by Ian Miller
When Dennis had more or less run out of steam, she smiled sweetly and offered to get him a mug of coffee while she got hers. Dennis was ecstatic. She was rather slow in getting it, and when she came back, she handed him his coffee, and stood slightly to one side. Dennis was having trouble keeping his eyes off her chest, and Svetlana's perfume did nothing for his concentration. Svetlana noted mentally what his computer screen showed, but it was essentially harmless.
At that moment, Burrowes arrived. Svetlana gave Dennis some encouragement that she did not mean, then waved at Burrowes, said "Good morning," then when Burrowes mumbled a response, she asked him what help he needed today.
"Until the boss gets back, I have no idea," he replied.
Chapter 8
"Right, you have two tasks," Rutherford said, when Burrowes had finally taken a seat opposite him. "You are to identify who it was that made those unusual payments, including the personal ones, and you are to trace where all Kapralov's sales of anything containing manganese, other than alloys, go to, and you are to look for unusual small shipments. Anything that has been regular for years, or is in the hundred tonne range can be dismissed. Understand?"
"That's going to take a lot of work," Burrowes said, "but otherwise, yes, I understand."
Burrowes returned to his computer and began hacking into Kapralov's computers.
"You need help?" Svetlana was leaning over his shoulder, and a trace of perfume gave him a feeling of arousal.
"What makes you think I need help?" he asked, trying not to turn his gaze towards her. Alleged sexual harassment had already cost him one job. He could not afford a second allegation.
"Your screen is full of Cyrillic characters," she explained brightly, "and you said you don't speak Russian." She paused, and gave a wicked smile, and said, "I think you know more than you're letting on."
"I said I don't speak Russian," Burrowes admitted, "and certainly not to a native Russian. But I can read a bit, and, well, orders from above are orders, so I have to –"
"And so do I," Svetlana said. "The boss has ordered me to help you with your Russian pages."
"Then you'd better pull up a chair. Standing there like that is, well . . ."
"Don't tell me I'm distracting you?" She gave a particularly flirtatious look.
"As you said before, you warned me off getting familiar," he countered, "but while you get a chair, why don't I get coffee?"
"That's very acceptable," she said, and she put on a serious face as she began to wheel over her chair. She also brought a Russian English dictionary.
"I thought you were Russian," Burrowes said. He gave a surprised glance at the dictionary as he handed her her coffee.
"Oh, I shall know what the Russian words mean, but only in Russian. But my English, is, well . . . Anyway, sometimes I just don't know the English word."
"I assure you your English is excellent," Burrowes said.
"Thank you, but it still helps to have a dictionary, especially for technical words."
The rest of the morning went surprisingly well. Burrowes followed his nose around the Russian web, much of the time not hacking. Svetlana would get him to read and translate a page, helping him when he appeared to be hesitant, and translating when he was stuck.
"You're not doing too badly," Svetlana said as the lunch break came. Dennis was up like a rocket and out the door. Brian was somewhere else for the day, which meant only the two of them were there. "You should try speaking Russian. It will help no end."
"Dennis would think we were up to something," Burrowes said, in halting and partly ungrammatical Russian.
"Dennis Bitchovich can think what he likes," she scowled.
Burrowes burst out laughing. "Bitchovich. I like it!"
"There! At least your day's improving. First time I've seen you laugh at work."
"You're right. Let's go get some lunch."
* * *
"This time, I choose the spot," Svetlana said, and gave a flirtatious smile. "In acknowledgement of your clear aims and ambitions, it's cheap!" She ushered him to a seat, and was obviously encouraging a move on his part.
Burrowes had the look of someone who wanted to say something, but he did not know how. He started awkwardly, "Look, Ms Antonovna –"
"Ms Antonovna?" she protested. "Surely –"
"Let me finish," he said. Svetlana stared at him, waiting for the big announcement, which only made Burrowes feel more awkward. "Look." He paused again. Svetlana kept staring. "It's just, well, I'm sure you're a really nice person, but I have this policy that I don't get involved beyond being friendly with women at work, and . . ."
"That's fine," Svetlana said, her face now returning to being normal as opposed to flirtatious. "I respect that."
"Good." Burrowes was clearly relieved.
"If you want more respect, tell me why you left your last job."
"I suspect you have heard something?"
"Dennis did mention something –"
"That bitchovich!"
"Yes, so, bearing in mind your policy, why don't you tell me what really happened."
Burrowes explained. "There was this wretched woman Rhonda," he explained. "It was a Christmas party, and she suggested we go out into an alcove –"
"Where I guess you expected to be breaking your policy," Svetlana said with a grin.
"Maybe it wasn't properly formed then," Burrowes admitted with a shrug. "Anyway, she made advances, then suddenly tore at her own blouse and yelled –"
"No need for gory details," Svetlana said. "What happened next?"
"Two security men came from nowhere and dragged me off."
"Where did you work?" she asked quietly, but firmly enough that she obviously felt it was important.
"The NSA," he said, then regretted it. Perhaps he should not have said that.
