The Deceit of Riches

by Val M Karren

  “So kid, I got your message from an old lady who phoned me last week. It was cryptic, but she said you were safe, but in Russia. I guess she was lying,” he said casually sipping his beer.

  “No, she told you the truth. When she phoned you, I was in Volgograd and was very safe,” I replied.

  Nearly choking on his beer, Del sat up straight in his chair, “Volgograd? What on earth were you doing in Volgograd?”

  “I was hiding on a river boat with some old friends of mine. It took me out of Nizhniy Novgorod for a week while I was being chased down by Mr. P’s men,” I replied defensively.

  “That was very resourceful. How did you swing that?” he asked with a bit of admiration

  “Don’t know really. Just was in the right place at the right time. The boat I mean. I was in the completely wrong place!” I confessed.

  “Good for you, kid,” he held up his glass to toast me. We touched glasses lightly over the table.

  “So, tell me, what’s the problem now?” he inquired with an amused look on his face.

  “This may be funny to you, friend, but I am…we are…you are in big trouble!” I said confrontationally.

  “Keep your shirt on, kid. You don’t even know what is going on. Let me explain the situation and you may see things a bit differently,” Del seemed somehow in his element.

  “Del there isn’t time for an explanation, nor lunch,” I was starting to panic.

  “Kid, if you move from this table, it’s all over. You understand?” he said firmly. “If you leave this table somebody is going to throw you in the back of a car with a gun in your side and you’ll be floating downstream tonight. The only chance you have is to sit here, eat lunch with me and then walk away with me. If you get up and run, you’ll be dead before you make it to the metro station. Am I clear?"

  “Why did you get me into all this mess, Del?” I asked desperately.

  “Me? I didn’t get you into anything. You got yourself into this one, kid! The sharks have been feeding for years over the spoils of the Soviet Union, carving up Moscow, carving up Prague and Budapest and all the oil in Siberia and then you came along and dove head first into the shark tank of Nizhniy Novgorod when there was already blood in the water. All I could do was try to pull you out before you lost your legs, but you were having so much fun snapping pictures of the sharks that you couldn’t see their teeth coming right for you. I told you to walk away to get out as quickly as you could, but here we sit in the most densely infested depths that is modern Moscow, and I’m trying to save your hide again. You just won’t get out of the water! It’s you who kept coming back and feeding me the information that I was paying other people to provide.” Del was right.

  “So, you are a CIA agent?” I asked in an accusative tone.

  “You know I can’t confirm that, so don’t ask again,” he snapped.

  “So, what is stopping me from getting up and walking away then?” I demanded.

  “The cross hairs of a trigger-happy fellow from Bishkek who expects you to hand me a disc of data at any moment, that’s what.” Del sipped his beer again. I looked at him incredulous that he would threaten me so blatantly and so casually.

  “Kid, he’s not under my orders. He’s an independent contractor and is waiting to deposit twenty million dollars in a Swiss bank account of my choice as soon as I have the package from you,” he clarified.

  “I don’t have any package for you, no disc. In fact, the people following me think you have a disc that they say they need to have. I am supposed to signal to them when I know that you have it with you,” I countered his advance.

  “I know you don’t have anything for me, but the only reason you are alive is that my friend from Kyrgyzstan, working for the Iranians, believes that you do have it and will surrender it to me today,” he explained further.

  “You set me up?” my trust in my friend was growing thin.

  “Kid, you know enough to be killed by three different groups. If I played an open hand with all the powers that want this data and told them that you are clean, you would have been dead yesterday. The only reason you are alive is that the Iranians believe you are transporting the disc for me from Nizhniy.” Del’s eyes had grown very serious. The tension gathered around the table as I listened to the twisted fairy tale of intrigue.

  “The FSB believes that you have the disc,” I challenged.

  “Only after they caught you and you convinced them that you don’t have it, that’s why I’m still a free man. They heard about you from my customer, I’m sure, and came after you,” he countered. “You see, the FSB agents and I are being paid by the same intermediary to get the data that was in play. Both the Kyrgyz, Chechens and the FSB were looking for you during your river excursion. I told them you had the disc and would on my orders pop up again soon and meet me right here,” he said boasting his bluff.

