7 Needle in a Haystack
Kiev, 2013
Andrei Topolski accepted the new assignment from Arthur with a great deal of enthusiasm. He had been working as the chief security officer of the Group’s Moscow trade house for almost seven years, although it wasn’t what he considered to be work even if his huge salary hinted otherwise. To Andrei it was more like retirement.
The main focus of the Group’s activities was elsewhere, so Andrei’s responsibilities were relatively limited. He was charged with conducting background checks on new employees to ensure that no suspicious characters penetrated the Group, he spied and reported on the local managers and made random verification checks on transactions, making sure the kickbacks weren’t their prime stimuli. And he drank vodka from time to time with Moscow’s police and tax chiefs to keep appraised of any gossip.
After being the Head of Moscow’s Criminal Investigation Department in the militsiya during Soviet times, the work in the Group was boring and uneventful. In his old role, he had confronted the most vicious gang leaders as they drifted to Moscow, where most of the wealth was concentrated. Nowadays, he was ashamed of his pensioner’s position. He missed his old glory days.
The investigation into the assassination attempt was a challenge, reminding him of his glorious past. He knew he’d be a bit rusty, but he was certain he hadn’t lost his hound’s instincts. During the flight to Kiev he studied what little information he had. He scribbled notes in his notebook, as he had done his whole working life, using code names for people and places so that anyone who saw the collection of scribbles wouldn’t have a clue what he was writing. The plane started its descent, and soon Andrei was standing in the arrivals area at Kiev’s Boryspil International Airport.
“Andrei?” a voice called out from the throng of people hanging around the exit.
“Yes, I’m Andrei. Who sent you to meet me?” Andrei asked, cautious of being intercepted by someone who wanted to keep the assassination attempt quiet.
“Arthur sent me; my name is Petro,” the man answered.
“Good. Then let’s go.”
Petro led Andrei to a battered old VW and opened the passenger door for him.
“Arthur thinks it’s best that your presence here doesn’t attract unwanted attention. None of the Group’s local security was filled in on your arrival. I belong to Arthur’s inner circle,” Petro emphasised the last two words.
“Smart thinking,” Andrei observed, being sure now that Petro was a former officer in the SBU - the Security Service of Ukraine. “Let the scums who did this think they’re safe.”
“So where do you want to go?”
“I think I should start at the Parus Business Centre and study the scene where the boss was shot.”
“No problem. Anything I can do to help?”
Andrei thought for a moment, and then fished out his notebook and scanned the pages.
“Actually, there is,” he said as he placed the notes back into his pocket. “I hope soon to have the list of all mobile phones that were operational within a one hundred metre radius from Parus one hour before through one hour after the assault. I want you to go over the list and establish the identity of every owner that’ll be missing on the list.”
“Surely, there will be thousands of entries! Parus is dead centre of Kiev!”
“Arthur told me to use as much manpower as necessary. I appreciate it will take time and money to gather such information, but do whatever it takes. I don’t intend leaving one iota of evidence open to speculation.”
Andrei was under no illusions. There was no way that the marksman himself had a mobile phone on him as every communication the assailant needed would’ve been done well before or after the job. But his accomplices, if any, or his client’s representatives might well have been on the ground to validate the result.
Petro steered the VW into an underground parking garage and walked with Andrei to the place where the boss was shot. Andrei stood completely still, his eyes darting from building to building, window to window. A small stain on the pavement, hastily cleaned but still evident, showed where he had fallen. Andrei re-enacted the walk from the main entrance, stepped over the faint mark, and stood where he calculated the boss would’ve been when the shot was taken.
“Petro; stand here, exactly where the boss was shot. I want to evaluate all possible angles.”
Petro stood on the spot, and Andrei studied the various angles and positions where the shot may have come from.
“Okay...the boss was shot just twelve meters from the exit to the North West from Parus. Thus, the building itself prevented any possible shot coming from the opposite South East direction. The shot couldn’t have been taken from Parus, as the boss was too close to the building.”
“I see that,” Petro agreed, nodding in approval.
“There are no high rise buildings in any other direction apart from Shovkovichna Street,” Andrei remarked, pointing at the multi-storey residential buildings leading from Lipki district up to Parus. “This limits the location to just three buildings from their fifth floor upward.”
Petro followed Andrei’s line of sight.
“That was very swift, my friend. I think you’ve done this before.”
“Once or twice,” Andrei lied.
“If you look at the roofs, you’ll see they aren’t a reasonable option because of their cone shape. The shooter would have limited space, and the apartments in the buildings higher up the slope of Shovkovichna Street overlook the position. That leaves the apartments themselves.”
“You think the shot came from within an apartment in one of those three buildings?”
“Yes. That means we have...” Andrei counted to himself, “...maybe two hundred apartments to check.”
“Only two hundred? Judging from the number of windows there are many more apartments than that.”
“I disagree. The lower windows would only be suitable if the shooter could guarantee no trucks or whatever blocking the line of sight. A professional wouldn’t take such chances. No; fifth floor upwards is what we must concentrate on.”
