Why not? “Bring them up, please. Put them in the conference room and offer coffee.”
The men introduced themselves as owners of a privately held oil company headquartered in St. Petersburg with major drilling operations in the North Sea off the coast of Norway.
Philippe offered a business card and noticed they had none to give him in return. That was odd.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
In reasonable English one of the men replied, “We’d like to know more about Roberto Maas. He’s the chairman of your firm, correct?”
Confirming, he gave the Russians the same story everyone who inquired about Ciprian Investments received. Yes, the company was an investment management firm, but by far its largest customer was one wealthy individual and the various trusts and corporations he controlled.
“And that man is Mr. Maas?”
Philippe fielded the man’s blunt questions smoothly. “Our firm is privately held and headquartered here in Switzerland for a reason. As you undoubtedly know, this country is noted for discretion and confidentiality. Although some of our clients might be household names in the financial world, we maintain the strictest confidentiality as to the identities of those persons. I’m sure, should you become clients yourselves, you’d be pleased that your information was held in trust.”
Intent on determining the reason for their interest in Roberto without giving anything away, Philippe countered every pointed question with a vague answer. After several wasted minutes, one of the visitors said, “Perhaps these will move our conversation along.”
He opened his briefcase, pulled out ten grainy black-and-white photos and tossed them across the table. Philippe picked one up and looked at it, amazed and disgusted. It showed a thin, naked boy on a bed with his legs spread wide open, smiling. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
Without looking at the rest, he said angrily, “What the hell is this about? You don’t own an oil company. Who are you, and what do you want?”
The Russian waved his hand at the photos. “Take a look at the other pictures. You know that boy well.”
“I know him?” Philippe sputtered his response, confused and beginning to be slightly worried. “You’ve … I think you’ve made a big mistake. Are you trying to blackmail me? I have no idea…”
“Relax. No, we aren’t oil tycoons. But we do represent one or two. We’re looking for someone. None of this is about you. It’s about your partner. Roberto Maas. The first photos are of a child prostitute named Slava Sergenko, fifteen years ago in Moscow. The others are of a man named Andrey Bodrov. He appears to be sleeping, but he’s not. He’s dead, thanks to young Slava there.”
“And you’re saying Roberto was involved with this child prostitute? I find that hard to–”
“Oh no. We’re not saying that at all. Much worse, in fact. Roberto Maas is that boy. He was Slava Sergenko. We’ve been looking for him for more than fifteen years.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The pictures of the naked boy and the dead Russian lay untouched on Philippe’s desk as the visitor explained why they were looking for the child prostitute. For forty-five minutes he told Philippe a story which, if true, was almost beyond belief.
Slava Sergenko, the name with which Roberto had been born, was a cunning teenager who watched and listened while he was a virtual slave at the Moscow bordello owned by Andrey Bodrov, a very wealthy businessman. Slava and ten other boys and girls ages thirteen to sixteen were transported by van to a private tutor every morning and received an excellent education. The tutor, of course, had no idea what was going on; he was paid a lot of rubles to keep his questions to himself.
Philippe interrupted, asking why Bodrov wasted time and money educating the children, since they were nothing more than sex toys for wealthy Russians. The answer made sense. As these children became young adults, Bodrov intended to keep them engaged in the same occupation. The fabulously wealthy Russian oligarchs who frequented lavish, expensive brothels in the new Russia wanted educated companions. Once these kids grew up, they would fill that need. These men wanted to show off their “dates” – they wanted intelligent, beautiful, young and sexy girls and boys to accompany them to nightclubs and fine restaurants. No matter that these men were married – their wives were old-style Russian women. They knew which side their bread was buttered on. Silence about things like this kept them in the opulent lifestyles they enjoyed. They simply pretended nothing was going on. So long as their husbands’ activities didn’t embarrass their families, everything was fine.
The workers in restaurants and clubs who saw these men sporting twenty-year-old girls, or a girl-and-boy couple, laughed behind their backs. Fat old men with limp penises and plenty of rubles! But in a society where the have-nots were subservient, nobody made waves. The men got away with their activities because those who witnessed their dalliances were afraid of their money and power.
As teenagers, their bodies were sold in the sex trade, and later they’d mature into twentysomething adult prostitutes. The men who owned them would profit at their expense for years so long as everything went well.
The Russian continued. Sixteen-year-old Slava had sneaked around sufficiently to learn where the brothel’s records were kept. After he killed Andrey Bodrov with a darning needle to the heart, he calmly put on his clothes and took Bodrov’s money and ATM card. Then Slava went into a next-door office and made off with client records. He charged credit cards, withdrew cash and made life slightly uncomfortable for these men. But it was a minor inconvenience – they had plenty more rubles and didn’t want any publicity about their little indiscretions with children – boys, in fact.
“If that had been all Slava Sergenko had done, our employers would have let things go,” the Russian said. But the boy went a bit further. He instituted a systematic program of blackmail. If they didn’t pay, he promised to ruin their careers, their personal lives, their very existence. Lots of Russians hired whores – it was hardly even considered a sin and would certainly have been forgiven. But not at Andrey Bodrov’s whorehouse. If it became known that these rich men crossed the line – they were having sex with teenage boys – they would be ruined. Instantly.
