There was a commotion in the foyer.
“Where are they?” a gruff voice sounded.
“They must still be here,” the concierge said. “Don’t let them get away!”
There was a rush of feet.
Sokolov and Paulina were trapped. Located at the far corner of the suite’s maze-like layout, the living area did not connect to any other room apart from the foyer.
Unceremoniously, Sokolov grabbed Paulina’s arm, tugged her across the room, and shoved her out onto the deck of the balcony, slamming the glass door shut. She gaped at him from the other side, confused.
A staccato of shots erupted. Sokolov dove to the floor, rolling away as slugs hammered a mesh of cracks in the bullet-resistant glass.
The glass held. Designed to stop shots from coming into the room, it proved its worth by doing just the opposite.
Sokolov shielded himself in an alcove behind the marble fireplace. The bullets ricocheted around the room, chipping the marble and perforating the milk-colored wall inches away from Sokolov’s body.
The TT materialized in his hand to dole out punishment, thumping as it unloaded a stream of 7.62mm zingers.
The pair of attackers were cut down by Sokolov’s firepower. Bodies crashed down, spewing blood. The firefight ended as abruptly as it had begun, resulting in two corpses. Sokolov peered at the black-suited thugs who lay immobile the floor. The hotel’s security guards.
Sokolov trained the gun at another figure looming in the doorframe.
“Don’t shoot!” the concierge whimpered, cowering.
He bolted to the foyer but no man could outpace sizzling lead. Sokolov took him down before he could reach the exit and fetch reinforcements. Hit in the spine, he pirouetted and crashed against the grand piano.
On the balcony, Sokolov found a terrified Paulina curled up against the balustrade. She clung onto him as he took her and guided her out of the blood-smeared suite.
“Don’t leave me, please, don’t ever leave me,” she muttered, her mind blotting out the carnage around her.
Sokolov scanned the lamp-lit hallway in either direction, making sure it was empty, and ventured outside.
He hit the fire alarm, which sent a shrill whine throughout the hotel, and took Paulina to the fire stairs.
They ran eleven floors down.
7
Golub broke the good news to Minski.
“We’ve got them.”
“Where?”
“The Ritz-Carlton. I got an asset there. A concierge. He’s tipped me off. They’re in the Presidential Suite. Our guy and the woman.”
“Are you sure it’s them?”
“I’m sure, all right. Some broad booked one of their suites, so there’s this guy who comes in and wants to see her.”
“So what?”
“And this guy is waving around Balaban’s ID, that’s what. But my guy smells something fishy about him, so calls me to check him out.”
Minski felt imminent triumph tickling the palms of his hands. He just had to clinch it.
“Excellent. What did you do?”
“I told him to get a few boys from the hotel security to deal with them. They’re former Alpha, no strangers to wet work. They don’t ask any questions and they know they’ll be rewarded. I’ve also sent for the counter-terrorism unit to seal off the building. They should be there any minute now. The bastard and the broad can’t escape.”
“That’s not good enough for me. I must personally witness their capture and death. I want to relish it. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. Come on, let’s hurry.”
Minski started jogging toward the Ritz-Carlton but felt a side stitch develop quickly. A desk jockey like him abhorred physical activity. Sweat beaded his chubby, clean-shaven face. Minski reduced his pace to a walk. Golub followed briskly.
“What the hell is going on?” Minski wondered as they entered Tverskaya.
A crowd formed in the street in front of the Ritz-Carlton. The guests and staff were swarming out of the building.
“What the hell is going on?” Golub repeated, shouting at the nearest person, a harried receptionist.
“They said there’s a massive fire on the top floor! We had to evacuate the hotel before the whole building burned down!”
“They? Who they?” Minski craned his neck. There was no trace of smoke or flames coming from anywhere in the hotel. Madness.
The sound of the arriving fire brigade added to the confusion.
Minski cursed.
He knew he’d lost the initiative. The false fire alarm was a diversion that put him at a disadvantage. He had no control over the crowd. Some people were milling around, joined by onlookers, while others left in various directions. The situation got out of hand completely. It was impossible to comb through the area with limited manpower.
Finally, the counter-terrorism unit showed up. The troops filed out of their heavy transport. AK-wielding men clad in balaclavas, helmets, and armored vests with the letters FSB stenciled on their backs in Cyrillic.
“What took you so long?” Minski snarled at their commander. “I want you to close off the hotel building and isolate the street. We’ve got two suspects at large! And get that fire truck the hell out of here!”
The counter-terrorism officer glared through the eye slits of his balaclava.
“There are over three hundred rooms in that building. Do you want us to clear each one?”
“Turn this joint upside down. I don’t care how much time it’s going to take you.”
Minski understood the futility of his order even as he gave it. But what if the bastard and the broad were still inside the suite? He’d make a laughingstock out of Minski.
The commander barked at his men. The FSB transport blocked the street and the heavily armed phalanx of troops raided the hotel.
It was going to be a long night. With each passing minute, it became increasingly clear to Minski that they’d come up empty-handed.
Sokolov and Pavlova could be anywhere by now.
