by Bell, D. R.
“My hedge fund activities, oh boy,” mimicked him a swarthy man in a pin-striped suit. “But you’re not the only one; Sheila here is also present electronically,” he pointed to a second holographic figure in the room, that of a thin blonde in her late 40s.
“Well, you’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen,” Sheila drawled in a southern accent. “I would have rather been there with you in person but that boring business, you know...”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” interrupted her the heavy breather. “The point is, Tice is not going to win this election. It’s Dimon or Kron. And we have two hundred billion dollars to protect.”
“We can’t let Kron win!” shouted the cowboy. “Didn’t you see his interview? He is a God-damn commie!”
“I am not crazy about Kron, but Dimon scares the crap out of me,” drawled Sheila. “He talks like he’s ready to start a war with the Chinese and the Russians. Now, the war might be good for you, George, with your defense companies,” the figure pointed to the heavy breather, “but for many of us this is not a good business.”
“We can control Dimon!” retorted George. “I know his demagoguery is over the top at times, but that’s what it takes to get the sheep to follow. If we support him and get him to the top, he’ll work with us. Once he wins, he’ll tone down his rhetoric.”
“And you think we can’t control Kron?” asked the hedge-fund holograph. “I read his election pamphlets, some things he proposes make sense to me.”
“I don’t think so,” the ‘movie star’ shook his head. “Dimon is an opportunist, Kron an idealist. I know how to manage the former but not the latter. And frankly, I think that we, the people that know how to make real money, better know how to run the country than some wild-eyed idealist. Most people just want to be happy, fed and entertained; they don’t care about all the complex stuff that goes into running the country.”
“Yeah, I would agree with that,” nodded Bryce, the cowboy. “Dimon is a politician, while Kron... hell knows what Kron is...”
“I don’t know,” wondered the pin-striped man. “Dimon just seems to be so far out there...”
“It’s an act,” replied George. “I figure we can manage him, he’ll need us. But does anyone here think we can control Kron? Sheila, you’re scared of Dimon – but do you think that Kron will play along with us? Or will he try to take away our money?”
“I don’t think Kron will play along,” sighed Sheila’s image. “It’s just that Dimon is so, how to put it, unpredictable. But if you all think we can manage him, OK.”
“And what about you, hedge boy?” George turned to the other hologram.
“Don’t call me that! I’m like Sheila – uneasy about Dimon but I figure it’s rather Dimon than Kron.”
“Of course you’re like Sheila,” Bryce bared his teeth.
“Enough of this sparring,” waived Jim the ‘movie star.' “Is anybody here thinking that we should back Kron?”
He was greeted by silence.
“OK, Dimon it is. I’ll pledge ten million. You all in?”
Nods.
“Can’t we be more direct in our support?” asked Bryce. “We have millions of people working for us, can we push them to vote the right way?”
“No, we have to be careful,” disagreed Jim. “We have to maintain public’s belief in the process. Appearances matter. I’ll get in touch with Dimon and offer our support. We’ll make sure he knows who his friends are.”
AUGUST 2024
St. Petersburg, Russia
Vitaly Mershov did not frighten easily, but he was scared for the past few days, ever since Slava and Petr, the two fellow militzia investigators, had been gunned down. The official story was that they were caught in a mob shootout. It just didn’t sound like them. Both had been known as careful and cautious. Slava used to say “I have a nose for bad situations and I avoid them like a plague; better to be cowardly and alive than brave and dead.” Vitaly wondered whether this had anything to do with them being on the scene of the murder of the Defense Minister Nedinsky. Had they talked to the wrong people? After their lunch in a beer bar near Kutuzov Embankment, Vitaly tried to run a check on Bogdan Zaychikov but the file was classified. Did Slava or Petr tell anyone that they shared the information with Vitaly?
Not willing to give in to his anxiety, he started checking e-mail that accumulated over the past few days. Most of it was advertising junk, he kept hitting “delete,” “delete.” Suddenly his brain registered that something was not quite right with the subject of the message he just deleted. Vitaly retrieved the message from the trash. The message was titled: “Please donate to Shlisselburg’s Museum of Breaking the Leningrad Blockade.”