Andrei studied the probable trajectory for a couple more minutes, all the while scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“So, Petro, when was the meeting here arranged?”
“Err... I believe it was only a week before.”
“Okay. I want to know who rented or was trying to rent apartments in the buildings suitable for the sniper’s mission during that week. I’ll contact Boris and get all the details of the meeting. You should assemble a team of five people from your so-called inner circle right away. Ensure you have at least two females among them. Question estate agents, residents, concierges, neighbours, dog walkers, dogs, squirrels, drunks, beggars, anyone. Find out about all the rent deals done between the first and ninth of August in those three buildings,” he said, pointing at the buildings in Shovkovichna Street.
“I’ll get on it immediately.”
“Now, I don’t want to invoke a strong resonance, so use an indirect rather than a straightforward approach. Present yourself as a newly relocated senior manager of any company having headquarters in Parus, coming in from Kharkov with an urgent need for an apartment for you and your family.”
Petro, realising that the list of instructions was getting longer, pulled out a notebook and started taking notes.
“Send out some ladies to hang out in the nearest park to chat with young mums with baby carriages, as if checking the surroundings of an apartment before moving in. Those are usually bored and gossipy types, so they might know which apartments were empty and occupied recently. Other than that, I trust your own imagination.”
“Okay Andrei, I’ve got that.”
“That’s all we can do for now. You go, Petro, start organising straight away.”
“Yes sir, I’ll report back to you when everything is in place,” Petro replied with a respectful nod.
After dismissing Petro, Andrei called Yaroslav Pilipchuk, an SBU deputy
chief, to schedule a dinner with him. Andrei knew Yaroslav wouldn’t be too pleased to receive the call unsolicited, but Andrei didn’t have time for rituals and reverences.
The receptionist finally connected Andrei after he resorted to a veiled threat if she didn’t comply. Years in the security business had taught Andrei how to circumvent bureaucratic niceties. Finally the connection was made.
“Yaroslav, I came from Moscow just to have a word with you for a few minutes. We must meet today, sorry for such a short notice. I’ll owe you one.”
Andrei knew that Yaroslav couldn’t just plainly refuse helping one of the Group’s security chiefs. Andrei was sure that the boss wasn’t stingy with Yaroslav, so he’d happily arrange for the list of mobile phone numbers and the identities of their owners, where they were known.
With a meeting with Yaroslav agreed, Andrei then called Aleksey Nifontov, a former SBU major who now worked for the Ministry of Communication, supervising cellular operators. Each time when either Aleksey was in Moscow or Andrei was in Kiev, they didn’t miss an opportunity to drink a shot of vodka or two together and help each other to arrange presents for their wives upon returning home.
Andrei hoped that with Aleksey’s influence on cellular operators he could arrange the data he needed maybe even quicker than through the SBU. Andrei didn’t care who delivered first, the faster the better. In forty minutes Aleksey joined him in the Arena bar opposite Bessarabsky market for a shot of midday vodka.
“So you see the urgency required for this investigation,” Andrei explained, after laying out his needs.
“Leave it with me, Andrei. I’ll get all the numbers of all the mobile phones. I’ll do it for you, my friend, and next time I’m in Moscow you’ll invite me to the best brothel in town. I know you have connections to get the numbers from police or SBU, but you need not bother. No way will those imbecile wankers do it quicker than me.”
“Thank you my friend, your help will be remembered.”
Andrei felt like Sherlock Holmes, solving the mysteries one by one. Satisfied he had done all he could at that point, and still having time before meeting Yaroslav, Andrei called Oxana, his young Kiev mistress, hoping to catch her at home.
Damn, he had missed this kind of action for years. He felt elated. Oxana wouldn’t regret for a minute hosting him in such an energetic mood. He was horny like a Duracell bunny on Viagra.
“Oxana won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” he thought to himself grinning. “Screw me, I must abandon this pseudo-retirement. Some action makes me feel twenty years younger.”
8 There’s No Place like Home
Kiev, 1994
When the plane started its descent I was startled by the sight of the dark city below, with only a few dim lights visible in a city of three million inhabitants. It reminded me the stories from World War II of blackouts when people turned off the lights upon the approach of German Luftwaffe bombers. Kiev was eerily dark. Electricity supplies were undoubtedly cut at night to save costs.
The plane landed and armed with my brand new Israeli passport, I joined the queue for non-Ukrainian visitors. I passed through customs and immigration without a hitch, and walked through to step on Ukrainian soil once again. I was home, and it felt good. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of my homeland - oh how different it was to Tel Aviv! I must have looked like a nitwit, standing there in the arrivals area with my eyes closed and a stupid grin on my face. My moment of peace was soon interrupted.
“Misha! Misha!”
I opened my eyes and there was Sasha running towards me.
“Misha!” he said again and shrouded me in a bear hug.
“Oh little brother...it’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good seeing you too,” I gasped as the air was squeezed from my lungs.
We exchanged the customary three kisses on the cheeks - left, right, left, and patted each other on the back like good Ukrainians.
“Yulia and the children cannot wait. Come...I have a car outside,” he exclaimed while yanking my suitcase from my hand and leading me towards the exit to the car park.