  “What’s on the disc?" I asked defiantly.

  “Well, that’s a bit of a story. A story that you, by the way, helped to unravel. As you know Mr. Ivan Sergeyevich S., or as you know him, Mr. P.’s father, was somewhat of a genius when it came to radar and tracking technology. Working on the MIGs for the Sokol development department there in Nizhniy Novgorod he designed what is most likely the most sophisticated missile guidance systems ever known to man, adaptable to all sizes of projectiles, whether it was ground fired, surface to air, air to surface, air to air, you name it. This system is able to guide a Tomahawk cruise missile through a circus master’s hula hoop, after passing through the big tent doors without knocking the hat off the monkey turning the organ grinder. We have never seen anything like it. The Chinese have never seen anything like it, the Russians went crazy when it worked in a test in 1993 and even more so in the spring of 1994 when it did even better. The Iranians are jumping up and down to get it and are willing to fork over an oil well to get it,” Del was rather worked up.

  “What does Iran want it for?” I asked naively.

  “Kid, if you’re sittin’ on the beach of the Strait of Hormuz with your binoculars and a cup of mint tea and you see the USS Nimitz passing by with impunity, making waves in your tidal pool, you’d give twenty million dollars to be able to put a missile through the gap of the front teeth of the captain on deck lookin’ right back at ya with his binoculars thinking he runs those waters. Don’t mistake it kid, the indignity they feel watching the Great Satan’s Man-of-Wars float by every day has really got them indignant.” Del explained his cowboy politics in a unique way, I wished I had been recording him. “If one of our fighter pilots as much as turns on a cockpit light to read his pre-flight checklist, the guidance system can latch on to the electric pulse and pick it off the deck of the aircraft carrier before he’s been cleared for takeoff. It’s that sensitive!”

  “So, how does Mr. P. get involved in all of this? How did he wind up with this technology? I can’t believe security is so bad at a top-secret facility that he could just waltz in and burn a disc for himself,” I queried.

  “We believe that Mr. P. had his father killed to obtain the disc in order to sell it himself. Mr. S was in Bishkek last year officially helping with an FSB sting to help stop the smuggling of Russian technology to the highest bidders, in that case, it was the Chechens. Those arms shows throughout the central Asian republics of the USSR are deadly places for innocence! The materials one can buy there, Oohhhwee! Deadly, deadly. Mr. S. had that program with him in Bishkek for some reason. We know because we were watching there too thinking he was meeting somebody to sell it himself. The meeting we anticipated didn’t happen. S. never showed up. He was dead in his hotel room. Strangled the night before by a prostitute,” Del expounded.

  “Did you kill Mr. P. then to get the disc?” I asked again with accusation in my voice.

  “No, I did not kill Mr. P. but I did get the disc in the end,” Del confirmed. “There were enough people willing to knock Mr. P. off that wanted his organization, that it didn’t take long to find somebody willing to do it for me. They did a gr
eat job to make it look like a mafia hit. His own second in command shot him in his own driveway and then drove his car to the place where Mr. P. was supposed to meet another contact of my Kyrgizian friend to make the swap. Mr. P. planned to use the money from the sale to buy the land from the city for his casino hotel which would have gotten him into the big game with the big sharks. From there it would be arms smuggling and oil deals instead of pimping and racketeering. It's the timeless deceit of riches that nobody can resist, not Mr. S., not Mr. P, not Mr. P’s second in command and not the KGB boys! They believe that the money will make them immortal somehow. They think that they can outrun the grim reaper and get away with more than their fair share, but in the end, it just makes them all dead. Too many people without enough imagination chasing and killing each other for it. The siren’s song luring them all straight to ruin.”

  “The FSB agents holding my leash are accusing me of the murder, and say they have enough to turn me over to the local police in Nizhniy to have me locked up for thirty years. I need to know who pulled the trigger, Del,” I demanded.

