by Chad Huskins
Still, if Metveyev thought he could work his magic, Rideau figured why not let him run with it. That was, after all, what he’d been brought in to do: facilitate and liaise.
“Fine then,” Rideau said to the ambassador. “You work your angles, and Mitchell and Desh, you boys keep searching for more of the girls. I want every single one of them found and freed as soon as possible, and I want to know what they know about their pimps and their abductors.”
Metveyev sighed and put his hands on his knees, grunting as he stood. “I will make the calls right away.”
“There’s something else you should hear before you go,” she said. “Mitchell, tell him the other thing.”
“There’s another thing?”
Mitchell nodded. “We need you to talk to your people at FSB about something else. Something’s just come through the pipeline from a buddy of mine working with Moscow police. It’s not confirmed yet, he just got it in an e-mail.”
“What is it?”
“The name Spencer Pelletier ring a bell?”
The ambassador made a face. It was strange to see stone wrinkle. “It’s somewhat familiar. Where do I know it from?”
“He occasionally pops up on our most wanted lists,” Rideau supplied. “Atlanta. Six, seven months ago? The—”
“Ah, yes, yes, the Rainbow Room, da. What about him?”
“My guy in Moscow said he got an e-mail from the police in Chelyabinsk,” said Mitchell. “He said there’s a camera in Chelyabinsk Airport that took a picture of a man moving through Customs, ran it through facial-recognition software. Chelyabinsk is one of the cities Interpol and Moscow have been working with to test out some upgrades to our global security net—”
Metveyev waved a dismissive hand. “I know, I know, I was a part of the committee that gave the go-ahead. What did they find?”
“It looks like Pelletier.”
“They’ve confirmed it, then? Pelletier is there? Have they formed a net?”
“Not yet, Moscow just got confirmation from Interpol, and they’ve just informed Chelyabinsk police. Facial-recognition picked it up at a seventy-eight-point nodal match.” The highest nodal match for current facial recognition software was 80. This was substantial.
The ambassador nodded. “That’s good. But what does the Rainbow Room have to do with the Grey Wolf or the vory?”
Rideau cleared her throat. “The girl that Desh and Mitchell found in India, the woman that got sold and smuggled in one of those containers, she’s Russian. She speaks the language, and overheard the people selling her talking to the buyers. Mitchell showed her a picture of Shcherbakov, and she said that he said a lot of things about stops he has to make next. He said he was in a hurry to complete the transaction, that he had to get to Chelyabinsk fairly quickly.”
“Chelyabinsk, eh?” Metveyev nodded thoughtfully. “I see. It could be a coincidence.”
“Both are believed to be involved in human trafficking, and I think it’s a pretty big coincidence that this man Pelletier, who the FBI is fairly confident had a big part in the Rainbow Room’s operations—which puts him in bed with the vory v zakone—is in Chelyabinsk at the same time as the Grey Wolf.”
On the computer screen, Agent Desh put in, “And we’ve been looking at the Chelyabinsk region a lot recently, especially the ports around the Miass River. We’ve just…well, we’ve met resistance from FSB and Chelyabinsk Police in getting search warrants for those docks.”
Rideau knew that the ambassador hadn’t missed that much. The Miass River flowed out from the Ural Mountains, to join the Iset River, which continued northeast to join with the Tobol River, which led directly to the Ob River and eventually to the Arctic Ocean, an estuary of the Atlantic Ocean. In those frozen waters, very few government-sanctioned security vessels sailed. It was considered a desperate ploy by traffickers to go that far out of the way to move their cargos, human and otherwise, but as Interpol and all other police agencies were pushing towards greater high-tech advancements, some syndicates were moving into a decidedly low-tech philosophy; a sort of “roughing it” approach to their operations. The scary part was how well it often worked. It had taken ten years to find Osama bin Laden, who had remained quite off the grid, and it was equally difficult to spot lone, undocumented tankers moving across the oceans.
