I consider this. Part of me would like nothing better than to hunt Yuri down and see just how different he is. But Alpha’s words are coming back to me and I don’t think I’ll get a pass on a private vendetta. So I file the information away as I leave the house. I walk around the corner, where I slip into the passenger seat of a black Chevy Suburban. Dan Menetti is at the wheel, wearing an FBI windbreaker over his suit. I peel open a Velcro flap on my jacket and pull out the recording device concealed beneath it, handing it to him.
“Did he talk?” Menetti asks anxiously. I nod. He smiles, interlaces the fingers of his two hands behind his head and leans back for a moment. “Ah, this makes these late nights in the middle of nowhere worth it.”
“I think he’ll cooperate when you pick him up,” I say. “And I’d appreciate it if you keep this out of a trial if at all possible.”
“It’s not my call, but I’ll see what I can do,” Menetti replies as he nods sympathetically. “The accountant gave us eight hours of tape today. It looks like this little ring was the pilot project for a national operation. This is big stuff.”
“How far did it go?” I ask.
“The accountant didn’t know. I understand you’re working on another lead?”
“Yes. It’s possible that the SVR may have got the Tambov gang to start this operation to trap high profile men for blackmail: a pedophile’s honey trap. I had Sheriff Peterson place a call to the First Cultural Attaché at the Russian Consulate. He looks to be the organizer.”
Menetti whistles. His thick black eyebrows rise in an unbroken line. “He would be a great catch if you can help us reel him in. Of course he’s got diplomatic immunity, but I’m sure State would love to either expel him or threaten the Russians to reveal his involvement in order to get something else they want.” Which means that either way the sonofabitch behind all of this is going to walk away. Which I knew the moment I heard he was a consular guy. I’ve already figured out that the only way to make Constantine pay is to make him look incompetent with his superiors. Shutting down the Conestoga operation with as much publicity as possible is a good first step.
This gives me another thought. “I disabled Peterson’s home phone and cable lines and I’ve got his cell phone, but it would be good if you could pick him up in the morning before he can get to the office.”
Menetti shakes his head. “I need to get this to the SSA in charge of the case and he’ll want a transcript before we procure an arrest warrant. I doubt we’ll be able to execute the warrant before tomorrow afternoon. Sheriff Peterson is an elected official and the presiding legal authority in this town, so we have to play this by the book.”
“Understood,” I say, but this unsettles me. The Buddy Peterson I just left was a defeated man, but a lot can change in a few hours. I move to open the door to the Suburban and Menetti grabs my arm.
“You were smart to bring your old boss into this. I understand there won’t be any further investigation into the shooters from the other night – all resources are being put into rolling up the Tambov Gang’s activities in the U.S. We’re accepting the accountant’s story that it was a rival gang, even though there are some holes in that theory. I’ve never seen somebody finesse an FBI investigation that way.”
I agree that it’s impressive but I wonder what price I’ll pay for wriggling off the hook.
Chapter Seven – Thursday
My eyes snap open as I wake to the unfamiliar buzz of a Blackberry. The vibrating feature is designed to be urgent enough to attract attention through a briefcase or handbag, but on the hard surface of the laminated black nightstand, it yowls like a hungry cat. I extend a hand in time to catch it as it plunges over the side of the nightstand toward the floor. I fumble with the buttons one-handed for a moment before it silences itself. It takes me a few more seconds to remember the key sequence to unlock the device and retrieve the message. It’s a data file from Sammie, who lets me know he’s been instructed to support my activities. The file is a dossier on Constantine Drubich. It paints a somewhat darker picture than the description I’ve gotten from Veronica. I turn and look over at her, still sleeping soundly, her face tilted toward me on her pillow, the covers rising slowly with her respiration. I can’t quite believe she’s there. As I slide off the bed, her fingers, still intertwined with mine, grasp and pull me back toward her. My first instinct is to pull away, but I hold Veronica’s hand for a moment before my fingers slide free. This is unfamiliar territory for me. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that we’d fall together after the trauma of the past few days, but it caught me completely off-guard. I shift my focus to the Blackberry.
