The Russian Crisis

by G. R. Daniels

  Zaytsev’s brain was churning once he left the call with The Voice. Should he consult with the Ottawa embassy? Nyet. They would tell him to talk to Moscow. Should he contact GRU H.Q. near Moscow and ask for advice from the big brass there? Nyet again. They would tell him to stick an umbrella point into Phillips and be done with the man. And they likely would tell him to drop some Novichok nerve agent into The Voice’s coffee to eliminate that nuisance as well. Then what?

  The best plan, the captain determined, was to delay making a big picture plan. He could manage one step at a time and the next steps were to tidy up loose ends, get the source code from The Voice and identify that thief. Once that was done, he could worry about Phillips.

  Zaytsev didn’t have to figure out all the steps immediately but he knew what his last step would be. By the end of the journey, he would be a colonel. No doubt about it.

  The GRU captain sat back in his chair, content for the moment. He beckoned to his men to come closer. They perched on the coffee table in front of their leader and leaned forward. “Here is what I want you to do,” said Zaytsev. “First tell the Cuban to let Petrenko’s crew go. If they learned their lesson, they won’t get in our way. I need Ernesto back here.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  “Detective Sergeant Jaya Kumar.” She held out a business card after telling Jackson her name.

  He had arrived at Toronto Western Hospital a little after 10 a.m. Wednesday, a day after the news conference at JPI H.Q. He had been directed by the Information desk staff to a recovery room instead of the ICU Maxim Blax had occupied a day before. The police detective had been in Blax’s private room and was closing her grey notepad as he entered.

  “And you are?”

  “Jackson Phillips. I’m … I’m with JPI,” Jackson said, realizing he didn’t know how to introduce himself in his new - or old - role at the company.

  “You don’t seem too sure,” said DS Kumar. She was grinning but Jackson realized the East Indian woman before him had already seized command. He also realized that the tall, black-haired, brown-skinned and handsome woman had intelligence shining in her eyes. Her brown eyes were bright and penetrating and her smile didn’t seem to reach them as they remained fixed on Jackson’s face. She was putting him in the right box.

  “To tell the truth,” Jackson began and felt foolish saying, “I’m officially retired so I’m out of practice identifying myself. I will say that I find myself filling in for Max in his …” he paused to look at the patient in the bed. “… enforced absence.”

  Max was free of tubes connected to machines meaning that he was breathing on his own and was able to process real food instead of intravenous liquid. He still had a large bandage around his head and an arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged. In short, he was a mess. After being run over by a car, what else was new?

  “So,” said the detective, watching Jackson closely, “you are the new CEO at JPI?”

  “I’m the founder and former CEO,” answered Jackson with a steady gaze into DS Kumar’s eyes. “So, I’m the logical, temporary replacement for Max.”

  The detective broke off the staring contest and opened her notepad again. She made a note.

  “You could do that with your smartphone, you know,” Jackson casually said.

  The police woman glared at him. “Just being helpful,” he grinned.

  She held her look for a beat. Then she matched his grin. “Enough of the repartee, Mr. Phillips. Did you want to chat with Mr. Blax?”

  “Sure, after you’re finished here.” Jackson stood aside to allow her to reach the door in a straight line.

  “Just a couple of questions,” Mr. Phillips.

  Jackson completed his takeover of the environment. “Outside, detective. Be glad to.” He swept his hand toward the door and she took the heavy hint.

  Jackson moved to Max’s bedside. “Hey, Max. How are you doing?”

  The man in the bed had his eyes closed but Jackson noted the movement under his eyelids. He gave Max a few seconds.

  “Hello, Jackson.” His voice was weak and hoarse. His eyes opened slowly. They were dull but focused. “How are you?”

  Jackson couldn’t help a chuckle. “The real question is how you are, Max. I hear you had a battle with a car.”

  “And the car won,” Max murmured. “Yes. Heard that one.”

  Jackson was surprised at Max’s tone. It seemed friendly and relaxed, unlike the ridiculous arrogance of the man Jackson had last encountered at JPI.