“I think this is worth looking into,” she said. “I’m going to Chelyabinsk, and I’m going to meet with some of the officers working these cases, as well as those that have been looking into At-ta Biral.”
The ambassador finally showed a degree of surprise at this, and puzzlement. “At-ta Biral? That’s a Bangladeshi problem, not anything to do with Chelyabinsk.”
“International rings are trading secrets, trading people, trading skills,” Rideau emphasized. “You know that more than anybody. Remember the girl that Desh and Mitchell helped the CBI find and rescue was sold from Sadarghat Port, the major port in Bangladesh. She also said that the people that sold her to the Indian pimps were solely Bangladeshi, and that while she was their prisoner, she saw them maiming children.” She added, “Forced begging.”
That always went to the heart of anyone working in Interpol. Of all the atrocities currently happening on planet Earth, there were few that could possibly touch the abominable practice of forced begging.
All across Bangladesh, the epidemic was growing. Children taken from their parents, or else orphans left on the streets with nowhere else to go, and put on street corners and forced to beg for change. But that wasn’t where the tragedy ended. Oh no, far from it. The Bangladeshi gangs were known far and wide for a uniquely vicious level of forced begging. They removed parts of the children’s bodies—the eyes, the hands, perhaps the feet or whole legs—because maimed children got more pity from passersby, and pitied children earned more in handouts.
At-ta Biral was the leading gang in Dakha, the capital city of Bangladesh. It was a gang that originated out of a single man named Manna Rahman, a devout Muslim who had once had considerable ties to major terrorist organizations, including al-Queda.
One day, as the story went, Manna Rahman took his eight sons to a pet store and bought a kitten for each of them. He taught them to love the kittens, raise them, feed them, and treat them like brothers. After a year, he ordered all of his sons to kill their cats. He told them he would only consider the ones that could kill their precious pets to be strong enough to lead once he was dead. All eight of his sons killed their cats, and so, after he died, they all fought bloody feuds for years in the streets, each brother vying for control over the others’ territories, until finally a middle child, Shakib, made peace between all of them, combined their considerable resources once more, and the At-ta Biral became more powerful and brutal than ever.
Presently, Metveyev sucked on the mint in his mouth thoughtfully. “So,” he said, “you think that At-ta Biral has a presence in Chelyabinsk now. And you think the Grey Wolf and this Pelletier are tied up into it?”
“It’s possible,” Rideau said with a shrug. “There have been some stories of forced begging cropping up in both Moscow and Chelyabinsk. And right now, Chelyabinsk Police are working with a woman named Vasilisa Rubashkin, a young model who says she’s seen girls disappearing after visiting certain modeling agencies, some of which we’ve known are tied up to the pimps and dealers. And a year ago, we had a report about a lieutenant to Shakib Rahman that visited Chelyabinsk with interest in looking for refuge for both himself and Rahman, since Bangladeshi police are starting to root him out of his hiding holes.” Rideau looked at the Russian liaison. “Rahman is looking for a new home. He’s taken a hint from the Russian and Italian Mafias, and he’s starting to conduct business in his country while living outside of his country.”
Metveyev nodded slowly, sucked on his mint. “I see,” he said at length.
“To be clear, I’ll not be looking too deeply into Pelletier. We’ve got word that quality investigators are already searching for him. The Grey Wolf and At-ta Biral will have my att
ention, however. As will this,” she said, opening her briefcase and pulling out a report in a manila envelope.
“What is this?” the Russian asked, accepting it.
“We ran a search merger and back-checked all transactions that have been happening with accounts known to high-ranking vory, even those currently in prison. You’ll find the totals and the bank destination of each in the last column.” Rideau gave him a moment to glance over these. Metveyev produced a pair of bifocals, scanned them quickly, then removed them, looking as unimpressed as he had before reading the numbers. “Those are major bank accounts at the National Chelyabinsk Bank, Ambassador. Lots of money has been moving through that region, through those accounts. A lot of this activity is clearly laundering.”
