The Domino Game (8 page)

The American’s voice cut across Nikolai’s thoughts.

“You know a lot of people believe it was Khrushchev who personally shot him?”

Nikolai knew the rumor. When you considered the raw brutality of the Soviet leaders it wasn’t difficult to believe.

Hartman shrugged. “Whatever. At least Khrushchev was a bit of an improvement on the others, but he was still cast from the same mold. He got rid of Beria’s guys and broke up the NKVD, but then he set up the KGB and used it in the exact same way.”

Of course by then some of the
apparatchiks
were beginning to wake up. They weren’t stupid. They knew all the propaganda about the better-than-ever harvests was utter nonsense because they were the ones making it up. They could see for themselves that communism wasn’t working for the country but,
what the hell,
they figured. Maybe it could still work for them. And it did.

“You know the numbers don’t you, Nikolai?” Hartman didn’t wait for a reply. “Thirty
billion
dollars in oil revenues siphoned off by party officials during the Brezhnev era alone. Two thousand
tons
of gold moved to the West during Gorbachev’s regime, then another $30 billion, give or take, flicked across to our American banks after the failed coup, and it’s been running at that rate every year since. That’s $150
billion
ripped out of Russia’s heart over the last five years alone, and that’s just what we know about.” Hartman leaned in closer, his face just inches away from the younger man’s. “Is it any wonder this place is fucked?”

His eyes gleamed like gunmetal. Challenging.

“Think about it, Nikolai. Is it any wonder there’s no money left to buy any medicine for the kids?”

The words had been chosen carefully and they hit Nikolai as they had been intended to, like a fist slamming into his guts. He stared at the American, his mind stumbling back over everything Hartman had said, seeing it all, now, from a very personal perspective.

Hartman was right. The Revolution had been the breeding ground for the institutionalized corruption that had strangled the entire nation.

“And the crime rings – the
mafiya
. Of course you know how that all started.”

Nikolai’s eyes fell to the patterned carpet. He knew.

The gangs had existed long before Lenin had come on the scene but it was Lenin and his colleagues who had seen the potential in harnessing them to the political cause. When the revolutionaries ran short of money they cut deals with the crime bosses, effectively franchising the right to steal from the banks and the wealthy in exchange for a major cut of the proceeds. Their philosophy was simple and pragmatic: Why worry about the law when before long they would
be
the law!

But the revolutionaries were smart enough to realize that the gangs had to be kept under control so once they seized power that was where Politburo – the leadership committee – came in. The Politburo became the equivalent of the
mafia padrone,
the single unchallenged authority that had the power to reward loyalty, punish disobedience and sanction any action, with the decisions of its leaders forever beyond question.

Hartman picked up the line of Nikolai’s thoughts.

“The way I understand it, it was only after Stalin that things started to get out of hand. The Cold War. The space race. The arms race. All that muscle-flexing with the West. The cost was phenomenal and the only way to pay for it was by increasing production, but that was virtually impossible because the system was falling to pieces.”

Nikolai nodded. “Production was the responsibility of the party officials. If you were an official and you met your quota you were promoted. If you didn’t you could expect to end up in a
gulag
. But how do you meet a production quota when there are no raw materials, no machinery, no chemicals, no spare parts. So the party officials turned to the
mafiya
for help because – for a price – they could get anything.”

“Exactly.” Hartman rose to his feet and walked across to the window, hooking back the edge of the curtain, peering out towards the river. “A marriage of convenience, just like the old days. The only difference being that the gangsters were now a whole lot smarter. They played the game by looking after the needs of the establishment and getting rich while they did it, but this time round they had no intention of being kept on a leash, so they started to build their own power bases as well. To survive they knew they needed…” Hartman let the curtain drop and turned back to Nikolai. “… what do you call it?”

“
Krysha
.”

