They were back in the Abdul Rahman Pazhwak conference room, and as they settled in Milo wondered if the patrons understood how many miles he’d traveled for them. With Whippet and Keller, he’d reached Mallorca by way of night boat, taken a private plane to Barcelona, and then a train to Lyon, where Alexandra had waited to drive him and Keller home, while Whippet returned to Paris. By the time they got to Zürich, Kristin and Noah had spent hours scouring photos of Keller’s list and trying to understand it. Office workers, bureaucrats, and political figures paid through Sergei Stepanov’s company. Half of them made a sort of sense—NATO suboffices, intelligence contractors, energy-industry specialists—but others didn’t. Why would Stepanov pay a lump fifty thousand to a waste collection official in Bangladesh? Or a hundred grand to a Lebanese dock manager?
Joseph Keller didn’t have answers. They had put him in the office bedroom, where he’d looked around and asked if he was a prisoner.
“You’re doing it again,” Alexandra told Milo.
“What?”
“It’s Martin Bishop all over again.”
He waved her away and went to sit with the reference librarians.
“Each of these names could make sense on its own,” Kristin explained. “A Russian company wants to bid on Bangladeshi waste, or they’re trying to smuggle something—weapons, maybe—in and out of Lebanon and need someone to destroy the paperwork.”
“But all of these things on the same accounting document?” Alexandra countered. “What’s Sergei Stepanov up to?”
Noah sighed loudly enough to get everyone’s attention, then said, “Maybe nothing. Maybe none of this is real.”
“False flag?” Milo asked doubtfully.
“Sure. The Russians plant a document hoping that some dope will dig it out. I mean, he did make it to the airport, didn’t he? No one was waiting for him in Düsseldorf—though they would’ve had time to put that together.”
“It’s a stretch,” said Kristin. “Besides, Egorov’s team was sent to find him.”
“And Egorov decided to change plans. Maybe he knew the list was nonsense.” When no one replied, he said, “We’re looking at a list that as a whole makes no sense. Which suggests that this avenue of payment is a catchall for different Russian operations—private companies, government ministries, intelligence. But who does that? Who runs a whole country’s clandestine monies through a single stream? It’s unheard of.”
“And therefore,” Milo said, “none of it is real.”
Noah raised his hands. “It’s something to consider. Okay?”
“We need to know what Anna Usurov was investigating before she died,” Kristin said. “Why was Diogo Moreira so interesting for her?”
“Let’s hope Leonberger comes up with something,” Milo said, but no one looked hopeful.
Then it was the next day, and Milo, exhausted, was faced again with his patrons.
From his shoulder bag, he took out twelve sealed envelopes, each labeled with the name of a country, and passed it to his left to Aku Ollennu, from Ghana. “Take yours and pass it on, please.”
Like good schoolchildren, they did as they were asked, a couple even waiting to rip theirs open. Most, though, got into it immediately, the tearing sound filling the room as they unfolded their single sheets to find one or two names typed there, along with an account number and a dollar amount. No one understood anything, which was how he liked it.
He said, “Each of you has one or two names that come from an accounts list taken from MirGaz records. I’ve given you the names we’ve identified as being one of your nationals.”
Sanjida Thakur wrinkled her nose at the Bangladeshi waste official on her page. “Where did you get this?”
“New source. As far as we know, Stepanov doesn’t know the list is in anyone’s hands, and we don’t want him to know until we have a better handle on what he’s doing. So it’s imperative that no one pick up any of these individuals.”
“He’s trying to expand internationally,” said Pak Eun-ju, who had only one name to deal with. “He’s been trying that for years.”
“It may be more complicated than that,” Milo told her. “Which is why we would appreciate it if your governments would surveil these people. As you know, we don’t keep staff in your countries, as a courtesy, so we depend on you.”
Said Bensoussan, who was one of the few with two names before him, scratched his lip. “But you have a theory, yes? An idea?”
“Nothing worth sharing yet,” Milo said. “Maybe it is simply an attempt to expand MirGaz’s reach, though we don’t yet understand the logic behind it all. Few of these make sense for the energy sector. What we do know is that this is a major expense for Stepanov, or whoever is using his pipeline—in the billions.”
Exhales all around. Katarina Heinold said, “It’s Putin’s money. Stepanov is one of his deputies.”
“Maybe. But it’s early. We’re following up in Moscow and elsewhere, and when I know more I’ll share.”
Bensoussan raised a finger. “Does this have to do with your escapade in Algiers?”
Milo hesitated, considering a bald lie, but reconsidered. He suspected Bensoussan knew the answer already, and perhaps he’d shared his concerns with the others. “Kirill Egorov was protecting this new source from his own government. We think he was killed when he tried to pass the source off to me.”
“So the Russians already know you have this,” said Beatriz Almeida, whose memo listed only Diogo Moreira, of the Serviço de Informações de Segurança.
“Not necessarily,” Alan cut in. “All they know is that Milo was in town at Egorov’s request. Anything beyond that is speculation.”
“And they won’t,” Milo added, “unless someone in this room tells them. Or if any of these people are picked up. So, please: surveillance only.”
Silence fell, and Milo’s eyes found Alfred Njenga, representing Kenya, who was still staring at his paper. Two names faced him, but they were both known politicians, and their payments were exceptionally large. His expression was bleak. Milo said, “Is there any other business we should discuss? I know we left off in an awkward place a few days ago, and if anything needs to be settled we can take care of it while we’re all together.”
Hilmar Jonsson, who had been so angry last time, looked off balance now. He glanced over to Gaston Majerus, who cleared his throat and said, “Milo, I think you know what kind of a position you put us in. On the other hand, we know what kind of position we put you in. So we feel that it’s best to table any changes in procedure for another three months. Hopefully you understand our position better, as we understand yours. Let’s try to build toward a compromise that we can settle on by the end of the year. Is that agreeable?”
“Extremely,” Milo said.
After the meeting broke up, Milo found Beatriz Almeida in the corridor, waiting for him. She peered at him as he approached, then waved her envelope. “This is not good, Milo.”
“Agreed,” he said. “But your name in particular—Moreira—we want to look more closely at him.”
“Why?”
“A Russian journalist was investigating him specifically. And now she’s dead.”
Almeida frowned at this. “Then come to Lisbon with me. You and I can interrogate him together.”
“No,” Milo said. “Please don’t. Just watch him. And if you come across anything interesting, please pass it on to us.”
Almeida hesitated briefly before lighting up with a smile. “Of course, Milo. Of course.” Promises, after all, were only words.