“You seem to have found a convergence in Chelyabinsk,” he said. Around the Interpol offices, convergence was a hot word, and a highly-coveted one. “Still, I would talk to the Director first, if I were you, before you go off on this little quest.”
“I already have. My flight leaves in an hour.” Metveyev’s face was the very essence of a statue. “And yes, I do feel that this shows clear signs of convergence, and the Director agrees with me that we have actionable intelligence on the table here, which is why these separate investigations in Chelyabinsk have been upgraded to priority one.” A convergence was just shy of Holy Grail-status in the intelligence-gathering community. Long ago, intel analysts had learned that such convergences were rarely coincidences, and Interpol had developed the system of immediately upgrading an investigation to “priority one” should such a confluence of data, sightings, and investigations emerge.
Of course, Interpol’s agents could do nothing about the apprehension and arresting of those guilty. That part was left up to local authorities. Interpol was not an agency in the business of arresting. Rather, they investigated, collated data from various agencies, and collaborated with them. Then, if necessary, and if the local authorities wished it, Interpol coordinated operations across regions, timing the execution of various operations simultaneously around the world, nabbing various criminals involved in organized syndicates at once so that they had no time to communicate with one another, or learn of the others’ arrests on the television or Internet. Interpol agents didn’t even carry guns, no matter which country they were deployed to.
This was an opportunity that could not be missed. Coordination would be necessary to connect these dots in a manageable timeline, and the information that might be gleaned from this convergence was potentially fathomless.
The FSB liaison sighed. “You understand what hold the vory have over Russian police agencies, government buildings, even politicians, yes? If you go there asking questions, and any one of the vory’s bought officers gets word, it will get to Shcherbakov. And that could be very dangerous for you. I understand he’s killed an Interpol inspector before?”
Detective-Inspector Aurélie Rideau nodded. Yes, she was well aware of the dangers, and she was also well aware of what Shcherbakov had done to Detective-Inspector Jacques Dubois. Not a close friend, but a colleague. One that had gone searching for Steege and Heesters. The journalists were never seen again. But Dubois had been. He’d been seen just fine.
“It’ll be safe,” Rideau told him. “I know some of the people down there. They’re good officers. Safe, professional, and trustworthy.”
As soon as he left Rideau’s office, Metveyev was searching his phone. Even though he knew there was little use until he was well outside of the building—its walls contained piezoelectric oscillators and radio saturation emitters, to keep eavesdroppers out of their operations, but it also prevented most cellular singles from escaping. Only the landlines and direct satellite links worked.
When he stepped out of the building, a driver was waiting on him. The black sedan was just one of a fleet that Interpol agents and personnel were permitted while on the clock. One of the perks of accepting this post in France, on behalf of the Motherland.
Metveyev got inside, and immediately told his driver to take him to Les Café des Fédérations, which wasn’t unusual for him. It wasn’t fine dining, but it was the best, hearty French food to be had in the city. He ordered the pig’s cheek stew, a single glass of wine, and then asked the waiter to leave him alone for the duration of his meal. “Je ne vais pas avoir besoin de vos services,” he said. “Merci.” The waiter bowed and turned to leave.
Metveyev took out his phone and punched only one key, automatically dialing the number he had ready. One ring, that was all. “Bonjour?” said the voice at the other end. The FSB liaison had never met the owner of that voice, and if God was good, he never would.
“Vous pouvez dire à votre homme qu'il a raison,” he said. “Pelletier est là. Mais ils savent aussi votre homme arrive là. Il est sur le point de devenir très chaud à Chelyabinsk, il serait sage de dire à vos gens de sortir.” Translation: You can tell your man he’s right. Pelletier is there. But they also know your man is coming there. It is about to get very hot in Chelyabinsk, it would be wise to tell your people to get out.
The silence held. Then, “Merci.” The line went dead.
