“ No, but there is one item that will interest you. I think you will—”
“We are overdue for something of interest. Proceed.”
“The item is left over from the former administration, but it has only recently been
brought to my attention.”
Putin waved an arm. “Never mind the preliminaries. Proceed.”
Kudrin described The Mannerling Trust and the research President Yeltsin’s people
had done.
“The Trust now has ten billion dollars? I am hearing that correctly?” “Yes.”
“Finance Minister, you would have me believe that intelligence regarding this money
has been hidden during the almost four years of my administration?”
“Yes. It seems to have been lost in the confusion of the last days of Boris
Nikolayevich’s administration.”
“Lost? Then how did you come by it?”
“One of Boris Nikolayevich’s cronies, one Grosinzky, headed the assignment to
recover the assets. After Yeltsin’s resignation, Grosinzky went underground with the
information. He came to us two days ago, brimming with avowals that he had
safeguarded the information and had come forth at this time for patriotic reasons.” “You doubt this?”
“It makes no difference. I believe that the money is still there, undisturbed.” “So what is our position?
“Awaiting your orders.”
“What can we do to revitalize the recovery effort?”
He gestured to his aides. “I recommend we assign one of these young men to
undertake that mission.”
Putin glanced at the men. “Do so. Keep me informed.”
April 8, Moscow
Next day, Kudrin gestured for the four men to enter. “Think of it,” Lamonsky said, “around eleven or twelve billion rubles—once upon a time.”
“Not recently, Georgi Ivanovich,” Kudrin said. “All right, to work. I must select one of you. Who has visited London?”
Mikhail Sergeevich Mashcherov did not raise his hand.
“You may go.”
“But, sir?”
“I must have veterans for this task.”
“New York City?”
The remaining three nodded.
“Each of you—how many visits to America?”
Ivan Arkadyevich Kostov raised his hand. “Six visits, including a two-week assignment in San Francisco.”
“So many? Can either of you surpass that?”
Neither could.
“Please remain, Ivan Arkadyevich.”
Kudrin studied his choice. He was a large, gruff-looking man of some forty years. He was sturdily built with the coloring of one who is given to outdoor living. The navy blue suit had come from the racks at GUM and not too recently. The white shirt’s collar was spread beyond the current style and the tie was a nondescript light blue, with a tight knot. A soldier not yet accustomed to civilian clothing. The hair was black, with streaks of gray above his ears. Light blue eyes, with the slight slant sometimes seen among Great Russians. A long white scar along his right jaw line. Powerful looking hands.
Kostov, uneasy as he sensed Kudrin’s examination, opened a package of Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes and offered the package to the Minister.
Kudrin accepted and offered a light. He breathed deeply. “Now, tell me about yourself.”
“There’s not much beyond the file, sir.”
Kudrin touched the Kostov’s personnel file. “I’ve read it. I want to hear what you have to say about yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I was born in Leningrad November 27, 1962.”
“Two years younger than I.”
Kostov hesitated. “I am amazed, sir. Given your position, I expected you to be much older.” He hesitated. “Except for your personal appearance, of course. But I did not mean—”
Kudrin smiled. “Thank you, Ivan Arkadyevich. I know what you meant. Good education and good fortune have been key for me. Go ahead.”
“I was drafted into the army in 1983. I was—”
“Having finished four years at Moscow State University?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How did you find yourself in the KBG?”
“When Andropov took charge in 1984 there was an effort to improve management. Given my performance at the University, I was simply assigned there. Perhaps you may remember how things were done then.”
“Indeed. Your family?”
“My father is sixty-two and an electrician. He lives in—St. Petersburg. Excuse me. I am still not quite comfortable with the name change.”
Kudrin smiled.
“I am an only child. My mother died in childbirth. My father was able to arrange the special schooling that allowed me to enter the University.”
“You were fortunate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Married?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Kostov shrugged. “My duties have made my life too unsettled to consider a long- term relationship.” He paused. “Or perhaps I have not met the right woman, sir.”
Kudrin stared at Kostov, then glanced at the open file. “Very well. Now, what about your activities within the Second Chief Directorate?”
“I was assigned to language school. English and German. Then, as a manager, I directed those who were watching foreigners. Compiling reports and recommending action against enemy agents—foreign, that is—and our own people. Routine counterespionage activities.”
“Routine? The file states that you foiled the defection of Comrade Victor Adamovich Melsen to the Chinese.”
“I was fortunate.”
“It is one of the reasons you were brought to my attention.”
Kostov didn’t reply.
“Your transition to Federal’ya Sluzba Bezopasnosti?”
“It went smoothly, sir. Not for everyone, but I was never political and so had few enemies.”
Kudrin nodded. “You are on the short list for general officer at FSB, and yet you did not resist your seconding to us?”