  “I’m full of drugs, Jackson. Also, very tired.” Max’s eyelids closed again.

  “I won’t be long, Max. Just here to pay my respects. And I really mean that. I’m very concerned about you.”

  With his eyes closed, Max was still alert enough to speak, albeit in a barely audible voice. “… don’t blame you, Jackson. I’ve been a jerk. Going to go…” Jackson thought the man had fallen asleep again and turned slightly to leave the bedside. “Tell her I’m so sorry,” Max muttered. “… so very sorry.”

  “Who?” asked Jackson but there was no answer.

  After stepping out of the room, Jackson was confronted by Sergeant Kumar. “Mr. Jackson. I need to talk to you.” She held up her hand and pointed a finger down the hallway. She turned and marched off, expecting Jackson to follow her. He did.

  He sat on the couch in the visitor waiting room at the end of the hall and waited until the detective returned with two cups of steaming coffee. Milk, no sugar. She placed his cup on the table at his elbow and took a seat in a chair facing the couch. “We won’t be disturbed,” she said glancing at the now-closed door to the room.

  “You’ve got pull,” Jackson commented after sipping his coffee.

  “Cops have pull all over the place. We find it comes in handy, Mr. Phillips.”

  It was a reminder of the positions they were playing and the beginning of an inquisition that left Jackson annoyed and impatient.

  “You finished, detective?” She had asked Jackson a list of questions that sounded like they had been prepared for Jeopardy. ‘Where were you the evening of…? Who told you about the accident in the first place? What do you think happened? Why would someone push Mr. Blax into traffic…?’

  In each case, Jackson had answered curtly with one or two words or denied any knowledge. He had interrogated many people himself and knew the game well. He could have called a lawyer but, number one, he didn’t know of any criminal lawyer off the top of his head and, number two, he didn’t feel he was under suspicion - at the moment. Number three, he thought to himself, was that he was finding out a great deal through Kumar’s questioning.

  “Well, Mr. Phillips, you’ve been a great help,” said Jaya Kumar, snapping her notepad shut and dropping her ballpoint into a black shoulder bag. She took a light, reddish brown jacket from the chairback, picked up the bag from the floor and stood over Jackson, hand out.

  He ignored her offer of a handshake and looked up at her. “Irony.” He smiled. “One question, detective. Do you have any idea who did push Max into traffic since I didn’t?”

  She returned the smile but there was no humour in it. “We will have a good idea, Mr. Phillips. I’m sure of that.” DS Kumar withdrew her hand and departed.

  Jackson didn’t mention the mystery ‘her’ to whom Max had apologized. He wasn’t going to point police to someone who apparently was important to Max alone. Was the ‘her’ Max mentioned one of his two former wives? Was it a current girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend? Jackson had no idea but intended to find out. He would take Max’s message to ‘her’ once he found her and perhaps would fill in another blank on the page that was Max’s life as JPI’s CEO.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mulling over all he had learned over the past few days, Jackson made his way to JPI and had another coffee with Bill Brownley and Payne in Payne’s office. They put everything they had, figuratively, on the table and stirred it well. Top of the list was the still-unknown identify of the source code thief followed closely by what
to expect next from the assumed Russian buyers of the stolen code.

  Brownley talked of how his team was now scanning all pedestrian and vehicular traffic captured on JPI and other cameras in the area of H.Q. and around the building housing the Blax penthouse. He said that David and Leona, his A/V operators, had used facial and voice recognition tools to track the person who had paid off Barbara Schumacher, the receptionist. “Ah, Jackson had remarked, “our birthday boy,” alluding to the birthday card the man had handed to Schumacher.

  “He’s a Russian GRU man usually based at the Ottawa embassy,” Brownley announced.

  “Your CSIS contacts were great,” he added with an appreciative nod at Jackson. CSIS identified Nikolai Popov - nicknamed Niki - and his former rank as a corporal in Spetsnaz. He was one of a unit of former soldiers based at the embassy and led by Captain Vasily Grigoryevich Zaytsev. Brownley also said the unit had ‘adopted’ a Cuban soldier named Ernesto Lopez de Gamboa, possibly for tasks involving people of colour. All were highly trained, including targeting and execution of enemies of Mother Russia.

