“Two, you say?” asked the director.
“I have a task for which I can’t use the usual men.”
“I have no men who would serve your purposes, Lazarev. There are only dogs here.” He laughed briefly and then started coughing again. His sour breath washed over Lazarev in warm gusts.
“Dogs can be put to good use. I need two who aren’t tender. And whom no one would miss if, contrary to expectations, they happened not to return.”
“Your usual requirements don’t apply in this case?”
“No. These two can look like dogs.”
“Then I have two I think will serve your purposes for a time. Make sure they’re not running around out of control on the streets of the city. If you have any problems with them, just shoot them.”
“The usual price?”
“That will be fine.”
Nestor Lazarev met the two men outside the gates. One was tattooed all over his body; the other was a large man with long hair and a beard.
He had them stand in front of the Mercedes and gave them the short version of what he wanted and who he was. He got them to understand that if they tried to do anything that deviated from the orders he gave them, they would be on their knees, begging him to lock them up again in their respective isolation cells and never again let them see the light of day. The tattooed one paled dramatically, and his tattoos became even more visible. The large one just nodded silently.
Lazarev threw him the car key.
“There’s a daily newspaper here in Saint Petersburg that’s still after me. One of its journalists doesn’t seem to have taken my warnings seriously. All the relevant information is in the glove compartment. Take care of him.”
34
Max sipped his coffee and looked around the crowded café. Most of the customers were students, with scarves wrapped around their throats several times, talking loudly. He had more or less been thrown out of Brice & Stadthaller after his outburst during his meeting with Rousseau. Had he gotten a little too close to the truth?
The café’s door opened, and Max looked up. He recognized the St. Petersburg Times journalist Yury Domashov from his byline photo. He was tall and slim, dressed in a beige trench coat and a bright red scarf. His blond hair was perfectly blow-dried; he could have played keyboard in a British pop band in the eighties.
Max raised his hand, and Domashov made his way toward his table.
“I hope this won’t take long,” Domashov said. “I don’t want to be late for my life-drawing class.”
“Do you draw?” asked Max.
“No. I’m a model. I like seeing the girls’ faces when I take my clothes off.” Domashov pulled out a chair and sat down. “I live around the corner from the university, right next to the dormitory. There’s a hole in the fence there, not far from the front door of my building. There’s quite a bit of traffic going through that hole at night when my wife and kids are out of town, if you see what I mean.”
Max realized Domashov was trying to provoke him. He lifted his coffee cup calmly.
“As I said on the telephone, I’d like to know more about your meetings with St. Petersburg GSM.”
Domashov shrugged, waved over a waiter, and ordered a cup of tea. He was an experienced journalist, used to testing and judging people, and it seemed he now understood what kind of person Max was: one who didn’t let himself be distracted.
“I tried with a combination of people on the shop floor, advisers, and management,” he said. “After I interviewed Marcel Rousseau at the auditing firm, I was called by someone who demanded to see what I had written. I refused, of course. The follow-up article was canceled, so I switched to working on other things. For me the whole matter is over and done with.”
Max sighed. Domashov was certainly a man of many talents, but lying wasn’t one of them.
“Who called you, and why was the follow-up article canceled?”
“You’d have to talk to the editor in chief about that. I think someone came and spoke to him in his office.” Domashov smiled crookedly and sipped his tea.
Max knew he wouldn’t get anything out of talking to the editor in chief. That was how things worked here. In order to survive as the editor in chief of a daily newspaper, you had to choose your battles.
Calmly, he continued to observe Domashov, who passed a hand over his face and looked around the café.
“What?” he said, finally looking at Max. “I was told to shut down my investigation. That’s all.”
“But I’m not shutting down,” said Max. “I don’t work that way.”
Domashov leaned toward Max. “You’re insane if you pursue this.”
“Is that what you said to Pashie?”
“Yes, but she didn’t listen, either.”
Of course Pashie didn’t listen, thought Max. Not if St. Petersburg GSM’s owners were anything along the lines of what he was now starting to suspect. Exactly the kind of men she wanted to stop.
“Tell me what you told her,” he said. “Where is St. Petersburg GSM getting its millions of dollars?”
Domashov looked around the café nervously again.
“Your friend is a very smart woman.”
“I know that.”
“A little too smart for her own good. She knew I had been looking at St. Petersburg GSM for quite a while. Something stinks there.”
“Had Pashie figured out what?”
“No . . . I don’t know. We were approaching the company from very different angles. She was interested in the technology, while I was trying to follow the money.”
“What made you realize she was smart?”
“We talked about something I didn’t understand. How it was possible to sell new digital cell phones of Western manufacture, which cost retailers an arm and a leg to buy, so cheaply that anyone can afford to buy them.”
“And she helped you clear up that mystery?”
Domashov nodded. “She figured out that the company was exploiting the society’s weakest citizens—poor, homeless pensioners.”
A young waitress passed them, balancing a heavy tray.
