Sokolov was petrified. He had never been put into such a spot in his years in the GRU’s diplomatic service. True, he had acted tough when speaking to recruits like Petrenko, but he had never been tested in combat or even a barroom fight.
“I do not think they know,” he found the courage to say. “Petrenko has said nothing that would identify the thief. He called him The Voice - like the television program.” The GRU men looked blank at the reference.
“So,” said the slim man, “How do we find this thief? And, when we do, what do we do with him?”
Sokolov was speechless.
The slim man smiled benignly. “Never mind, my little diplomatic coward. I will tell you. We will definitely identify this thief. We will ask him to deliver the source code in person.” Sokolov frowned quizzically. “We will meet him. He will introduce himself politely. Then we will pay him the rest of his money. Another ten million dollars in United States money.”
Sokolov was rocked by this. “His money… but… but you said the code was not worth anything. Why would we pay …?”
“Because,” answered the slim man with a smug smile, “we want this thief to keep working for us. We want him to steal the new solutions as they are developed over the next year.”
Sokolov’s mind was churning. He was still frightened but he was also confused. “But, JPI says it will spend more than one hundred million dollars in this year to develop those solutions…”
That was met by another look of disdain. “See what a bargain we will have,” said the slim man with glee. “We will get one hundred million plus worth of value from only twenty million dollars and we will still get this source code for whatever it’s worth. We are so clever, Sokolov. Don’t you think so?”
The handler shifted his body on the crate. It was very uncomfortable. “Yes.” He murmured after bringing some order to the thoughts swirling in his brain. “Yes, that is clever.” He looked at Petrenko and saw the man had understood Russian and had been appalled. The plan would make Petrenko irrelevant and, therefore, worthless.
Sokolov nodded toward the four men against the wall. “And them?”
The slim man looked at Petrenko’s gang with false pity. “Ah, our criminal friends. What of them. We’ll have to see, won’t we? Perhaps they will be the ones to identify our thief after all.” With that enigmatic comment, the slim man rose and walked away. The Cuban remained as the white GRU men followed in their leader’s wake. Sokolov looked once more at Petrenko, shrugged, and followed the GRU group.
One of the GRU team ran ahead and returned driving a black SUV similar to the consultate vehicle. Another grunted to Sokolov, “Four Seasons”.
Shortly, both vehicles were parked in the underground garage at The Four Seasons Hotel in Yorkville and the four GRU agents were seated around the same table by the window of the lobby bar.
“What will happen to Petrenko and his men?” asked Sokolov of the man sitting next him.
“Ask Vasily,” the man said glancing across the table to the team leader.
“Vasily… uh, sir,” Sokolov began.
The man revealed as Vasily looked at Sokolov as though the consultant worker was an insignificant insect. “They will be fine.”
“Can I know your names?” the young man asked the team leader.
“All you need to know, Serge, is that I am Vasily Grigoryevich Zaytsev and I am a Captain in the GRU.
“Ah.” Sokolov was awed. “You are named for Zaytsev, the sniper ?”
“And…” smiled the Captain, impressed at Sokolov’s knowledge of military history, “…and a Hero of the Soviet Union. My great uncle. You know, of course, that during World War II. he killed 32 of those Nazi bastards with an ordinary rifle.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Then,” Captain Vasily Zaytsev said in a menacing voice, “you realize what could happen if I get angry with you.”
Sokolov reared back in his chair. He began to shiver noticeably.
Zaytsev’s men began to laugh loudly. “Ha,” said one with tears in his eyes from the sudden merriment, “he scared the crap out of you, little man. Didn’t he - our hero Captain?”
Zaytsev waved his hand and the others stopped laughing. In a few sentences, Zaytsev explained to Sokolov that they had simply taken Petrenko and his men out of the picture so they would not interfere with the work the GRU team had to do.
It was the job of this team to find the software thief. It was also their job to assess the situation at JPI. They were to determine if the source code for 2.0 had any value at all to Russia. They also were to assess the new value of Version 3.0 to be developed by JPI over the coming year.
“Our main task, should we agree to accept it,” Zaytsev said lightly, quoting the famous line from Mission Impossible, “is to see if this thief would like to work for Russia some more by putting hands on Version 3.0 for us.”
Sokolov saw the genius of it and was impressed. He had wondered if the GRU team from Ottawa knew which end was up in Toronto. Now he knew he was in a different league. His remaining question was whether he would survive the encounter with these pros.
Zaytsev laughed. “Don’t worry, Serge. We would very much like your help on these tasks.” He paused. “And if we succeed because of your help, you may even get a free trip home to Moscow.”
Sokolov smiled but, internally, he was sick to his stomach at the prospect of being rewarded with what he dreaded.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The group retired to the suite the team had booked. No sooner than they entered the room, a cellphone rang. Zaytsev had collected all three of Petrenko’s phones and he took one out of his jacket pocket. He looked at the screen. It read ‘number blocked.’ He sighed and accepted the call.
The Voice was heavily disguised. “Petrenko. I have to talk to you.”
Zaytsev didn’t respond.
“Petrenko. Are you there.” There was a sudden alarm in the Voice that came through in spite of the robotic sound. “It’s about the code.”
