Avenue of Thieves

by Sean Black

  The oligarchs saw themselves as legitimate businessmen who had spotted opportunities when the country was in a state of transition from one system to another. In the same way the tech billionaires had seen certain technological changes coming and exploited them.

  To a degree, both were correct. But only to a degree. Men like Bill Gates had created something that had never existed before. Men like Dimitri, often by using political connections, had been gifted chunks of large, already operating state enterprises. Or they had established their own banks, a guaranteed way of generating wealth.

  “You think it’s the Russian authorities who were behind this?” Lock asked, pointedly.

  “Who else would be capable of something like this?” said Dimitri.

  Point taken, thought Lock. The more sophisticated the strike against someone, the more likely a government was involved.

  “Of course, proving it is a different matter, and even if I could prove it, then what?” continued Dimitri. “You think anyone would care? The whole point of doing something like this is to make sure that people like me know they can be reached anywhere in the world.”

  “Well,” said Lock, “if your theory is correct, then I’d imagine that whoever did this is long gone by now. Or if they’re still here, they’re holed up in some embassy or consulate and able to invoke diplomatic immunity, as soon as we or law enforcement get close to them.”

  Dimitri stopped pacing, his shoulders slumped. “So what do I do? Sit around and wait for them to try again? Give in to their demands?”

  Lock traded a look with his partner. This was the first time they’d heard about any demands being made, either publicly or privately. Of course it made perfect sense. They could easily have killed Dimitri back on the bridge. All it would have taken was piloting his car into the water, with the added insurance of a kill team or a sniper waiting for him if he emerged from the water. They had done the difficult part. Posting someone nearby with a rifle and a scope to finish the job was low tech by comparison. Bombing, shooting, stabbing, poisoning, there were many ways of ending someone’s life that didn’t require the kind of planning and execution that had gone into remotely taking control of several vehicles.

  “Demands?” asked Ty.

  “You’ve told the FBI about this?”

  “For all the good it will do. Don’t get me wrong, they’re doing everything they can, and I trust them …” He trailed off, leaving the inevitable ‘but’ hanging in the air. When it came to state actors, people from the shadows who were backed by foreign powers, then the FBI was limited. That was more CIA territory, and good luck getting a read on what they would and would not do.

  To be fair to the Central Intelligence Agency, their concerns were larger than any one person. While Dimitri Semenov might hold an American passport and was legally regarded as a US citizen, he had been born and raised in Russia. He had made his fortune there. That changed how the US authorities perceived him.

  If a foreign government went after, say, Warren Buffett or Mark Zuckerberg they had better prepare themselves for a world of pain. But try to take down a Russian oligarch who happened to have a US passport and the response depended on how the diplomatic winds were blowing.

  It might not be fair. It might not be working to the letter of the law, but it was reality. Just like in Dimitri’s old country, everyone might be equal, but some were more equal than others.

  “These demands,” said Lock. “What are they?”

  “They didn’t exactly print out a list for me, but the general gist is that they want my fortune. All of it. The money I made back home, and the money I’ve made since I’ve been here. They regard it as the proceeds of crime, which is slightly ironic, don’t you think?”

  “And how did they present this ultimatum?” said Lock.

  Dimitri walked to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a brown folder. He took out a series of newspaper clippings, and handed them to both men. They were from various Russian newspapers and magazines. English translations were stapled to the front of each article.

  Lock quickly scanned the first and moved on to the next. By the third he had the general idea. Only one mentioned Dimitri by name, but they shared the same theme. The oligarchs’ fortunes had been stolen from Mother Russia, and now the Kremlin wanted those fortunes returned, with interest.

  “First, they required my silence, and now they want everything else,” said Dimitri, as Lock traded clippings with Ty.

  “This is way above my pay grade, but any way you can negotiate some kind of a settlement?” said Ty.

  Lock had been thinking the same thing.

  “Oh, I’ve explored that. I still have friends back home who are in contact with the people behind this. Sadly, they aren’t in the mood to bargain. It’s all or nothing.”

  He looked straight at Lock. “This isn’t about justice. This is about revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?” asked Lock.

  “That, my friend, is a very long story.”

  8

  Madeline Marshowsky, Dimitri’s personal assistant, was waiting for Lock and Ty as they emerged from their meeting. She had a thick bundle of files in her arms, which she handed to Lock: the background and security reports on every person employed by the Semenov family in a personal capacity. In total, and not including private security, the family had a staff of several individuals, including Madeline. Two housekeepers, a nanny, several cleaners, a gardener for the Hamptons property, a chef, a personal trainer/masseuse/yoga instructor, two drivers, an onsite maintenance man, additional personal assistants, all highly paid and all apparently indispensable.

  Each person had already been extensively background-checked and security-vetted, but Lock liked to get an idea of who was in daily contact with the family. All of these people were potential threats when it came to keeping a principal safe.