“That’s it.
Krysha.
Protection. A roof over their heads. The money was flowing freely so they bought their roof by bribing party members who then used their access to the system to turn their bribes into hard currency which they then shuffled offshore. The
pakhans
who ran the gangs knew that once any of these guys started taking money they were snagged by the balls. Then after a while they began to squeeze.” Hartman weighed a hand in the air, tensing his fingers and closing them gradually in a vice. “Not too hard. Just soft and firm, so the person on the other end got to understand power and fear. Help me out here and I’ll help you. But fuck with me…” He clamped his fingers closed in a fist, “and you’re finished!”

He flicked his hand open and let it fall to his side.

“So that gave the
pakhans
access to hard currency which they then used to buy luxury goods abroad, then – with official protection, of course – they smuggled this stuff back here and sold it for rubles, which were laundered again through the official system, with the
apparatchiks
getting their cut.” Hartman’s lips drew taut in a cynical grin. “And all this time, over there in the West, we’re thinking we’re the masters of capitalism. Let me tell you something, son. These guys were smarter, tougher, more instinctive capitalists than we’ll ever be, and that was just the sixties and the seventies. The second generation. Now we’re into the third. People like your friend Ivankov. And the species has evolved even further.” He stepped back slowly across the room and stopped a meter from where Nikolai sat, looking down at him.

“This is the third wave, Nikolai, and they’re more sophisticated and even more dangerous than the last. These are the guys who saw the fall of communism coming and prepared for it. They have protection at the highest level. They’re intelligent, educated, financially smart, internationally connected and they have no fucking fear or morals whatever.” His features set tight with a grim expression.

“This place is theirs now. They own it and they know it and no one here is going to stop them doing exactly whatever they want.”

Nikolai stared at the American in silence then gradually shifted his gaze to the transcripts resting on the sofa.

“If that’s true,” he looked back at Hartman, his voice edged with a bleak acceptance, “then what value is all of this to you? What’s the point?”

Hartman edged a step closer to him.

“What’s the point?” He echoed the question. “Five years ago there were less than eight hundred organized crime groups here in Russia. Today there are over
six thousand!
The point is Nikolai, Russia isn’t
enough
for them.”

Nikolai lowered his gaze, trying to reconcile the meaning.

“Think about it,” Hartman continued. “This is a species that has adapted and evolved inside one of the most restrictive regimes mankind has ever devised. The skills they’ve had to develop to survive and prosper here in Russia put them light years ahead of the other international criminal organizations. And now, on top of that, they’ve been able to recruit thousands of disenfranchised former security and military personnel: dangerous, highly trained people the system threw onto the trash heap. These organizations are lean, sophisticated, utterly ruthless and now, suddenly, the cage door’s been opened and there’s nothing to hold them back. They can travel where they want, when they want, move their money any place they choose. They’re breaking out, Nikolai. They’re breaking out and now they’re coming after
us!”

Hartman paused, letting the significance of his words sink in.

“This isn’t a joke,” he shook his head. “These people are a greater threat to Western society than the Soviet Union probably ever was. They’ll do anything for money – drugs, extortion, racketeering, kidnapping, contract killing, prostitution, people smuggling, weapons. Given time they’ll reach our politicians and our corporates and our professionals and corrupt them in exactly the same way they’ve corrupted the system here. In fact, it’s happening right now. They already have outposts in practically every significant city in the world. New York, Miami, Los Angeles, Paris, London, Hong Kong, Tel Aviv… You name the place, their sign’s already up! And while all this has been happening, back in the States our politicians have been sitting in Washington scratching their balls, wondering whether maybe we ought to be doing something about it.” Hartman drew a breath, let the pent-up anger dispel and tossed a hand aside.

