The interrogation of Yegan Korjev at the ranch in Utah settled into a routine. Either Grafton or Tregaskis questioned him, guided the discussion, and the one who wasn’t on duty manned the computer that recorded the conversation. Sometimes I was there with them, but I skipped hours of it. Those two wanted details, but I ran out of juice occasionally and took to wandering off to watch the spectacle unfold on television.
And what a show it was. The political circus ran from MSNBC and CNN on the left, to ABC, CBS, and NBC, which made pretensions of objectivity, somewhere in the middle, to Fox on the right. I surfed the networks, switching channels every half hour or so to see how the story was shaping up. Badly, I decided.
Meanwhile Jake Grafton’s snake-eaters arrived. Actually they were Marines, a force recon platoon. The officer in charge had a tête-à-tête with the admiral, then the jarheads disappeared into the brush, never to be seen again. Marines are into dirt and sweat, so presumably they were having a blast doing a big campout. I was delighted they were doing it and I wasn’t. I had good food, a comfortable bed, a shower, clean clothes, access to a ceramic convenience, and all the toilet paper I could ever want. Doc and Armanti were obviously enjoying the amenities too, both mellowing somewhat. Yet, unlike me, they weren’t listening to the filth coming from our Russian.
Korjev was gaining strength and taking little walks inside the building. He often sat at the table outside the hospital room beside the computer for his sessions with the interrogators. He was talking freely, holding nothing back, or so it appeared to me. What Grafton thought he didn’t tell me.
The ten guests that were aboard Catherine when we snatched Korjev were discussed one by one. Inevitably, the people distributing money, the legmen, would go as far as it was safe for them to go until they decided they had had enough. Every person or entity to whom they gave money increased their risk. Free money was not a secret that could be kept indefinitely; the legmen were advised to give off an odor of corruption, which guaranteed that recipients would keep their lips sealed, at least for a while. Still, people whispered, and new people had to be constantly recruited. Korjev’s yacht guests were a relatively new batch, he said. Korjev had been briefing them, instructing them on how to avoid detection by the law and evade, deflect, or defeat investigations by suspicious law enforcement agencies. His KGB training and experience proved invaluable.
Some of the Russian’s revelations shook me to the core. His lieutenants had been busy boys. The problem was the amount of money that they wished to distribute. The recipients could only absorb so much, no matter how greedy they were, without a fire alarm sounding. For example, he had five attorneys in various places in the United States distributing money to colleges and universities, hospitals, and charities. None of the five knew about the others. It was classic spycraft. If one agent were discovered, he knew nothing of the others, so he could tell nothing.
It seemed that research for every disease and a whole host of other humanitarian causes were getting anonymous money, large donations from shell outfits or organizations, private persons if donations were not too large. The beauty of the scheme was that all these charities were being infected with fake money. When the bubble ultimately burst and the money trails were uncovered, the charities would probably writhe and squirm and press the authorities for non-disclosure to the public, for fear that future, real donations would be curtailed. The donees were being slowly poisoned, and the poison would spread to the bureaucracies, law enforcement agencies, and prosecutors—some of whom had received Russian money themselves.
The Russian agents donated to politicians of every stripe. If one were in public office, or even running for office, regardless of party or prospects, he or she got a check. Most donations were small, in obedience of legal limits on donations, but some politicos were pigs and got wads of cash under the table. Candidates for president, Congress, governorships, attorney general, statehouse offices, county offices, district attorneys, state legislators, city councilmen, of whatever race or sex—all were fed with fake Russian cash via political action committees, corporations, and private donors. Politicians always had their hands out. Many of them desperately wanted plane rides to campaign stops, vacation spas, or funds for “fact-finding” missions to tourist destinations. The greedier they were, the more they got. Yegan Korjev named names. He didn’t know them all, of course, but he remembered and named the more prominent politicians, as well as some of the more spectacular hogs. His favorite was an Alabama politician who realized that he had stumbled upon the mother lode… but I digress.
The corruption campaign wasn’t limited to the United States. Great Britain, Germany, France, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Spain… they were all targets. The interrogators tried to wring the highlights from Korjev on those countries too, but they concentrated on America.