Drubich is forty-five years old, a child of the Cold War. He was an intelligence officer with the KGB and served briefly in the same section as Vladimir Putin. He progressed to postings in the Baltic States and then the Middle East between the two Gulf Wars. He is Georgian by birth and was in Tblisi when Saakashvili came to office in 2004. He was reprimanded and recalled almost immediately. While the dossier doesn’t say why, the implication is that his loyalties to Russia were questioned. He was sent to St. Petersburg, a backwater for the SVR, and spent four years there until his unexpected promotion to the posting in New York. Now he heads the SVR intelligence network in the financial capitol of the world. He’s dark, handsome and speaks six languages fluently. And of course he’s Veronica’s former lover. I can’t wait to meet him.
I roll off the bed, grabbing keys and a Sig-Sauer P226 from the nightstand. The keys go into a pocket and the gun slides into a loop holster at the small of my back, between a white oxford shirt and black jeans. I pull on a sturdy pair of Merrill Trail Runners, shrug into black raincoat and glance at my watch. It is seven in the morning. I’ve slept just three hours.
* * *
I spot my contact sitting alone at a deuce in the window of a small pub as I cross Partition Street in Saugerties. It’s a clear day, and the pub sits in a line of cheerful businesses near the center of the town. A red sign saying just “Pig” sits above it, and the building itself is highlighted in red over the cream façade. The shop next door has yellow trim and window frames, and the effect of these touches of color on the block is transformative. Saugerties is the good twin of Conestoga. The center of the town has the same pre-war architecture as my hometown, the same rough-at-the-edges Catskills grit. Unlike Conestoga, however, Saugerties has been renewed by a flourishing of its downtown area. Restaurants, galleries and shops sit cheek to jowl with other small businesses. Young families move here instead of trying to escape. The gastro-pub I’ve chosen for the rendezvous with Constantine Drubich is a good example of the changes. In Conestoga it would be a seedy bar where derelicts congregate over bottles of Muscatel and Miller High Life. Here in Saugerties, Pig features artisanal beers and exotic food like a coconut tofu sandwich and jerk chicken. I’ve spent an hour watching the bar and the street to ensure that Constantine has come alone. Veronica is less than a block away in the G8. There’s only one problem. The man who entered the pub ten minutes ago and looks so obviously out of place there, the man sitting at the table in the window of Pig Bar & Grill as instructed, is not Constantine Drubich.
Of course I’m not Buddy Peterson either, so it seems only fair that Drubich has sent a proxy. But I have to wonder if Buddy tipped him off, and whether that means I’m pursuing a dead end or worse. I step inside the pub and the man at the window table immediately rises to greet me. It’s clear that he knows my face. That’s another bad sign.
The Pig draws a mix of Catskill hipsters and local crowds. The man in the severe black suit who extends his hand is neither. He is tall and fair, near my own age and looks to be exceptionally fit. The suit is not tailored, and I get the sense he’s not entirely comfortable in it. I glance down at his shoes. They look like dress shoes, but they aren’t. They have rubber soles with a shallow tread pattern, so he can still run in them. They fit much better than the suit. As I take his hand, I see the calluses, the accumulated wear of real labor. This
guy is a soldier, not a diplomat. That’s the third bad sign.
“Constantine Vladimirovich Drubich regrets that he is unable to attend today due to pressing consular matters,” the man says, bowing slightly. His voice is deeper than his size would suggest. “My name is Kiril Ivanov Dmitriev. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Herne.”
I know that he knows it, but hearing Dmitriev use my name makes me flush. Spycraft has never been my strong suit and I’ve already been outmaneuvered at it. At the end of the day, I’m more of a blunt instrument. I try to remind myself that Dmitriev isn’t a spy, either. We sit down. Dmitriev orders a glass of dark microbrew and a bratwurst while I opt for a burger and a Coke. I ask Dmitriev where he’s from and he names a small town outside of Kiev.
