A thin dossier on Yegan Korjev dropped onto Jake Grafton’s desk. There would be more later, Jake knew. He opened it and began reading.
Korjev was a 1983 graduate of the Higher School of the KGB, the elite training school for Russian intelligence officers, and a KGB colleague of Vladimir Putin. After the collapse of the old Soviet Union in December, 1991, Korjev had gone on a mission to get rich, grabbed everything in sight, and turned it into money. Somehow he stayed on Putin’s list of valued colleagues: When Putin needed help putting together a banking network to evade Western sanctions, he turned to Yegan Korjev.
Since Russia grabbed Crimea, invaded two breakaway provinces in Ukraine, and squabbled with Georgia over breakaway provinces South Ossetia and Abkhazia, they had been fighting sanctions from the European Union and the United States. A sophisticated system of shuffling money to and fro had allowed Russia to evade the sanctions and fund commerce between the rebels in Ukraine and Georgia—and Mother Russia. Money, money, money. Korjev had helped engineer the money pipeline. He performed well and got even richer.
The dossier went on, but Jake merely scanned it and tossed it on the desk. Putin and money.
The public was largely unaware that Russia had an economy merely seven and a half percent the size of the United States’ economy, and twelve point three percent the size of the Chinese economy. It ranked a distant twelfth on the list of the world’s national economies. Russia’s GDP, Gross Domestic Product, was smaller than Canada’s or South Korea’s, and just a smidgen larger than the economies of Australia, Spain, or Mexico. Although it contained 144 million people, its economy would rank fourth if it were a state in the U.S., behind California, Texas, and New York. There were a lot of reasons for that, including Russia’s vast size and terrible winters, its abysmal history of czars, Communist stupidities and mismanagement, the horrific carnage of World Wars I and II, an aging population, and pervasive, systemic corruption.
Yet the Russians had huge ambitions and visions of past glory, some real and the rest—the majority—mostly imagined. Russians wanted their country to be a world power, not a regional one. Perhaps Vladimir Putin, with the aid of Yegan Korjev, had found a way to magically increase Russian access to hard currency.
Maybe. Perhaps.
Jake Grafton picked up Yegan Korjev’s dossier and slammed it down on his desk.
I was enjoying Capri. I could settle right into the scene here if I had some real money or was married to some. Alas, neither was the case. I was a civil servant on per diem, and neither my salary nor the per diem was princely. I didn’t have a yacht, a boat, or even a skiff.
What I could do was wander around in vacation attire keeping an eye out for folks who might be keeping an eye on me. I hiked up Mount Solano, took in the view, and hiked back down. Didn’t see a soul who thought I should be followed or watched. Even the hot young women, of whom there were many, paid me no mind. I was the invisible, anonymous man.
If there were people watching the crowds on behalf of Yegan Korjev, we needed to know. I told Rick O’Shea, Doc Gordon, Armanti Hall, and the other company guys that. Time was short. Things were going to happen, I said. I didn’t tell them what.
Doc and Armanti went to find a hotel. Rick’s pals, Fred and Tom, were nice guys, not covert operators but young studs in the company working their way up the food chain. Capri was a nice break from stations in embassies around the world, sort of a working vacation.
I took my turn at the telescope, and even got to photograph a few of the young lovelies that decorated Catherine the Great. The people I was really interested in were the Russians aboard, but they seldom came out on deck. I studied the photos Rick had again and again. I asked Rick, “How many of these guys are there?”
“Six guys who look like they could handle a situation. I don’t know if they are really sailors or SVR or just Korjev’s personal thugs.” He gestured at the pictures. “We sent these photos to Langley but haven’t heard anything.”
I set up the satellite telephone, got the code for the day keyed in, wondered how secure it really was, and gave Grafton a call. An executive assistant whom I had worked with before answered, a brilliant black woman named Anastasia Roberts. “ ’Tasia, I need to know anything you found out about those people in the photos Rick sent you recently.”
“The ones from the Catherine?”
“Anything they sent you. Everyone. Dirt and all.”
“As soon as possible,” she promised. “We’ll have to send it by courier, which will take a few days.”
“And I want to see any photos you have of previous port calls of Catherine in the Med. Everything as far back as you can go.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Tommy.”
I sent Bill Leitz out on the streets with his equipment to find any sources of radiation that we couldn’t account for, specifically radios. “Anything radiating,” I told him.
“I can make you a map that shows every microwave oven in town,” he said without enthusiasm.
“Be a tourist,” I told him. “Stroll every street in town.”
“This would be a lot easier if we had a van or something.”
“I can get you a goat to ride. That’s my best offer. Get after it.”
The third morning I was in Capri, Rick O’Shea said to me, “You’re going aboard that yacht, aren’t you?”
He had no business asking questions like that. I smiled at him.
“What is it about that yacht that brings all you guys here?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
“I’ve heard that shit before.”
“It’s still true. Keep your mouth shut, your bowels open, and do your job.”