Jake Grafton spent hours on the scrambled satellite phone to Langley. I thought he was talking to his deputy, Jack Norris, his department heads, and my sweetie Sarah Houston, who was trying to follow the money trail. I knew he had a couple of conversations with Robert Levy, the director of the FBI, and probably got little comfort there. His sessions with Reem Kiddus at the White House left him in a black mood. I knew because I could listen to his side of the conversations and watch how he reacted to whatever he was being told.
When Grafton wasn’t on the phone, sitting in on interrogations, or asking the Russian questions himself, he was moody. Days passed, Yegan Korjev talked and talked, and Jake Grafton became more and more withdrawn.
In Washington, the leaks continued. Senator Westfall was on television at least twice a day, and stories began appearing that contained dollops of truth larded with buckets of fiction. These were dutifully reported and commented upon by the networks, each of which spun the stories according to their political slant. I surfed the channels, as did my colleagues, and we agreed that none of the networks had yet tumbled to the fact that the river of money was manufactured money, Monopoly money, created from thin cyberspace.
On a Friday afternoon, Richard Philbrick, Atlanta investment genius, decided this was the day he needed to grab the money and run. His accountant and office manager had left at noon to play golf. The banks were still open, so he could transfer the money to that account he had opened two years ago in the Cayman Islands, and on Monday he could arrange to have it transferred to Argentina, where Philbrick had long ago decided to retire. Learn to Tango, find a young dolly, buy a ranch on the pampas. He already had his airline tickets—first class, one way—to Buenos Aires.
The stories on television had him worried. Washington was heating up, Russian money had been spread around, and no doubt the FBI and SEC were bestirring themselves.
He turned on his computer, ignored the hundred or so emails that were waiting unread, and went to the first bank site. Got out his secret notebook that he kept locked in a safe, and began typing the account number and password. This account contained about fifty million dollars.
The bank’s server took a moment to process the password and let him into the account. That’s when Richard Philbrick’s life changed forever. The account contained just a few thousand dollars!
He stared at the screen, unable to believe his eyes. $2,312.32. That was the balance.
Where had all that money gone?
He pushed the icon to transfers… Fifty-one million dollars had been transferred this morning from this account.
He said a curse word as he stared at the screen, letting it sink in.
His accountant and office manager—the bastards had cleaned out the account this morning!
He switched to another bank’s website, a bank in Florida, did the drill about account number and secret password, and voila! He was in.
He leaned back in his chair and swore viciously. This account too contained merely enough money to keep it open. A transfer this morning…
Three more accounts… all empty… and Richard Philbrick gave up.
It was over! He was finished! He had been robbed.
He went over the events of the morning, how either the accountant or office manager had been with him every minute discussing some facet of the business. He had trouble breaking away to the restroom. Those bastards! While one was smoozing him, making sure he stayed off the computer, the other was transferring the money, cleaning out the firm’s accounts.
He sat frozen, unable to envision the future that stretched before him as a fugitive with no money. His fellow thieves had double-crossed him, precisely what he intended to do to them. And there was nothing he could do about it. He stared into the abyss.
My God, what am I going to do?
The ringing telephone eventually brought him out of his trance. He didn’t answer it, of course. Still, it rang a while, stopped, perhaps the caller left a message, then after a moment, began ringing again.
Philbrick looked around at his office one last time. Unconsciously, he put his notebook with account numbers and passwords in his pocket. His suitcase, ten grand in cash, and his passport and airline tickets were in his car in the garage. He wandered out of the suite. Didn’t turn off the lights or even his computer. Pulled the door shut behind him, didn’t check to see if it locked.
Still in a trance, he waited for the elevator and entered when it stopped. Pushed the button for the parking garage.
My God, what am I going to do?
What?
God damn those two thieves!
When the elevator opened in the second parking level, which was below ground, he walked toward his car. There were some other people getting out of cars. Men and women.
He ignored them, walked over to his sports car, and unlocked the door with an audible click.
One of the women nearby said hello.
He reached for the car door.
“Richard Philbrick? I’m with the FBI.” The woman was holding up a fold and Philbrick got a glimpse of a badge. Other people were surrounding him, and he saw at least one pistol pointed at him.
“You are under arrest, Mr. Philbrick. Put your hands on the top of the car and spread your legs.”
I took a tour around the ranch house. I wasn’t about to go traipsing off into the brush to have an up-close and personal encounter with armed Marines, so I stayed close. I went down to the barn to commune with the horses, who ignored me. My favorite cowboy, Alvie Johnson, was there, shoveling manure and savoring a wad of Skoal.