“Okay, so maybe we’re finally making some progress. We’ve got an FBI Legal Attaché’s office here in Moscow now, but those guys are flat out working the Russian end of stuff that’s already gone down back home. Then we’ve got our investigation and exchange programs with your FSB guys, the Interior Ministry people and your Procurator’s Office, generously sponsored by our Department of State.” The corner of Hartman’s mouth rose in a cynical twist. “The only problem being that since half your guys are on the take, all we’re doing is training them in how to avoid being caught! And now on our end we’ve suddenly got every man and his dog wanting control of this thing.” He made a fist, counting off fingers. “We’ve got the FBI, the DEA, the IRS, the ATF, even the fucking Customs Service, all bitching and fighting while, meanwhile, the
mafiya
continues happily on about its business.”

Hartman stepped away and returned to his place on the sofa, sitting forward intently, his eyes locked hard on Nikolai’s across the space that separated them. “That’s why I’m interested in what you’ve brought me, Nikolai. Fuck all the conferences and the special programs and the Senate committees and investigations into what’s already happened. That’s bullshit! I started writing reports on the way this was going to develop before I left Moscow in 1985 but back then no one in the Company wanted to read them. Now I’ve finally got some of my superiors supporting my position, but no one in Washington is listening. There’s only one way to deal with this threat, Nikolai, and that’s by setting up a new organization with a single responsibility. If we try it any other way your
mafiya
guys won’t have to worry about us; we’ll end up strangling ourselves in our own red tape!”

Nikolai’s eyes drifted from Hartman to the transcripts and back again.

“And you think this can get you the attention you need?”

Hartman nodded. “Yes, I do. Why? Because this material demonstrates exactly what is going on here in one simple take, and in the most frightening possible way. By the scale of things Ivankov is still relatively small time, but look at what this stuff demonstrates. Here’s a guy who may be unknown, but who can’t be underestimated. Ex-military background, highly educated, sophisticated, ruthless, with admitted direct links to criminal organizations through a weapons and drug dealing operation developed under official protection provided by a key associate who now holds one of the most senior positions in the FSB. Now he’s a supposedly legitimate billionaire businessman who has a complicit relationship with at least one senior government minister involving fraud, kickbacks and the illegal diversion of International Monetary Fund resources, evidence of which he’s sought to conceal by the murder of two people, known, and the intimidation of others. And who is the source of all this information? An FSB officer of unquestionable integrity who can’t take it to his superiors for fear that doing so would place his life and the lives of his wife and daughter in even greater danger than they are in already and who, as a consequence, had no other option than to defect.”

Hartman drew a breath. “The IMF scam is what seals it, Nikolai. That’s what’s really going to get them to sit up: waking up to the fact that money we’re shoveling into the International Monetary Fund to help bail out your economy “is going straight into the pockets of corrupt politicians and businessmen.” He allowed himself a grim smile. “They’re going to have to do something about that or the media will crucify them. But the real point is that these are the kind of people who are going to be coming after us if we let them.”

Nikolai turned aside, thinking, nodding slowly. Hartman paused, watching him, then leaned forward to make his final point.

“I’m CIA, Nikolai. I can make this a CIA matter because of who these people are and what the record shows about them. They’re motivated by power and greed; they’re corrupt and they have all the right connections, so how long is it going to be before they work out a way to start trading out some of your surplus nuclear warheads or a few kilos of anthrax or
tularaemia
or
variola major
, or some of the other stuff you guys have tucked away in your closets? We have to convince our Administration just how serious this threat is, Nikolai. To cut through all the inter-agency squabbling, make decisions and commit resources before it’s too late.”

His hand came to rest on the transcripts by his side. “That’s why what you’ve brought me is so important. Why you are so important. You’ve got the evidence, Nikolai. You are the evidence.”

8

Nikolai walked through
the sliding glass doors to the Rossiya’s forecourt and hesitated, searching the row of parked vehicles at the curb. He found the Volga towards the end of the line, Vari’s upturned face visible at the window as he leaned out, speaking to a tall figure standing beside the door. As Nikolai approached the other man half turned then, recognizing him, dipped his head in acknowledgment before swinging back to his conversation. It took Nikolai a moment to sift through his memory before his mind freeze-framed the image: the woman with the pale green eyes, the security guard straddled above her, pinning her to the floor.