“You still have the old Volga we bought you?”
“Ah...patience brother; you’ll soon see,” Sasha replied cryptically.
We entered the short term parking and I followed behind Sasha as he slalomed through the rows of cars.
“How do you like this beauty?” he asked, patting the hood of an old Volvo.
Maybe it wasn’t a fancy car in Western Europe, but it was mightily impressive for a twenty three year old public servant in Kiev.
“Nice,” I nodded. “You have done well for yourself,” I replied truthfully.
“Get in then, Misha, or the children will be asleep before we get home.”
As we drove to his house, Sasha said, “You need to come back to Kiev, little brother. I can fix you with good job at my company. We can send money to mama every month to take care of her. You have nothing in Israel. Nothing, gornisht. You can have good life here. A very good life; believe me.”
A couple of years earlier my mother told me exactly the same words about Kiev and asked me to go with her to Israel. Now Sasha was telling me that I had nothing in Israel and asked me to come back to Kiev. The sad thing was that they were both right.
Sasha drove through the centre of Kiev on the way to his house. It wasn’t too late, around ten in the evening, but the big city’s streets were almost empty, with hardly any cars or pedestrians. I didn’t notice a single smile during the forty five minute drive. The overall atmosphere was sombre. People seemed poor and unhappy.
Most of the street lights were off. Those that were on used low wattage bulbs emitting faint lights. Even the central roads were in a terrible condition with broad and unattended holes and cracks in their asphalt layer. The feeling was of neglect and disrepair.
“The city looks miserable, Sasha,” I told my brother. “It doesn’t strike me as a place where you can have a good life.”
“It’s deceptive. As papa always used to say: don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“I always say judge the book and its cover.”
“Stop being philosophical and listen, Misha. You need to look beneath the surface. Most people aren’t doing well; that’s true. But if you know how to play the system here the opportunities are limitless. Give it a chance and I’ll teach you how you can make lots of money without working too hard. You’ll see; you can have a good life here. There’s no place like home.”
Indeed, Sasha did appear to have a good life. The Volvo turned off the highway and Sasha drove through what looked like a fairly affluent area of the Kiev suburbs. Eventually he pulled into a driveway in front of a spacious, well-maintained three-bedroom house. Yulia heard us approach and ran from the door to greet us. She had a broad smile and her eyes sparkled with happiness. Once the hugs were out of the way, Sasha grabbed my suitcase from the boot of the Volvo, and we went inside. I could see why Yulia was happy: the house was spacious, well-decorated and well-equipped with modern furnishings.
The children had already fallen asleep, so we all sat at the kitchen table and caught up. Yulia was particularly animated, gushing about the new home, the well-equipped kitchen that was stocked with a variety of foods, and that Sasha earned enough so that she could stay home with the kids. It was a huge contrast to how we all used to live before I left Kiev.
Soon after I had left for Israel, with a reference from my father’s old colleague, Sasha landed a job in the housing department of the construction corporation where my father used to work, administering state-owned residential properties.
When people needed to repair or renovate their home they needed the corporation to send workers. When people needed an allocation of an apartment or to relocate they needed the corporation’s approval and apartments. State construction almost ground to a halt when the economy entered recession so there was a dire shortage of properties.
People had two options for advancing in the queue. The first option
was obvious: you waited. And waited, and waited until you forgot what you were waiting for. The second option was the bread and butter for corporation managers: you bribed your way up the list. Democracy or not, some things never change.
With the right oil in its wheels the bureaucratic machine can work surprisingly fast. That was where Sasha could use his position to make some extra cash.
So Sasha accepted envelopes to help people. He knew that he couldn’t drive a Volvo around the city if his boss wasn’t getting a piece of the pie, so he proved his loyalty by sharing contributions. Employees who proved their loyalty were likely not only to keep their job, but also to be promoted.
When Sasha’s boss, Sergei, left his post to become deputy mayor he took care of loyal Sasha. Sasha became the head of the department that was responsible for selling assets designated for privatisation.
As part of the privatisation process many residents of Kiev were given apartments for a symbolic price. Most preferred to cash in quickly on their property and buy cheaper apartments in the city’s outskirts. To my surprise, the few hundred dollars that I’d brought with me from Israel represented a small fortune, and I could afford to buy a modest apartment in a good location. It happens to a country in recession with the value of its currency dropping through the floor.
The huge business opportunity was obvious. The real estate market in Kiev was undergoing a revolution after years of communism. Now, properties could be privately owned!
I decided to accept Sasha’s offer and join his company. I asked around and found out that Nazar and his brigade had been wiped out by a competing gang, but Nazar himself had escaped and disappeared. I was certain that he would surface again, but I was glad that he wasn’t around now. With the threat of Nazar out of the way, I thought that staying in Kiev was the way to go.
I was back!
***
The one thing that nagged me was that I still had unfinished business in Israel - law school. I’d discontinued my higher education once before in Kiev, and this time I wanted to see it through. As always, where there’s a will, there’s a way. All that was required was a bit of creativity.
Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Page 9