“Looks like you have a lifetime occupation,” I said.
“It goes in one end and out the other,” he admitted.
“I thought this was your week off?”
“Well, the wife of some guy on the other crew got into a car wreck, so he decided to stay home with her this week. I volunteered to stay. Extra money. I’m saving up for a new pickup. Got it all picked out.”
I wished my life was as uncluttered and simple as Alvie Johnson’s. Maybe I should give him my pistol and take over the shovel.
“Gunny ran into some Marines out in the brush,” Alvie informed me, keeping his voice low because this was probably a government secret. “It was like old home week.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Guess they’re out there now, keeping an eye on the place.”
“Hmm.”
He was brimming with curiosity but wasn’t going to ask me again who was in the house or what was going on. And I wasn’t about to tell him. “Gunny and the rest of your crew are home now?”
“Yep. Doing the shopping and chores around their places, you know.”
And, I thought, running off at the mouth about Marines. Our profile here wasn’t low enough.
“Our boss this week is a guy named Elijah. Eli Gertner.”
“So how are the horses today?”
“Fine. Wanna ride one?”
“Why not? Got a real bronco that will throw me off?”
“Yep. You don’t want to get on him. I sure as hell don’t. The one you want is that gray gelding there.” Alvie pointed. “He used to be in a riding stable. Probably ought to go to a dog food factory, but he’s gentle enough.”
So we hazed the gray in, got him accoutered, lunged him for ten minutes on a lead rope, and your trusty correspondent climbed aboard. The horse just stood there. I whacked him in the ribs with my heels and made giddy-up noises until he got underway. I rode him around enough to ensure he had the idea of me riding and him doing the walking. Then I moseyed off, staying on the dirt road all the way to the main gate at the hard road.
I liked to mosey and look at the country, smell the sage, watch the puffy clouds and think cowboy thoughts. Just me and my horse and the whole world to ride in. “I should have been a cowboy, just like Gene and Roy…” When we reached the gate at the hard road, we turned back toward the barn. The damn horse began to trot, jolting me viciously up and down. I pulled on the reins and shouted “Whoa,” but he ignored me. Then he broke into a gallop; I hung on for dear life.
The two of us roared up to the barn, where my charger slammed on the brakes. I almost went over his head. When motion stopped I bailed off.
Alvie was standing there watching. After he squirted a little brown juice between his lips, he asked, “Nice ride?”
“Going out, yes. Coming back, no.”
“He sure likes the home place,” Alvie said philosophically. “Thing is, you can never be sure what a horse is thinking. If they think. Sometimes you get a nasty surprise. Guess you sign up for whatever is coming when you climb aboard.”
All of which got me thinking. How much of what Yegan Korjev was telling us was true? Was that attempted assassination aboard Catherine the Great real, or only well-orchestrated theater? The blood was real enough, but Korjev could have gunned the supposed gunman, and a pal could have shot him twice, carefully, then waited for the inevitable interception of the yacht by the suspicious Americans, who had been alerted by Janos Ilin about the supposed moneyman. The body and his wounds would be proof of his bona fides.
I massaged my rump and plopped into a rocker on the porch to think about it. Grafton must have already had these thoughts, I decided. I went inside to make myself a sandwich for a late lunch.
Sal “Big Tuna” Pizzolli came home after a busy day at his restaurant. His office was a cubbyhole behind the kitchen, and it was there he met customers. The restaurant wouldn’t close until midnight, but he rarely stayed that late.
He had visited his mistress during the afternoon, gone back to the restaurant accompanied by his two bodyguards, and they were with him now as parked the car in his garage. They parked right beside him. On the wall the security monitor blinked green, indicating all was well within. Pizzolli punched in the code to disarm it. One of the guards went into the empty house to check it out while the other lowered the garage door.
The man who lowered the door preceded Big Tuna into the house. They walked in through the kitchen, which opened into a large family room that was Big Tuna’s lair, complete with three flat screen televisions and a monster couch that he often used to bed a whore or two.
There were three men waiting with drawn guns. The first of Pizzolli’s guards was already lying on the floor with a hole in his head. Before the guard with Pizzolli could get his pistol from its holster, he too was shot in the head from behind. The shot came from a fourth man who had been waiting beside the big refrigerator. This pistol wasn’t silenced. As it boomed, blood and brains flew out from the victim’s forehead and the body smacked into the floor.