Oleg Khmelco, his lost childhood friend. Oleg went to the United States some time ago. Back in 2022, Oleg disappeared without a trace, probably got involved in the underworld and paid for it. But they had an agreement: if one of them has to contact the other in secret, refer to the Shlisselburg’s Museum, the place that Vitaly’s grandfather made them go to every year on June 22nd, the anniversary of the German attack on Russia.
Vitaly looked at the message itself. The “From” field was not familiar and most likely meaningless. The text seemed like a typical, if somewhat long, request for money to be sent to a post-office box. Vitaly got up, went to the book shelf and retrieved “The Three Musketeers” by Alexander Dumas. The post-office box number was a guide to the place in the book to use as a one-time decoding pad.
It was a slow, manual process. The secret message within the solicitation directed Vitaly to an online data storage account, with a password and two words: “Be careful.” So Oleg was alive after all. And definitely involved in something dangerous.
Great, just what I need on top of Nedinsky’s murder, thought Mershov. He got up to leave, to go to one of the libraries and check the online data storage account from there.
Los Angeles, USA
Jennifer dressed in khaki slacks, dark-blue sneakers, a green shirt, dark glasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Exactly what she wore a week ago when she went to the nursery on Venice Boulevard. Occasional gardening is the only luxury she allowed herself these days. Exactly what the note said to do. They must have been watching me.
Jeff was working from home. She kissed him with ‘Going to a nursery,’ got into their old small hybrid SUV and drove off. After heading north, she turned east on Venice and stayed in the right lane. About ten blocks before the nursery, she saw the Villa’s Tacos restaurant on her right. She pulled into the driveway, made her way to the back, and parked the car. Why am I doing this? Because some stranger told me that he saw my father a few days before his death and that he had some important information? This could be a trap. Still, after eighteen years, why would anyone use my father’s name?
Jennifer took a deep breath, got out of the car without locking it and knocked on the door of a restroom just outside the restaurant. The door unlocked, she carefully walked in and came face-to-face with herself. Or almost herself: the woman standing across from her was of similar height and weight and dressed identically. The woman extended her hand: “The keys?”
Jennifer handed over the car keys. The woman looked at her watch and said:
“You are being followed. After I come out, another woman will come in and lock the door. Don’t come out until it’s safe. I will continue to the nursery and pick out a few small plants, they’ll bring you there.”
With that, the woman slipped out the door. A noisy woman in a black shawl got in. She continued muttering in Spanish while motioning Jennifer to be quiet, wrapped the black shawl around Jennifer, then looked at her phone:
“OK, dear, the car that’s been following you is chasing after Isabella now.” After seeing Jennifer’s uncomprehending look, she said “That’s the name of the girl that was made to look like you. Go into the restaurant through the back door.”
As Jennifer walked into a dark restaurant, a waiter silently pointed to an alcove in the back. Three people waited
for her there: Oleg, another man, and a woman. The other man looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, tall but stooped, tired face. The woman was younger, long blond hair, with a slightly Slavic face like Oleg’s. There was no food on the table, only four glasses of water.
“Jennifer, thank you for coming...” started Oleg.
“Who are you?” demanded Jennifer, ready to walk out.
“Yes, you’re right,” nodded Oleg. “We don’t have a lot of time so let’s get to it. Jennifer Rostin, please meet David Ferguson and Margarita Sappin.”
“Are you...” stammered Jennifer, spilling water from her glass.
“Yes, we are,” replied the woman.
“But you’re fugitives... everybody thinks you’re somewhere in South America...”
“We probably should be,” agreed Maggie. “But there is something extremely important that made us risk coming back here.”
“And you,” Jennifer turned to Oleg. “What is your role and what does it have to do with my father?”
“Oleg has been our friend and protector since we became involved with the Schulmann file,” David broke his silence. “We wanted to meet you because the information we have is important to you and your husband.”
