“You don’t agree?”
“With the first part, yes,” he said. “But I’m not sure Krasnikov was killed for any other reason than to make way for someone who would green-light the Petr Square development.” He turned to the laptop and opened the browser. “There’s got to be something in English about this Piotr Zhibek somewhere online.” He began typing in the search box and waited for a list of results, groaning when he saw that they were all indecipherable. He clicked through the next page with much the same result.
“What about Natalia’s theory about Surin’s sponsor — that someone in power was pulling the strings to advance his career?” Sophie said. “What if he’s somehow connected to Bayzhanov, as well? That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” She turned away from the window to see Charlie still staring at the screen.
“Charlie?”
He gestured at the screen. “There’s an article here on Zhibek by a group called Journalists Without Borders.”
“It’s in English?” She approached the coffee table and looked over his shoulder to read the article’s title: “There Are No Coincidences.”
“It says they believe Zhibek was killed because of questions he was asking about a drug informant. A guy who was preparing to name names before he was killed in prison.”
“Does it say when that guy was killed?” Sophie asked, as she scanned for a date. It wasn’t until Charlie scrolled down a page that they both spotted the date — August 14.
“Wait a second.” Charlie flipped through the printout of Liepa’s notes. That’s the day before Zhibek was killed.”
They both sat staring at the screen in silence for a moment, then Sophie spoke.
“So Steve shows up and interviews Zhibek — about what we’re not really sure, other than a reference to the Customs Union thing — and within two days after he leaves Astana, the reporter we think he met with dies in his sleep, and the prisoner he was possibly talking to is murdered in jail. Not to mention what happens to Steve not long after he returns to Moscow.” She paused. “We’ve got to be close. What do his notes say again?”
Charlie flipped to the notes corresponding to the dates Liepa was in Astana and scanned them again. “There’s shit-all here,” he said in frustration, passing the document to Sophie. He got to his feet and then sat again, this time at the end of the bed, which made his courier bag fall and its contents spill onto the floor.
“I wish I knew what the hell was in his head — what all this gobbledygook shorthand is supposed to mean,” Sophie complained. “The only thing I can understand is the part at the end, where it says ‘Follow up PZ,’ which isn’t much help, since we know he wouldn’t have had the chance to do much follow-up with Piotr Zhibek — the guy was dead within forty-eight hours of Steve leaving town.”
Charlie had picked up his bag and was holding the copy of the Moscow News that he’d been given on the plane. “What did his notes say about PZ again?”
“You just read through them.” Frustration had crept into Sophie’s voice.
“Read it to me,” he said, his voice oddly flat as he continued to stare at the front page of the newspaper.
“Read what to you — ‘Follow up PZ’?”
“Not ‘Follow up with PZ.’”
Sophie looked at him as though he had lost it — until he showed her the article on the bottom of the front page of the newspaper. There was a picture of a man in a sharp suit that accentuated the muscular frame that lay beneath. His face wore a boyish smile, but his eyes were pure steel with, overall, the hardened look of a former soldier, capped off by a blond brush cut. The headline beneath read, “Zhukov to Run for Mayor of Moscow.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ve never heard of Mr. Clean?”
“Mr. Clean?”
“He’s an ex-KGB man with close ties to the Kremlin. He’s been all but given the mayor’s chair.”
“I thought the election wasn’t until February.”
“Hard to believe, reading this.” Charlie gestured to the article.
“I still don’t understand what this has to do with —”
“Listen to this,” Charlie said, taking the newspaper back and reading aloud from the article: “‘Zhukov’s career is the stuff of legend, starting with his two tours of duty at the head of a commando unit in Chechnya and a key undercover role in breaking a sleeper cell of terrorists who were planning to bomb the Bolshoi. His appointment as the head of the anti-narcotics directorate for central Asia followed several years at the head of Moscow’s anti-terrorism division of the FSB. It was only recently, when his undercover work was acknowledged by an unknown Kremlin source, that it was revealed that Zhukov dismantled the biggest heroin-distribution network in central Asia during a three-year undercover operation in Kazakhstan a decade ago.’”
He stopped reading and met Sophie’s gaze. She still looked puzzled.
“Don’t you see? Zhukov must have been in Kazakhstan with Surin. He’s a superstar now, with all the right connections — he’s inner circle. The type of guy who can have whomever he wants appointed as chair of some rinky-dink planning committee.”
“Let me see that,” Sophie said, grabbing the paper and picking up where Charlie had left off. She scanned it for a moment, then read the last part aloud. “‘Pavel Zukov will be Moscow’s next mayor.’ Pavel Zukov,” she repeated. “PZ. Steve’s note after his conversation with the journalist was to follow up on Zukov, not follow up with Zhibek.”
“And if he was in charge of the anti-narcotics directorate for central Asia, he —” Charlie bolted to the computer and typed in a new search, tapping his finger on the keyboard as he waited for the results. He found what he was looking for in the third result.
“Here it is — Zhukov was instrumental in negotiating the devolution agreement with Kazakhstan for the Customs Union.”