“I don’t understand,” said Max.
“The pensioners are war veterans.”
Veterans could take the subway free and were given vacation coupons for Sochi, but Max couldn’t see the connection to the cellular network start-up. Apparently, however, Pashie had seen one.
“What was it Pashie found out?”
“Primarily, the company was interested in importing telephones from the West, particularly Finland—Nokia, you know. The import taxes are murderous. I couldn’t figure it out. How could they transport those phones across the border without paying a fortune? The pensioners provided the answer.”
And finally Max understood how it had been done. Marcel Rousseau had mentioned it indirectly when Max had spoken with him. Maybe he had told Pashie straight out, or maybe he’d done so without intending to because she’d managed to put pressure on him.
“We’re still living with the old constitution,” Max said.
Domashov nodded. “Exactly. The heroes of the Soviet Union are tax-exempt.”
“But those privileges were for private use. How do they manage to do this on such a vast scale?”
“They take over the pensioners’ official identities and act in their names, using powers of attorney. They import foreign products in the pensioners’ names and give them a roof over their heads and vodka and bread in exchange. The old people disappear from the streets. Everybody’s happy and no one asks any questions.”
Something stinks at St. Petersburg GSM, thought Max. That’s clear. But was this even illegal? It wasn’t morally defensible to enslave old and vulnerable people, but the system was certainly smart. If Domashov and Pashie had figured out what was going on, and St. Petersburg GSM’s management had realized this, would that have been enough to make them pressure the newspaper to stop writing about the company? To grab Pashie? To blow up a whole department at the university?
; “But it must have been something other than this that agitated someone at St. Petersburg GSM so much,” said Max. “What else did Pashie ask about?”
“As I said: the technology. She was obsessed with it.”
This was the second time Domashov had referred to the technology, but Max didn’t understand what he meant.
“Can you be more specific?”
“She was interested in the background, in the history of the company. How it was established. She said there was a rumor that the technology had been stolen from Sweden.”
From Sweden? Industrial espionage occurred in Sweden on a daily basis, hidden within the prestigious world of international diplomacy. If it wasn’t the Russians, it was the Chinese.
“I read your article,” said Max. “The chairman, the man who provided the pompous quote—did Pashie ever speak with him?”
“No, I don’t think so—he never gives interviews,” said Domashov. “But she spoke with Marcel Rousseau.”
Max nodded; he had already known this. “Tell me more about the chairman.”
The waiter behind them dropped his tray, and Domashov jerked when a cup shattered against the tiled floor.
“Nestor Lazarev?” he said, wiping his mouth with his soiled napkin. “Not much is known of what he was doing before 1991. I’ve done a fair amount of research and found out that he’s lived mostly in Moscow and has been well-connected. He seems to have been a pioneer in telecommunications. There was an earlier incarnation of his company in Saint Petersburg, some kind of experimental operation before this business with cellular telephony took off. He seems to have some kind of military background, but that doesn’t mean much—so many people do. All traces end around 1964. Before that there’s nothing having to do with him. It’s as though he suddenly came into existence as a middle-aged man.”
“And Pashie? Do you think she got to him?”
“She probably tried. I was told to lay off, right?”
Every time he said this, Max got the feeling there was something Domashov really wanted to tell him. He remembered how Margarita had expressed herself when he pressed her: “I’ve never met anyone from that organization.” He decided to try asking Domashov about the organization she had referred to.
“Why don’t you tell me about the organization that controls St. Petersburg GSM? About the people who transfer millions of dollars from foreign bank accounts.”
Domashov took a sip of his tea and brushed his long hair away from his forehead. “That’s where I hit the wall. And that’s where I let it go. Completely. I swear on my mother’s grave.” He looked around quickly and then leaned forward again; their heads were almost touching.
“You mean the Ivanovich Foundation?” he said in a low voice. “I believe it’s a consortium with connections to the first-generation Russian mafia, established by powerful old Party members in the inner circle around the original godfather of all mafia activity in Russia.” Domashov took a deep breath. “Former general secretary Leonid Brezhnev. Do you feel like dropping this now?”
Max held the door for Domashov as they left. Ivanovich. Nationalistic, one of the most common Russian patronymics. A perfect name for a foundation that wanted to attract as little attention as possible.
“Brezhnev?” said Max when they were out on the street. “How old is that Lazarev?”
“As I said, all traces end in 1964.”
“But you must have found out something about that foundation. Where was it registered? And who registered it? There must be some record.”
Domashov coughed. “Yes, there is. The foundation was registered by a man who was then working for the global giant KPMG in Switzerland and who now has a fast-growing company here in the city.”
Brice & Stadthaller. Marcel Rousseau.
Domashov didn’t even need to say anything. Max understood how everything was connected.