“If I may speak frankly, sir?”
Kudrin nodded.
“FSB was changing for the worse by the time the opportunity arose. It became difficult for me to differentiate between the foxes and the chickens. When the seconding was proposed, the opportunity to leave counter-espionage and crime-fighting was preferable to a possible promotion.”
“I see.” Kudrin walked to the window. “What is your attitude toward Americans?”
“In general, I like them. Most seem honest and sincere.”
“They have not had communism to deal with all of their lives.”
Kostov nodded.
“How about the British?”
“I like most of them as well, but they are a civilization on the down-turn.”
Kudrin closed the personnel folder, then handed Kostov a thin file. “Read this, then return tomorrow at four. Consider if a temporary posting to America would present you with any personal problems.”
“Yes, sir.” Kostov turned to go.
“Two further points, Ivan Arkadyevich.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you find that a mission outside the country is odd for one seconded from FSB, from personnel who have typically served within Russia?”
“Perhaps.”
“It is not. It is well considered. I shall explain my reasoning another day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The second point relates to your previous posting. At the Finance Ministry we try to employ a lighter touch than that with which you have been accustomed.”
Kostov smiled.
April 12
Four days later, Kostov began his assignment. The receptionist at Collier’s Bank was
polite. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s midday here. The staff are at lunch. Please return your
call after two thirty and ask for Inquiries.”
At fo
ur thirty, Moscow time, Kostov replaced the call. Mr. Potts in Inquiries
accepted the call.
He listened to the reason for the call, then put Kostov on hold.
Potts returned to the line moments later. “No, sir, I’m sorry to say, I’ve reviewed our
list of accounts and I find nothing for The Mannerling Trust.”
“No? Then I must visit the Bank.”
“You may arrive at Collier’s, Mr. Kostov, but you should know that you may not be
received.” He hesitated. “And being received does not necessarily mean you will be
provided any information concerning our customers. Collier’s Bank is a private bank.” “Mr. Potts, I am an agent of the Russian Federation. If—”
“Mr. Kostov, perhaps you misunderstand the meaning of the word private when
describing a British bank.”
“If your Queen arrived to—”
“If Her Majesty arrived at Collier’s, we would do everything in our power to make
her visit pleasant, but we would not disclose customer information without authorization
from the customer—or an order from a competent authority, of course.” Kostov was at a loss for words.
“Have I made myself quite clear, Mr. Kostov?”
“Abundantly.”
Half an hour later Kostov had explained the situation at Collier’s Bank to the Finance Minister’s secretary and had received Kudrin’s response. Ambassador Karasin’s people were to make an appointment. “He added, sir, quote, he does not expect to be called by you every time someone gets in your way. You should remember who you are and whom you represent, end quote.”
April 14 Kostov arrived in London two days later. A porter led Kostov to the office of David R. Massey, Assistant to the Managing Director of Collier’s Bank. The office was large and crowded with Victorian antiques. The drapes, purple and heavy, were closed against the bright sunlight. Kostov sniffed. There was an odor—covered by heavy incense— that he remembered from his days along the Afghan border.
Massey was forty, short, and too fat for his waistcoat. His dark hair was artificially wavy and he wore rimless glasses, tinted blue.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Kostov said.
“I was not engaged this afternoon.”
“To my business?”
“Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Massey shrugged.
“I am here on the business of the Finance Ministry.”
“So Potts explained to me.”
“We—by which I mean a variety of Russian governments—have received annual reports via your bank regarding the activities and status of a financial institution named The Mannerling Trust.”
Massey did not reply.
“I am detailed by Finance Minister Kudrin to learn about the Trust and to determine if—as we suspect—the assets it holds belong to the Russian Federation.”
Massey shook his head. “I don’t think I can help you, Mr. Kostov. I have no knowledge of such a customer.”
“Perhaps your bank acts in some other capacity, perhaps as a forwarding agent.”
“If Collier’s Bank had such a role, whoever arranged for us to accomplish such forwarding would be a customer. Do you have that party’s name?”
“No.”
Massey stood. “Let me examine our customer ledger again.”
He returned five minutes later. “I’m very sorry, but I found nothing. There is one hope, however. Do you have the latest report?”
Kostov shook his head. “No, I had not expected to require—”
Massey extended his hand. “Mr. Kostov, I’m sorry that Collier’s Bank couldn’t have been of more assistance.”
Kostov remained seated.
Massey raised his chin. “If that’s all, Mr. Kostov, I have another engagement.”
That same day, Hazlett called. “We have some new loose cash, Sam, and we’d like you to take it.”
“Delighted. How much is there?”
“Sixty million.”
“Loose cash!” Larson said. “Thank you.”
