&FI system, and because the funds weren’t passing through the US there was a limit to what they could do. Sure, there was the argument that the MISSION TECH stock was being acquired with tainted money but how did you prove it? There would be clean cash flowing into the Ivankov companies as well, so how did you prove which was what and where it had all gone? Particularly without the cooperation of the authorities in Cyprus and Monaco, which was about as likely as the Israelis offering to hand back the Occupied Territories.
There had to be another way to get this out into the open, some way that didn’t compromise the Bermuda deal or his own contacts within the Bureau, but what the fuck was it? What was the solution?
He clicked back to the database search engine and absently typed the word SOLUTION into the dialogue box. Added a question mark for good measure and hit
Search.
It took longer for the answer to come back this time and when it did it was just a single line.
Sorry, Jack. There are no matches to your
query!
Hartman’s face twisted in a wry grin. He hadn’t really expected there would be.
29
The aircraft smelt
new, the seats and the carpet were clean and the cabin crew members were young and impeccably groomed. Most astonishing of all they were polite and even friendly, greeting Nikolai and Larisa with welcoming smiles as he led his daughter past them along the aisle. This wasn’t the Aeroflot that Nikolai remembered. No heavy-hipped, over made-up stewardesses of indeterminate age wrapped in too-tight red skirts and shabby white blouses; no meat-fisted security police masquerading as stewards, grudgingly wheeling cumbersome trolleys along the aisles, awkward as bears on bicycles, passing out foul-tasting coffee and tea with as little grace as the staff in a factory canteen. Still, for all the changes, the flight was barely half full. Old reputations died hard, Nikolai concluded.
For the first couple of hours they sat in their allocated seats on the left of the aisle, Larisa at the window, Nikolai beside her, content to share his daughter’s awe as the 747 lumbered down the runway and lifted into the Russian night, the dwindling lights of Moscow and its satellites soon shrugged off and left behind, swallowed up in the thick quilt of cloud. Then when the aircraft had levelled and the engines had settled back to their constant reassuring hum, a young fresh-faced stewardess came by and offered them drinks. Nikolai ordered juice for Larisa and coffee for himself and watched his daughter as she sipped carefully from the plastic tumbler, her hands clasping it steady against the vibration, glancing up at him every so often, rewarding him for just being there with her perfect guileless smile. She finished her juice and set down the tumbler and her attention moved on, her fingers exploring, settling finally on a coiled package she had discovered in the seat pocket in front. Nikolai watched her, discovering his daughter all at once, entranced and astonished at how easily he could read the progression of thought and comprehension in her movements and expressions and the turn of her eyes. She plucked the headset free, inspecting it, then paused and looked up at him, her eyes tentatively seeking his approval. Nikolai smiled back and nodded and her face glowed with delight as she tore open the plastic bag, examined the plug for a second then hunted around for the socket that her logic assured her she would find, connected the lead, slipped the set over her head and settled back, her fingers working the dial on the armrest with assurance, scrolling through the channels.
How long would it be before they would be able to talk, Nikolai wondered. Able to share their experiences and emotions and the lost years that had slipped between them.
When the cabin lights dimmed he unhooked his seatbelt and rose, searching around the darkened cabin. He found an empty bank of seats a few rows behind and returned, tapping Larisa on the shoulder and beckoning her to follow, helping her unwind herself from the headset cord and her seatbelt and leading her back, lifting the armrests and fashioning a bed of sorts for her from the neatly arranged blankets and pillows. She settled down again, sitting to begin with, slipping on the headset again, working the channel selector until she found the soundtrack to the movie that was playing on the overhead screen, watching it eagerly for as long as her eyes allowed then gradually subsiding, her lids drifting shut, her body folding on itself, nestling down gradually against the mound of pillows propped against his thigh. When her breathing had fallen into the soft, even rhythm of sleep he reached across and gently lifted the headset away, wrapped it on itself and slipped it into the pocket of the seat in front then lowered his hand and gently stroked his daughter’s brow.
An hour passed. The silent flickering of the movie screen finally died and the cabin settled into a soft darkness lined with the throb of the engines and the gentle rush of the recycled air. Beside Larisa, Nikolai sat silently in his seat at the aisle. He looked down, studying the outline of his daughter’s face resting against her hands. Somewhere in the move between seats the clasp that had held her hair back in its ponytail had fallen loose and a wave now spilled across the edge of her cheek like a curtain of dark silk. He traced it lightly with a finger and stroked it back then moved his hand down until it came to rest on her arm above the blanket.
