by Joe Goldberg
From his bunker, Pavlo created multiple layers of untraceable investment accounts in offshore banks. Automated trades on global financial exchanges sold the securities and repatriated the monies as dollars and euros into Bondar family private accounts in Cyprus and Kyiv.
A significant portion, one hundred and eighty million dollars, was directed to the private cash accounts of the Bondar network of influence—judges, businessmen, politicians, and a private army. Some monies found their way to non-existent people, businesses, and organizations that were, in reality, nothing more than an address and bank account. Dry-cleaners. Florists. Bakeries. Trucking. Mobile phone stores. Charities.
Pavlo made the money disappear in less than a week.
“Wonderful,” Ira said, brushing her hands slowly along her hips, seemingly to straighten her dress. “I was afraid it would be difficult.”
“I will do everything I can.” Pavlo began to sweat and hoped he could control the feeling in his pants.
“Tell no one, not even my father. Understand?”
Pavlo looked surprised.
“Pavlo?”
“Not your father. Not Mr. Oleksandr?”
“No. Only me.”
“Good.” He realized how that sounded. “I mean, I am sorry,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Pavlo did not like the son who regularly violated his bunker sanctuary, demanding he transfer money to his personal accounts. He reminded Pavlo of the bullies who tormented his youth. Oleksandr was not a worthy brother to Ms. Ira.
She just smiled.
“Thank you, Pavlo.” She kissed him lightly on each cheek. Traces of red lipstick were left on his skin. She stepped back and lightly punched him on his fleshy chin. “Remember, don’t tell anyone.”
She was out of the room in three long strides, leaving behind invisible vapors swirling for Pavlo to savor.
Looking at his reflection in a monitor, he carefully wiped a tissue on his cheeks to capture as much of her cosmetic as possible. Convinced he had it all, he gingerly removed a tin box from his desk, set it down in front of him, and unlocked it. Neatly organized inside were a piece of ribbon, a leather glove, an empty Chanel perfume bottle he found in the trash, and dozens of crumpled, lipstick-stained tissues. Cautiously, he set the tissue inside. He re-locked the tin, placed it back in the drawer, then closed and locked the drawer.
Although he had never experienced it himself, Pavlo imagined the warm sensation that spread over his entire body when she kissed his cheek was the same sensation other people felt when they made love.
Inhaling deeply to capture the fading aroma of her visit, he looked back at the strange silver case.
He would get it open. He had to get it open.
He would never let her down.
20
Na Cosku
Belgrade, Serbia
“Two cars. Coming up fast on Krunska Street,” Beatrice announced over their comm system. She looked at the screen displaying the infrared camera feed from the Devilbot. “One block away.”
Through his night vision binoculars, Bridger watched the two black SUVs turn onto Beogradska Street and stop. At 2 a.m., the central streets of Belgrade were empty. He and Demon were half a block down from the intersection crouched behind a billboard on a sloping grass hill. It provided a good view of Na Cosku, The Corner Restaurant.
Bridger watched the light-enhanced images of two men exit the first car. Two more men got out of the second car. Bridger caught a glimpse of one man carrying a case as they walked in the restaurant.
“That’s Serge and the Chinese, right on schedule,” Bridger whispered. “He is always punctual, bless his soul.”
Nikola had told the truth. The meeting was scheduled for the next day. He gave the place, location, and who was supposed to be in attendance. Bridger appreciated that. Nikola had earned his freedom as part of the deal—eventually. A dose of gas from a Devil Stick left him unconscious in the safe house cage. Snake, unhappily, was on guard duty.
Bridger had eaten at Na Cosku—the small Mediterranean and Asian cuisine restaurant located in the heart of Belgrade. It was long and narrow with carved wood trim and pale-yellow walls. White table cloth-covered tables lined the street side of the interior under the wide windows.
At the far end of the restaurant was a private room with an opaque stained-glass window. Pictures and small mirrors hung on the walls. On one side, a stuffed red leather couch ran wall to wall under a large ornate mirror. Rectangular dining tables lined the couch.
