The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  It was difficult to read through all the data. David could only imagine how much work went into assembling it. The clock on a nightstand said 1:52 a.m. by the time he got to the last page. Maggie was trying to keep her eyes open, with little success.

  Without detailed accounting, he could still see there were many trillions of dollars of transactions recorded, in currencies, stocks, gold, oil. Perhaps even more important were the names. Jonathan had uncovered not only companies, but in many cases individuals that placed the transactions. While most of the people or institutions were not familiar to David or Maggie, some were household names. They came from China, Russia, Brazil, Saudi Arabia, Turkey … and the US. Highly placed individuals from the administration, the Congress, government organizations, banking institutions. David and Maggie were too tired to process the information at that point. They needed to get a few hours of sleep in order to think.

  Sunday, 5/1/2022, 7:11 a.m. CDT

  Maggie again woke up first. They were sleeping in their clothes, too exhausted at 2:00 a.m. to get properly ready for bed. She was one big step closer to reclaiming her life, but how exactly she had not figured out yet. She hadn’t thought they were going to find the file, but they did in only a few days. Was it luck? Maggie crawled out of bed and went to take a shower. By the time she was done, David got up, too. After he also showered, they went downstairs and grabbed breakfast at the hotel.

  The place was not busy and they were able to find a table outside of others’ hearing. David looked like hell: sagging skin, tired swollen eyes, dark stubble. He was intently looking past Maggie. She turned to see if there was anything or anyone behind her.

  After the first cup of coffee, Maggie broke the silence. ”What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. Just staring into space while thinking. Trying to connect the dots. Schulmann and Marchuk estimated that they analyzed and traced about a third of all transactions.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was in the notes toward the end. Together with links to additional raw data.”

  “I don’t remember seeing this.” Maggie was puzzled.

  “Yes, you conked out at that point.” David smiled. “They were processing tens of billions of transactions looking for suspicious sequences. It’s incredibly hard because the transactions have been broken into small ones, all under ten thousand dollars, and distributed through a multi-layered network of intermediaries. Clearly organized to avoid detection. It looks like Schulmann and Marchuk used advanced statistical analysis techniques to detect even the slightest outliers, where a particular account appears more than expected. I am not sure they would’ve been able to completely automate this process, more like a supervised learning algorithm.”

  Maggie could not quite process David’s techno-speak. She shook her head. “No wonder they killed people for this.”

  “Yes. Kind of explains why nobody picked up his research after Schulmann died. Some of the names there were pretty high up the chain. Two SEC commissioners as far as I could tell. Members of the cabinet. Perhaps they thought they had covered their tracks well, but Schulmann showed otherwise. There must have been quite an effort to suppress any further investigation.”

  “You know they’ll eventually kill us, too.”

  “I think we are pretty safe at the moment.”

  “At the moment, yes. But that won’t last. The FBI is also after us. They’ll have our new names soon, the money won’t last, and then what? I told you in Phoenix I wanted to use the information to get my life back.”

  “I remember what you said.”

  “I just don’t quite know how to go about negotiating with these people.”

  And that’s when David dropped the bomb. “We have to go to Moscow.”

  “What? Are you crazy? You are going to walk into a trap!” She raised her voice, attracting attention.

  After a minute of quiet, when others’ eyes turned away from them, David whispered, “Perhaps I am crazy. But the way I figure, a trap is not a trap if you walk into it on purpose and don’t allow them to close the door. I believe that the road to safety lies through Nemzhov. Remember, Petr said that they had a way to influence MSS. Probably others as well. So we have to convince Nemzhov that it’s in their interests to keep us safe and to get others off our backs. And I can’t think of a better way to do this than to show up at their door and say: ‘We are here, but touch us and the file goes public.’ It’s a bit of reverse psychology, but in Nemzhov’s shoes I would figure that someone who came to Moscow to tell it to his face is likely telling the truth. Speaking of which, I want to know the truth, too. We still don’t know for sure who killed Williams and Schulmann. Going to Moscow might be the only way to find out.”