America.
After all this time.
He turned ahead and stared into the darkness, his mind rewinding to the image it had created in those last months at Novokuznetsk. The citadel poised above the river. The imaginary bridge that spanned the lost years to the dark forest of uncertainty beyond. Despite the odds they were making the crossing but only the two of them, not three. His hand moved gently against Larisa’s arm as his eyes fell shut, his soul aching with bitter emptiness for Natalia and everything lost.
Sometime after that he must have dozed off. When he woke the cabin lights had been switched on and he blinked at the sudden sharp glare then turned to find Larisa sitting upright beside him, her hand resting lightly on his own, her dark bright eyes studying him, the pillows and blankets folded neatly on the spare seat at her side. Her tray table was folded down, her face beaming with surprised delight.
“Can you believe it, Daddy? We’re going to have dinner. At seven o’clock in the morning, up here in the sky above the ocean, see?” She pointed to the overhead screen and his eyes followed, to the blinking dot that tracked their course. They were already beyond Europe, striking out across the Atlantic. “Look!” She reached across him and snapped the clasp on his tray table and it dropped into place. “The lady showed me how to do it. Isn’t it clever?” He felt her slender fingers squeeze his own. “It’s so exciting, Daddy, don’t you think?” Her eyes widened in question and she folded in a sigh. “All that time I spent learning to speak English.” She screwed up her face. “I hated it, but now,” her eyes grew wide again. “Now it’s all going to be worthwhile. I’ll be able to speak just like an American.” Nikolai smiled, shaking his head to clear the drag of sleep from his brain. Up ahead the stewardess was working her way towards them, passing trays left and right, the smell of hot food and warm plastic preceding her. Larisa’s face turned suddenly serious and she shook her head.
“I don’t ever want to go back to Uncle Vitaly. You won’t let that happen, will you, Daddy?” Her eyes traced aside. “Arina and her husband were always nice but Uncle Vitaly…” She looked up sharply. “He was starting to frighten me. He was starting to do things I didn’t like.” She looked away.
Nikolai froze as his daughter’s words registered in his brain. He took his hand from beneath his daughter’s and wrapped her fingers in his own, feeling the surge of his pulse rising, pounding in his temples.
“What sort…” he swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm as he worked his way around the words. “What sort of things did he do to you?”
Larisa unwound her fingers from his and wandered them to her tray table, working them across its surface as if she were touching the keys of an invisible piano. Her lips pressed together.
“Things I didn’t like.”
Nikolai waited, his muscles running taut, the fingers of his hands tensing into fists in his lap. Larisa cast him a nervous glance.
“It only began last holidays. Up till then he was nice but… he changed. He started looking at me in a funny way and then he started doing things when Arina wasn’t watching. Kissing my neck and… you know… touching me.” Her brow bunched in a frown.” One weekend he brought me into town to stay with him and there was another girl and she was staying with him too, and she was older than me, and…” she looked up, biting her lip, “and she was in bed, doing things with him, and he wanted me to get in with them too.” She tossed her head sharply. “But the other girl wouldn’t let me so he hit her.” Her eyes narrowed and grew distant, her face and voice tightening together with fear. “He hit her again and again and he hurt her, and she was so nice, Daddy, but she was crying and bleeding and…” Her hand rushed sideways, her fingers clutching at his, winding their way between them, her nails digging into the flesh of his palm.” Then Uncle Vitaly called a doctor and the doctor took her away and I never saw her after that and then he left me alone.” She looked up, her dark eyes searching her father’s face, everything about her now so much older than her years. Her voice fell soft. “But I knew what he was going to do. My best friend at school told me, her father’s friend had done it to her and I knew that was what was going to happen next time. I knew Uncle Vitaly was going to do it to me.” Her eyes filled with tears and she tossed her head, her voice splintering as she sobbed her way through the words. “And I was so scared, Daddy, because I didn’t want him to do it and then…” She stopped suddenly, her emotions faltering somewhere between despair and relief. “And then, before he could, before it started, you came back and you saved me.” She lurched sideways and flung her arms around Nikolai, crying against his chest. “If you hadn’t come for me, Daddy, I don’t know what I would have done. But you did. I always knew you would. You came for me and now we’re together and now everything’s going to be all right.”
