by Alex Lukeman
How on earth could this happen? Stephanie asked herself. Whoever is moving this money has found a way to subvert every safeguard that's been put in place. The money comes out of the banks and nobody pays attention. It ends up in Moscow and it might as well be a ten dollar deposit for all anybody seems to care. This isn't supposed to be possible.
She had found the banks but she still didn't know who had made the deposits in them. She chose one of the banks in the Caymans and hacked into it. She was surprised to find that security on this bank was far more sophisticated than what she'd run into in Moscow.
This is getting interesting, she thought.
The first transfer she tracked came from the account of an offshore drilling corporation working in the Gulf of Mexico. She followed the trail to the corporate servers and discovered it was a shell, a false front for another corporation involved in hazardous waste. From there she was led to a mining corporation with interests in Africa. She found herself in a complex maze of corporate accounts and blind alleys. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to hide the real source of the money. At some point in the afternoon Steph realized there was something familiar about the pattern she was looking at. Where had she seen it before?
Then it came to her.
Gutenberg. The banker who ran AEON. But he's dead, it couldn't be him doing this.
It seemed impossible but when she made the connection, Steph realized that it had to be him. The kind of manipulation she was tracking was as unique as an artist's brushstrokes on a painting, far beyond the usual corporate shell game played by tax evaders all over the world, a masterpiece of fraud and concealment. Gutenberg's mental fingerprints were all over it.
At the end of the day she went upstairs to talk with Elizabeth.
Elizabeth took one look at her and smiled to herself. "You look excited, Steph. What did you find?"
"You're not going to believe it."
"After the last year or two I think I would believe anything. What is it this time? Were you able to track the source of the money?"
"The funds were transferred from four different banks. The real source was hidden behind dozens of shell accounts. I've only seen something like it once before."
"Where?"
"AEON. This is Gutenberg's work."
Elizabeth looked at her in surprise. "That can't be. Gutenberg was killed when his château burned down."
"I said you weren't going to believe it."
Elizabeth picked up her pen and began tapping it on her desktop. She realized what she was doing and set it aside.
"You're certain?"
"It has to be him," Steph said. "No one else could set up something like this. He moved that money without triggering any of the red flags that would cause concern. It's a unique pattern, the same thing I saw when I was looking at him and his organization before. He must be using assets hidden by AEON. They had a thousand years to build up their reserve. It looks like Gutenberg has decided to spend it."
"By sending it to Russia? Why?"
"That's beyond my pay grade," Stephanie said, "but I'm certain this is his work."
"AEON is out of business. Everyone that was part of it is dead. There were bodies to prove it."
"Gutenberg's body was never found."
"If he's alive he has to be stopped. Did you find anything that could tell us where he might be?"
"I don't think he's in the Caymans. Those banks are the last point of transfer to Russia. It seems unlikely that he'd be in Switzerland, not after what happened there. The Leipzig bank is the primary clearinghouse for the funds. The transfers are initiated from there. It's a private bank, hundreds of years old. At a guess I'd say Gutenberg is in Leipzig or somewhere nearby."
"It's a place to start. Good work, Steph."
"That's not all. I found a transfer from the Leipzig bank for a hundred thousand euros that went to Helmut Schmidt. Gutenberg was paying Schmidt for something."
That's what my intuition was about, Elizabeth thought. She picked up her pen and fiddled with it. "He must have hired Schmidt to go after Selena in Vienna. If it really is him, maybe he wants to get even."
"That's vicious."
"Gutenberg is a vicious man," Elizabeth said. "Vienna and Hamburg make sense now. Everybody thinks Gutenberg is dead. When Schmidt failed, Gutenberg must have killed him to eliminate any links back to him."
"He might try to come after us again."
"Now that we know who we're dealing with, we'll be ready for him."
"What do you think he's playing at in Russia?"
"I don't know. By backing Orlov he's set up a confrontation between Russia and the West. It all depends on what Orlov decides to do."
"Why would Gutenberg fund a military adventure that could lead to all-out war?"
"Why did he try to start a nuclear war between India and China?" Elizabeth said. "There isn't any rational explanation for how people like him think."
"What do you plan to do next?" Stephanie asked.
"Send Nick and the others to Leipzig."
CHAPTER 36
.
Nick and the others were in Leipzig, parked across from the bank Stephanie had identified as the key transfer point for the billions going to Russia. The building was old, built of quarried stone, a survivor of the bombings that destroyed much of the city in World War II. It had a staid German look of respectability. The only indication it was a bank was a small brass plaque set in the wall beside the entrance.
"I can't believe that son of a bitch is still alive," Nick said.
"He might not be," Selena said. "Steph could be wrong. It seems unbelievable that he could've survived that fire and explosion."
"Harker said Steph is certain. It explains a lot, once you admit the possibility. At least it explains why those people came after you in Vienna and why Schmidt was killed. It doesn't explain why he's pouring money into Russia. If Steph hadn't tracked down the transfers we wouldn't have a clue that he was still around."