Taube had chosen well for his clandestine meeting, Bridger thought—plus, they had good food and even better sweets. He wondered if they were serving in the middle of the night.
“Here comes another car,” Milton reported. “It’s coming from the direction of the Tesla Museum. Speaking of visiting the Tesla, I’d love to tour—”
“Shut up, geek,” Demon snarled.
The new car stopped in front of the restaurant like the SUVs had a moment before. Through his binoculars, he saw one man get out, then enter the restaurant. A dim light glowed through the closed blinds of the long, cantilevered bay window. The car pulled away.
“That’s Vuk, the president’s son. Okay, that’s it. Milton. Beatrice. Bring in the bots and head back to the safe house and get ready. Beast?” Bridger asked.
“I’ve got good shots. Nice and clear.”
Across Krunska Street, Beast hid behind the square concrete pillars in front of the Societe Generale Serbia bank building. Standing in the shadows, he silently clicked photos with his Nikon D750 DSLR camera.
Nikola’s intel proved invaluable. They knew the meeting’s location and when. The restaurant website proved to be outstanding, providing a series of 360-degree views of the interior. It gave Bridger his plan.
Separately, Beast and Snake had had lunch earlier that day to confirm the layout of the interior. Milton and Beatrice made a reservation for dinner and requested the back room for a “romantic anniversary dinner.” During dinner, Milton placed a small HD micro camera and recorder on a bookcase shelf in the room. Disguised as a small wooden box among the other knickknacks, photos, books, and bottles cluttering the shelves, he positioned the device facing toward the red couch and tables.
Milton would activate the device remotely to conserve battery life and avoid detection by Taube’s security team as they swept the room after the restaurant closed. When the meeting was over, a signal to the camera would cause the internal mechanism to overheat and melt.
Leaving Demon to continue as the lookout, Bridger climbed up the hill through trash, bushes, and trees. He hopped down onto a path that sloped down to Prote Mateje Street and a van where Imp was waiting.
“We are on,” Imp announced as Bridger opened the back door. He sat next to Imp and looked at the monitors attached to the interior above a stack of blinking electronics.
On the screen was a clear image of the three men sitting in the private room. Taube was on the couch with his back to the wall. Vuk was across from him with his profile to the camera. A Chinese official sat at the table next to them, his back to the camera and bookcase. A phone was on the table in front of them.
“You are recording, right?” Bridger asked Imp, who ignored the comment.
Bridger sat back and watched the pay-off meeting unfold.
At 6 a.m. that morning, a new Twitter account, @zločinački, tweeted a link to a YouTube video under the same name. A series of tweets followed addressed to the president and including the link to the video. “This is our criminal ‘partnership’ with the Chinese.” “You are criminal working with criminals Serge Taube selling our country to criminals.” “Your @brotherVuk is a criminal.”
More tweets followed, tagging media outlets in the Balkans first, then international news organizations. After those tweets, @zločinački went silent. Within hours, @BBCWorld picked it up and retweeted the video. Retweets and comments by Bellingcat, the online investigative journalism site. Then the U.S.-funded Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty.
Students from Belgrade University organized on social media and began protesting in front of government buildings.
The most referenced part of the video were the still images of the men entering and leaving the meeting. One video segment with subtitles was replayed worldwide.
TAUBE: This has been a very long process, but I am glad we have made all the proper arrangements. I hope all are satisfied.
VUK: I am satisfied. I plan to eat, drink, and fuck girls. (Video shows Vuk picking up a glass and drinking).
TAUBE: What of the president?
VUK: He will fuck girls, too. Don’t tell his wife! No, but seriously he was concerned with all the press you are getting right—”
TAUBE: There is nothing to be worried about, I told you that. I have my people in the government, so do you obviously (laughter).
VUK: Well, yes. Do you have it?