“That again? But what does —”
“He brought down the drug lords all right, then he and Surin must have cornered the market, maybe with help from Bayzhanov.”
“Cornered the market?”
“That’s what’s funding the Cyprus companies,” he said. “Drugs. The kickbacks for signing on to the lease at Petr Square are a joke — chump change — compared to the profits on heroin brought in from Afghanistan. They must be bringing it in with Bayzhanov’s construction shipments — he brings most of his materials through his old contacts in Almaty.”
“You mean every third or fourth crate is filled with heroin instead of nails,” Sophie said with a nod.
“And Zukov’s got someone on his payroll checking the shipments, or not checking them is more like it, with his old network in place to make sure his monopoly stays in place. That’s got to be it.” Charlie nodded his head slowly. “Somehow Zukov or his people must have found out about Steve’s conversation with Zhibek. The stakes are enormous, enough to ki —”
“Enough to kill him without a second thought. A guy with that kind of power could make a call to the prison and it’s done.” Angry colour rose in Sophie’s cheeks. “The bastard. He’s not going to get away with it.”
Charlie was shaking his head now, the elation at having finally solved the mystery gone. “No, we have to get out of here. Like you said, a guy like that wields unimaginable power in a place like this. It’s not safe anywhere.”
They both froze at the sound of the room phone ringing. Sophie looked at Charlie before answering, waiting for his subtle nod before she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
Charlie watched her reaction as she listened to the caller, but he saw no sign of apprehension, and after a couple of acknowledgements, the call was over.
“That was Natalia. She says she has some new information on Surin and wants to meet now. She says it’s urgent.”
“She’s coming here?”
“She wants to meet at Pushkin Square. She�
�s in a rush.… What?”
“You don’t think it’s odd?”
“No, not really.”
“We’ve never met anywhere but here. How did she sound?”
“She sounded normal, I guess.” Sophie shrugged. “Come to think of it, she did sound kind of frazzled, and she’s usually so cool and collected.”
“We need to get out of here, now.” Charlie was already on his feet and taking her by the arm. “The embassy’s the only safe place.”
“But what if she does have information we need?”
“Then we’ll get it from her by phone, or she can come meet us at the embassy. Come on.”
Realizing that he wasn’t taking no for answer, she stuffed the few things she had taken out of her suitcase back in and they were heading down the hallway in a matter of seconds.
Charlie stopped in front of the elevators, his finger hesitating over the call button. “Let’s take the stairs.”
“You think they’re in the hotel?”
“I just know that too many people seem to be aware of our movements.” He swung the fire door open, grabbed her suitcase, and they raced down the stairs. When they reached the ground floor, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, which was to the right of the main lobby. As they approached the end of the hallway, Charlie held up his hand for Sophie to stop.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“The guy by the pillar over there.” She followed his gaze to a heavy-set man in a leather jacket standing side-on to them, the curled cord of an earpiece visible under his collar, his jacket bulky enough to conceal a rocket launcher.
“This way,” Charlie said quietly, redirecting them to the stairs to the parking garage. They went down a flight of concrete stairs and emerged from the stairwell at a door marked P1. “We’ll go out through the side entrance,” he said, pushing the door open. “And get a hotel car —”
His words were halted by a gloved hand that cut off his air supply. He struggled in vain against the bulky arms that held him and pushed him toward a white van, its side door open. He watched helplessly as another man plucked Sophie off her feet and tossed her into the van ahead of him. When the door slid shut, the van lurched forward, and Charlie and Sophie found themselves slung together on a bench seat, facing the muzzles of a pair of handguns pointed at their chests.
Chapter 38
As the van climbed the ramp out of the parking lot and turned right, Charlie’s eyes adjusted to the dim light in the van. He found himself seated across from a bear of a man in a rear-facing seat who made the two musclemen who had bundled him and Sophie into the van so easily look frail in comparison. Charlie watched as the other man turned to the driver and growled something, the sound of his deep, gravelly voice instantly recognizable. Its effect was almost instantaneous, so that by the time their captor had turned back to face them, Charlie had made a new connection.
“Dima the Great,” he said, causing Sophie to look on in puzzlement and the big man to smile.
“Impressive, Mr. Hillier.” Again, there was no mistaking the distinctive voice.
“We meet again.” Charlie turned to Sophie. “Meet Vladimir Oligansky.”
“I warned you last time that you were in danger. You should have listened.”
Charlie looked at the faces of the two bodyguards and the blond-haired driver, none of whom looked like the man he had seen in the hotel lobby.
“Someone was waiting for me in the lobby. It wasn’t your men?”
Oligansky’s face remained inscrutable, but Charlie could tell the wheels were in motion behind those dark eyes. He was calculating his next move, trying to decide how much Charlie knew. As Charlie sat there in the van, headed for who knew where, it came to him suddenly, and he let out a little laugh.
“Is something funny, Mr. Hillier?” Oligansky said. “Maybe you can tell us all.”
Charlie turned to look at Sophie. She appeared calm, but he knew how much it was costing her.