So the johns paid. Probably more than a hundred of them were involved at first, the Russian told Philippe. Some were still paying today; two of those victims of the decades-long blackmail had hired these men to find Slava.
It had taken years, but using Slava’s fingerprints, they tracked him to Prague. They first heard the name Juan Carlos Sebastian and learned about the bar at the Princi Palace Hotel. In 2007 two operatives were sent to finish the matter. They cornered Juan Carlos in a dead-end alley. But somehow he’d executed them instead. Then he vanished once again.
Blind luck was often what allowed a cold case to break wide open. Those who sought Slava Sergenko spread money liberally around Europe and waited for something to happen. He would make an error someday. Finally, five years later, it happened. Juan Carlos Sebastian had made a small but critical mistake.
The Russian stopped talking and sat back in the chair. He folded his arms over his chest and said, “What do you think?”
Philippe paused a moment then replied evenly, “I have no idea why you’re telling me this or even if it’s true. My partner is a respected businessman. There’s no way he could be this child from Russia. I think you have no proof whatsoever that he actually is. Maybe fingerprints tied Slava to Juan Carlos, but you’ve mentioned nothing that ties Juan Carlos to Roberto. I’m sure you haven’t told me the end of the story, but I’m finished with all this. It doesn’t involve me. Or Roberto. If you want to know what I think, I believe you’re going down the wrong path and you’re making a huge mistake. There’s no way Roberto Maas could be the man you’re looking for, and if you attempt to malign his reputation, I can assure you he’ll retaliate in the courts. Now if we’re finished, I have work to do…” Philippe stood and pushed the black-and-white photos towards the men who sat on the o
ther side of his desk.
The Russian said coldly, “We’re not finished, Mr. Lepescu. Sit down and shut your mouth. I’ll decide when our meeting is over.”
A shiver of fear went down Philippe’s spine as he sank back into his chair. He’d never dealt with organized crime figures before, but he had an idea this was what sat in front of him. These men looked like they’d kill anyone who stood between them and their quarry. Fortunately it was Roberto they wanted. Hopefully. This had nothing to do with him. Hopefully.
The man pulled one more photo from his pocket and tossed it to Philippe. “Does this man look familiar? Does he look like anyone you know?”
Philippe had to admit the person resembled Roberto although he was far younger and his hair was darker and much longer. If he’d been casually shown the picture, he would never have identified the man as his partner.
“You’re grasping at straws…”
“Juan Carlos Sebastian was a bartender in Prague. But he was more than that. He was a major collector of artifacts. I wonder how, on a bartender’s salary, he managed to purchase hundreds of thousands of dollars of antiques and relics, some of which were one of a kind, priceless. Do you know how he did that, Mr. Lepescu? Has your business partner told you he’s a cold-blooded killer for hire? An assassin for the American CIA, among others?”
Philippe blanched, swallowed hard and said nothing.
“After Juan Carlos disappeared from Prague that night in 2007, someone else picked up where he left off. Another man began buying the same pieces from the same dealers. Roberto Maas, your partner, somehow stepped right into the buying routine of the vanished Juan Carlos. His taste in antiquities, his knowledge of the markets, and his list of contacts were identical. An amazing coincidence, you might think. Not really. Your partner couldn’t resist continuing to feed his passion, his pastime. And that was a fatal mistake.”
“With all respect, Mr. … I don’t believe I got your name.”
“I believe you’re right!” The Russian expelled a hearty, cruel laugh and slapped his compatriot on the arm. “I don’t believe we told Mr. Lepescu our names!”
He stood, put both fists on Philippe’s desk and leaned over. His face was so close Philippe could smell the stale odor of cigarettes that seemed to be a part of every Russian’s makeup. The man’s demeanor changed. Suddenly he was malevolent, brutish.
“After Juan Carlos Sebastian left Prague, our men searched his flat. We took pictures of his precious collection but touched nothing. Beautiful things – gold masks from Greece. Ancient amphorae from Roman times. A dagger from an Egyptian tomb. Three weeks later a firm of attorneys removed his artifacts and shipped them away. Do you know where they went? The boxes were sent to a bank in Geneva. A few months later they ended up right here in Lucerne. Amazing, correct? Yesterday, Mr. Lepescu, I saw the artifacts with my own eyes. You’re an intelligent man. By now I’m sure you know where this is leading. Where in the world do you think Juan Carlos’s artifacts are today?”
Philippe averted his eyes, now aware of the truth. “They’re in Roberto’s apartment. I’ve seen them too.”
“Of course you have. And now we come to the crux of our conversation. You are going to help us finish our odyssey. You are going to help us capture your partner, Slava Sergenko.”
The conversation continued as the men explained what would happen next, what his part would be and how he’d be expected to perform. When Philippe Lepescu showed the men out of the building, his assistant noticed that he was pale and shaking. He went into his office, closed the door and soon left for the day.
Philippe had been told exactly what the men were looking for. He knew they would do anything to accomplish their goal. He was guaranteed a handsome payment for his cooperation, but he also had no choice. It wasn’t hard to figure out what would happen to those who impeded this search for Slava Sergenko. These men were killers. Philippe was afraid for his life.