TAUBE: As we have agreed.
VUK: The three million?
TAUBE: Yes, and the same later. (Video shows Taube handing the case to Vuk, who opens it. Bundles of paper bills are visible.)
VUK: I’m in love. (Video shows Vuk closing case and putting it on the floor between his feet.) Will there be more?
CHINESE OFFICIAL (UNNAMED): There are possibilities, but let us first complete this negotiation. We are expecting no issues with the acquisition of the weapons.
TAUBE: Taken care of.
CHINESE OFFICIAL (UNNAMED): And no issues with the more legitimate infrastructure contracts?
VUK: No problems.
TAUBE: And our Ukrainian friends have received their payments. Correct?
VOICE ON PHONE: Yes.
The Chinese Embassy in Serbia did not respond to press inquiries requesting the Chinese official's identity in the video. At 11 a.m., reporters stationed at Belgrade Nikola Tesla Airport saw a car with Chinese diplomatic license plates arrive at the private plane terminal. They recorded a video of a man getting out of the car and entering the building from a distance.
In Ukraine, reporters searched for the person on the phone in the ‘Serbia Video,’ as it was now being called.
By noon in Serbia, leaders of the opposition party demanded the termination of the deals with China. Others called for a criminal investigation into the president’s actions, administration, and brother. They also insisted on the immediate arrest of Serge Taube and the seizure of his companies.
At 1 p.m., Bridger called Taube using Nikola’s phone.
“Nikola?” the confused and tired voice asked.
“So sorry, Serge. Nikola will be unable to assist you today.”
There was silence for several seconds.
“Bridger. Of course,” Taube sighed and paused in sudden realization of who was behind the events that exposed the deal.
“I don’t have long to talk, but I wanted to know how your day is going.”
“Congratulations, Bridger. The deals you were concerned with have been canceled.” Bridger could sense Taube was trying to piece together the Spy Devil operation. “So, it was all a deception. You had nothing.”
“Not nothing. It was invigorating to listen in on your meeting of your conspirators. Thank you very much for that. There is just nothing like the sweet sound of criminals admitting to their crimes. I felt refreshed.”
“So you have Nikola.”
“We are enjoying his company.”
“Is he alive?”
“Alive and rather chatty,” Bridger answered.
“Where is he?”
“In due time, Serge.”
He could hear the rage in Taube’s voice.
“I will not be arrested if that is part of your plan. The judges I have in my employment will make certain I stay free long enough. The president will be worried that I would make a deal and testify against him. I can say some unpleasant things. I will be appropriately treated.”
“They probably don’t want you around anyway, knowing what you know—much like your family, I am sure. Maybe this is a good time to retire, Serge. Take your old bones to someplace warm and enjoy the scenery.”
“Retire? Me? Could you retire?” When Bridger didn’t answer, Taube continued. “I thought so. I will go to Cyprus, or someplace away from the U.S. and the U.N.—and you.”
“Cyprus. Good choice. Warm and sunny. You could take up fishing.”
Taube laughed.
“Fishing? My business is just as good wherever I live. If the president stays or goes is irrelevant. They are all corrupt. They will make the deal with me.”
“Probably,” Bridger said.
“Oh, it is certain. The Chinese will pay, despite the current difficulties. The Russians and the Ukrainians, too. The Iranians, maybe. There are always customers. I will prosper. And it is not as if I do not have information and details on mysterious Bridger and his Spy Devils. The world should know. Think of the headlines around the world.”
“That would be a mistake, Serge. Good-bye, Serge.” Bridger hung up and tossed the phone into the Danube.
A few hours later, Serge arrived at Nikola Tesla airport escorted by Stanko and the security entourage. His line of four SUVs drove onto the tarmac and up to where his large private plane was waiting. Sporting dark sunglasses and a casual manner, Taube stepped out of his SUV and looked around.
It was a beautiful day, despite the ruinous events of the morning. A flight attendant waited at the top of the stairs with a drink. Ground personnel started transferring his baggage from his vehicles to the cargo hold of the plane.