“I have met your father,” confirmed Oleg. “As I told you, it was June 22nd, 2006. We were with the Mershov family: Konstantin, his son Ivan, and his grandson Vitaly.”
“Mershov?” Jennifer gasped.
“Yes, you know the name?”
“It was in my grandfather’s diary. Ivan Mershov was the militzia officer my grandfather worked for during the Leningrad blockade!”
“It must have been Konstantin’s father,” Oleg thought out loud. “Konstantin was the one who asked to go to the Piskariovskoye Cemetery to see your grandfather’s grave.”
Jennifer took a drink of water, tried to compose herself.
“Both my father and my grandfather died investigating something back in Russia. I don’t believe for a second that my father killed himself, but I was never able to find out who did it or why.”
Oleg looked at his watch, “I don’t know whether this is an accidental coincidence or not. But we have to get Jennifer to the nursery in the next fifteen minutes.”
Maggie reached across the table and took Jennifer’s hands into hers:
“Jennifer, back in 2022 we published parts of the Schulmann’s research. Now, David broke more of the data in the file and new names came up. One of them is John Dimon, your husband’s opponent in the race.”
Jennifer recoiled, “Even if true, it would be difficult to prove given what happened since... since your exposure. And I’m not sure what I can do with this. The wife of his opponent throwing out unproven allegations? That would probably only help him.”
“Please, call me Maggie. We thought that perhaps your grandfather could take this information to the president. Besides being one of the crisis’ profiteers, Dimon might be getting illegal financing from abroad.”
“My grandfather is 85. He retired from politics two years ago in disgust. He would never go back to Washington.”
Maggie squeezed Jennifer’s hands:
“Jennifer, one of the driving figures behind the 2019 crisis was GRU General Nikolai Nemzhov. He knew who profited and was using the information for blackmail. He disappeared in 2022, probably with billions of dollars. Nemzhov might be in a position to blackmail Dimon. It’s not only about the race. Please think of the implications. That’s why David and I risked everything to come back. Otherwise, Jonathan Schulmann and Suzy Yamamoto died in vain.”
“Yamamoto?”
“Yes, why?”
“At my father’s funeral, I was approached by two people that worked with him during his last days. Their names were Jack Mikulski and Suzy Yamamoto.”
“Suzy Yamamoto is the one who saved the Schulmann’s file that we found. She died four years ago,” said David. “She worked on Wall Street around 2006. It is probably the same person.”
Jennifer swallowed hard:
“I don’t if this is just a coincidence. My father didn’t believe in coincidences. Can you provide proof of Dimon’s involvement?”
“Yes!” David slammed his fist on the table. “Bank accounts, dates, amounts – I can get it to you.”
“You put it together, David,” Oleg got up. “I’ll get this information to Jennifer. But we must go to the nursery now. She’s being followed and we have to carefully make a switch.”
Moscow, Russia
“President Mosin, thank you for seeing me again on such short notice. I would like to follow up on the questions we discussed in the last meeting.”
“Ambassador Sheng, we are still evaluating your questions,” replied Mosin. “I and the Foreign Minister Karpov would like to better understand what’s behind your – how shall I put it? – somewhat extraordinary requests.”
Ambassador Sheng opened his palms in mock surprise:
“Mr. President, what do you find extraordinary about my government’s inquiries? We have a mutual defense pact and expanding global coordination of our military activities is a perfectly natural progress of our alliance. By the same token, giving us a guarantee of increased deliveries of oil and gas is also something we think we should be able to count on from our closest ally and trading partner.”
Mosin shook his head:
“Ambassador, you know perfectly well that sending oil and gas to you means redirecting it from Europe. We have never broken our energy delivery agreements. Between Russia and the Middle East, China is well supplied with oil and gas. Why do you suddenly need such a guarantee? And why the need to expand the military coordination? Ours is a defense pact – are you expecting an attack? Please don’t tell me about some vague ‘eventuality’ that you want to be prepared for.”