An hour later, frustration got the better of him and he called the search off.
8
The shabby apartment contrasted sharply with the luxury of the Ritz-Carlton, coming as a shock to Paulina.
“What the heck is this place?” she asked.
“Welcome to Death Valley.”
“For real. Do you actually live here?”
“I don’t but neither of us has a better choice at the moment. It may not look fancy enough for your tastes, but we’ll be fine here, trust me. You won’t encounter any hitmen running around trying to kill you. No security cameras, no neighbors to snitch on us.”
The bitter pill seemed to have brought her back to earth. Her expression became solemn.
“I didn’t see a lot of stores in the neighborhood, either. Do you have any wine around here? Any red will do.”
“No clue. Let me check.”
He rummaged in the fridge.
“Nope. Nothing. Only a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”
“Even better.”
Finding a small glass, he poured her a shot of icy Stolichnaya.
She knocked it back instantly.
“When did you become an alcoholic?” he asked her matter-of-factly.
Her eyes filled with sadness.
“Last year. After my son died. Dima—Dmitri. He was sixteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Such a lovely kid. What about you? You don’t drink?”
“No.”
“I thought that all Russian men must drink.”
“They do but I’m not one of them.”
“You’re not Russian?”
“I’m a Cossack.”
“Oh. So, you love liberty and guns, just like Americans.”
He shrugged. “You might say that I’m not exactly the singing and dancing type.”
“You don’t mess with Cossacks. I saw that. I’m glad I did. Thanks for saving my life. Now I know why Klimov spoke so highly of your c
ommitment, bravery, and honesty. Indeed, that sounds very un-Russian. I could tell that he really valued your friendship. Well, Cossack, pour me a double drink. To Dima. And to Klimov.”
He refilled the empty glass and stowed the vodka bottle away as she downed it. He didn’t want her to get too drunk. He’d measured off just enough alcohol to flush the stress of the near-death experience from her system—and get her talking.
“How did you get involved with Klimov?”
“Not romantically, although who would blame me for having an affair with a man like him?” She sighed at what could have been. “We met at an opera performance.”
“The Barber of Seville.”
She nodded. “I read somewhere that he was an avid opera fan. And I knew that he was under surveillance. So a chance meeting at the Bolshoi would arouse no suspicion. The perfect cover for the kind of business we discussed.”
“Moscow Gold?”
“You know about it.”
“Not in detail. What’s your role in the affair?”
“I work at VIB—VneshInvestBank.”
“One of the biggest banks in Russia,” Sokolov remembered.
“One of the biggest flops in Russia,” Paulina said. “VIB is about fifty billion dollars in debt. Even a bail-out can’t save it.”
“How could it happen to a state-run bank?”
“It happened because it’s a state-run bank. Frolov has been using VIB as a slush fund of sorts, handing out massive loans to his cronies through the bank. But now that the Kremlin-backed oligarchs have been hit by sanctions, they cite that as the reason they’re unable to repay the money. They don’t have the extra cash. At the same time, they’re asking for more loans. It’s a snowball effect.”
“Sounds like an avalanche. Couldn’t VIB do anything to stop it?”
“That’s the thing. Not content with operating at a huge loss year in and year out, the Chairman asked me to run an audit of one of our main corporate clients. An oil-exporting giant. Have a look at their books and see if they can start paying back before VIB goes belly up.”
“And?”
“The figures didn’t add up.”
“How come? In layman’s terms.”
“The Russian economy has tanked. Russia doesn’t produce anything. This country has no industry, no agriculture, no technology, no innovations—nothing. Russia’s GDP is based entirely on natural resources. Or rather, a small group of the Kremlin predators preying on oil and gas exports for their personal short-term gain. They’re not interested in anything else, such as the country’s development. Their only agenda is stripping the nation of its wealth and pocketing the profits. But the U.S.-imposed sanctions dealt a huge blow to their plundering. You see, the Russian oil companies have relied on Western technology for raw materials extraction. Now that the Russian oligarchs have been cut off from accessing it, they’re in trouble. They may have some of the world’s biggest reserves of crude oil but they’re unable to get the stuff out. Without advanced recovery methods, the current drilling capacity is near exhaustion. Are you following me?”
“It means the Russian energy sector is going bankrupt. Especially given that the oil prices are dropping.”
“Right. That would normally be the case. But here’s the catch. Despite the falling production figures and the sinking oil prices, the Russian oil giant has posted growing income.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sokolov said.
“It’s impossible,” Paulina confirmed. “Unless the figures are window-dressing to cover up financial flows from an entirely different source, not linked with the oil industry. Eventually, I uncovered the money trail.”
“What did it lead to?”
“Drugs. As in, narcotics.”
“That’s crazy.”
“It is and it isn’t, if you think about it.”
In stunned silence, Sokolov let her words sink in.
If anything, it had to be one hell of an operation. Using a failing oil industry as a money-laundering front to hide drug-trade profits? In a way, the mind-blowing allegation made total sense.
It was almost too much to fathom but impossible to dismiss.
