The Agamemnon ran on under the stars, pitching gently, riding the back of the sea.
Chapter Eight
Richard Philbrick was the chairman and CEO of the most successful private investment firm in Atlanta, Georgia. This morning he stood at the window of a glass tower office downtown. From where he stood, he could see Peach Tree Creek, the shopping emporiums, and storm clouds beyond, which he thought somehow apropos. Behind him the television was on CNBC, which was giving the Bank of Scandinavia scandal a big play.
Philbrick’s standing in the Atlanta investment community was spotless and he had a growing reputation as a financial wizard. It hadn’t always been so. He got his start about ten years ago running a little Ponzi scheme. His office manager and accountant were in on the scheme, and they knew the truth. Bernie Madoff’s fall was an object lesson that no tree grows to the sky. All three of them had been sweating that reality and making plans to disappear to South America with all the money they could grab when one fine day he got a visitor in his office — which was in a suburban shopping center back then. A European dressed in an Armani suit and wearing a handsome tie walked in.
The man had a proposition. It took him forty-five minutes to get around to it, while he flattered Philbrick as a financial genius and told him a bunch of lies about his principals. Once Philbrick began to suspect this guy was an SEC investigator, the European got around to it. He represented a group that wished to invest money in Philbrick’s mutual funds. The money would be transferred from an account here in the States. Of course, there would be a fee to him and his associates for arranging this financing.
Philbrick knew a skunk when he smelled it. “How big a fee?” he asked.
“Before I answer that,” the European said, “We need to discuss how much money my friends wish to invest.”
Philbrick smiled. The European smiled.
“A hundred million dollars every two months,” the European said.
Richard Philbrick almost fell out of his chair. He tried to control his face. His own bubble had only expanded to $25 million.
“As I said, there is a fee for bringing you this investment.” The European smiled, smooth as old whiskey. “It’s half.”
Philbrick had to turn his face away. Of course this guy was some kind of crook, scamming somebody. But if this guy did indeed net Philbrick $300 million a year, Philbrick didn’t give a damn if he was scamming the pope. Hell, maybe he was.
When he had gotten himself more or less under control, Philbrick smiled at his visitor. “Perhaps we can make a deal,” he said.
That conversation was twenty-six months ago. Listening to CNBC as he looked out of his corner office windows at Atlanta lying below him, Richard Philbrick knew in his gut that he had probably seen his last deposit from “the syndicate,” as he and his two co-conspirators called their mystery investors. And they had made their last “fee” payment. Oh well. Nothing lasts forever.
Richard Philbrick looked around the office at his expensive trophies. He was going to miss all this. They still had a couple hundred million in the bank. Soon it would be time to fade into his next life as a rich retiree. He wondered if he could transfer the money and scram before his two partners figured out what was happening. Why share?
Another businessman who had an epiphany as he watched CNBC was a money lender… well, a loan shark. Sal “Big Tuna” Pizzolli had a very specialized business. He loaned money to guys importing heroin, cocaine, meth, pot, ecstasy, and anything else addicts would pay for. The importers needed huge wads of cash to fund their deals and were willing to pay his interest rate: twenty percent a week. Big Tuna had access to money, but he had to split the interest income fifty-fifty, and he had to make sure he collected the interest and the principal. Since his customers were all criminals who would kill at the drop of a hat—and they would drop the hat—Big Tuna had to fund a small private army of collectors. That was a necessary expense, but he was making serious jack, so his business remained profitable. You just gotta deal with problems when they arise, iron ‘em out. He also needed a small army of personal bodyguards since his customers had been known to cancel their debts with bullets.
When he needed more cash, he talked to a Palestinian who lived in South Boston, Hany Khalidi, and swear to God, that raghead always had whatever amount of non-traceable currency Big Tuna asked for. “You need two million next week? Sure.”
Big Tuna always wondered where the Palestinian got it. Listening to the television idiots describe the Russian money river flowing though Estonia, the light dawned for Big Tuna. The fucking Russians!