Nikolai wrapped his arms around his daughter, hugging her tight, burying his face in her hair. He had thought that whatever faith he had once possessed had been drained from his soul as surely and completely as the blood had been emptied from Florinskiy’s veins, but now by instinct he found himself offering a silent prayer of thanks. So much lost, but still not everything. Perhaps there was a God after all. And if there was, perhaps Nikolai Aven was now in His debt.
He stroked Larisa’s head and held her tight against him, suddenly self-consciously aware of the shape and curves of her body: the girl becoming a woman; until today, alone and unprotected in a world teeming with scavengers and scum. His mind settled on the image of Vitaly Kolbasov and he tasted the bile rising from his gut.
Was it really possible there was a God, Nikolai wondered. And if there was a God, then what of Nikolai’s thoughts at that moment? Would they be forgiven him?
The first trill of the telephone threaded its way into Marat Ivankov’s dream. The second drilled through it, dissolving it, dragging him awake. He reached through the darkness, his fingers closing around the familiar hard plastic shape, pushed himself upright and hauled the receiver back, his thumb feeling its way around the keypad. He pressed the central button once and the screen came alive, pitching a shallow blue light across his heavy naked chest and the sheet wrapped below it. The numbers on the screen ranged in and out of focus. He pinched his eyes and peered at them again and they became clear, the familiar code glowing back at him. He swung his gaze to the bedside clock and thumbed the button again, accepting the call, cutting dead the third ring. His acknowledgment to the caller was terse and abrupt.
“What’s taken you so long?”
The silence echoed a moment with Vitaly Kolbasov’s hesitation.
“I’m sorry, Marat. I wanted to be certain everything was under control before I called. It is. It’s done. He’s on his way.”
Ivankov exhaled. Pushed himself further upright. “And the tapes?”
“All in place.” Kolbasov responded. “It’s scheduled for this coming weekend.”
Ivankov nodded slowly to himself.
“There is one other thing, Marat.” Kolbasov paused. “the doctor. Borisov. How do you want that handled?”
Marat Ivankov looked aside in the darkness. His answer was soft and measured.
“How do you think I want it handled? Use your imagination, Vitaly.”
A moment passed. The silence of acknowledgment. Then Kolbasov spoke again. “Yes. Of course. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
Ivankov nodded. “Thank you, Vitaly. You do that.” His thumb moved to the button, the connection died and the screen dropped to black. He returned the telephone to the bedside table and sat for a minute gazing into nothing, considering the symmetry of fate.
What was it? Five days now?
Borisov lay awake on his bunk, calculating.
He was surprised at how little fuss there had been about Aven’s escape. He had been interviewed, of course, as he knew he would be, since Aven had visited the infirmary several times over the previous weeks. But his consultation log was complete and precise, recording in detail the prisoner’s complaint. A stomach ulcer, he had concluded; likely to get worse but not worth the waste of precious medication for now.
Certainly it was a coincidence that Aven’s last visit had been just the evening before he had vanished. But then the guards who had brought him to the infirmary were insistent that they had returned him to his cell afterwards, backing up Borisov’s claim, and why wouldn’t they be insistent? Someone had no doubt paid them well for their trouble and to admit any involvement on their part would have been nothing short of suicidal. Still, the matter of Aven’s escape had been dropped so easily, Borisov couldn’t help wondering just how many unseen hands there were tugging at invisible strings.
He had reported Aven’s approach immediately.
Why wouldn’t he? He had no love for Nikolai Aven – quite the contrary – and he had been around long enough to know that collaboration with the authorities on matters such as this would stand him in good stead when it came to consideration for early release. But then, to his astonishment, only two hours later he had been called back to the superintendent’s office once more, directed to a comfortable leather seat and offered a glass of vodka, treated like the man of position and intellect he really was for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Still, it had surprised him when, rather than taking the chair behind his massive desk, the superintendent had actually drawn up another beside him, leaned forward and touched glasses, regarding him with a thoughtful and even respectful smile.
About Aven, the superintendent had said, leaning across to refill Borisov’s glass. Of course this had to be kept totally confidential – just between the two of them – but there were… he cast around for the right word… people in high places who, for reasons of their own, would like to see his plan work.
Borisov’s initial reaction was one of complete dismay but the superintendent had intercepted it without missing a beat.