“You’re Ukrainian, then?”
“Yes, I am by birth, although my family has lived in Russia since I was a very small child. Have you visited the Ukraine?”
“Just a few trips to Kiev. It’s a beautiful city,” I say. There’s no point dissembling. This guy has read the dossier the Russians have on me. At least one of those trips will have featured prominently in it.
“It is a very different place these days. You must make a point of visiting again soon,” Dmitriev replies. He starts to speak again but just at that moment the bartender steps over to the table with our food. We instinctively revert to small talk while we eat and Dmitriev darts in and out of Russian, obviously testing my command of the language. He has prepared for this meeting, and he even knows something about my current role in the State Department. He also makes more than one passing reference to my military background. I return the favor and he nods in silent acknowledgement. After the plates are removed, I clear my throat.
Dmitriev picks up on the cue without missing a beat. “Indeed, to business. The Russian government was very distressed to learn of the involvement of the Tambov Gang in the prostitution ring. They are a very serious criminal enterprise and they have caused us a good deal of trouble in St. Petersburg. Please accept our apology and convey it to your government. Our Ambassador in Washington will be meeting with your Secretary of State tomorrow to repeat this message. We also understand that a very good friend of yours was killed and this distresses us greatly. Please accept a personal apology from my government,” Dmitriev says formally. He is obviously reciting a prepared statement.
“They were certainly criminals, but they were also very useful to your government, weren’t they?” I push Dmitriev to measure his ability to stay on script.
“My country admits to no involvement. But perhaps we could speak confidentially? For the ears of you and your direct superiors only?” Dmitriev asks.
“Yes, of course,” I reply calmly, letting the Russian steer the conversation. Dmitriev pulls out a small hand-held device that looks like a personal digital assistant with a very small screen. He flicks a button. A man at the bar immediately starts shaking his cell phone, as it dies in the middle of his conversation.
“You stumbled onto what was a very productive operation for us, but an old one. It should have been shut down some time ago. We have no desire for further unpleasantness,” Dmitriev says carefully. I watch him closely. He’s lying.
“The girls I saw hadn’t been alive long enough to make this a very old operation,” I say coldly. “Have you ever seen a six-year-old forced into prostitution?”
Dmitriev turns a shade paler and stiffens. That’s the military honor I was looking for. This business must sicken him. That’s probably why Constantine sent him. “I am certain that you are correct, Mr. Herne. It is extremely distasteful.”
I nod. “Yes, it is.”
“I am here to assure you that we want no further involvement in these matters, but also to warn you,” Dmitriev says. He lifts a briefcase and puts it on the table. With a backwards glance at the bar, he pops the locks and opens it a fraction, withdrawing an envelope. He slides it over to me.
“What is this?” I ask, and Dmitriev nods for me to open it. Inside I find a stack of black & white, 8x10 photos. I recognize the man in the top photo. It’s Yuri.
“The first man is Yuri Ivanovich Kuznetsov. He is originally from Magnitogorsk, a factory town nine hundred miles east of Moscow. We know that he worked in a steel smelting plant as a child and that his father was a drunk and most likely abusive. He joined the army and attained a sergeant’s rank. Then he was selected for the FSB and assigned to a Spetznaz unit called ‘Vympel.’ He served with distinction in Chechnya. He left the service and was recruited into the Tambov gang six years ago. He is a dangerous man, Mr. Herne.”
I agree, wondering where this is going. “The next photo is of his brother, Mikhail Ivanovich Kuznetsov. He also served in the military, although with much less distinction. He followed Yuri Ivanovich to St. Petersburg and into the Tambov Gang. He was killed on Monday night. Yuri Ivanovich was not.”