Larson switched lines and called Rubenstein.
“An emergency? What is it?”
“It’s a very nice emergency, Aaron, but it’s something that has to be dealt with right
away.”
“Can we handle it over the—”
“No. You’ll understand when I explain.”
“The Varsity at the usual time?”
“Yes.”
Rubenstein was at what had become his usual table at six-thirty that evening, nursing his usual Diet Coke.
“What’s the nice emergency?”
“I’ve just taken a new sixty million from—”
“Great!”
“But that means that I’ve outgrown the OEX.”
“Outgrown?”
“Investments of the size this new money will require would begin to move the market. The CBOE would observe those effects and move against us.”
“You have an idea?”
“I’d like to start trading the SPX.”
Rubenstein shrugged.
“Forgive me. It’s the index option for the S&P500.”
Rubenstein smiled. “So you want me to return to my beginnings?”
“Yes. I want a prediction for both options.”
April 18
Kudrin took Kostov’s call mid-morning. “I am mystified by this bank’s behavior,
Ivan Arkadyevich. The Ministry receives annual statements. Except for an omission in
1917, there is a complete set of financial statements.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Therefore, your contact at the Bank is lying to you.”
“For what purpose, I wonder.”
“As do I. I shall have a few of the statements faxed to you at the Embassy. You can
take them to the bank and establish your bona fides.”
“I am afraid not, sir.”
“Not? Not what?”
“I do not believe this man Massey will accept a fax—something that could be
falsified. I do not think anything short of an original would suffice.”
Kudrin sighed. “All right, come back and get yourself better prepared. Then go deal
with these people.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Ivan Arkadyevich, try to improve your understanding of who you are in this
activity. When next you encounter someone at any level short of that, do not ask him for
as little as the time of day. Tell him what he is to do and when he is to do it. The
admonition I gave you concerning a lighter touch did not mean evidencing frailty.”
April 19
By late morning the following day, Kostov was back in the ministry, had re-read all
of the materials available, and had signed for ten of the original reports from Collier’s
Bank.
At one o’clock he approached a man sitting on a bench near the entrance to Park
Pobedy. The man was in his late forties, slender, and dressed in the latest clothing from
Savile Row.
Kostov smiled. “Fyodor Feliksevich, it has been a time. You look well.” “You approve of the white hair?” Dratenko said.
“Very distinguished.”
“My life since our days at Lubyanka has perhaps been more trying than yours.” “Perhaps. Or perhaps I have better genes got hair color.”
“Perhaps. In any case, I am concentrating on holding on to the hair, whatever the
color.”
Kostov opened a string bag and distributed the contents on the bench between them. Dratenko took a bite of dark bread. “Tell me why I am here.”
Kostov described his assignment and his problem with the London bank. “I have no
clue as to what game the Bank is playing.”
“You still have ties at the former First Chief Directorate, do you not?” “Yes.
Rodensky, for one.”
“Perfect. He is—or at least was—of sufficient stature to aid you. Begin by asking
him if he has any actionable information regarding this Massey.”
Kostov nodded. “I should have thought of that. Thank you for your time, Fyodor
Feliksevich.”
“Thank you for lunch.”
Kostov looked at the remains of the sausage and beer. “You are a most inexpensive
informant.”
“Cheap date,” Dratenko said in English.
“Cheap date?”
“An Americanism. My lunch was not expensive for you.”
Kostov smiled. “I had noted your return and your promotion to the Security Council
staff, but I do not know where you have been.”
“Two years in London with the trade people, a year at home, and two years in the
rezidentura in Washington.”
“A great deal of exposure to things Anglo-Saxon.” Kostov paused. “I may soon have
additional reason to call upon your knowledge.”
Dratenko gestured at the remains of their luncheon. “Provide me with additional fine
fare such as this and I am yours.”
Kostov located Max Rodensky that afternoon. He was willing, but the SVR files were not helpful. David R. Massey had been a member of two leftist student organizations at Huddersfield University twenty years before, but he had not participated in any activities worth an attempt to blackmail him and had switched to the Tories as soon as he departed the University’s gates. There had been a hint of homosexuality, but not more than attended many British schoolboys.
Kostov called Kudrin.
“Rodensky? Enterprising of you, Ivan Arkadyevich.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I wonder if he was the correct man. There is confusion everywhere. Go back to
London and lead the local SVR people in a search for a lever on this man. Drugs, homosexuality, gambling.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And get on with this. The President is waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” “I’m assigning your associate Mashcherov to handle communications between you and me. Important as your mission is, I’m spending too much time worrying about the details of this operation.”
April 20
Kostov called Mashcherov from the London embassy the following day. “Nothing
but an unpleasant divorce and attendant financial distress.”
“I shall brief the Minister.”
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