“This is not Petrenko but don’t hang up. I, too, would like to talk about the code … and about money.”
The Voice was silent and the silence went on until Zaytsev said, “Don’t be alarmed. I am a step up from Petrenko. I am someone you will want to speak with.”
There was a full minute of more silence but Zaytsev was patient. “Alright. I can talk for two minutes only.”
“Fine.” Zaytsev introduced himself by giving his name and rank. “Let me be blunt.” Zaytsev was speaking in unaccented English. “We all realize the source code for Version 2.0 is almost useless to us. You have our money and we have nothing. Not only that but you have given Petrenko one million of our money. We are not happy.”
The Voice cut in. “I can give you back your money except for that one million. I thought he worked for you so that’s your problem.”
Zaytsev was quick to reply. “Okay. Forget the million and forget Petrenko. He’s out of the picture in any event. Here’s the bottom line.” He let this sink in for a moment. “You keep your nine million and we give you the other ten million you demanded.”
There was a sharp intake of breath that slipped by the voice changer application. “What do you want?”
“We get the source code even if it is not worth ten thousand, much less twenty million. But we also find out who you really are. And you get hold of Version 3.0 as it is developed and give it to us.” Zaytsev glanced at his men and grinned as he waited for the response.
Again, the Voice was silent, running over the two-minute limit. “I am not going to tell you who I am.”
“That’s non-negotiable. Besides,” said the Captain, “you know we will find out eventually. If you don’t get to know you, we can’t trust you. If we can’t trust you … well, you understand what that will mean.” He left the threat hanging.
“And I get the money? All of it?” Zaytsev could feel the greed.
“Yes. You will hand over the source code in person. You can tell us your
name when we meet.”
“I can’t…” The Voice began.
“You can and you will or you will not get another ten million. We will find you. We will get back our nine million plus Petrenko’s million. And JPI will get you - or what remains of you - to do as they want. Am I clear?”
The Voice mumbled something. There was silence. Then there was a peculiar sound, like a muted scream. “You are clear. You’ll get your code. We will meet. But, no more threats. Not one more. Am I clear?”
“You certainly are, my friend. And no more of these silly robot games. Call me when you pick the meeting place.” Zaytsev disconnected before The Voice had the opportunity.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sunday morning, Jackson was up before 7 a.m. He never slept past that time anyway and often awakened every hour on the hour. Sometimes he would think himself back to sleep; other times he would visit the bathroom and get distracted on his way back to the bedroom by the television, a book lying on his coffee table or staring into the night from his balcony. This morning, he was thinking about the next day’s scheduled news conference and Maxim Blax’s role in it.
Max had agreed to be the corporate spokesperson. It made sense that he would be the face of the JPI going into the company’s largest development project. The problem was that Jackson didn’t trust the CEO to handle the duties entailed.
Over a microwaved egg, single slice of toast and large cup of coffee, Jackson went over the day ahead. He went to his building’s small gymnasium and used the rowing machine for 45 minutes. Then, he called Mariah, Payne, Fred Nbodo and COO Carmen Flores. Within an hour, all four of them gathered in his condo unit.
Mariah brought the script that would be put up for Blax to read from a teleprompter. She also brought a list of questions and suggested answers that Blax would give to reporters.
“Good reporters don’t often give lists of their questions and, even when they do, they don’t submit the juiciest ones,” Mariah told the two men.
“Juicy. What’s that mean?” Payne was edgy. “We’re fighting for our lives here and reporters see it as ‘juicy.’”
Mariah nodded. “The media thinks negative events are juicy because, quite simply, negative is rarer than positive. Rare is more interesting. Therefore, negatives are ‘juicy.’ But don’t forget, the media doesn’t see this news conference as a negative. We’re promoting a big positive for JPI - the development of a whole new list of products in a very short period of time. It’s a first for our industry.”
“And,” added Jackson, “You say yourself, Payne, that it’s looking more and more like a smart thing to do. A profitable thing. So far, media see this as a positive story - okay but not all that juicy. And that’s a good thing.”
Payne thought about Jackson’s words for a moment. Then, he agreed that the redevelopment exercise could be very profitable. It’s a great time to do it, he said, because the economy is at a zenith having built steadily since 2014. The money is there for the military to spend more. As well, with the instability around the world and the growth of domestic terrorism, there’s an acceptance by civilians that more defence is a good thing.
“Sure,” he added, “there are anxieties about intrusions on their privacy but the trade-offs more than outweigh the worries.”
“That’s debatable,” Carmen argued. “And we might get questions tomorrow on that very thing.”
Mariah waved several sheets of paper at Jackson. “But we have good answers.”
Fred, the technology chief, put down his coffee cup and frowned. “Speaking of which,” he said in his quiet voice, “how about the big question of the day. Did JPI suffer the theft of its software code? And is this why we’re dumping out current stuff because it’s compromised?”
“Jesus, Fred,” Payne sputtered, trying to swallow his coffee and speak at the same time. “Where did that come from?”
Jackson interceded. “We can’t assume someone won’t get that story. Good question, Fred. So, what’s our answer … no, what’s Max’s answer if he gets that question?”