Taube walked to the stairs. As he was about to ascend, something flew by him above his head. He looked up just as the Devilbot released a 9mm round into his forehead before disappearing into the sky.
21
Bondar Battalion-1
Kyiv, Ukraine
When he was a child, nothing gave him greater pleasure than shooting the rabbits and squirrels that made the mistake of wiggling through the wire into his family’s vegetable garden. After school or work at the Cooperative, Bondar grabbed his Tula TOZ-8 Bolt Action .22 caliber rifle and went on the hunt. The rifle was a gift from his father on his seventh birthday and the only thing he kept from his childhood.
He would wait behind a small lath fence he constructed with sticks and twigs twisted horizontally across some wood. Invisible. Patient. They would come. When they did, he never missed. His mother would cook them for the family dinner.
You try to steal from me, then I will kill you.
It was a way of life in the rough coal-mining Donbas region of Ukraine. A tough industrial area of long-suffering tough people, the Donbas existed in an endless swirl of controlling entities. The Ukrainian Cossack Hetmanate and the Turkic Crimean Khanate until the mid-late 18th century. The Russian Empire. The Soviet Union. Nazi Germany. The Soviet Union again. Ukraine after independence in 1992.
His birthplace was always fighting another war.
His father was a hard-working man, with a modicum of intelligence, whose body was trapped in a coal factory by the Soviet system. He wasn’t a bad man, just weak—too weak for Bondar. His mother was a teacher and, by necessity, stronger, wiser, and much smarter.
Bondar knew as a child that he would never work in the coal factory or anyplace else where others told him what to do. He would not be weak. He was driven to be rich and powerful. He would not join others by becoming a corrupt politician working in the corrupt system. He would build his own business empire and control the corrupt politicians.
It took ruthless years of working with like-minded men like Vlasenko, but he achieved his goals. Rich. Powerful. Untouchable.
“Those Kirkwood assholes are assholes. Chapel called and left messages. Then sent me texts,” Bondar proclaimed to Ira. “Deceitful. Treacherous. Untrustworthy. If I acted like them, I would be as dead as Anton by now.”
He took a large drink from a crystal tumbler full of a clear liquid. On his ornate wooden desk, a three-quarters empty bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka was within arm’s reach.
Ira didn�
�t laugh.
“He wants me to give him the case! Never! That is for the future. Our future!” he slurred as he rocked his chair from side to side.
As he leaned back in his chair it made a creak that echoed off the Ukrainian oak-paneled walls. Rotating, he looked at a cherry wood case affixed to the wall. Inside was his cherished Tula SKS rifle. Staring at the worn finish, nicks, and dings on the stock brought back memories of cold Ukrainian winters. Snow-covered fields. Chasing his prey.
Ira sat cross-legged on the corner couch. Her eyes followed his to the gun. She hated it. She was upset. The only signal of her annoyance was the click click click of her deep burgundy polished fingernails on her left hand.
They were safe within the walls of their residential apartments, which occupied the top floor of Bondar’s five-story Ukraine Investment and Holding Company building. It was located behind and adjacent to Bondar’s Ukraine Standard Bank. The building was fortified against intrusion. Armed guards patrolled 24 hours a day. Electronic detection and warning systems were installed on every door, window, and hallway.
The office was his sanctuary from the chaos outside the windows.
“We are not without problems, father,” Ira proclaimed.
“Old news, Ira. The ministers inside the RADA are pressuring me to increase the already substantial monies we pay them. I expect they will move on our shipping assets. That is an annoyance at most.”
Viktor’s Ukraine Investment and Holding Company paid bribes to the ruling government, judges, and local officials to protect his businesses and control people. After the last presidential election, Bondar was not surprised to be the target of the anti-oligarch corruption reforms within the government—which he thought was ironic since most of the RADA was controlled by other oligarchs like himself.