The man behind him Pizzoli jabbed him in the back with the gun. “Move. On in.”
Pizzolli almost didn’t understand the words because the accent was so heavy.
He was trying to figure out why the light in the alarm had been green. Then the thought occurred to him that the alarm had been disabled. That damned kid who came by yesterday on his monthly visit to check all the window and door sensors and check the camera monitors!
He didn’t have time to dwell on that.
“We are friends of the Palestinian,” one of them said, and Pizzolli recognized the accent. Russian.
Another lifted a burlap bag from the couch and emptied the contents on the floor. Two heads rolled out. Big Tuna recognized the faces. They were the hitters he had sent to do the Palestinian.
That fucking raghead didn’t just get his money from the Russians—he got it from the Russian mafia.
“There is a safe. Open it.”
The Big Tuna took a deep breath and exhaled. The man who first spoke shot him in the right leg with a silenced pistol. Big Tuna fell and grabbed his leg. Blood seeped out between his fingers.
“You’re gonna kill me anyway,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do it and be damned.”
The man smiled. He had some kind of gray metal fillings in his teeth. “Ah, but the question is—How long you suffer before you die? We have all night. Open the safe.”
Sal Pizzolli opened the safe.
After dinner I had a few minutes with Grafton on the porch. “Are you sure we haven’t been set up with Korjev? Do you believe him?”
He took his time answering. “I am not sure of anything. Tracing the money will prove if he told the truth… about the money we can trace. Mixing some truth with fiction is the best way to sell a lie. We’ll see what we will see.”
“All we’re doing is questioning this guy,” I remarked.
Grafton set his rocker in motion. “Do you boil eggs for breakfast?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. Probably should have kept my trap shut.
“You put water in a pan, add the eggs, turn on the heat, and wait for the water to boil, right?”
“You can stand there looking into the pan telling the water to hurry up and boil, but it doesn’t matter whether you do or not. It will boil when it’s hot enough, and not a moment before.”
I changed the subject. “The hands who work here are probably shooting off their mouths back home about Marines at the ranch. If someone still wants Korjev dead…”
The admiral rocked back and forth. The damned guy had no nerves.
“Or somebody may want you dead,” I said.
“If the Russians try to kill Korjev, again,” Grafton asked, “will you be more inclined to believe his story?”
“I suppose,” I admitted.
“The people in the Kremlin may suppose so too.”
Adam Townsend had an appointment with the president of the Connecticut university that he had donated $400 million to on behalf of the Oklahoma oil widow. They met in the president’s office, a wonderful, large room with a desk, original art, a Persian rug, and big windows. The president greeted him warmly, with a wide smile. Part of his job was to raise money for the university, and he was compensated accordingly. Townsend had given a big chunk on behalf of an anonymous donor; perhaps he would do the trick again. After the usual greetings, Townsend got down to it.
The money from the anonymous donor had, perhaps, come from Russian sources, Townsend said. He personally suspected that it had. The supposed donor existed, but her attorneys denied she had ever given this university a dime.
The president took the revelation with poor grace. He lost his temper, then began berating Townsend for being so naive as to let himself be used.
Adam Townsend couldn’t resist making a few remarks. “My firm charged the donor only for my time. We thought we had a client who wished to preserve her anonymity, and so we told you. You didn’t ask for more. We’ve both been had. And your university is four hundred million dollars richer.”
“You don’t know that that was Russian money.”
“I said I didn’t. I said I suspect it was. You read newspapers and watch television. Hundreds of billions of dollars went through that bank in Estonia. Your university might have gotten some of it.”
“And might not. You don’t know.”
“No sir, I don’t. I am informing you because I feel I am ethically bound to do so. Even if you wanted to return the money, I have no idea to whom you would return it. That’s the nub of it.”
The president calmed down. Townsend decided that the prospect of disgorging the funds was what had the president worried. If he did have to direct the school’s endowment treasurer to write a check, he would have to tell the board of trustees why he wanted to return the funds, and he certainly didn’t want to do that.
After talking it over with Townsend, the president reached a decision. “We’ll continue with business as usual until someone with a better right to the funds than we have demands them.”
After Townsend left, the president called the university’s lead attorney and made an appointment to see him.
No one was going to demand the funds be returned, the president decided. The money would be put to good use. He would talk to the attorney, but unless and until someone squawked, the less said about the donation the better.