They were crossing Nevsky Prospekt when Max suddenly heard a sound behind them and turned around. A black Mercedes rushed toward them. He grabbed Domashov and pulled him closer, but he wasn’t fast enough. The front of the Mercedes struck Domashov in the side, and Max lost his grip on him. Domashov’s body was thrown with great force into the wall of a building, rebounded onto the sidewalk, and rolled into the street.
“Yury!” Max screamed.
Helplessly, he looked at the motionless, bloody body of the man who had just been talking to him with such engagement.
Max rushed to him and knelt beside him, heard the Mercedes drive away at high speed.
People came running from everywhere. Max fought against the shock; he felt cautiously around Domashov’s throat for a pulse but didn’t find one. His neck had been broken. Max quickly stuck his hands in Domashov’s pockets and got hold of a key ring. Before anyone else could reach the body, he had slipped it into his jacket pocket.
35
Sarah flipped through the papers again. Where had she put the article about unrest among factory workers in the Moscow suburbs who had gone four months without being paid their salaries?
She sighed, pushed her glasses down her nose, and gently rubbed her eyebrows. The headache she had already felt coming this morning didn’t want to let go. She never had headaches.
Her thoughts always returned to what Max had told her. About the blood in Pashie’s bathroom. The explosion at the Department of Economics. She remembered Mishin’s broken voice when she had spoken with him.
When she had gotten to the office, she had called Södersjukhuset, but they had said Borgenstierna was too weak to receive visitors. Was he really too weak, or did he prefer not to talk to her? Should she drive over there and surprise him? She made some notes in the notebook in front of her, suddenly wanted a cigar.
A knock on the doorframe made her glance up. Charlie looked at her with a smile.
“I see the lamp of industry is burning here. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Sarah pointed at the visitor’s chair, but Charlie stayed in the doorway.
“Is it okay if I close the door?”
What now? It was Saturday, and they were completely alone at Vektor. Nevertheless, Charlie wanted the door closed.
She nodded slightly, and Charlie carefully clicked the door shut. He sat down in the blue armchair across from Sarah, crossed his legs.
He cleared his throat.
“As you know, I meet many people via my various board positions, some of whom are among the most important heads of companies in Sweden.”
“And no one butters them up better than you do, Charlie. If it weren’t for your ability to do that, we wouldn’t be sitting in this office today.”
Charlie looked around the room, at the stylish blond furniture. Nodded at the big window.
“I think—I hope—we’ve managed to accumulate a good deal of trust,” he said. “Today I got a call from a good friend who happens to be one of our biggest sponsors. Frank Ståhl, Telia’s media-relations director.”
“I saw him interviewed on morning TV the other day,” said Sarah, who doubted that Frank and Charlie were particularly good friends. “He got quite a grilling.”
Charlie sighed and adjusted his suit jacket, entirely unnecessarily.
“That meltdown has given them serious problems. And lost customers, I might add.”
“But he did what he could to convince the TV audience that he had everything under control.”
“Yes, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
There was now no trace of his earlier light, conversational tone.
“What he told me was strictly confidential, and I must ask you to treat it accordingly.”
Sarah nodded.
“Telia has three hundred thousand digital cellular telephone users, twice as many as the company’s biggest competitor; they predict they’ll have three million within fifteen years. In addition, they control the entire analog network for landline telephony. And as if that weren’t enough, radio and TV are increasingly dependent on Telia’s infrast
ructure. According to Frank, the people behind the meltdown have shown that they can go in and control all of Telia’s systems and thus, in practice, control the country’s flow of information.”
Charlie was describing something that was usually a component of an invasion plan. He had always had a tendency to be attracted to conspiracy theories, was always paranoid when it came to threats to Swedish sovereignty.
Charlie bent forward, lowered his voice more. “There’s been a new penetration of their system.”
“Another blackout? I haven’t noticed.”
“No,” said Charlie. “Not a blackout. The second penetration was much more limited, and if they hadn’t been at maximum-alert status, they might not even have discovered it. No major damage, this time. But there are similarities in the methods used.”
The window rattled as a sudden gust of wind struck the building.
“And why did Frank tell you this?”
“Frank knows I’m on your board, Sarah. He wants to keep the authorities, the police, and the Swedish Security Service out of it. If they become involved, the press will be all over it, and Frank thinks that then they’ll lose control completely.”
He cleared his throat. Straightened his jacket again.
“In connection with the second attack, someone got access to confidential information. The hacker briefly had the system wide open. He could have done whatever he wanted with it—emptied the system of information, destroyed it, placed calls from other people’s telephones. But he was only after one thing. Information about a single customer.”
“Who?”
“Vektor,” said Charlie. “The second attack was carried out to acquire information about us.”
36
Max was back at the dormitory. He followed the fence and finally came to the hole in the wire Domashov had mentioned. Domashov had known much more than he had told Max. If his editor in chief had ordered him to stop digging in St. Petersburg GSM’s business, the information he had acquired would hardly be at his workplace. It was logical to search Domashov’s apartment.
Ask No Mercy (Max Anger Book 1) Page 14