He went back to his lonely telescope. I went outside on the patio overlooking the harbor and wondered why he asked. Maybe he was just curious. And he did know better than to ask. I reminded myself that there were literally billions of dollars floating around somewhere, enough filthy lucre to turn some feet from the straight and narrow path.
Maybe even mine. If I did decide to betray my country, how much money would they have to tempt me with? I sat in the sun watching people and boats come and go, waiting for the next ferry. I could just see it out on the ocean in the direction of Naples. It was at least a half hour out, I thought. The surface of the sea glistened in the sun.
After awhile, I went inside and closed the door to the house behind me, making sure it locked. Then I set off along the street for the harbor.
There was only one unattached American male on the ferry, and I had seen his photo before—although in the photo he had been in a naval uniform. Lieutenant Wilton Cogsworth, USN. Since he was only about five feet, eight inches tall, no doubt they called him Wilt the Stilt. I would have to ask.
He was wearing jeans, a tee shirt, a windbreaker, and tennis shoes. He glanced at me and walked by with a backpack over his shoulder. I hung back, made sure he wasn’t being followed as he wandered the quay. He wasn’t. Then I headed off up the hill toward the company observatory.
Rick was looking through the telescope when Wilt let me in.
Wilt smiled at me. “Tommy?”
“Yep. Let’s go for a walk.”
Walking along, we got acquainted. Wilt was a Navy SEAL. “I hear you want aboard that yacht down there in the harbor,” he said.
“Yep.”
“Any reason you don’t want to talk in the house?”
“Let’s just say a little itch between my shoulder blades.”
“The place bugged?”
“My expert says no.”
Cogsworth merely nodded. He got the picture.
“You want to do it while that yacht is there in the harbor?”
“I want to do it as quickly as possible, wherever it is.”
“If it’s underway, we have more options. Just anchored there…”
“Do you have anyone to help us?” I asked hopefully.
“Four guys and some equipment. They are coming in tonight on
a small yacht that will tie up to the quay if there’s room, anchor if there isn’t.”
So wheels were turning.
“Where did you get your equipment?” One doesn’t carry wet suits, scuba gear, weapons, and explosives through Italian customs.
“The yacht rendezvoused with a Navy LHD last night. USS Hornet. Man, we’re ready for whatever.”
“Let’s talk how you want to do it,” I said.
“Do you care if they later learn you’ve been there?”
“No. They know the shit has hit the fan.”
“That will make it easier.” He grinned, showing white, even teeth. “This is gonna be fun.”
“We’ll see.” I had this sneaking suspicion that this SEAL’s idea of fun and mine were two entirely different things.
Sarah Houston reported to Jake Grafton in his office. “We’ve made a little progress, but not much. It will take years to follow the money trail if we can get into bank records, which will be very difficult. If they catch us at it…”
Grafton nodded. Sometimes you have to accept an expert’s opinion, even if it isn’t what you want to hear. “We’ll have to leave it to the FBI. I expect we’ll be reading their findings in about ten years.”
Sarah nodded glumly.
“Let’s work the other end,” he said. “Those photos the guys in the Med are sending you. Let’s assume anyone who solicited Korjev’s help to get some serious cash didn’t go to Moscow to see him. They or a middleman talked to him somewhere else.”
“He’s been back and forth on the yacht coast for years,” Sarah acknowledged. “Attended conferences in Europe and Middle East. He owns a couple of companies that manufacture arms and ammunition. He exports arms… and is into banking.”
Grafton thought the irony delicious. Banking!
The admiral leaned forward in his chair. “Have your team research our photo archives. I want every photo you can find of Korjev. Make up a spreadsheet of where he spent his time the last four or five years, check on the people he was with. Everything you can find.
“And he wasn’t shoveling money through Estonia for his health—he was getting a serious cut. See if you can trace that through foreign banks.”
“Follow the money,” Sarah said, nodding.
“That damn yacht of his—see how he paid for it, if you can. Find the shipyard that built it, get into their bank records. Wouldn’t surprise me to find that he paid for the yacht with his first big score. That may have gone so well he decided to expand the game.”
“We’re going to run into serious opposition on this one, Admiral.” Sarah brushed the hair back from her forehead. “These people—whoever they are—made a lot of easy money with Korjev’s help. They won’t want any of this to come out. Even if they don’t get convicted, just being suspected or investigated could ruin them.”
Grafton merely nodded. There was going to be a war, and in war there are usually bodies.
That night in the shower, Jake Grafton turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. As the warmth cascaded over him, he stood thinking about who might have profited from Korjev’s activities. He usually had some of his biggest insights in the shower.
Perhaps the money was drug money. That would be a nice, comfortable solution. If it wasn’t money from international drug dealers, it was someone else, or a group of someone elses, people who could slip big money into their companies or operations and explain it away. That last qualification was crucial, he realized. Accountants, lawyers, staff… all would have to be satisfied that the money was legit or they would have to be paid off. Who, he wondered, fit that description?