Vari exchanged some further words with the man then their hands met at the sill of the driver’s window and an envelope passed between them. By the time Nikolai reached the Volga the guard was walking briskly away, heading back towards the service entry where his partner stood waiting.

Nikolai skirted around to the passenger side and opened the door. The heavy odor of stale cigarette smoke and diesel tumbled from the cabin. He stepped through it and fell heavily into the worn vinyl seat as Vari nodded towards the retreating figure.

“Just finishing our business.” He cranked the ignition and the Volga’s engine rumbled to life. “So,” he turned, his thick eyebrows raised expectantly. “How did it go?”

Nikolai stared ahead through the windscreen. “It went well, I suppose.” He turned, facing his partner. “If it’s possible for something like that to go well.”

Vari absorbed the reply without expression.

“So.” his foot tapped the accelerator and the engine growled, “you want to get some coffee?”

Nikolai glanced at the large analog clock at the center of the dash. “It’s after four. I should get back home, Natalia will be anxious.”

“Natalia’s fine, little brother.” Vari strained towards the rear view mirror. “I left her just half an hour ago.” He wrestled the wheel around and steered the black car out of the parking slot. “I knew you’d be worried about her so I dropped in to make sure she was all right.”

Nikolai nodded, chewed his lip. “What did you tell her?”

Vari flicked a hand from the wheel. “That something important had come up only you could deal with. That everything was under control and that I’d be picking you up and bringing you home soon.”

“She didn’t want to know more?” Nikolai glanced sideways.

Vari laughed. “Of course she wanted to know more. She
demanded
to know more… but I didn’t tell her more. He reached across and tousled Nikolai’s hair. “Hey, you worry too much Niko. She’s fine. They’ll both be fine. Now how about we go get some coffee and you can tell me what my old American friend had to say?” He watched for a response.

Nikolai ran a hand to his face and pinched his eyes. “Okay.” He spoke without enthusiasm. “But no more coffee. I need something stronger.”

Vari guided the Volga away from the Kremlin, across Moskvoretskiy Bridge and into Zamoskvoreche, the lazy, old- fashioned neighborhood on the southern banks of the river that had begun life seven hundred years before as a defensive outpost against marauding Mongols and evolved as an enclave for the city’s artisans. They turned right off the bridge and back a century, into a maze of quiet, shady streets that had somehow managed to escape the advance of Soviet planning: cottages and warehouses jumbled together, interspersed by the occasional and incongruous once-grand villa of some merchant who had made his fortune but had known his place and stayed. Most were derelict now, half-hidden behind crumbling stone walls and overgrown gardens. Vari picked up the Embankment on the southern side of the canal. As they came to the place where Gilmanov’s body had been dragged from the river he slowed down, watching silently as Nikolai looked out to where the gray water lapped at the steps that led up to the old red brick factory. The bitter sweet smell of melting cocoa wafted through the open passenger window. Vari pulled a face and swallowed.

“They were cooking this morning, too.” He paused, rolling his lips. “The fishing line they used to sew your friend Gilmanov back together had started to come loose so you know what one of those idiots in uniform did? He pulled it! And the whole fucking thing gave way… slid out of him like an eel and everything inside spilled over the concrete. The uniforms thought it was a great joke. By the time I got here they’d cleaned most of it up, but
Christ Jesus!
He drew a sharp nasal breath. “You should have smelled it. Between the fucking chocolate and Gilmanov’s guts I’m not sure which was worse. And then, you know what?” His eyes widened at the sudden, unexpected realization. “They both ended up smelling the same.” His expression changed. His mouth curled in distaste and he tossed his head in a tight arc, trying to throw off the recollection. Then – as if that hadn’t worked and something more was needed – he stomped hard on the gas pedal, leaving the place and its lingering stench behind.