“I’m just thinking how simply this all boils down in the end,” he said, turning back to Oligansky, who didn’t respond. “We’ve been trying to figure out how Surin and Bayzhanov were connected, and what Steve Liepa might have discovered in Astana that set this whole chain of events in motion. It all comes down to turf, doesn’t it.”
Oligansky moved his enormous head to the side ever so slightly, as if to indicate growing interest.
“You talk a great deal for someone whose future is … uncertain,” he finally said.
“I don’t think I have to worry about that. I know what you want, and I think I can help you. We can help each other.”
“Please tell me,” Oligansky said with a wave of his enormous hand. His two bodyguards remained motionless, their guns still trained on Charlie and Sophie.
“Krasnikov was your man, wasn’t he?”
Oligansky said nothing, though Charlie thought he saw a glint in his eye, in the reflection of a headlight beam that cut through the van’s interior as they turned west.
“It makes perfect sense,” Charlie continued. “You’re the top dog in the Moscow construction market. That’s no secret, so it stands to reason that you would have your people in key positions, holding the levers, so to speak. I’m sure you were none too happy when you found out he’d been sent off a cliff in Nice, much less that his replacement was Alexander Surin.” Oligansky remained impassive. “The next thing you know, Petr Square’s a go, which is the death knell for you. All that construction on your turf. It must have been a bit of an insult, really. That’s why you sent me his obituary, right? Because you were hoping we could expose his killers without you having to lift a finger.”
Oligansky remained stone-faced, but again he moved his weight slightly to one side in his seat, as if total immobility were no longer possible. Charlie went on. “And although you didn’t know what he had uncovered, you knew Steve Liepa was on to something. How did you find out, anyway?” Charlie paused, then waved a hand. “Forget I asked. I’m sure you have contacts in the police, the prisons, wherever. As for our progress” — he gestured at Sophie — “maybe Natalia was keeping you up to speed. No matter. The point is we found what Liepa was working on — all the information you need to secure your turf for a very long time.” Charlie leaned forward. “But we have a small request first.”
Oligansky looked at him in silence for a moment, then grinned and opened his massive palm. “And that is?”
“You take us to the Canadian Embassy now, and you let us walk through the gates and we go our separate ways. Sophie goes back to Canada — there’s nothing for her here anymore — and I go, too, back to Canada or wherever, and you don’t interfere.”
“Why would I allow that?” Now Oligansky leaned forward, making his bulk seem even more imposing.
“Like I said. Information. Very useful and valuable information for you.”
Oligansky chuckled and then grunted an order to one of his heavyweights, who began searching through Charlie’s bag, pulling out the printout of Liepa’s research and handing it to his boss.
“It seems I already have it.” Oligansky flipped through the document.
Charlie smiled. “Good luck figuring it out. Steve had a kind of shorthand that was a little … unorthodox. But you’re a businessman, right? You want to protect your interests — the last thing you want is two more dead Canadians on your hands, and this time there will be lots of questions, and those questions will eventually lead to you. You’re not the kind of guy who wants to draw unnecessary heat, am I right?”
Oligansky looked at Charlie for a moment, then waved the papers in front of him. “So tell me what’s in here.”
“I’d be happy to, but only if we have a deal. Do we?”
Oligansky smiled, looked at his hands for a moment, then turned around and barked an order at the driver. It was largely unintelligible, except for the addres
s — Starokonyushenny. The Canadian Embassy.
“Start talking, Mr. Hillier. If by the time we arrive at your embassy I am satisfied that you have something to offer, I will let you go. If not,” he said, his dark eyes glowing in the dim interior of the van, “I have other plans for you.”
Charlie nodded, estimating he had about three minutes to make his case, otherwise he and Sophie were goners.
“Petr Square is not Bayzhanov’s end game,” he began. “It’s just a front. Bayzhanov’s going to use it to set up a distribution system for Afghan heroin, using the network set up by Surin and his old friend, Pavel Zhukov. You know they’re connected, right?”
Oligansky gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Bayzhanov’s been doling out shares in a certain company to United Pharma’s executives as kickbacks for signing on to the outrageous lease at Petr Square.”
Oligansky’s eyebrows crept up slightly at the news.
“Bayzhanov’s a shareholder in the same company, as is Surin, and if you trace it far enough, I’m sure you’ll find that Zhukov is connected, too, probably through an intermediary. He’s the Kremlin’s golden boy, but even that won’t protect him if you expose what he and Bayzhanov are cooking up.”
Oligansky seemed to be considering the information.
“It gives you enough,” Charlie added, “to send Bayzhanov back to Astana in a heartbeat. Maybe even enough to make trouble for Zhukov.”
Oligansky laughed at the last statement and seemed about to say something, but held back. They continued to drive in silence for a minute or so, as Oligansky looked through the paperwork. Suddenly the van came to a stop and the big man turned to look out the front window. Charlie could see the yellow walls of the embassy and the bottom half of the flag hanging out front.
“It seems we have arrived,” Oligansky said, turning back to face them.
“Decision time,” Charlie said. “You let us go and I give you the name of the company at the heart of all this — that’s the deal. You won’t find it in there. We came up with it ourselves,” he said, glancing at Sophie.
The Moscow Code Page 25