The Metropol is a classic, old-school gostiniza located on Theatre Drive, near the center of the city. The desk clerk accommodated Sandor’s early arrival by finding him an overpriced but available suite. It gave Sandor the opportunity to rinse away the hair coloring and peel off the facial cream Hasani treated him to outside Taba. Then he showered, shaved, and had time to visit a men’s shop inside the old GUM on Red Square, where he picked up an appropriate outfit for that evening. The days of long lines of people hoping to find a pair of black boots in their size had long since given way to international boutiques such as Cartier, Ralph Lauren and Ermenegildo Zegna.
Sandor returned to the hotel to change into his new white shirt and navy blazer for the early dinner Dan LaBelle had arranged with Vassily Greshnev. Unarmed and feeling particularly vulnerable in Roman Sudakov’s hometown, he left the Metropol and walked to the nearby Café Pushkin on Tverskaya Street.
The Pushkin is renowned for its great history, rich food, and people-watching. A popular spot for many decades, it is a bustling, energetic venue. The main level is a casual if costly eatery, the upstairs a formal setting with elegant décor and an extravagantly priced menu. Since Sandor was paying, Greshnev reserved a corner table on the second floor.
As a young man, Greshnev had been a KGB agent with a penchant for common sense that served him well amid the complex politics of the USSR. That pragmatism also served him well when failed socialism morphed into corrupt capitalism. Greshnev always found a way to get along with his countrymen, whatever government was in power. He also did well with his American counterparts. Dan LaBelle had come to know him since Greshnev became a director of the Federal Drug Control Service of the Russian Federation, or FSKN. Similar in its authority to the American DEA, the FSKN shares concurrent jurisdiction with the FSB and the Ministry of Internal Affairs over matters involving the trafficking of illegal narcotics. More important for the purposes of this evening’s inquiry, the FSKN has sole responsibility over foreign investigations into such activities.
Sandor and Greshnev had met twice before. Once was by happenstance, when they were introduced at a diplomatic function at the American embassy in Moscow. The second time was during a mission in Kabul, where they found their interests aligned. They had not seen each other since then, more than five years ago.
When Sandor arrived at the restaurant he was shown upstairs. The maître d’ escorted him to a table at the far end of the room where Greshnev was already waiting. The Russian stood and extended his hand as the waiter politely retreated.
“Jordan Sandor. What a wonderful surprise it was to receive the call from our mutual friend.”
Sandor took his hand. “I was glad that you could accommodate me on such short notice, Vassily.”
Greshnev was a tall, burly man somewhere in his sixties, with a well-furnished middle, an affable style, and a look in his eyes that rarely relinquished a sense of cynical amusement. His hair had grayed but was still full and combed straight back. His features were lined but strong—a wide mouth, broad nose and prominent forehead. He thrust out his lower lip as he gave Sandor the once-over, then said, “The fit of your clothing is not up to your usual sartorial standards, eh? A recent purchase, no doubt.”
“Moscow’s finest,” Sandor said. “Unfortunately without time for proper alterations.”
“As you say, you are working on short notice. Traveling without a change of clothes, rushing here from Tel Aviv. You must be hot on someone’s trail, as you Americans like to say.” When Sandor responded with a knowing smile, Greshnev gave his shoulders a slight shrug. “We have our sources, of course.” He gestured to their chairs. “Please, sit. It seems we have much to discuss.”
The Russian explained that he had already taken the liberty of ordering a chilled bottle of Russian Standard—the au courant vodka in Moscow, which sat in an ice bucket on the table—and that caviar was on the way.
“Excellent,” Sandor said as Greshnev poured them each a shot of the icy liquid into the crystal glasses provided.
“To friendship,” Greshnev said.
“And capitalism,” Sandor responded.
The Russian laughed as they clinked their glasses and threw down the drinks. “So, allow me to save us some time in the preliminaries. I understand that you have come here because you want to know about Mr. Sudakov, who has only recently attempted to murder you and, failing that, attempted to frame you—another quaint American expression—for the murder of a young woman. This much I have learned through, uh . . .”
“Your sources?”
“Yes, yes. My sources. What they cannot tell me, however, is whether you want information from me to assist in some sort of personal vengeance against Sudakov or whether there are larger issues to consider.”
“You’re asking me if I’m here on company business or on my own dime, is that it?”
“Precisely. It may affect some aspects of how we approach this discussion.”
Sandor grinned, but held his reply as a waiter appeared, refilled their glasses and moved away. “Such as the price,” he then said.
The Russian raised his eyebrows slightly and tilted his head to the side, then picked up his glass and the two men drank again. “I do not want to be tactless. To the contrary, I want to be sensitive to your situation. But let’s be candid, Jordan, you are not a drug enforcement agent and so I am more than a little curious about why you and Ronny Sudakov would have crossed swords.”
“A fair question. Let’s just say that I have reason to believe he is not only a drug runner, but also a terrorist.”
Greshnev’s lower lip came forward again as he leaned back to think that over. After a few moments he said, “If that is true, it would be inconsistent with his past practices.”
“That may be so. In fact, it’s possible that his involvement in a plot against my country may be unintentional.”