This time it’s me who pales a shade. Dmitriev observes and continues, “The other photos are of men connected with the Tambov Gang who we believe are local but were not at the location of the attack on Monday night. Only two of these men have advanced military training but they are all subordinates to Yuri Ivanovich in the Tambov operation. It is very likely they will follow his directions in the aftermath of the deaths of so many of their friends.”
I begin to understand. “And you’re saying you believe they may cause further trouble?”
Dmitriev chooses his words carefully. “We believe that Yuri Ivanovich is unstable and might seek retribution against anyone he believes responsible for his brother’s death. We do not wish to see anyone else harmed by Russian citizens.”
“And he’s also a problem you’d like to see removed,” I conclude. I’m not receiving this information because of the Russian’s abiding concern for my well-being. This must be why Dmitriev started out telling me lies about wanting to avoid more violence. Drubich is hoping I’ll clean up his mess. We talk for a few minutes more and I leave the bar, making doubly sure that I’m not followed as I do. The hairs on my neck are standing up again.
* * *
“I’ve never been that frightened. When – when you didn’t come at first, I thought they would kill me.” Veronica is pale and beautiful in the sunlight. This is the first we’ve talked about what happened to her since I pulled her from the cage in the warehouse. I didn’t want to risk being spotted by any of Drubich’s men in the vicinity of my lunch meeting with Dmitriev, so we’ve made the twenty-minute drive to Woodstock. There is a small town green right in the center of Woodstock where Route 212 meets Rock City Road. I send her to get ice cream while I call Alpha and update him. I’ve got some concerns about both Yuri and Dmitriev, and we talk them through. I ask him for one specific favor, one that will probably cost me down the line. He agrees to my request a little too readily and I am still brooding about that when Veronica returns with two sugar cones, hers filled with chocolate ice cream, mine peanut butter. We sit with the cones in the chill fall air, enjoying the sun, which hasn’t appeared for days.
“I’m sorry,” I say, remembering how I felt when I stepped into that motel room and realized they’d kidnapped Veronica. I try to explain my actions. “If I’d given myself up to the men in our room, they would have killed both of us. You were only useful to them alive as a tool to get me to talk. They obviously didn’t know your connection to Drubich,” I say. I hope it’s true.
“I didn’t tell them anything. I wasn’t really sure if my suspicions were right, anyway, and I wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse. After they figured out you weren’t coming, they threw me in a cage with those girls. You can’t believe what they did to those poor children. I don’t think they’d seen the sunlight in months,” she shivers. I wait for her to continue, sensing there’s something she wants to get out.
“It’s just…the whole time I was there, for twelve hours all I could think was that this might not have happened without me. If I hadn’t given Constantine the idea for this in the first place…” she stops a
s her voice starts to quaver and then breaks into sobs, burying her face in my shoulder.
“This is not your fault,” I say firmly. “Constantine could have come up with the same idea in a hundred different ways. He obviously has a very twisted mind. Even for a spy, it’s beyond the pale. When the FBI picks up Sheriff Peterson, he will connect Drubich to the sex slavery ring. The Russian government is going to have a lot to answer for. This will shame them.”
Veronica doesn’t respond immediately. She stifles a few more sobs before straightening up and dabbing her eyes. Then suddenly she looks okay again. Her eyes aren’t red or puffy and her hair has fallen back into place. I admire her for a moment. She’s strong. I’ve seen soldiers come apart in less difficult circumstances. She kept her cool until she got out of that warehouse, kept her composure for another thirty-six hours before it finally caught up with her.
“How did you…how did you do all that? You were completely alone, weren’t you? That place was full of all of those armed men and you still rescued me. That was amazing.”
“It was foolish. I was very, very lucky. Some of those men were trained soldiers, but most of them weren’t. They weren’t working together. The entry technique I used depends on surprise and disorientation.” I stop myself short of naming Delta Force as the originator of the technique. Even if The Unit has been all over the media and popular literature, its existence is still officially classified. “If the Tambov guys had trained together, they would have been able to cooperate and pinpoint my location, or use the girls more effectively as human shields. It could have been a disaster.”
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