  Maggie stared out the window while drinking her coffee and then slowly, quietly responded. “First you go by yourself to meet five MSS agents, now you want us to show up at GRU’s doorstep. You truly are crazy. But you are also right. There is one logistical problem.”

  “What is that?”

  “You can’t just pick up and go to Moscow. Without a visa you won’t even get on the plane. And it takes months to get one.”

  David deflated. “Well, so much for that idea.”

  “But we can get around it.”

  “How?”

  “We fly to Kiev. You don’t need a visa to go to Ukraine. Then we fly to Moscow.”

  “But don’t we have the same problem getting there from Kiev?”

  “No. Just put $100 into your passport, and they’ll let you on the plane. They don’t care. They’ll let you be the Russians’ problem.”

  Maggie was already checking flights. “There is a flight leaving from New York’s JFK at 10:45 p.m., stopover in Amsterdam; we land in Kiev at 5:10 p.m. local time.”

  “How about getting to New York?”

  “There is a flight at 2:40 p.m., gets us there in plenty of time. Do you think you’ll be ready?”

  “I can be. Would you want to take more time here?”

  “No. It’s dangerous to hang around, and I’m anxious to have a resolution. The longer this goes on, the better the chances that they’ll find us. We may not have been the only ones following this trail.”

  David wanted resolution as well. They went back to the room, splurged on business class for their flight reservations, and divided the tasks. Maggie made a reservation at the Hotel Ukraina in Kiev and went out to buy three pre-paid cell phones and an inexpensive laptop. David distributed Schulmann’s data files to a dozen previously set up servers and programmed them to e-mail the summary file with a password to a prepared list of major newspapers, TV networks, radio hosts—about fifty addresses in all. He deliberated over timing and then chose four weeks. He also prepared a program to stop or change the counter and placed it on three other servers.

  When Maggie came back with the phones, David used one to call Javier’s voice mailbox and asked him to prepare another set of documents plus travel arrangements for him and Maggie. Ten minutes later a text came back, requesting more details and setting up a contact point.

  Preparations out of the way, David dialed housekeeping and asked for a hammer. The woman on the other side sounded surprised, but a hammer was delivered. David physically destroyed the computers and the phones they’d used. They took the other two pre-paid phones and the newly purchased laptop and called a cab for the airport.

  PART 4: INTO THE STORM

  “Things never return to what they were.”

  — Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

  Sunday, 5/1/2022, 3:11 p.m. CDT

  The picnic’s spot was selected poorly: a BBQ pit located in a corner of a small grassy clearing surrounded by trees. On one side behind the trees there was a rocky beach covered with driftwood. There were a few logs, but otherwise no comfortable place to sit.

  A newly arrived visitor looked very lost. He was a gentleman in his thirties, nicely coifed, dressed in the nineteenth century attire of a long dark black coat, white shirt, and bla
ck pants. Not recognizing the place or the characters, he walked over to the BBQ pit. The pit was operated by a huge black cat that masterfully flipped burgers and hot dogs. The visitor cleared his throat. “Err… dear Sir, can you tell me where I am?”

  “The name is Behemoth, at your service. Whom do I have the honor of speaking to?” replied the cat.

  “My name is Alexis de Tocqueville.”

  “Ahh, the philosopher and historian. You are at a picnic, obviously.”

  The historian looked wildly around him. The clearing was populated by strange characters. Most were men, although there were a few women, including a lady dressed in black underwear and a black bowler hat. They were gathered in small circles of their acquaintances, talking and looking around. The largest group consisted of five small people with big bare feet, a dwarf, and four men, one of whom had strange pointy ears. The second largest group congregated around the BBQ and consisted of, in addition to the cat, three men and a pale woman.