But Big Tuna wasn’t worried. The feds could never trace the money Khalidi loaned him. There was no paper anywhere. The only possible source of trouble was if the Palestinian was arrested and fingered him as a recipient of loans in order to save himself.
That problem was solvable. He would send a couple of guys to attend to the Palestinian. Big Tuna couldn’t borrow any more money from the raghead if he was dead, but his demise would cancel Big Tuna’s outstanding loans. It wasn’t as if the raghead’s wife would sue him.
Business is business, Big Tuna told himself, and switched the channel on the television to a rerun of the New England Patriots’ last Superbowl game. That had been a hell of a football game. And Tom Brady was a hell of a quarterback.
Zeke Rossen was in the Southside Mall trying to figure out what to do with an empty storefront of a tenant who left the day before. Zeke had been in the mall business for thirty years and had developed four of them. The Southside Mall was the last one he owned, and it was struggling because the tenants were struggling. Two of his anchors had left—one had gone bankrupt—and the small retailers were getting eaten alive by internet giants. They could only carry a limited inventory, and yet the internet merchants, large and small, had access to every item made by man in every color and size and at every price point imaginable. The mall merchants had to pay rent for their space and hire clerks to sit there even when business was so slow they were losing money on the clerk’s salary; their competitors were shipping from giant mechanized warehouses, a make-on-demand factory in China, or somebody’s garage. How do you compete with that?
The only reason Zeke Rossen still owned this mall was that a private investor had approached him with an offer. The investor and his friends would pump fifty million into this mall in return for a twenty-five percent interest. But there was a catch. They wanted a thirty percent kickback up front. Fifteen million dollars.
Of course the deal stunk. They were telling their investors they were investing fifty million, yet skimming fifteen right off the top. They were thieves. Zeke knew that. But without the deal he was going to lose the mall, which would bankrupt him. Everything he owned was tied up in the Southside Mall. So he said yes. That was about a year ago.
He was thinking about that deal when he got home. His wife was waiting for him. “I’ve been watching the news,” she said, and sat him down in front of the television. Fifteen minutes was enough. The Russians were pumping money through a little branch bank in Estonia and it was leaking out all over the world.
“That deal last year…” his wife said. Her face was a study. She knew the agony Zeke had gone through before he agreed to the investment and kickback.
“We should call the FBI,” she said.
He stared at her. “We don’t know if that investment was any of that money.”
“Zeke. That was dirty money. We both know that.”
“Maybe. But it wasn’t Russian money.”
She rose and left the room, leaving Zeke Rossen alone with the television and his conscience. And a half-empty mall.
An hour before dawn Agamemnon rendezvoused with USS Hornet, a huge gray U.S. Navy assault ship. I had fallen asleep on the deck and Clarinda Day woke me. I gathered up the satellite telephone and my airline carry-on and went aft to the cockpit. We were tied to a makeshift float that rode between us and the big ship. The SEALs helped me with my stuff. I was so shaky I had trouble st
epping from the pitching yacht to the float. Wilt grabbed my arm. Doc Gordon took the carry-on from a SEAL.
“Goodbye, Tommy,” Clarinda said. I couldn’t see her face very well.
“Goodbye, trifle,” I said, and staggered across the float to the ladder. I didn’t look back.
The Navy fed us, then escorted my colleagues and me to an eight-man bunkroom. I dumped my stuff on the floor and fell into a bottom rack. I was asleep in less than a minute.
Armanti Hall shook me awake. “Tommy, they want you in the Operations Center. Wake up, shipmate.”
I blinked mightily at the glare of the overhead light and looked at my watch. It was nearly noon. I rolled out. I felt grubby and needed a restroom.
I got myself up and asked Armanti, “Where’s the head?”
“Follow me.”