“Mr. President, may I remind you of recent history?” Sheng practically spat out his words. “Back in 2015, America tried to choke you: they crashed the price of oil, attacked your currency, imposed damaging sanctions. They blocked the pipelines you were trying to build in Europe. They helped to install the anti-Russian government in Kiev and supplied them with advanced weaponry. NATO’s military bases encircled you. It was our government that came to your aid. In our joint effort to undermine the U.S. dollar in 2019, it was China that provided the majority of the resources. We helped to restore Russia to the position of power that you are enjoying now. Without us, the Americans would have crushed you!”
“Mr. Ambassador, we are deeply grateful for the support you government had provided in the past,” protested Mosin. “But the kind of measures you are asking us to guarantee, they smell of potential war. We deserve to know the reasons for these requests. That’s what allies do.”
“Mr. President, I gather from your response that you are not ready to discuss expanded military cooperation or energy guarantees in case of emergency?”
“Mr. Ambassador, we have to better understand the reasons for your requests before we can address them,” Mosin spoke slowly and firmly, his eyes narrowed.
“Very well, Mr. President,” replied Sheng, getting up. “I will report your response to my government.”
After Sheng left, Mosin turned to Karpov, who’d been listening quietly:
“Volodya, what do you think?”
“You’ve seen the anti-American demonstrations all across China. They are preparing their people for war. And they want to drag us into it.”
“I don’t know,” Mosin shook his head. “They’ve done massive anti-Japanese, anti-American, even anti-Indian demonstrations in the past and those didn’t lead to war.”
“This one feels different. They have never come to us with such requests before. Remember the discussion that we had with Shelkov last month? I think Beijing’s Politburo may believe that now is the best time to strike. America is starting to recover from the 2019 crisis and subsequent political and economic turmoil while China is now struggling with aging demographics and high unemployment.”
“You
may be right. All the more reason to remain non-committal,” nodded Mosin.
New York, USA
Robert Treadwell’s empire was “multi-platform.” He was an expert at hitting people with short, twenty words or less, soundbytes designed for the people whose attention span was less than ten seconds – which by now was a significant portion of the population. But The Treadwell Report was a weekly spectacle, an hourly show for the fans where The Man himself would show up in their living rooms as a three-dimensional projection and ruthlessly dissect whoever did not please him that week.
The selection of today’s victim was not a great surprise. For the past four months, Treadwell was an outspoken supporter of John Dimon and reserved his most biting, sarcastic remarks for Jeff Kron. But the depth of the scorn that Treadwell brought today was shocking even to his followers: “For the past five years, we’ve been under relentless attack from our enemies! They have tried to destroy our currency! They have stolen our jobs! Now they are attacking our embassies!”
Behind the host, appeared a video of marchers in Beijing, shouting slogans and throwing air punches against the American embassy.
“What’s next? Military bases in Cuba or Mexico? Pointing missiles at our cities from a few miles away? And which of the candidates thinks this is just fine? Which of the candidates tells us to look inside, to blame America? I’ll tell you which one!”
Picture of Jeff Kron appeared on the screen, taken in one of his less presentable moments: looking puzzled, blinking behind his old-fashioned glasses. The audience booed on cue.
“It’s been well documented that the Chinese and the Russians planned this financial warfare against our country. That they wanted to destroy us, to break us apart! But this hippie, this nobody wants to blame us! If you are in a fight with a schoolyard bully, are you going to fight back like John Dimon is telling us to do? Or are you going to let him pummel you while saying to yourself ‘I have to look inside. I have not shared my lunch with the bully, so he’s justified in attacking me!’ Because that’s what Jeff Kron wants you to do. He wants you to go and blame yourself and kneel before the very enemies that are wishing us harm! And, of course, he has no experience running anything – he’s that hippie guru that preaches non-violence and peaceful resistance and all that crap. When you are under attack, you need a real resistance, not a peaceful one! He says we have no right to monitor people’s communication and movement. Well, we have to in order to root out our enemies! And we have to in the name of fairness, to make sure everyone does their fair share and pays taxes. I, for one, trust my government to protect me without questioning everything they do.”