  CSIS had provided photos and short backgrounds of the Russians and Cuban on the grounds that JPI was a ‘strategic partner’ of CSIS in military matters. CSIS also was putting something in the bank of mutual favours. JPI now owed them one - or more than one.

  “Could one of these guys have pushed Max into traffic?” Jackson’s question was rhetorical. Jackson, Brownley and Payne concluded that this would be last on the list of ways the Russians would have murdered Blax. It was, literally, a hit or miss method. It didn’t fit the typical Russian murder by gunshot, poison or old-fashioned, fatal beating.

  It was mildly interesting that the attempt on Max’s life had taken place out of the range of the JPI cameras installed up to a block away from the Blax condo building. Did this mean the ‘pusher’ knew about the cameras and wanted to avoid their coverage? The three had no firm opinions.

  The trio also kicked around Max’s mention of a woman (or girl) to whom he wanted to apologize. Who was she and why was Max ‘sorry’? Was there any connection between ‘her’ and the attempted murder? Was there any connection between ‘her’ and the software theft at JPI? Who knows?

  One thing the three did conclude was that the source code was no longer of much importance. The Russians - or the Chinese or North Koreans, for that matter - wouldn’t get much from the source code and its margin notes that wouldn’t be outdated in short order. They couldn’t develop and compile working code in less than eight months. It would be a year before any significant cyberattacks could be mounted. The ultimate prize in a year would be Version 3.0 of JPI’s defensive solutions and Brownley was certain that 3.0 could be protected better than any software in history.

  “That’s still not 100 per cent,” Jackson observed. “But it will have to do.”

  “One last thing,” Bill Brownley threw in as the three rose from their seats. “CSIS added some stuff on Petrenko.”

  Jackson looked up with sudden interest. Brownley took the point and went on. CSIS had provided his security people with the short form of Petrenko’s biography including his known address, favorite hangouts, known associates and criminal record. CSIS explained how its interest was confined to Petrenko’s relationship with the Russian consulate in Toronto. The brief report described Petrenko’s role as ‘minor’ and on an ‘as needed, when needed,’ schedule.

  “Get a few of your best people together, Bill. We’re going visiting.” Jackson had a wide smile on his face and an eager look in his eyes. Payne took a long look at his friend and thought he saw ten years drop from Jackson’s age.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Roman Petrenko was at home but had no intention of receiving callers. It was late in the evening and he was exhausted after spending many hours cooped up with the crazy Cuban in a dismal derelict building on the lakefront. He had been filthy and starving as well when he got home. He was in recovery mode.

  The front door of his apartment slammed open and the short hallway into the living room was filled with the bodies of five men. It took only an instant for the ‘visitors’ to flood into the living room to surround Petrenko as he sprawled on a seedy green couch.

  The men didn’t display guns or issue orders. They simply stood around Petrenko watching him. The five men were alike; each was of average height with slim but muscular builds. They were perfect examples of special forces soldiers even though it had been years since any of them served with JTF-2. As part of the JPI security unit, they had to keep in shape.

  Petrenko wasn’t armed but wouldn’t have reached for a gun or knife if he had one nearby. The man wasn’t a genius but he knew when he was outmanned. He sat up but remained on the couch. His mouth tightened to a thin line and his eyes were open wide.

  Jackson Phillips strode into the room. He was dressed in jeans and a dark grey shirt and had a stern look on his face.

  “Mr. Petrenko, glad you’re home. We have a few questions for you.”

  “You are Jackson Phillips. I know you but I have no idea why you are here in my home.” Petrenko tried to sound aggrieved but his voice betrayed his nervousness. Phillips laughed in his face.

  It had been some time since Jackson had been in CSIS and much more since he served as a soldier in some of the world’s hottest spots but he regained his skills as an interrogator in short order. He sat on a wooden kitchen chair drawn close to the couch and took Petrenko through a series of questions while the five security men stood around the Ukrainian. Their lacks of expressions and complete silence was more threatening than yelling or shaking fists. Petrenko kept throwing sidelong glances at the men as Phillips asked him question after question.