  “You are probably wondering who all these creatures are and what you are doing here?” asked a man standing next to the cat. He was tall, dark-haired, with penetrating black eyes. He wore a black-and-red smoking jacket and black pants. The end of a thin gold chain hanging around his neck disappeared under the jacket. Had the historian been born about a century later, he might have thought he was talking to a middle-aged Hugh Heffner.

  “Yes, very much so,” de Tocqueville stammered.

  “Allow me to introduce myself then. I have different names, but for our meeting let’s say my name is Woland.”

  “Woland?”

  “Yes. You many have recognized the name from Goethe’s work. Goethe provided me with a wonderful, poetic description. Less sophisticated people gave me cruder names, such as Devil, Satan, Lucifer, Fallen Angel.”

  De Tocqueville took a step back.

  Woland smiled. “Please, you don’t have to worry. You see—no hoofs. And by the way, the rumors of me leading people into temptation are blown out of all proportion. Believe me, people fall into temptation just fine without my help. As to this particular event—what you have here are characters of different books. It’s a dream. Everyone here, including yourself, is strictly by the dreamer’s invitation. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  With that, Woland formed a megaphone with his hands and called out in a booming voice, “The food is ready. Please come to the table! Hurry up, hurry up!”

  The characters made their way over, each group warily eyeing others.

  Woland was smiling broadly. “Welcome, welcome! Please, form a circle. Now, let’s do some introductions. This small group that previously gathered around the BBQ pit is my immediate retinue.” Woland nodded at the black cat. “Many of you have already met Behemoth. He is the one handing out burgers and hot dogs. This thin tall man is my valet, Koroviev, the short scary-looking character is hitman Azazello, and the pale woman is witch and vampire Hella. There are a few more characters from The Master and Margarita: Yeshua and Pontius Pilate”—he pointed to two men in robes and sandals engaged in a discussion—“and the man in a greasy skullcap is the Master, with the pretty woman next to him being the famous Margarita.”

  Woland pointed to the group on the right. “On this side we have characters from The Unbearable Lightness of Being: Tomas, Tereza, Sabina, Franz.” Sabina was the woman in a black bowler hat. She now had on a jacket that Franz put over her shoulders.

  Azazello grinned. “Why is she in her underwear?”

  Franz angrily retorted, “Don’t blame her; she is written this way!”

  “Exactly.” Woland smiled. “Don’t pay attention to Azazello; he thinks he is a charmer.”

  Woland gestured to his left. “Five hobbits: Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, master dwarf Gimli, the elf Legolas, wizard Gandalf, and the two men Aragorn and Boromir are from Lord of the Rings. Wow, wow, what’s wrong?” Woland shouted as the group unsheathed their swords.

  Aragorn pointed to Woland’s chest. “The Ring! The Ring of Power!”

  There was indeed a ring on a golden chain that escaped the confines of his smoking jacket and was now hanging off Woland’s neck.

  Woland threw back his head and laughed so loud that a flock of crows took off from the nearest tree in panic. After a good laugh, he wiped tears from his eyes and said, “My dear Aragorn, you are not in your book anymore. You may have destroyed the physical ring in Middle Earth, but you can’t destroy the concept as long as humankind is around. That’s just a part of what you humans are. And yes, I am the keeper of the ring and have been such since Homo sapiens started walking on two legs.”

  Frodo did not sheath his sword. “And do you have other rings that are bound to it?”

  “But of course. I’ve been giving them out for centuries. As long as people desire power, there is a market for my rings.”

  “Well, let’s put an end to it then!” Frodo cried out, rushing at the much larger man.

  “David! David!” Someone shook him.

  Sunday, 5/1/2022, 5:02 p.m. CDT

  Maggie looked at David as he was quietly snoring. He’d fallen asleep a few minutes after the plane took off. She mused that it had been only nine days since he’d walked into the restaurant, bleeding, ragged, and confused. That man was a far cry from David of this morning, calmly organizing to face killers. Before she had seen him as somewhat smart but definitely not cool. Watching him propose to directly confront a notorious intelligence organization and then take charge, well, it was a different kind of cool, but it was cool nevertheless. They might yet come out of this alive.