  “Kid, the FSB agents jerking you around are all working off the books. They are as corrupt as Yeltsin’s cabinet and their hands just as dirty. They aren’t trying to protect any state secrets. They’re looking to score big by being the ones to sell the S.’s software to the Iranians and as soon as they do, they’ll retire to the French Riviera or buy a villa on Cyprus and keep their money in Switzerland. Yes, sir, they’re out for their piece of the pie. You don’t have to worry about them turning you over to anybody. They’ll shoot you first,” Del clarified.

  “My signal to the spooks around the corner is to stand up and walk away. That will mean to them that you have the disc,” I threatened.

  “And if I get up and walk away that means that you’ve turned over the package to me and Mr. Bishkek will let it fly. As I said you know too much.” Del gave me an ice-cold stare. “You see kid, it's a stalemate. The FSB is well aware that if they were to jump all over us like circus monkeys right now that Mr. Bishkek, who they are now trying to double cross, would simply pick them off right now to protect his package. If Mr. Bishkek were to step out of his sheltered position right now and grab your backpack the six FSB agents watching us would apprehend him thinking that he was trying to grab the disc and disappear and then they could turn him in for espionage. So as long as we sit right here, and leave together in a civilized way after our lunch is finished, we may both get out of this with all our limbs attached. If we split up, you’re dead before morning. Got it?” Del was dead serious.

  “Got it,” I said in a defeated and terrified whimper.

  “Good, let’s eat!” Del smiled and bit into his club sandwich.

  With his mouth half full, still chewing, Del spoke again, “Kid, you’ve got some great skills. You should think seriously about using them to help keep the world safe. The skills set that you have could help us keep this post-Cold-War world from coming apart at the seams. I haven’t had an official field agent work for me that showed more competence than you have. Your ability to research and make connections to the real world is impressive. Your raw talent for this work can be honed to craftsman level if you’d allow yourself to be trained. That is why I am still here, to get you out. The disc has already been destroyed. The mission is over. We want you to come work with us.”

  “Oh, that’s comforting. I thought you called me back because we’re friends, and that’s what friends do for each other,” I said wiping mustard from my lip with a waxy napkin.

  “Don’t make it personal, kid. I have always told you that you need to be able to walk away when it goes wrong. Don’t get into it so deep that you can’t walk yourself backward out of it. I’m just doing my job,” Del said chiding me.

  “Del! Shove it up your…,” I blurted but then stopped short.

  “Woah, take it easy!” Del was adamant. “You are one of the sharpest students I’ve met. You have adaptive skills. You’re sociable. People tell you things off hand that I can’t pay for! You’re actually the one who helped me make the link between Mr. P. and his father Mr. S. I was still paying too many people in the city for the information you volunteered last week. Without the information you provided, we’d all still be in Nizhniy on a fishing expedition. Kid, I don’t think you could have done better work if I had been paying you.”

  “Like you paid Valentina Petrovna? She was playing you and Mr. P. and that’s why you didn’t know anything about him. It’s just like you taught me, Del, everybody has a shadow agenda,” I muttered trying to hurt his pride.

  “Yes, that’s why we spread the net as wide as possible” he countered and finished his beer with a swig and a gulp. “Just think about it, kid. You could do a lot of good in this crazy world if you applied your skills the right way.”

  “I’m optimistic that things will work out without having to kill anybody,” I said with a sarcastic smile as I washed down my last bite with the rest of the Pepsi in my glass.

  “Good then. Shall we go take in some nice artwork? Have you ever seen the Tretyakov Gallery?” Del said standing up from his chair. “What’ya got in the backpack, kid?”

  32. The Tretyakov Gallery

  We strolled slowly down the Arbat street back to Smolenskaya Boulevard in order to prevent any sudden actions from those who were watching and waiting for their respective signals to pounce, to shoot. Del seemed to be sincerely enjoying the nice spring weather and couldn’t be less concerned with the scramble of secret police agents going on behind us, but yet, nobody touched us just as Del had predicted. Del was firmly in charge of the situation.