  In the end, the whole story came out. Petrenko told how he had been contacted by a person who disguised his voice with a voice changer application. Petrenko had called the person The Voice.

  “How innovative,” Jackson commented.

  The Ukrainian hood and his crew had been middle-men between The Voice and, first, the Russian consulate and, then, the embassy. Petrenko took some pleasure in telling Jackson about the GRU team that had been shipped to Toronto to take over dealings with The Voice.

  “They are hard men,” Petrenko told Jackson. “And they are stupid. They think they can take over from Petrenko,” he complained, speaking of himself in the third person. “It has cost them twenty million dollars and they are to get obsolete code. That’s how smart they are. Idiots!”

  When Petrenko said that, Jackson had trouble masking his excitement. “Wait,” he said holding up a hand. “You said ‘they are to get the code’. What does that mean? Do they have the code or not?”

  “Ah,” replied Petrenko sensing the chance of bargaining with Phillips. “… you don’t know, do you?”

  Jackson got up from the chair and shrugged. The men standing around Petrenko’s couch moved in. “No… no,” Petrenko pleaded as he pressed himself back into the sofa cushion. “I will tell you.”

  Jackson sat again as Petrenko explained how The Voice had delayed in handing over the source code. Apparently, the code was contained on a high capacity SD card and would have taken a simple hand-off but The Voice had insisted on a down payment and continuing anonymity. The GRU leader had demanded to know the identity of The Voice so he could keep up relations with the thief. Surprisingly, especially to Petrenko, the GRU captain didn’t care about the millions paid and to be paid to The Voice.

  “Putin wouldn’t care about a measly $20 million,” said Jackson. Petrenko nodded his head in agreement but said nothing.

  “And you got some of it, didn’t you?” Jackson sneered at the cringing crook.

  “No. I did not get anything. I was loyal to Russia…” He was petrified that someone would take away the million dollars he had netted as his commission.

  “If you want to keep anything out of this, you’ll answer all my questions.”

  It took a while but Petrenko finally admitted he had banked the million-dollar payoff. He also plea
ded with Jackson not to mention the money if his security team planned visits to Petrenko’s own crew. “They don’t deserve any of my money,” he argued. Jackson promised nothing.

  After Petrenko had spilled everything he knew, Jackson told his men to search the apartment. They rummaged through the unmade bed, unwashed dishes covering the kitchen counters, cupboards and closets full of junk and drawers stuffed with papers and assorted tools. They turned up a Glock automatic, several clasp knives and a baseball bat with mysterious stains on the barrel. They took all the bullets out of the Glock and pocketed all they found among the hoard. Among Petrenko’s papers, Jackson found a printout of bank accounts and, on one, he discovered Petrenko’s million dollars.

  The Ukrainian’s eyes narrowed as Jackson read the critical document. “Well, Petrenko. It looks like anyone could get a payout if he had the right password and, guess what? This looks like your password.” Jackson jabbed his finger at a scribble on the paper and Petrenko began to tremble.

  “Never store your password where it can be found,” Jackson advised Petrenko as he and his men completed the search.

  As the men prepared to leave the unit, Petrenko regained some of his bluster. “You cannot use anything you found here. You did not have a warrant.”

  Jackson laughed bitterly. “We aren’t the police, Petrenko. And we won’t be telling them. Neither will you. We will keep all this between us.” He stopped and pinned Petrenko with a searing look. “Won’t we?”

  In a moment, the men were gone and Petrenko remained, quaking, on his couch. He feared Phillips, the security men, the GRU team, the Russian consulate, the embassy in Ottawa, Moscow, his own motley crew and even The Voice. Police were the least of his worries.

  The security group dispersed when they left Petrenko’s rental building, heading home. Jackson called Bill Brownley who had other duties and reported on his visit to Petrenko. He thanked Brownley for the loan of his men, then went to his Audi and drove away through the city streets. Before arriving at his condo, he stopped at a coffee shop with a parking lot. Over a cup of hot brew, he thought about next steps.