  One easy way of bolstering security was to brief domestic staff on the importance of letting the security detail know if they spotted anything or anyone out of place. Domestic staff often knew more about the day-to-day comings and goings in a household than the owners. A change of delivery person, someone loitering outside, someone calling the house to inquire about the family’s whereabouts, all of these things could be significant.

  “That’s great, thank you,” said Lock, handing some of the files to Ty.

  Madeline hovered.

  Lock smiled. “We’re going to take a look around. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else we need.”

  “Of course,” she said, handing Lock a business card. “My cell number is on there if you can’t find me.”

  “Thanks,” said Lock, pocketing it, and starting toward the ornate sweep of stairs that led to the upper floors. When it came to reviewing residential security, he liked to start on the roof and work his way down.

  Ty fell into step next to him as they climbed the stairs. “So, what do you think?” he asked Ty.

  “I think we do our review, make some recommendations, cash the check, and get back to LA.” Lock stopped and looked at his partner.

  “What?” said Ty.

  “I thought you liked a challenge.”

  “I like breathing too, Ryan. Listen, if he’s right and it’s the Russian government that wants him dead, there’s no amount of security that’s going to stop them. The only question is who’s going to be standing in front of him when the final bullets start flying. And bullets are what he’s gonna get if he’s lucky. These are some cold-ass motherfuckers he’s up against.”

  Lock knew precisely what Ty was referring to. In his war on dissidents, or anyone he perceived as an enemy, Putin had been relentless. Once you were firmly in the sights of the Kremlin it was often only a matter of time. It was bold and brazen when it came to assassination, often choosing methods that were guaranteed to draw attention.

  It was a strategy that was designed not just to eliminate an opponent but to intimidate and cow anyone else who was thinking about stepping out of line. Not that he would a
dmit it, but Lock had a sneaking admiration for Putin, the former KGB officer. While most governments were busy playing checkers, he had been playing chess.

  “That’s why I said we’d come in as consultants,” said Lock.

  “And what was all that other BS about us going on the offensive?” Ty said, in a whisper, as they hung a right and headed for the staircase that would take them up to the next floor.

  Lock shrugged. “That’s what I’d do if I was him. Otherwise you’re just holed up waiting for the other shoe to drop. But no, before you ask, we’re not doing that either. We’ll take a look, see if we can spot any gaps, and get out of Dodge.”

  Ty fist-bumped. “Good. Plus it’s cold as hell in New York. I miss the sunshine.”

  They accessed the roof via a hatch ladder. Lock went first, Ty following. It was a shared roof space, meaning that anyone could access it from one of the adjoining properties.

  Lock walked to the edge and looked down to the street below as Ty paced the perimeter before joining him. Over the years, Lock had found the best way to approach security was to think like a potential threat. If he planned on gaining access, the roof would be his chosen method. Enter one of the neighboring homes or businesses and simply walk across.

  Ty joined him at the edge. The end of the block was still thick with cops and media.

  “Fire regulations probably won’t allow them to secure the hatch, so they need a camera up here. Maybe two. One wide angle, and covering the access,” said Lock.

  Ty made a note of it. “Motion sensors?” he asked.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  As they walked back the hatch opened and a man’s head appeared. Lock recognized Neil McLennan. He walked over and reached out a hand to help him up. McLennan ignored the gesture and pulled himself up.

  “You’re the consultant, are you?”

  “Ryan Lock,” said Lock. “This is Ty Johnson.”

  Reluctantly, McLennan shook their hands.

  “I know the last thing you want is someone second-guessing you, especially now, but it never hurts to have a fresh pair of eyes. I was just saying to Ty, it might be an idea to have a camera up here.”

  Lock knew there was two ways this could go. Either McLennan would let his ego get in the way, or he would park it and allow them to help him. From his demeanor, it looked like it was going to be the former.

  “I suggested a camera up here,” said McLennan. “One of the neighbors objected.”

  “Then don’t tell them,” said Ty.

  McLennan’s answer came in the form of a stare.

  Lock knew the last thing they needed right now was to get into a pissing contest. “Why don’t you take us through the rest of the property?” he said.

  McLennan gave a curt nod and they followed him back to the hatch and down the ladder.

  “How long have you been running the detail for them?” Lock asked, as they made their way down.

  “About two years give or take,” said McLennan.

  “Any serious breaches before this one?” Lock inquired, as they made their way into the plush carpeted hallway on the top floor.

  “These are all bedrooms,” said McLennan, opening a door while ignoring the question. He pointed up into the corners of the hallway. “Motion sensors there, there, and that corner over there. In fact, they’re in all the public areas. We have cameras front and back, including ones that cover as far as the end of the block, and in areas where staff work. Those are monitored twenty-four hours. There’s also an alarm that connects directly to the nineteenth station precinct.”

  McLennan stopped and opened a door that led into a plushly appointed bedroom with a king-size four-poster bed. As they followed him, he continued his run down. “Every visitor and every staff member, including the CP team, is searched upon entry and exit.”

  He walked over to the windows, which faced out onto the street.