  David started screaming somewhere over Tennessee. She shook him awake— “David, David!”—forgetting to use his new name. He woke up, looking around wildly.

  The flight attendant hurried over. “Mr. Brockman, would you like anything to drink?” The realization of where he was registered in his eyes. Taking advantage of business class privileges, David asked for a glass of wine. Maggie opted for one as well.

  Sipping the wine, Maggie asked David, “So who is Frodo?”

  “What?”

  “You were screaming, ‘No, Frodo, no!’ I had to wake you up.”

  “Oh, I see. I was dreaming. It’s a character from the Lord of the Rings series.”

  “What is that about?”

  David gave her a look of disbelief. “You mean you never read the book or saw the movie?”

  “No. I remember hearing about the book, but I was not into reading fairy tales, at least not after I was older than five. There was a movie playing about fifteen years ago or so. The boys in the school were pretty excited about it, but I never went.”

  “It is a fairy tale, but it’s so much more than that. It’s really about the struggle between good and evil.”

  “So is at least half of all literature.”

  “True.” David smiled. “But this one is special. It’s such an epic story of courage and friendship, with great and colorful characters. And in the end the fate of the world rests in the hands of Frodo Baggins, a little hobbit …”

  “A hobbit?”

  “It’s a mythical creature, a small person, kind of a mix between a man and a rabbit. Frodo has to carry the great ring of power to be destroyed.”

  “Why did it have to be destroyed?”

  “Because the power it had corrupted everyone who touched it.”

  “That actually makes sense.”

  “So you see, it’s not strength or magic that destroys evil, but the bravery of someone who is physically weak, but spiritually strong.”

  “Yes, sure,” Maggie said, thinking I can’t believe a grown man is buying into this mythical stuff.

  The captain’s voice came over the speaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be landing in New York shortly.”

  Monday, 5/2/2022, 10:06 a.m. CEST

  “There is no perfection only life”

  — Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness Of Being

  When the Europe-bound plane took off from JFK, Maggie commen
ted that it would be very early morning in Kiev, and they both should try to get a bit of sleep, so they would not be totally wrecked by jet lag. They managed to sleep fitfully for about five hours. Then the sun’s light started sneaking in through some of the partially closed windows. People began to stir. Flight attendants walked around offering coffee and breakfast.

  David was watching the clouds outside. He liked long airplane flights; it was a rare opportunity to avoid the constant interruptions of daily life. It gave him a chance to clear his mind and think. The likely logic of the events in 2020 was becoming clearer in his mind. He could not be sure, and he might never have a proof, but this trip might help to cement his convictions. Cui Bono?

  Maggie said, “When we are in Kiev, would you mind terribly if we stop to see my parents? I know it’s not fair because we didn’t go to see yours.”

  David thought about it and said, “I don’t mind. My parents’ place might be watched, but I don’t think yours will be. I doubt they’ll be expecting us to show up in Kiev. As a matter of fact, would you like to stay in Kiev for a day, spend more time with them?”

  “No, I just want to stop by for a short visit.”

  “OK. I do have one condition, though.”

  “Which is?”

  “You have to tell me the ending of the book that you’ve been named after.”

  “The ending? When did you read it?” Maggie sounded pleased.

  “James gave me the book, but I didn’t have a chance to finish it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why didn’t I finish?”

  “No, why did you start?”

  “I was curious who you were named after.”

  Maggie smiled. “OK, how far did you get?”

  “I just made it into the second part. Woland offered Margarita a bargain: be the Queen of his Midnight Ball and get a chance to reunite with her beloved. She accepted, turned into a witch, flew over Moscow, and took revenge on one of the people that persecuted the Master.”