Regardless of his fear, he felt obligated to tell Roberto about the visitors. But how much should he tell? Would Roberto protect him? How could he?
He spent a sleepless night but awoke with an answer. He knew what he had to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Philippe arrived to work the next morning prepared to tell his partner everything about the Russians. He owed Roberto at least that.
Around ten Philippe took a call from London. Edward Russell’s voice was full of venom.
“Your partner’s hard at work in the vacant building next to my bookshop.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. That’s impossible – Mr. Maas is on holiday in Greece. He’s been there several days.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Lepescu. Roberto’s here in London, doing something clandestine in a dilapidated old building that hasn’t had a tenant in years. Obviously he hasn’t broken the news to you, so now we can both wonder what he’s up to!” Edward Russell’s smug voice was irritating.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what’s the purpose of this call? To tattle on Mr. Maas?”
The response was cold, almost frightening. “The purpose of my call is to give you a warning. I’ll give it to him too, once I see him. Stay out of my affairs. Both of you. Or you’ll regret it.”
——
“How goes the holiday? Any Greek goddesses on those islands?”
Philippe forced his comments to sound upbeat. He trusted Roberto, his friend and his boss, not that strange man he’d met in the bookstore in London. If Roberto said he was in Greece on a cruise, then that was where he was. Edward Russell was obviously wrong. Mistaken identity, stolen identity, something. Philippe would discuss it with Roberto and he’d explain everything.
“Change of plans, actually. I’m in London.”
Philippe couldn’t conceal his frustration, the feeling of betrayal. His voice broke. “Were you going to let me know? Is there a reason you told me you were going to Greece?”
“Slow down!” Roberto laughed. “I’m on a secret mission!”
“So I hear.” Philippe’s voice was frosty.
“Really? From whom? Oh, I see now. That crazy Edward Russell called you, right? I’ll explain everything–”
Angrily Philippe interrupted. “You lied to me! You sent me to London on the pretext that you wanted to develop St. Mary Axe Street. That’s not true, is it? You wanted only the one building. We haven’t done any work on development plans since I approached Edward Russell. That’s not even the plan, is it? But I, your so-called ‘partner’ – I’m operating totally unaware of your real motive. You used me, withheld information and sent me out to spin your lies and buy a building. Now you have a ‘secret mission’ in the abandoned building next door to his. What’s going on? How about the truth for a change?”
The man was obviously upset and Roberto chose words he hoped would ease Philippe’s frustration. “I owe you an apology. I have kept you in the dark, and I used your persuasive talents for what I hoped would be an easy real estate purchase. A couple of stories below Edward’s bookstore there’s an ancient room – a crypt. It contains a sarcophagus and a locked wooden door. There were also some metal boxes filled with books. I have no idea what all this is, but I think it dates back to the fifth century when the Church of St. Mary Axe was built on this site shortly after the Romans abandoned Londinium.
“You know my interest in antiquities. I want to find out about the things in Edward’s basement. They’ve been there for years; apparently his grandfather found the crypt when he fell through the basement floor. And, Philippe, listen to this. Today I found something absolutely fascinating! Something even older that’s underneath my abandoned building!”
“In the derelict building next door? The one you locked up with a six-month option? Thanks for finally letting me in on your little secret only after I confronted you. I thought we were partners. So much for that idea!” Philippe’s voice was shaky, emotional.
Roberto answered calmly, “We are partners. But this isn’t a business deal.
It’s personal – a search for some relics I’m interested in as a collector. I made it sound like a business deal when I explained the St. Mary Axe development project and sent you to buy Edward’s building. But it wasn’t. It never has been. I kept you out of the loop on that and I apologize. But there’s no big secret and I wasn’t trying to mislead you.”
But you did. You lied to me.
Philippe was hurt. He’d been deceived by a man whom he considered his closest friend, if it were possible to get close to Roberto Maas. From the Russians and now from Edward he’d learned there were secrets. Huge secrets, if yesterday’s visitors could be believed. He wasn’t going to tell Roberto anything now. Who knew where he stood with his so-called “partner,” a man who apparently had a murderous hidden past and even today held secrets from his associate. Obviously he’d been mistaken all along. He wasn’t Roberto’s friend. He was Roberto’s errand boy.
There was nothing more to be gained from dwelling on this. Philippe changed the subject, describing the phone call from Edward Russell and his threat at the end.
“So now that I know you really are in London, can you tell me what you found? I’d like to know.”
Roberto told him everything he’d learned up to now. He explained how Edward was maintaining surveillance on the building and described the Roman burials. He laughed when he told how he’d dropped off the monitoring device at Edward’s store that afternoon. “I’m sure I pissed him off! That’s why he made that threatening call to you. He’s a really different individual, as I’m sure you noticed when you met him. Very strange. Probably psychotic, delusional too. Lots of bluster, but I’d bet that’s all.”
Philippe tried to sound upbeat even though he felt his world falling apart. “Just be careful. You don’t know this guy – there’s no telling how crazy he actually is. How long are you going to be there?”
The Crypt Trilogy Bundle Page 14