Metveyev looked at his phone, thinking. He then replaced it in his coat pocket and took another sip of his pig’s cheek stew, turning it over in his mouth, ruminating. A degree of guilt had begun to eclipse his heart, but like most Russians, and most men in his situation, he had learned to live with pain. It only made good sense to do what he’d done. If not…
If not, they will have my family. If not, they’ll do to my brother and two sisters what they did to the others. Ambassador Gregori Metveyev knew those names better than Detective-Inspector Aurélie Rideau: Jacobus van den Broek, Aldo Daalder, Willeke Ommen, and many others. Almost two dozen victims that were never reported by Moscow Police, by orders of FSB. The Mafia had grown strong, with various arms spreading across the globe, merging with other syndicates.
What the United Nations had done to bring together countries, and what Interpol had done to bring together police agencies, organized criminal syndicates were also managing to do the same. They were still working out the kinks, but soon, probably within the next decade, they will have set the new standard. Something even more powerful than the Five Families in America, something even more far-reaching than the many cartels in South America. Something else was emerging, some new, dangerous creature.
Evil is on the rise. Those were the words of his father, who gave his entire life to public service, and who never once was forced to succumb to the corruption he saw in his fellow officials all around him. “All over the world,” his father had said. “Evil is on the rise, and it cannot be stopped. That is what keeps me up at night. That is what has me most afraid.” Metveyev had disagreed with his father, saying that nothing has changed. To which his father replied, “No? A global economy that ensnares us all, makes us so dependent on each other. You don’t see it growing? Capitalism.” The word was venom when he said it. “What about the rise in gun violence in the U.S.? School shootings, workplace shootings…they have more gun laws than they did in the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s, yet gun violence is on the rise. One never heard about such school shootings as those of Columbine and Newtown, Connecticut, not when I was younger. The Americans and the British attack al-Queda and other networks, yet terrorist attacks are more frequent now. And the vory…”
Gregori Metveyev remembered that discussion with his father quite vividly, just six months before he died from a sudden malady. There was some discussion of poison, but the illness had been of a nature no doctor had been able to identify. Metveyev had forgotten that conversation for some time, but it came back to him more frequently these days. “Evil is on the rise.” He spoke the words without knowing it, after he finally swallowed his mouthful soup.
Metveyev did not have a large family, but he had enough that he cared for their safety. It meant he was compromised. It meant that they had gotten to him. It meant that the Mafia had found just one more way into Interpol and its operations, the sam
e way that nations were able to turn informants inside the ranks of their enemy’s intelligence agencies, so too had the criminal syndicates found this useful. It had always been this way, but now they were becoming more sophisticated doing it.
Gregori Metveyev had never seen himself as one of those easily manipulated, and would never have guessed he would be the one to betray his people, to betray his brothers and sisters in law enforcement, or to betray the trust of his friends and family in the Motherland.
I am no longer functioning as a man of the law, he thought, taking another sip of soup. I am not even a worthy criminal, not one to be trusted in the ranks of the vory v zakone. I’m a tool to both sides, no longer operating as an individual. I straddle the line to keep my family safe. He took a sip of wine, looked out the bay window, onto a street bustling with activity, with tourists and locals on a leisurely stroll. Metveyev could see them, but he could never be one of them again.
The soup was good. Resigned to it all, he took another slurp, finished his wine, and returned to the office.
3
The school was an alien planet, and Kaley still hadn’t charted all the dangers. The double doors were directly ahead of her, but getting to them meant navigating through various herds of animals she was unfamiliar with: the white goth kids, the black boys who had aspirations of thug life, the rich kids with tucked in Polo shirts and Ugg boots, the poor kids with their matted hair and faded shirts (washed and rewashed too many times), the jocks in their jerseys, and of course, the “stragglers,” the ones that had no affiliation, and sometimes had no aspirations to merge with any group, or else hadn’t found one that would accept them yet. Awkward nerds, kids recently moved from some other school, kids too ugly to be loved; all of these fit into the last group.