Everyone looked at Mariah. Her mouth turned down. “A very good question with a very bad answer. I just don’t know what Max’s answer will be - to anything. My team has sent him everything from the news releases to a fairly long list of Q & A for the news conference. He hasn’t replied. He won’t even confirm receipt of our emails.”
“Maybe he’s worried about security. Are the emails encrypted?” Carmen Flores looked directly at Mariah.
“Of course. And they are sent through a protected server, internal use only. No, that’s can’t be it because Max uses the system all the time. He just doesn’t respond.” Mariah sat back in her chair with a resigned look on her face.
Jackson poked a finger at the screen of his phone. A few seconds later, he spoke into the device. “Max. Jackson. Sorry to call you on a Sunday but I’ve been talking to PR and they wonder why you aren’t responding to their emails about tomorrow’s news conference.”
He put the call on speaker phone. Max’s voice was clear to all. “I didn’t respond, Mr. Phillips, because I will not be scripted. I am an adult and CEO of JPI and I will say what I want to say. Not something put in my mouth by …” His tone was demeaning. “… by underlings.”
“These are professionals, Max,” said Jackson with anger in his tone. “They know how to talk to media and they are offering you good advice. They are not underlings and I won’t have you speak of them like that.”
“Oh, you won’t. Well, Mr. Phillips, listen to me carefully. I will suggest to the press that JPI is thinking about updating its software. We have not decided we will spend a stupid amount of money redoing everything. Maybe we will. Maybe we won’t. And I will be the one who will tell them what we will do when I determine what we will do.”
“Max,” Jackson cut in. “You are insane. If you think…” There was only dead air. Blax had disconnected. Jackson looked at his phone before slamming it on the table.
He looked chagrined as he took in the others around the table. “Sorry. That guy just gets me down.”
Payne looked back at Jackson. “He gets us all, Jackson. I think you’re right. He’s as crazy as a loon. What do we do about it, Mariah? It’s your party tomorrow.”
Mariah shrugged. “I’ll figure something out,” she said disconsolately.
Carmen Flores stood up. There was a stern look on her face. “We should be patient and wait until the conference before we judge him. I’m sure he’ll do what is best for the company.” With that said, Carmen picked up her purse from beneath her chair and left the table. “I have to go now. I’ve got company coming.” And off she went.
The rest chatted on for a few minutes but the meeting broke up and Jackson was left alone in his apartment studying the notes Mariah had left for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It was late in the day on Sunday. Max Blax was a creature of habit and his habit on most Sundays was to have dinner at a marvelous fish restaurant about eight blocks from his condo building. He would walk to and from the eatery unless it was raining and this late afternoon it was glorious outside.
He dined on sea bass and watched the celebrities who frequented the place come and go with their retinues. Afterward, he made his way homeward. Vehicular traffic was busy, as usual in downtown Toronto, but the route had little to attract pedestrians. He had the wide sidewalk largely to himself. It was now growing dark.
Blax didn’t notice the person in the dark-coloured hoodie and black track pants who came from the dark doorway of an office building to trail behind him. He walked next to a low concrete wall topped with bushes that separated the sidewalk from a children’s playground. Traffic zipped by to his left. He had almost reached a plexiglass bus shelter when the figure behind him began to run. He heard a few footsteps just before he felt a severe pain in his left knee. As his leg collapsed, he felt another blow, more a push, on the right side of his back. He fell toward the roadway. The last thing he heard was a blast from
a car horn and a screech of brakes.
“Jackson?” It was Payne on the phone. Jackson had just turned off the tv. The Blue Jays had lost another game. “It’s Payne.”
“What are you doing up at …” Jackson checked his watch. “… 10:30 p.m.”
“Very funny,” Payne retorted. “But this is serious. Max is in hospital.”
“What?”
“Max. He was run over by a car on Davenport Road. I just got a call from a detective. Detective Sergeant Jaya Kumar.”
“A detective? For a traffic accident?” Jackson knew detectives didn’t deal with such things even when they were ‘PIs’, personal injury accidents.
“She said Max was pushed into the path of the car. Someone tried to kill him.”
“How bad is it?” Jackson asked, trying to recover from his astonishment.
Payne told Phillips what little he knew from his conversation with the Detective from 53 Division of the Toronto PD. Blax suffered a broken kneecap, a bad bump on his head and the car apparently had run over his arm, breaking bones and dislocating it from the shoulder. His injuries were not ‘life threatening’, the officer told Payne but they were serious. He was in ‘fair’ condition at Toronto Western Hospital.
“So, he’s in good hands,” Jackson remarked after Payne had finished the litany of damages to the CEO. Jackson had undergone hip surgery some years before at Toronto Western. It was a large, high-quality institution.
“But, Jackson, what does this do to the news conference?”
The two discussed the conference planned for 2 p.m. the next day but agreed, eventually, that it would be up to Mariah to determine whether to reschedule the event or go ahead with another spokesperson. Jackson asked Payne if he would do it but Payne flatly turned down the suggestion. He argued that he didn’t have the technical knowledge to deal with questions from technology press.
The Russian Crisis Page 13