  “All the externally facing doors and windows are blast and bullet proof up to level three. I suggested we go to level eight, but the client’s wife wouldn’t agree for aesthetic reasons. But I did persuade them to add reflective material so no one can see in to get a clear shot, without of course blocking light entry. It’s the same at the house in the Hamptons, and the mansion they have in Barbados.”

  He turned back to face Lock and Ty. “If there’s anything else you think we could add, I’m all ears.”

  Lock had expected that kind of reaction and McLennan hadn’t disappointed. Ty leaned into him. “Wonder who chose those dumbass cars?” he whispered, sotto voce.

  McLennan started toward him, hands raised. “I lost three of my best mates on that bridge so you might want to keep your smartass comments to yourself.”

  Ty dead-eyed him. “Listen, buddy, everyone in this room has lost people, so if you think we’re going to tiptoe around shit because you might get triggered then you’re in the wrong game.”

  “No one’s questioning your professionalism, McLennan,” said Lock, hoping to calm things down.

  “Your mate just did,” said McLennan, stalking past them and out of the room.

  Ty looked at Lock. “Touchy.”

  They finished the rest of their tour without McLennan, who didn’t reappear after he’d stormed off. There was no sign of either Dimitri’s wife or his daughter. Lock wanted to drill down into their security details, assuming they had them. If they didn’t he would recommend that Dimitri added additional protection for them, at least while they were at this heightened threat level.

  Other than that, all the arrangements McLennan had outlined were in place. Besides a few minor tweaks, Lock didn’t have much to suggest to Dimitri. He guessed the meat of the conversation would revolve around the steps they could take to augment any police investigation into who was behind the attack in the Hamptons.

  Lock would suggest that law enforcement were best placed to conduct any investigation. That said, sometimes people were more likely to share information with someone who wasn’t official law enforcement. Understandably, the FBI spooked people, especially those who might have something to hide, and people on the edge of criminality were often the most useful when it came to gathering intelligence.

  The locks on the door at the rear entrance could have used an upgrade, and he’d suggest to Mrs. Semenov that she rethink the upgrade on the windows. Level 3 would stop a bullet from a handgun, but snipers weren’t noted for using handguns, so it was as much decorative as protective, as far as Lock was concerned.

  One thing niggled at Lock, though: Ty’s question about who had selected those particular sedans for close protection duties. It was, at best, an odd choice. Not that Cadillacs weren’t good vehicles, they were, and Lock loved an Escalade as much as the next man, but cars at the forefront of new tech were vulnerable. In general, smart security people favored the tried and tested, whether that was a firearm or transport.

  As they came back into the hallway, the blonde PA was waiting for them. She seemed to have the knack of being there only when required, a good skill to have when you catered to the super-wealthy.

  “Is there anything else you need, gentlemen?”

  “Just a few moments with Mr. Semenov, if he’s available.”

  “I’ll find out,” she said, disappearing into the temporary office.

  Lock turned to Ty.

  “What do you think?”

  Ty tilted his head back and pivoted around, taking in the foyer. “Security’s solid. If anyone’s going to have another pop at him, I doubt it’ll be here. And not with a bunch of New York’s finest posted at the end of the block.”

  Lock agreed. As was usually the case, static locations were often the safest place. Problems came when a principal moved to an unfamiliar location or was in transit. You could remain safe if you never left home, but barring the occasional eccentric recluse, people went out, and that was where problems arose.

  Madeline returned. “Mr. Semenov will see you now.”

  They walked inside to find Dimitri standing by t
he window, a disconcerting habit for a man whose life was under threat. The oligarch motioned for them to sit down.

  “So?” said Dimitri. “What’s your assessment?”

  Lock decided to circle back to the question of vehicle selection. And he’d go easy on McLennan. The guy’s back was up. Understandably so.

  “I think, barring what happened, you have a good security detail, and that apart from some minor tweaks residential security in this property is about as good as it gets.”

  “So there’s nothing to worry about?” said Dimitri, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice.

  Lock didn’t take the bait. Like McLennan, he knew that Dimitri’s stress levels had to be off the charts. Part of his and Ty’s job right now was to offer some kind of reassurance. “I wouldn’t say nothing, risk is always present, but on the residential level you’re fairly well squared away. It wouldn’t be a major area of concern.”

  The central cold hard fact of bodyguarding was that if a person or persons wanted your principal dead the real deciding factors were resources, and the level of determination present on both sides. If what Dimitri had told them was correct, and these threats were being supported by the Russian regime, the chances were that sooner or later they would get lucky. It was a matter of when rather than if. But that was the case for everyone on the planet. Little comfort to the man standing in front of them.

  “So what should concern me?”

  “There are two main areas of vulnerability that apply to most principals―when you’re out of the residence, either in transit or in a location with less robust measures. That’s one for sure.”

  “And the others?”

  “The second thing, always a concern, is the people around you. Both in terms of safeguarding loved ones and making sure that staff and visitors have been properly vetted. You have a wife and daughter?”