“That is almost more incredible. Sudakov, as you have apparently seen, is a very purposeful individual.”
“Yes, he is. But he is also greedy and ruthless and, like so many of his ilk, blinded by the insular nature of his circumstances.”
“He is out of touch with things because he must, by necessity, exist in such a protected environment if he wants to survive.”
“Yes.”
Greshnev nodded. “So then, are you here with the full faith and credit of your government to seek my assistance?” He permitted himself a brief laugh. “Another American expression I have always loved. Full faith and credit. Sounds like a motto for a bank, no?”
“Yes it does. And no, I’m not. At least not yet. I need to piece some things together first, to confirm my suspicions.”
“Ah, Jordan,” the Russian said with a vigorous shake of his head. Then he topped off their glasses again. “You toast to capitalism and yet you come here empty-handed. What am I to do with you?”
“You’re supposed to let me buy dinner, give me some information, and then we’ll decide how to do business.” His dark eyes became serious as he leaned forward and took hold of the man’s gaze. “In Kabul did I give you reason to doubt that I will do the right thing by you?”
The humor gone from his own expression, Greshnev shook his head. “No my friend, you did not.”
“Our intentions with respect to stopping Mr. Sudakov, whether as a drug lord, terrorist, or both, are identical, are they not?”
“They are.”
When Sandor leaned back, it was as if he had released the Russian from a firm grip. “So then, since I’m paying this bill I assume you ordered the Beluga.”
Greshnev allowed himself another of his cheerful laughs. “Jordan, you know the Beluga is no longer legal, even here.”
“But I assumed you . . .”
Greshnev showed him the palm of his hand. “Please, I’m an official of the government,” he reminded him, the smile still spread across his large mouth.
“Of course.”
“But the Osetra is excellent, I assure you. Let’s have them bring it
on.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
CARACAS, VENEZUELA
ADINA WAS BECOMING impatient, feeling more a prisoner at the SEBIN headquarters than a guest. He was determined to move his plans forward regardless of what had been discovered at his jungle compound outside Barranquitas. None of his men there had the slightest idea what he intended to do with the biological weapons they had been manufacturing or where they were being transported, not even those in his inner circle. One of the principal tenets of his guerrilla philosophy was compartmentalization—it guaranteed secrecy and prevented betrayal. Even the most loyal soldier would be tempted to give up what he knew in exchange for the promise of sufficient money or to avoid death or torture. The frailty of the human condition is almost always the undoing of great plans, but no one can be persuaded to tell what he does not know.
Having been summoned from his comfortable living quarters inside El Helicoide to the secure conference room, he expected more political chatter with no likelihood that it would be of any help in his efforts to move forward. He was surprised to find only the minister waiting for him.
“So, Gilberto,” Adina said as he took a seat opposite his old comrade, “do we have news?”
“Yes, we have some things to discuss.”
The minister was not displaying his usual genial demeanor, so Adina simply said, “I’m listening.”
“The president’s health has taken a bad turn,” he said.
“How bad?”
“His brother is seizing a more active role in governing the country.”
“Ah,” was all Adina said. As close as his relationship was with Chavez, the president’s brother was not counted among his supporters. The younger Chavez was always suspicious of Rafael Cabello—both his methods and his motives. He also harbored a poorly disguised jealousy of the bond Adina shared with his brother.
The minister was well aware of the issue, hence the importance of this information. He was not particularly fond of the president’s brother himself. “He may end up too much of an appeaser of the United States.”
“Yes,” Adina agreed.
“If he has the power, he will likely order that your plans be stopped.”
Adina sighed. “Just one more reason for me to hasten the process.”
After a silent moment, the minister said, “That would place those of us here in a very awkward position. Giving assistance to you, once he has ordered that your operations cease, would prove embarrassing.”
Adina showed him his reptilian grin. “I understand, of course.”
“I am not sure that you do. His ascendancy is happening as we speak. The president is too weak to object and those around him see his brother as the only viable alternative to a complete loss of power by the administration.”
“What are you saying, Gilberto? That I should go to this jackal and seek permission?”
The minister winced at the pejorative, saying, “Careful Rafael, you are speaking about the man who may succeed our leader as the president of this country.”
“Bah. Stop the political nonsense and tell me what’s on your mind.”
The man could not look at Adina now. Instead he stared down at his hands. “I am saying that you should leave here. As soon as possible. For your own good.”
Adina allowed the statement to wash over him. He was nothing if not disciplined, always capable of gathering himself in the face of adversity. He would never act in anger or fear or, as in this case, in response to surprise. The moment having passed, he actually laughed his hollow, brittle laugh. “I see. You all want the right to plausible deniability. You can say I was here, that you determined I was up to no good, and so you showed me the door, is that right?”
The bureaucrat said nothing.
“Won’t our esteemed acting president ask why you did not detain me under house arrest?”
Now Bargas looked up. “There are some who advocate that very thing. That is why I have come to you before it happens.”
Adina’s smile had vanished. “I see. So you really do suggest that I leave as soon as possible.”