The man who instantly came to mind was Bernie Madoff, the financier now serving a life sentence in a federal prison for masterminding a massive Ponzi scheme. Bernie would have been the perfect co-conspirator for Yegan Korjev. But Bernie did his thing before Korjev got his operation fully underway…so it was extremely doubtful that he could have ever been a beneficiary.
Other Ponzi schemers trying to expand their bubble… or people who needed new investors or donors in the worst way? People who needed serious money…tens or hundreds of millions, perhaps a billion, or two or three…or even more.
Grafton mulled the problem over with his eyes closed and let the water run.
The yacht was old and wooden, about sixty or so feet long, with two masts and a jib on the bowsprit. She was schooner-rigged and the sails certainly weren’t new. Looking though the telescope in our observatory, I saw at least two sail patches that were slightly off-color. On high magnification I could see that she needed some serious work on her varnish and paint, which was blistering in places.
The two guys I could see on deck were in loose trousers and sweatshirts that fine morning. There were also two young women, also wearing sweats. They knew which rope was which, pulling or loosening them at the appropriate times.
The captain was in the cockpit manning the helm and giving orders. I focused on him, which was difficult as the yacht was moving, and caught my breath.
The captain was a woman, one I recognized. She was wearing a faded blue windbreaker and her long dark hair was tied back. The image jittered, but I was certain. Clarinda Day, the most dangerous woman alive.
I leaned back from the telescope and wiped my eyes.
“What do you see?” Rick O’Shea asked.
“A boat.”
I put my eye back to the eyepiece and got busy focusing. Clarinda Day was a spook, and her specialty was recruiting human assets—spies—and running them. She was damned good at it. A few hours of gazing into those brown orbs and listening to her would make even the most honorable married men forget the seventh commandment and betray their country. Clarinda didn’t take them to bed because she didn’t have to. Maybe after her recruits were up to their eyeballs in treason she… but I don’t know that she ever did. Perhaps her fellow spooks were just envious and spread vicious whispers.
Clarinda Day had a femininity that had to be seen to be believed. It wasn’t that she was beautiful; she was certainly good-looking but no cover girl. Neither was it her figure, which was good but not great. It was just her. She radiated, I am woman. Any heterosexual male between twelve and ninety-two could feel the attraction, like the heat of an erupting volcano. She might have been the reincarnation of Helen of Troy for all I know. Perhaps Bathsheba or Cleopatra.
There was a time when Clarinda and I… but perhaps I should also save that for my autobiography.
The yacht glided into the harbor and the sailors expertly maneuvered it to the quay, where a line was passed to a man waiting on the dock.
They turned the boat, which was still moving, dropped the anchor and the jib, which was the only sail still up, then used a winch to pull the stern into the quay. It looked to my unprofessional eyes as if they had done this a couple hundred times.
I turned the scope and focused on the Russian yacht. If anyone was watching the arrival, he or she was on the bridge and hidden by the reflections on the bridge windows.
I turned my attention back to the sailing yacht, which was being snugged up by muscle power. The name on the stern was Agamemnon, and under that her home port, “Argos.” A Greek flag flapped bravely from the masthead.
I wondered if Jake Grafton had sicced Clarinda Day onto Yegan Korjev. If he did, that Russian was about to have the experience of a lifetime.
Oh, well. I had my orders. Aye aye, sir, and all that.
When I finally rolled the stool back from the scope and looked around, Wilt was sitting in a stuffed chair eating something and drinking coffee.
“They’re here,” I told him.
Chapter Seven
Wilt and I were eating dinner at a café on the quay that evening as the sun eased into the sea. We were wearing our windbreakers against the chilly breeze off the ocean. I was trying to concentrate on what he was saying, but Clarinda Day was in the back of my mind. Maybe it’s my hormones. I asked Wilt about her. He eyed me suspiciously. “She’s something, huh?”
“How did she get on your boat?”
“We needed someone who could actually sail a schooner, and somehow she showed up with two other women. Our guys have a lot of skills, but sailing isn’t one of them.” He shrugged. “I have no idea where she got the boat. I don’t think its hers and I doubt if Uncle Sugar owns it. Maybe she borrowed it.”
“Probably,” I said. I could readily believe that there were a dozen guys with yachts willing to lend theirs to Clarinda Day. Maybe it belonged to the pope, or, more likely, the president of Greece.
We were sitting where we could watch Catherine. The Russian yacht was lit up with bulbs along every rail and up to the top of the mast from bow and stern. She was ready to get her photo taken for the cover of a yachting magazine.
We poured more wine and sipped.
Automatically, I looked around at the folks eating nearby, at the strollers on the quay… then it registered. I recognized a guy who was three tables down. It was one of the Russians from the yacht that Rick O’Shea had photographed. In his mid-thirties, close-cropped haircut, clean-shaven. Yep, that was him. He was arranging his backpack in his lap.
“Do you have a gun on you?” I asked Wilt while keeping my eye on the Russian.
“No. Should I?”
Now the guy had both hands in his backpack. One of his hands was making a twisting motion.
“Let’s get the hell outta here,” I said, and jumped up.
The Russia Account Page 7