They followed the Embankment to the city side of the Krymskiy Bridge then, just before Gorky Park, Vari dropped down a gear and swung off the road into a tiny parking lot that clung to the front of a rundown building on the edge of the river. Nikolai knew the place: in recent months it had become one of Vari’s favorite haunts, a previously derelict riverside gas station, resurrected as a bar by one of his former acquaintances from the KGB. It was a ramshackle wooden structure hanging precariously over the river on a splintered deck balanced on once perpendicular piles. Built, by all accounts, in the early Soviet era, which made its whimsical resemblance to a lakeside
dacha
all the more peculiar. The place had no sign; not even a name as far as Nikolai was aware.

They got out and slammed their doors, not quite in unison, Vari leading the way inside, pushing through the heavy swing screen into the gloomy, gasoline-stained air inside. The owner – a man Nikolai had been introduced to only as Leonid – sat perched, as usual, on a stool behind the old gas station counter that now served as his service pen. He glanced up from his newspaper as they entered, folded it on the counter and got up, lazily, from his seat. He met them at Vari’s favorite table by the window, set down a bottle of scotch and two glasses and left without speaking. Vari cracked the seal and poured three fingers in each of the tumblers. Nikolai drained his glass in two swallows and Vari followed, dragging the back of his hand across his lips and moustache. He picked up the bottle and leaned forward, refilling the glasses, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

“Okay, so tell me. What happened?”

For a moment Nikolai rocked pensively in his chair.

“You were right,” he said, finally. His eyes flicked up to meet his partner’s. “They want the tapes.” He took another drink and set the glass down on the table.

Vari leaned forward. “Of
course
they want the tapes. What I want to know is what they’re offering in return?”

Nikolai played the tumbler between his fingers. “They’re offering a package. Exfiltration for Natalia, Larisa and me. Protection. New identities. A house. A car. A job,” his eyes flickered, “with
them
if I want, with the United States government.” His head turned slowly in dismay. “Can you believe that?”

Vari’s eyes narrowed. “How much money?”

Nikolai glanced down at the glass. He spoke the words softly, without looking up. “Two hundred thousand. Perhaps more, he’s not sure yet. He needs to iron out the details with his superiors.” His partner fell back in his seat and blew out a low whistle.

“You’ve hit the jackpot, Niko, you realize that? You’ve
won the fucking
lottery!”

Nikolai looked up, studying the broad, tanned face that beamed back at him. Why was it that he didn’t see it the same way? He raised his glass and took another drink.

Vari read the subtext. “Listen.” He planted both palms on the table and pulled himself closer. “You didn’t start this. You were trying to do your job and you were fucked over. Your first priority now is your family. Look at me, Niko!”

Nikolai chewed the scotch and swallowed, regarding the older man with a guarded expression. Vari continued.

“This isn’t something you went looking for, but now that it’s been offered you know what you do? You
grab
it with both hands, you hear me?” Vari lifted his palms and slammed them down against the table. “You
grab
it and you don’t look back!” Across the empty room Leonid glanced up again from his paper.

Nikolai turned to the open window and gazed out across the river. A tourist boat was gliding past, slowing down as it headed for the Gorky Park landing, the lowering sun casting a long dark shadow behind it on the surface of the river. Figures lined the railing on the open top deck: teenage lovers; young families; parents clutching tight to the hands of tiny, excited children. He watched as they passed by, ignoring their waves, nodding to himself in silent resignation. Vari was right. He had nowhere else to go. He had to trust Hartman. Had to take what he had offered and be grateful. He turned back, his features set in a grim smile.

Vari read the expression. Nodded. “So. When?”

Nikolai’s mind went into rewind. He was leaving Hartman’s suite at the Rossiya, standing beside the door as the American reached around him for the handle.

You tell no one but your wife about the real arrangements, Nikolai, do you understand me? Not even your
partner.

There had been no escaping his meaning.

When Vari asks, you give him the story I gave
you.