My business done, I told Armanti I wanted food. “Chow first.” He led me along endless passageways to a mess hall, and we went through a serving line with metal trays, helping ourselves to good, wholesome American grub. I took two slices of pizza, a naked hamburger patty, and some beans. There was a container full of salad but I skipped it. Armanti heaped his tray with junk food too.
As we ate Armanti filled me in, talking softly. “Looks like the Navy is going to stop that yacht. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe off Greece. They’re in the Ops Center figuring it out now.”
“Why do they want me?”
“You’re going aboard it with Jake Grafton when they get it stopped.”
“He’s coming?”
“So they say.”
“Fucking wonderful.”
I went back and got more beans. The Swedes and Italians don’t do beans like the U.S. Navy does. I was going to fart my way across the Mediterranean.
When we got to the Ops Center the balding captain who looked like he was running things scowled at me. “Took you long enough,” he grumped.
Although the beans were great, I thanked my stars I wasn’t in the Navy. I didn’t even bother answering him. Found a chair and parked my bottom. Armanti sat down beside me.
The captain frowned at Armanti’s hirsute splendor. “Eat your heart out,” Armanti told him.
The captain briefed us. All we had to do was ride a helicopter over to Catherine with Jake Grafton after she stopped. If she stopped. “What are you going to do about that helicopter on her deck?” I asked. “Our guy could just get into it when he sees these big gray ships coming over the horizon and chopper away.”
The captain looked at me as if I were simple. “We’re going to disable it on her deck.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“With bullets.”
I nodded sagely. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
We left shortly thereafter. I went to the eight-man bunkroom and stripped off my clothes. Doc Gordon was sitting on a bunk cleaning his pistol. I headed down the passageway with my towel, took a long shower, ignoring the water conservation signs. The ship was wallowing in the sea. I wasn’t used to this. Water in the commodes slopped around.
Back in the bunkroom I changed into my last clean outfit. If we stayed out here on this tub for more than a day or two I was going to have to get my clothes washed or borrow some duds. Maybe I could get a cool sailor outfit.
I went up on deck to watch Marines work on their helicopters. It was misting rain out of a low overcast and the wind was brisk, so I didn’t stay long. Visibility was only a mile or two across the surface of the gray ocean. I could see one destroyer with a white bone in her teeth keeping station on our port beam. She seemed to be going swiftly, as I suppose we were. I went back into the ship and wandered along the passageways looking at hatches, hoses, and shoring timber, dodging sailors and Marines all going somewhere in a big hurry, thinking about Audra Rogers. And Clarinda Day.
I felt a little seasick.
Chapter Nine
The following morning in the hours before dawn, a helicopter settled onto the flight deck. The weather had cleared a little and the misty rain had stopped. I could see the running lights of a destroyer running parallel on the port side, but except for those lights, the night sea and sky were as dark as Hitler’s heart.
As the rotors wound down, Jake Grafton got out of the Marine machine. He was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a brown leather flight jacket that had seen better days. I was standing in a little office full of windows that jutted out over the deck, so I had a good view. There were three officers standing on deck to greet him: an admiral, the captain of the ship, and a Marine colonel. All three saluted. Grafton shook their hands, then they went inside the island though a door that was apparently right under my aerie.
I thought I had better go say hi to my boss, maybe take him to breakfast. I said goodbye to my host, the Air Boss, and wandered out of his office and down the ladder. Grafton was at the foot of the ladder on the flight deck level talking to the brass. I made sure he saw me and stayed out of the way.
After a bit, we all trooped down another ladder, a little procession led by a couple of enlisted Marines in blue trousers and khaki shirts, to the Flag Ops Center. By that time I was the proud possessor of a tag that dangled from a chain around my neck, so the Marine sentry accoutered with a sidearm gave the tag a good look and admitted me behind the heavies. Then he closed the door, with him on the outside.
“Gentlemen, you’ve probably met my aide, Tommy Carmellini,” Grafton said and gestured at me. I nodded, although the big kahunas didn’t bother to look at me.