"Gives us an advantage," Ronnie said. "He won't know we're coming after him."
"What's the plan?" Lamont asked.
"I haven't got one yet."
"Why don't we get some lunch and talk about it?" Lamont said.
"You ever stop thinking about food?" Ronnie asked.
"Only when I'm not hungry."
"I could use something to eat," Selena said. "I know just the place."
Nick looked at her. "You know Leipzig?"
"Not really. My uncle brought me here when I was fifteen. He took me to a restaurant Goethe liked when he was a student. It figures in a scene from Faust."
"I've heard of that," Lamont said. "Isn't that the one with the devil?"
"That's the one."
Selena entered the name of the restaurant on the car's GPS. Twenty minutes later they'd found it. Auerbach's Cellar was located in the historical district near the market, in the basement of a glass roofed shopping arcade called the Mädlerpassage. It had started life in the fourteenth century as a wine bar, a favorite haunt of students at the nearby University. Over the years it had expanded until now there were five dining rooms as well as a bar on the main floor of the arcade.
"We should go downstairs to the Cask cellar," Selena said.
Downstairs they were guided to a wooden table under an arched ceiling covered with 16th-century paintings, including the one that had inspired Goethe. It depicted Doctor Faust riding out of a cellar on a wine barrel. Legend held that the barrel had been powered by the devil.
Selena ordered for them. In a few minutes the waiter was back with three dark beers and a bottle of water for Ronnie. The restaurant was only partly full. They could talk freely.
Nick took a sip. "Good beer," he said. He set it down on the table. "I don't see much point in staking out that bank. There's no reason for Gutenberg to show up there."
"He doesn't even have to be in Leipzig." Lamont picked up a piece of bread and buttered it.
"If he is, I don't think he'd use hi
s real name," Ronnie said.
"He has to control that bank," Nick said. "I asked Stephanie to find out more. The bank is owned by a corporation."
"A corporation has officers," Selena said. "One of them could be Gutenberg."
"That's what I thought. The chairman of the board is a man named Kepler. Stephanie couldn't find out anything about him. There are no pictures or articles about him, nothing on record."
Selena broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in a saucer holding olive oil and vinegar.
"That sounds off to me," she said. "Anyone who controls a corporation that runs an important bank in Germany would show up sooner or later in some financial magazine. Every bank gets government scrutiny. There has to be something."
"If Steph can't find it, it's not there," Ronnie said.
"Can she find out where this guy lives?" Lamont asked.
"I asked her. She's on it."
Lamont smiled. "Here comes the food."
The first course was a thick mushroom soup served in a white porcelain bowl. Next came the main dish of breaded chicken on a bed of mushrooms mixed with onions and cucumbers on noodles, all of it served with a creamy sauce. They began eating.
"I thought the chicken would be the best bet," Selena said. "The meat dishes tend to be pretty heavy and they always load everything up with potatoes."
"Kind of salty," Lamont said.
"That's very German. They like their salt here."
They passed on dessert. Nick signaled the waiter for the check.
Jaques Dupree watched the team leave the restaurant. There was no need to follow them. He knew where they were staying. He'd considered taking a room there for himself but decided against it. There was a chance they might recognize him. The only photo of him that existed in official records was blurred and out of date. Still, there was no point in taking chances.
Dupree had lasted as long as he had because he was always well prepared. He never made the mistake of underestimating the abilities of his victims. His employer had sent full reports on each of the four targets. The pictures failed to capture the air of wary tension that radiated from the group. Dupree had seen it before in experienced professionals who needed to stay alert if they wanted to stay alive, an underlying explosive tension consciously held in check.
It told him that these targets were especially dangerous. If he wanted to collect the bonus that had been promised he'd have to render them helpless. He would have to separate them before it could be done.
He discarded the thought. Even if he succeeded in taking one, it would alert the others. Once they were on guard his job would become much more difficult. The extra money for making each of them suffer was tempting but it wasn't worth the risk. With these people he was only going to get one opportunity for success. It would be best to take them all out at once. His decision made, Dupree finished his coffee and signaled for the check.
CHAPTER 37
Stephanie studied the latest satellite and drone images of Western Russia and the Ukraine. There were hundreds of photographs of Russian military personnel and equipment staged along the border of Ukraine.
She focused on an encampment near Voronehz, east of the Ukrainian border. She could see orderly rows of tanks, all of their cannons pointing neatly westward. Stephanie had identified most as older T-80s, along with a few T-90s and some of the new Armata T-14s. The T-80 was a fast tank capable of reaching Kiev in under two days but was being phased out of the Russian arsenal. Ammunition for the autoloading cannon was badly protected. A hit from an antitank missile above the road wheels would detonate the explosive with spectacular results, as the Russians had found out to their dismay in Chechnya.