He took a breath. “He’s contacting his people in America right now. He’ll call me tonight and let me know the answer. Provided they agree – and he says it’s only a formality – we move tomorrow. I book tickets for Natalia and Larisa on the afternoon train to St Petersburg. I see them off at the station then I go back to the apartment and Hartman meets me there at three to check the tapes. If he’s happy with what he sees he leaves them with me, then sends a car to pick me up an hour later. We have family in St Petersburg. The fact that Natalia and Larisa are travelling there won’t seem too unusual, particularly since I’m not going with them, but Hartman believes there will probably still be someone waiting to tail them when they arrive, so the train is a feint. There will be a car waiting for them three stops outside Moscow. They get off there and continue on by road to Novgorod and that’s where we meet. We stay overnight, pick up the first train on Monday, change at St Petersburg and go on from there to Finland.”

Vari concentrated, taking it all in, smiling finally with a kind of professional admiration. “So they think you are going out through St Petersburg, but you aren’t… but you are.” The smile widened. “I like it. Clean identities from Novgorod, of course?” Nikolai nodded. “Of course. We’re Canadian tourists… Russian extraction. Natalia’s English is as good as mine so that’s not an issue. Besides, getting through the border isn’t a problem any longer. Our main worry is keeping out of Ivankov’s line of sight.” He watched as Vari played the plan over again in his head.

“So you are the only risk. Once Hartman’s people pick you up, you have to make sure you aren’t being followed.”

It was Nikolai’s turn to smile. “Wrong. We make sure we
are
being followed, then we get a fix on whoever is following. The car drops me off at Sheremetyevo. If they want to check they’ll find a ticket booked in my name on the Aeroflot seven o’clock to St Petersburg, but I don’t take the flight. I just go in one door of the airport, get lost in the crowd, then go back out another.”

Vari rocked in his seat. “To some point where another car is waiting.”

“Correct.” Nikolai nodded. How simple it all seemed. A few moments passed before he realized that his partner had fallen strangely silent.

Vari nodded at last. “This is a good plan, Niko.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

There was something in Vari’s expression that Nikolai had never seen before. What was it? Doubt? Guilt? A touch of jealousy, maybe? Or was it just the realization that this was the end of a friendship?

Vari broke the connection first and drained his glass. Set it down firmly on the table and smiled a forced grin. “So… your last day in Moscow, little brother. How does it feel?”

Nikolai thought about the answer. The expression he had noticed in Vari’s eyes had vanished now. Whatever it was it had risen to the surface for just a second and then slithered away again, submerging itself beneath the dark glinting pools. He turned to the window, facing the light breeze that skimmed across the river, looking out across the smog-hazed Moscow skyline.

“Wrong,” he said at last, his voice empty, devoid of emotion. He turned back to face his partner. “You want to know how it feels? Everything about it feels terribly wrong.”

It was close to six and dark by the time they got back to Mira. Vari eased the Volga into a space a block away from the apartment and they sat in silence regarding the street.

“I should be going,” Nikolai said. He looked ahead for a moment then turned to his partner. “If anything goes wrong, Vari, you must promise…”

Vari cut across him. “I will look after everything, Niko. You have my word.”

Nikolai nodded vacantly, his mind in another place. He drew a breath as if bracing himself and thrust a hand towards the older man. Vari looked down, grasped it, and used it to pull Nikolai towards him, clutching him awkwardly across the gap between the seats in a giant embrace. Nikolai folded an arm around the older man’s shoulder, surprised at the sudden intensity of his emotion. It was Vari who let go first. He drew back into his seat and looked at Nikolai with a sudden question.

“What about a dog?”

Nikolai s brow furrowed, “What do you mean, what about a dog?”

Vari threw an innocent shrug. “I’m thinking of you in the United States. Nikolai, Natalia and Larisa: the perfect family. They’re giving you a new identity, money, a job, a car, a house. The lousy bastards forgot the
dog.
A dog is essential for any perfect family, anyone knows that.”