“Listen to me, Rafael. There are many here including myself who are loyal to our cause and who will give you help, but not with you working from within, it is simply not possible. Not until the president recovers.”
Adina nodded. “If he recovers, you mean.”
Bargas nodded slowly.“Sadly, yes.”
“All right. I will leave here with Alejandro and Jorge. But I need a means to contact you, outside the normal channels.”
“Of course.” The minister paused. “There is one more piece of information we received that you might find interesting.”
Adina could not imagine anything to compare with the treachery and cowardice of this man and his cohorts, but he maintained his composure. “Yes?”
“The American agent, Sandor. When he fled from Egypt he did not return to the United States. We received word that he traveled to Moscow.”
“Moscow?”
“We have confirmation that he is staying there under an alias.”
“You have the name? And his whereabouts?”
“I do.” He reached into his pocket for a slip of paper and handed it across the table.
“Good. I need a favor before I leave,” Adina told him. “Whatever this American has or has not learned, we would do well to be rid of him. I want you to make contact with someone for me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
SANDOR AND GRESHNEV ate and drank and talked. The caviar with blinis would have been enough for Sandor since his focus was on information and not food, but the Russian had done the ordering. One course followed the other as he educated Sandor about the nefarious world of Roman Sudakov and his cohorts.
“The cartel controlled by the Colombians has altered its methods in recent years,” Greshnev explained. He described how, in the past two decades, the cabal known as the hermandad headquartered in Cartagena had opted for large shipments of product. Strategies such as “mules” hiding plastic bags of cocaine in their stomachs or couriers stuffing carefully wrapped bricks of narcotics inside the floorboards of cars passing across the border from Mexico to Texas had been left to the small-timers. Given the risks, rewards and expenses, it made better business sense to transport cocaine by the ton. They use customized ships, or planes that fly under the radar. “The business has simply become too big to be left to amateurs,” the Russian said as he used his cloth napkin to wipe a bit of creamed herring from the edge of his mouth.
“You’ve got to love the global economy.”
Greshnev nodded. “Small shipments became impractical. Too many people involved, too many details to manage for just a few kilos getting through at a time. The product itself is cheap to produce. If a large shipment is lost there’s always one right behind it. Their new approach to transportation is sophisticated, modern and technologically advanced. They refit old tankers and make exchanges of cargo at sea.” He paused to spear a piece of gravlax. “Of all people, I don’t need to remind you how vulnerable we are in our ports.” He took a moment to chew the salmon. “They bring in the goods using double-hulled containers that have false compartments and pass them right under our noses.”
“And our dogs’ noses.”
That provoked a loud guffaw. “How right you are. The best drug-sniffing canines in Vladivostok never get a whiff of the stuff.”
“Once the narcotics enter the United States, it seems there are any number of distribution networks that become involved, including the Russian mob.”
“Centered in New York City. Brighton Beach.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I have,” Greshnev said. “A dangerous group, I can tell you that. Russians at their worst can be a vicious people.”
“Only at their worst,” Sandor said with a grin.
“Of course.”
“So how does Sudakov fit into the hierarchy?”
“He told you he made his fortune in oil. Th
at is partly true. He was in the shipping business, moving crude from here to there, but he was not a major player. Among the new Russian oligarchs he was no Prokhorov. He wanted more money and found a way to get it.”
Sandor nodded.
“When the Colombians revised their tactics and decided on bigger paydays, they had to be cautious about looking for ships. That type of purchase carries a paper trail, and retrofitting old freighters has to be done with complete discretion. Who better to ask for help than someone on the other side of the world? Who better than a greedy neocapitalist from Moscow?”
“You’ve become quite the capitalist yourself, Vassily.”
Greshnev offered up a sad smile. “Socialism was always nonsense, anyone with an ounce of sense understood that. You cannot deprive man of motivation and then expect him to perform.” He shook his large head as if dismissing a bad thought. “The concept of expecting each to contribute according to his ability only works if the man or woman using those abilities is going to be rewarded, am I right? Otherwise he might as well sit under a tree while someone else plows the field.”
“No argument here.”
“Worse than that is the foolishness of giving to each according to his need. What rubbish. That becomes a tired idea very quickly, especially for the people doing the giving. This is the very problem you have in your own country today, is it not? The principle that is destroying your economy.” He put his fork down for the first time in an hour and leaned forward on his elbows, his hands folded in front of him. “In a capitalist system, the rich become rich because they work smarter, they innovate, they hire others, and they ultimately create wealth. It is human nature that the poor will resent this, but as long as the lower classes have the incentive and opportunity to pull themselves up and create their own success, the system works. That’s the point of the American Dream, is it not? Invent something. Start your own business.” He shook his head. “It’s when the underclass becomes entrenched in its own poverty that things go bad. When the state hands out more and more in the way of welfare and benefits it ultimately destroys the impetus for the poor to work. They have food stamps and health care. They are given subsidized apartments. I hear they even receive free cell phones.” He chortled, then picked up his fork and went back to eating. “What a sad irony for the world’s greatest power. You have created a society where the poor have no reason to improve themselves. Or to educate their children. And what are you left with?”
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