The Armata was a different kind of animal. Possibly the best tank in the world, it had never been tested in battle. It featured a combination of steel and ceramic plating that reduced weight and provided increased strength and protection. The Kremlin boasted that the armor could withstand any of the West's antitank missiles, including those with high explosive warheads.
The three-man crew sat inside a heavily shielded compartment with a 360° view of the battlefield relayed by high definition cameras. The view inside the capsule was unsurpassed in tank warfare but the system was vulnerable. Damage to the cameras would leave the tank blind. Armament included a fully automated turret that mounted a 125 millimeter, autoloading cannon capable of ten shots a minute.
The Armata was a milestone in tank development, guaranteed to dominate on the ground. The builders claimed that the tank was impervious to antitank missiles fired from the air. That was debatable. What was certain was that the T-14 was a formidable weapon.
The Federation wasn't supposed to have many of the new tanks ready for combat but there they were.
As Stephanie moved through the pictures something caught her eye in one of the photographs. It had been taken at dusk and it was difficult to make out the details but something was definitely out of place. She magnified the picture. It looked like there was a door in the side of the tank, where no door should be. The door was partly open. She zoomed in again. The picture was grainy and blurry but she was able to make out a metal shape inside the tank.
A truck!
She went to the next picture in the sequence. The door was closed. The tank looked perfect, just as a tank should. She put the two pictures up side-by-side on her monitor.
Son of a bitch. The tank isn't real. It's a fake.
She called upstairs. "Elizabeth, I think you'd better come down here and look at this."
"Is it important? I'm in the middle of something."
"It's important."
"On my way."
A minute later Elizabeth entered the computer room.
"What have you got, Steph?"
"Take a look at these two satellite shots."
Elizabeth studied the pictures. "I'll be damned," she said. "The tank is a phony. It's probably made of wood and they move it around using the truck. If there's one, there are others. I wonder how many of them are fakes?"
"I'll bet a lot of them are. Maybe all of them. Probably all of the T-14s. If the satellite hadn't caught it at the right moment we'd never know. You can't tell, even with the high definition cameras. The illusion is perfect."
"The allies did something like this in World War II," Elizabeth said, "before the Normandy invasion. Eisenhower created a ghost army in the south of England to confuse the Germans. He used phony trucks and tanks that looked like the real thing from the air. He didn't want the Nazis to see the actual force he was building for the invasion."
"What do you think the Russians are doing?"
"They want us to think they're going to invade the Ukraine," Elizabeth said. "Why they want us to think that is a different question."
"Maybe they're trying to distract everybody from what's happening in Albania."
"I don't see why they'd go to all this trouble over Albania. There has to be another reason."
Elizabeth looked again at the two pictures.
"I have to tell the president about this. Whatever Orlov is playing at, it isn't good."
"All those troop movements weren't fake."
"No, they weren't. But if those men and all their equipment aren't where we thought they were, where are they?"
CHAPTER 38
Lefortovo prison took its name from the Moscow district where it was located. Vysotsky always felt uncomfortable when he visited Lefortovo. It wasn't just the prison smell of unwashed bodies and fear. The building was saturated with an atmosphere of hopelessness and despair. Countless numbers had been tortured in Lefortovo during Stalin's reign before being taken into the courtyard and shot. It had been the last stop for thousands. It was still the last stop for many. One of them was Boris Vishinski.
Vysotsky's former boss had asked to see him. Alexei had thought about refusing. He had no desire to see Vishinski's humiliation. It could only remind him of his own vulnerability. In the end he'd decided to go.
Vishinski was housed in t
he wing for common criminals, a further attempt to humiliate him. It meant there was little chance his cell was monitored with microphones and cameras. Prisoners were held inside single cells. The cells had steel doors covered with layers of thick, yellow paint. Chips in the paint showed decades of indifferent maintenance. A single row of light bulbs in metal cages ran down the center of the hall. A guard dressed in a gray and black camouflage uniform and a beret escorted Alexei to Vishinski's cell and opened the steel door. Vishinski looked up from where he sat on his narrow bunk. Alexei stepped inside and turned to the guard.
"Close the door. Wait outside."
"Sir." The guard saluted.
The door clanged shut behind him, a sound that let you know you were trapped. The room was narrow and high and cold. The walls and ceiling of the cell were concrete, painted the same sickly yellow as the doors. A metal cage with a single bright bulb that never went out was mounted in the ceiling. There was no window. A metal shelf with a thin mattress projected from the rear wall. The room stank of human waste and stale sweat. A lidless metal toilet crusted with excrement was the only other feature of the room.
Vishinski wore gray prison clothes and paper slippers that matched his complexion. Alexei was shocked by his appearance.
"Alexei Ivanovitch. You came. I wasn't sure that you would. Or even if my message would reach you."
"Boris Nikolayevich. I am sorry to see you in this circumstance."
Vishinski laughed. "Yes, I'm sure you are, Alexei. And now you have my old job. Take a good look because it might be you sitting here next month."
Vysotsky suppressed his irritation. "What is it you wanted to see me about?"