"That explains what you are doing here."
"What do you mean?"
"Charles, I don't know whether you actually know this, but you are rather capable. Your being here, doing this job, is no accident."
"That's what the boss said," Burrowes admitted. "He thinks this is all about deniability."
"Then my advice to you is be very careful. At some point, if this goes sour, it might be difficult to deny you, unless there was no sign of you."
"What's that mean?" he said with a frown.
"In Russia, it would mean, get the hell out of town, or they will simply make it impossible for you to talk."
"This isn't Russia," Burrowes protested.
"No, it isn't," Svetlana agreed, "but I rather fancy your chances of living happily ever after would be better there than here if you don't get this right."
"Then I guess I'd better get this right."
"No. We had better get this right. Remember, I am only here on tolerance. Your country has shown it is prepared to withdraw visas, and –"
"Then let's get this right," Burrowes said.
"You realise there's a complication," Svetlana said.
"And that is?"
"What do you think the other two do?"
Burrowes stared at her. He had no idea what they did, and he had never given it a thought, but if he was really here because the NSA wanted him here, surely they would have checked, and . . .
"From your silence, I think you are starting to think what I'm thinking," she said. "For what it's worth, I think we are nested in with some rather dubious financial schemes. Brian is supposed to be analysing the stock market, or least some specific stocks, but . . ."
"But you think he is doing something more?"
"I certainly don't think what either he or Dennis is doing has any connection with what we're doing. On top of that, he's so secretive. Have you ever heard him say anything? As far as I can make out, he reports to the boss but says nothing to anyone else, at least in our presence."
"I've noticed when I come in to work he and Dennis exchange greetings, and I gather they go out together at lunch time."
"Yes," Svetlana pointed out, "but t
hey never say anything to each other during work."
"That doesn't make it illegal," Burrowes said. "There could be plenty of confidential stuff they don't want us to know about."
"Maybe, but do you recall the day you came here?"
"Of course. I . . ." He suddenly paused, and a shocked expression passed over his face.
"Well? What?"
"I looked up the site on the web," Burrowes recalled, "and this building wasn't on the so-called satellite image."
"And your comment to the boss?"
"Yeah. I told him someone must have hacked in and deleted it and –"
"My guess is this building belongs to the NSA, as does all the computer equipment in it."
"Then why is Rutherford here? That doesn't make sense."
"It makes far more sense than saying someone like Rutherford could delete the site from all satellite images. That's a serious action. A US government agency could arrange that, but someone like Rutherford?"
"I guess you're right," he said, then added wistfully, "And to think, I put a hundred bucks on guessing someone deleted it. He admitted I was right, although I've yet to see the hundred bucks."
"I wouldn't press it if I were you," she said. "My comment about his bite might not be right. I've only just noticed, but Dennis is really frightened of him."
"He might be scared of getting fired."
"No, he's scared of what else goes with it," Svetlana said. "Trust me. He thinks his life's over if he gets fired."
"It can't be that bad," Burrowes said, then added, "I mean, it's not as if you've seen people frightened of being killed. I'm sure –" He stopped as he noticed Svetlana's expression. Momentarily, she seemed as if she regretted saying what she had.
"You're right, I'm no expert," she quickly admitted, "although I've seen the expression on my father's face while we were fleeing Russia, and when the boss told Dennis he might be on the verge of pissing him off, Dennis had that very same expression."
"OK, so Dennis is afraid of the boss. Where does that leave us?"
"In my opinion, we should be very very careful."
"You think we should try to find out what they're doing?"
"Not at work, we shouldn't, unless you're really careful, and you're ready to run."
"So you think running is a likely outcome of all this?"
"Yes, and you should plan something, and don't tell anyone."
"Not even you?" Burrowes said with a smile.
"Especially not me," Svetlana said. "I'm more likely to be caught because how would I know my way around?"
"It shouldn't come to that," Burrowes said. "All the same, maybe we should keep our eyes and ears open for a while."
"Yes, but if you're going to do something that might lead you to run for your life if the worst happens, let me know in advance," Svetlana said.
"Deal."
"Right! Back to Kapralov."
* * *
The afternoon progressed quietly, and Burrowes suggested that Svetlana move back to her computer and check a small list of transactions, namely where these transactions went to and from, while he did some of the others.
It was almost time to go, when Burrowes sat upright with a jerk and muttered, "Shit!"
Svetlana stared at him, but he shook his head and sat back, then he began rapidly typing, the purpose of which was to delete his latest activity. As he left for the evening, Svetlana followed. They walked down the street for a block, then after looking over her shoulder, Svetlana asked Burrowes what had led to the expletive.
"Just for, well, I really don't know why, but I decided to check on Kapralov's four tax haven accounts, and guess what?"
"What?" Svetlana asked, although she already knew.
"Each of the four has had exactly twenty million withdrawn," Burrowes said, "and I have to ask myself, if Kapralov were responsible, it would be a lot easier to take the lot from one account."
"It would have been easier for anyone else too," Svetlana pointed out.