The admiral went to a table that was really a computer screen. This morning the thing showed the ocean around Greece. “The Catherine is here,” the admiral said, pointing with a finger, “and we are here, on the eastern side of the island of Cythera. She can pass north or south of Cythera, and we’ll meet her in international waters on the eastern side. We hope to intercept her at dawn.”
They got into the mechanics of how they were going to do it. It sounded to me as if they intended to wait for Catherine to come to them. “We have an E-2 watching her, recording all her encrypted transmissions,” the admiral said. “On this presentation you can see the other ships in the area, fishing boats, yachts, freighters, and so on.”
“It’s a crowded ocean,” Grafton remarked, surveying the table.
“No doubt we will appear on Catherine’s radar when she comes through one of the straits, but she won’t know what kind of ship we are. We intend to launch two helos to intercept her just after dawn. The lead will make a low pass and shoot into the engine of the helicopter on Catherine’s deck. That should anchor that chopper right there.”
“You’re sure that helicopter didn’t fly off during the night?” Grafton glanced at the admiral.
“The E-2 would have seen it if it did.”
“You’ve got the message from State?” Jake Grafton asked.
The admiral nodded. “The Italians have requested our aid to stop that yacht and if possible, detain Yegan Korjev for questioning about a shooting night before last in Capri.”
“We’re going to need a translator,” Jake Grafton said.
“We have a couple. The woman who volunteered speaks Russian like a native. The man is an enlisted Marine linguist.”
“Please brief me on how you are going to stop this yacht,” Grafton said.
So they got into that. I found a stool in a corner and parked myself on it. One of the sailors offered me a cup of black coffee, for which I was grateful.
When the heavies were through, Grafton came over to me and shook my hand. “Sorry about the guys in Capri, Tommy.”
“Yeah.”
“You and Bill Leitz are going aboard Catherine with me.”
“Why didn’t Korjev fly off that yacht in his helicopter during the night?”
Grafton gave me an appraising glance. Then he said, “Maybe he thinks he’s safe, or maybe because he’s dead.”
“You think?”
“We’ll see. I’ll be surprised if we find him aboard.”
“Sleeping with the fish
es…”
“He’s the fall guy, I think.” Grafton shrugged. “That shootout in Capri may have surprised him as much as it did you. We’ll find out in a few hours, won’t we?”
“I suppose,” I said. Then I decided to voice my doubt. “This whole thing about stopping this yacht sounds damned iffy to me. All the captain of Catherine has to do is run her in close to some island or other, into Greek waters, and we can’t touch her.”
“That’s right,” Grafton said.
We made a head call and went to breakfast. Joined the company operators at a long table. Grafton told them it was good to see them again. He’s a born politician.
I shouldn’t have worried. Catherine the Great had transited the strait between the island of Cythera and the mainland of the Peloponnesus in the hours before dawn and was well out into international waters. A helicopter loomed out of the sea haze from astern, paralleled her track, and slowing, opened fire with a door gun on the chained-down helicopter on deck. One long burst, then another for insurance. A small plume of smoke came out of that shot-up chopper and trailed off downwind. Since the helicopter platform was aft of the bridge, I wondered how much of this action the officer of the deck saw.
More choppers came up from astern and went into a hover over the deck while destroyers came out of the haze from either side on a collision course. The idea, the admiral had said in the briefing, was to overwhelm Catherine’s crew before they had time to decide on a course of action. That goal was achieved.
From the chopper that also contained Jake Grafton, Bill Leitz, and the male translator, I watched the SEALs rappel down ropes to the deck. The SEALs went down those ropes like they were fire poles. Once they were on deck, they jerked out their assault rifles and cleared the area, running for the bridge, the radio room, and then the engine room. Five SEALs each from two choppers. In less than a minute, the radio squawked. The copilot of our machine turned and gave Grafton a thumbs-up.
The Russia Account Page 9