  We waited for four or five minutes for the same taxi and driver who had found me at the Kyivskiy station, to pick us up in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We waited there idling in the car for another four or five minutes and then the driver slowly drove us south on the ring road along Smolenskaya Boulevard toward the next bend in the serpentine Moscow river. As we ascended the Krymskiy bridge over the water, the towers and walls of the Kremlin appeared out on the left, white and gold against the blue sky. On the other side of the river, we passed the majestic gates to the famous Gorkiy Park on the right that extended up and down the river bank as far as the next bends in both directions. After turning north off the broad boulevard, we headed up into the old city of Moscow on a narrow one-way street, Pyatnitskaya Street, in between low built buildings, some in stone, some in wood, all in different states of dilapidation or restoration, in light pastels or drab colours, some grand and some very humble. The street was in need of repaving.

  The car slowed and pulled up to park on the curb in front of a faded, crumbling old red church with scaffoldings holding it up. Del climbed out of the car and gave me a signal to follow him. We stood and admired the church being restored like curious tourists.

  “Del, why are we standing here like idiots?” I complained.

  “Because this is one of Moscow’s busiest foot passages, well, besides around Red Square, and the tourists and the families and kids all walk past here. Nobody will pull a gun or kidnap you or me here. Too many good citizens as witnesses,” he explained while pointing to the church tower having a new bell installed. “We want everybody to see and follow us into the museum, Peter. We can’t outrun these people. They have guns and radios, they have cars, they have jet planes and helicopters. We have to outsmart them, not outrun them. Have some patience and enjoy the sights,” he seemed perturbed at my lack of perspective.

  After a few moments of sightseeing, we strolled lazily down Klimentovskiy lane, a pedestrian street, following the signs to the Tretyakov Gallery. We wove in and out between groups of tourists who were following an umbrella or an orange flag on a pole, moving to and from the museum. As we approached the Gallery’s ornate orange and white brick facade, there was a long line for tickets and entrance to the museum stretching nearly to the end the street. Del was very concerned when we saw the long line.

  “We’ll be sitting ducks in that li
ne. They will use local police to pick us out without causing any commotion from the onlookers. Too risky,” Del observed.

  “I’ll go find us a guide for the museum,” I responded.

  “Kid, we’re not here to see the paintings,” he retorted.

  “Del, the guides have special passes. They can cut in line and can get us in faster,” I appealed.

  “OK, great idea, but make sure she speaks English!” he agreed.

  I found Del again and introduced him to Tatyana, a middle aged English instructor with hair dyed orange against the gray roots, tied up in a flyaway bun on the top of her head. She was moonlighting as a guide for the recent influx of American and English tourists to the city. For twenty-dollars she would take us to the front of the line past the tourist with guidebooks, and tell us all about the history of the Tretyakov family, the mansion that houses the collections and of course, the paintings.

  Del asked her immediately, “I am very interested to see The Execution of the Streltsiy, I understand that it is in this museum. Can you guide us to that room when we get inside?”

  “Oh yes, I know that painting. It’s very powerful. We can go now,” Tatyana answered and motioned for us to follow her away from the main entrance and through a hidden door that is reserved only for guided groups. Tatyana showed her museum credentials to the guard and we were waved through to a staircase which descended half a floor where we merged with the rest of the tourists in the basement wardrobe and checked luggage room.

  “It is not allowed to carry bags in the museum, young man. You will need to check your travel bag,” Tatyana said to me sweetly.

  I gave Del a bit of a panicked look when I heard I had to leave my bag in the basement, knowing that indeed we weren’t there to see the paintings and was afraid that I wouldn’t get it back if we had to make an emergency exit.

  Tatyana tried to reassure me: “No, no, everything will be fine. These ladies are are faithful as any guard dogs. Nobody will be able to take your bag while it’s stored here. Nobody can take your bag as long as you have your claim tab. These ladies are professionals and they take their work very seriously and they have a police officer here with them if anybody other than you tries to take your bag.” Indeed, there was a uniformed police officer standing nearby keeping a watchful eye on the wardrobe.