Government-run narcotics trade was hardly unprecedented, though. North Korea’s Bureau 39 specialized in illicit activities, including drug production and trafficking, as a source of income for the Workers’ Party coffers. Why couldn’t their Russian counterparts engage in something similar?
“Things like that can’t go on without protection from the very top. It must be sanctioned by Frolov himself,” he said.
“Exactly.”
Sokolov recalled what Mark Goldstein had told him.
I’ve seen a lot of evil people in my lifetime. But Frolov makes my most notorious clients look like angels.
“How many people are in the know?”
“More than you might think. The operation was launched from the Kremlin but a lot of people are involved to ensure it’s running smoothly. Not everyone is aware of the entire picture. But once you go higher up the ladder, the drug trade is practically the worst-kept secret. And then it all falls into place. Suddenly, the scraps of information and unearthed documents are no longer meaningless. Contracts, invoices, shipping waybills, wire transfers, company charters, names, places, dates.”
“And everyone is keeping quiet about it,” Sokolov said.
“The insiders agreed to talk to me only because they knew I was one of their own. That’s how I put the puzzle pieces together. Probing until I hit paydirt, spoken in hushed whispers. Those really in the know are all complicit. And they’re afraid of the shadow of state security hanging over their heads. But mostly, they don’t care. They’re morally corrupt. They’ll do anything as long as they get their benefits. That’s how the Kremlin system works. It’s not based on checks and balances but rather obedience and silence.”
“Omertà. Like in the Mafia.”
“We’re living in a Mafia state supported by a narco-economy.”
“So once you finished your investigation, you went to Klimov?”
“No, I went to the VIB Chairman. He wanted to use this information to make a case against the oligarchs before the Kremlin. Big mistake. The next day, he fell out of his office window. Off the seventy-fifth floor of the VIB Tower.”
“Damn.” Sokolov recalled the news report of the man’s death which could be no accident. Defenestration was a popular murder method for the FSB because it left no trace of foul play that could be discovered during autopsy. The staged suicide had made no sense at the time but now it did fit into the pattern of events.
“Then I went to Klimov.”
“What made you trust him, a complete stranger?”
“A calculated risk. Klimov’s reputation was impeccable, his name never got dragged into any shady dealings, and he had a history of falling out with the Kremlin. Realistically, there wasn’t any other candidate to topple Frolov. Frolov’s position in power may seem unassailable but like I said, there’s growing discontent among the elites.”
She’d gambled on the right man.
The different factions of the bloated security forces were fighting for a piece of the money pie. A pie that was shrinking as the sanctions put the Russian federal budget under more strain. The GRU hated the FSB. The FSB went at the throat of the National Guard. The Army loathed everyone. There was also the SVR as well as the oligarchs’ private armies thrown into the mix. Sokolov couldn’t imagine the kind of fight they’d put up against each other to gain control of the drug money flow. And how much it would hurt them to lose the secret budget.
The long-hidden loot of Moscow Gold, invested into drug trade to reap incredible returns.
And reinvested into bringing chaos across the world and forcing the Western countries into lifting the sanctions.
Seizure of these assets would cripple the Kremlin.
Klimov’s action plan.
He’d known as well as anyone that the Kremlin no longer presented a consolidated force and that
he’d had the perfect chance to strike—and the perfect weapon. In the event of a coup, Klimov would surely have garnered the support of the 20,000-strong EMERCOM forces and sections of the Army and then God only knew who would join and what might happen. The Kremlin could be captured with fewer men. But not by lesser men. Klimov had certainly been big enough to do it.
And so he’d been assassinated.
Sokolov had the means to exact revenge. Paulina’s testimony. And the flash drive in her purse. He had to make certain she’d be with him.
“Do you want to go all the way?” he asked.
“Frolov must be stopped,” she said simply. “He’s destroying my country and he’ll destroy the world.”
“What if the country deserves it? And the world, too?”
“Maybe they do. I don’t know. What I do know is that there’s no turning back for me. I’ll do what I must.”
“What’s in it for you personally? Why did you break the oath of silence instead of keeping quiet like everyone else? What have you risked your life for?”
“For Dima.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. I never mentioned how he died,” she said. “He overdosed.”
9
Like millions of Russians, Constantine Sokolov started off his day by flicking through the news stories spread by Kremlin-controlled outlets.
Unlike his compatriots, he loathed the activity. But it was part of the job that he got paid for.
OSINT. Open-source intelligence gathering.
He scraped the lies of Moscow-disgorged propaganda for useful information from the relative comfort of his office in Arlington, Virginia. Crammed with bookshelves, the room barely had enough space to accommodate his desk. On the wall behind it, there was a large printed map of the world. Placed atop the desk were Constantine’s computer and a coffee mug. Only a few days on the job, he still felt a distaste for American coffee.
Constantine was a senior fellow in Russia Studies at the Harry Richardson Foundation, a U.S. think tank dedicated to strategic research on security and defense issues, international relations, and global threats. The Foundation’s expert analysis and policy recommendations were passed on to another Virginia-based company. The Company.
Moscow Gold (SOKOLOV Book 5) Page 4