"Yes, but taking eighty mill from one account would come close to closing it. The bank might ask Kapralov if he wanted it closed entirely."
"Good thinking," Svetlana said in an approving tone. "Any ideas who else might have done it?"
"After our lunch-time conversation, I think you already have a very good idea."
"Then be careful," she said. "What are you going to do?"
"I've been asked to trace Kapralov's finances, and where they go," Burrowes said with a grin. "I shall try to trace where these transfers went. It helped a little that they all went to the same account in New York."
"Helped? You know where?"
"I do," he said with a grin, "and that account had one transaction leave it."
"Do tell?"
"Fifty million went to Ellison and Lamont."
"Who are?"
"Is," Burrowes corrected. "It's a small investment bank."
"Investment bank?"
"Yes, it will be doing stock deals. Your guess about Dennis and Brian may not be far off, except they would be playing with stolen money."
"Then don't say a word," Svetlana said, "at least until you have absolute proof. And be ready to run."
Chapter 9
"Boss!" Graeme Middleton had burst through the door. No knocking for him, even though his face showed nervousness.
"Yeah, what?" Irving Goldfinch stared at his Chief of Staff, and his stare showed he was not in a particularly good mood.
"The bet against Aurora Mining isn't going to come off."
Goldfinch seemed stunned. This was his third venture into such Australian mining stocks, which were, from his point of view, highly suitable because they avoided too great an interest from the US Securities and Exchange Commission. The question at the back of his mind was, had he slipped somewhere? If so, how should he cover? But first, what exactly went wrong? He pulled himself together. He had to show some self-control. He took a controlled breath then said, "What? Why not? Haven't you spread the word and dumped publicly?"
"We did, but you got to realize this has to be done subtly, otherwise the Securities people will be down on us like a ton of bricks, and –"
"Get to the point!"
"Well, we borrowed fifty mil worth of stock, and that was about twenty-five per cent of the company –"
"Stop telling me what I know. What don't I know?" Goldfinch was now clearly irritated.
"Well, we dumped our stock, we spread the word, and the stock dropped like a rock."
"And we bought?"
"Er, no. You told me to wait another few days so what we're doing wasn't so obvious." This was why Middleton was frightened. If Goldfinch thought he had told him otherwise he would be blamed for a very serious loss.
Goldfinch frowned. Had he really said that? He couldn't recall, but just maybe he had. "So what's wrong?"
"Someone started buying." The Chief of Staff's hands were shaking slightly and his voice was wavering. He was frightened.
"On what scale?" Goldfinch's voice was quiet, but very cold.
"That someone has been buying furiously and has now got at least thirty-five per cent of the stock, and the stock has rocketed back up."
"What? Where is it now?"
"If we have to cover at present prices, we lose at least thirty million. And if we don't cover now, we don't know what's going to happen. Those guys look like they're going to have to make a take-over offer, and, well . . ."
"If they make a take-over offer, I guess we have to too," Goldfinch said with a frown. This was something he really did not need. The good news was that according to his inside knowledge the company was expected to make a positive announcement in the not too distant future, so the whole exercise was not a total disaster, at least as long as his information was correct.
"I don't think we can."
"And why not?"
"Because the guys we borrowed the stock from will want it back, and there isn't enough freely available to cover." He paused, then added the obvious, "The or
iginal owners will presumably want to hang onto their stock, so we have to buy elsewhere."
Goldfinch shook his head in near despair, but swallowed the impending explosion. This was not the time to lose his Chief of Staff. "We'll have to buy the stock," Goldfinch muttered, "thus accepting the loss. See what we have to pay for the borrow, so get on the phone now and find out what the damage is."
"OK, boss."
"And try and be nice to them. The last thing we need is for them to start some legal action." Goldfinch looked down at a document on his desk, but his lack of motion showed he was thinking rather than reading.
Middleton had no idea what to do. He thought about slipping out the door, since he had an actionable instruction, but he also knew that when Goldfinch was thinking it paid to wait until he was dismissed.
Goldfinch finally looked up at the Chief of Staff, and as he rubbed his jaw slowly, he asked, "Do we know who bought up this stock?"
"The stock was purchased through Ellison and Lamont."
"What?" Goldfinch banged his fist on his desk, then started ringing his hand. "I thought we finished them off."
"I'm afraid not. I guess this is their payback."
Goldfinch shook his head, almost in despair. "Too obvious."
"Sorry, boss, but you don't think they want payback?"
"Oh, I don't doubt I'm not flavour of the month with them, but the question then is, where did they get that much money?"
"Well, I suppose . . ."
"The financial sector knows they had a big loss. Who's going to advance that sort of money just for them to try to get even with me?"
"Well, someone has, and I suppose I could make a guess."
"Who?"
"The guy in this poor definition photo. This is the guy who rescued Lamont from . . ." He paused. He did not wish to divulge anything more about his associates than was necessary, particularly since they were unsuccessful. He took a breath, and said, "This is the guy who roughed up my debt collectors, and said Lamont did not owe anything. They at least believed him."