Commander-In-Chief

by Tom Clancy

  Limonov pulled himself up into a standing position by using the door of the locker, and then he headed for the showers.

  19

  It took an hour for Limonov to move from a bench in a locker room at Luzhniki Small Sports Arena to a red velvet gold-framed baroque chair in a sitting room overlooking the Kremlin’s Tainitsky Gardens. He was washed and his blond hair combed in a part and he wore his suit and tie, but his rib cage was seized with pain and he was covered with black-and-gray bruises. He sat here drinking a glass of tea, but he wished he were home with something stronger and a few painkillers. The pair of beautiful and impossibly tall attendants who had given him the tea probably could have found him something for his pain, and they stood just feet away now, on either side of the door to the main hallway, but Limonov sat there with his mouth shut and pretended he was fine.

  Volodin had orchestrated tonight’s meeting to show his virility and physical prowess. It wouldn’t do for Limonov, more than a quarter-century younger than his president, to show any weakness at all.

  Outside a window on his right he could see Volodin’s Mi-8 helicopter, its rotors slowly spooling up, and this gave Limonov the impression that, just after their meeting, the president would be heading home to his private residence in Novo-Ogaryovo just west of the city.

  It was well after two a.m., so Limonov thought it was a safe bet his was the last meeting of the day, but he’d read stories about how the president would sometimes work straight through the night and then work a full twelve hours the next day.

  Volodin charged into the room without even looking up at the women on either side of the door. He sat down, then finally raised his eyes in Limonov’s direction. “Why doesn’t the FSB like you?”

  Limonov almost pissed himself. The pain in his ribs disappeared as the muscles in his back cinched even tighter. “I . . . well, I don’t know. I didn’t know there was a problem. I certainly have done nothing that would—”

  He stopped talking when Volodin raised his hand.

  “No, no, nothing like that. You just aren’t on their list of most trusted financiers.”

  Limonov’s bladder was safe, for now. He let out a little sigh of relief, but he realized Volodin had intentionally rattled him. He recovered and said, “Oh. Yes. As I am sure you know, I worked for Gazprom, Rosneft, and several other state-controlled companies. Many of my colleagues also did work setting up FSB and SVR shells around the world. My colleagues, from what I understand, floated my name to the FSB, mentioning I had created a robust international business network that could have been useful to them. FSB asked me to arrange the international finances for some of their corporate entities and move it through my existing system. I looked over the terms and didn’t think they were in my best interests. Nothing dramatic, just no money in it.”

  Volodin took tea from one of the tall young ladies. “Many would say that gaining favor from the State Security services would be all the reward one would need.”

  Limonov just replied, “No one told me these matters were important to Mother Russia. It just looked like bad business for my firm. I stay busy enough.” He shrugged. “I am happy to serve this nation if I am called to do so, Mr. President.”

  “I heard about your financial network.” Volodin nodded. “It’s very clever.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Small potatoes. But clever nonetheless.”

  Limonov said nothing.

  Volodin smiled now. Held eye contact with Limonov for several seconds. The younger man fought the desire to speak, sensing Volodin was testing his patience. Finally, the president said, “I need you to do something for me. Large potatoes. It will be good for Russia, but it will also be good business, I assure you.”

  “Of course.”

  “This matter is of utmost secrecy.”

  Limonov almost said “Of course” again, but he caught himself, said, “Konechno,” which was more like “Sure,” and a little familiar under the circumstances.

  “I have a number of personal assets throughout the world, as well as a few accounts.”

  A few accounts? Limonov thought. It had been rumored that Volodin had been one of the richest men in the world before the worldwide plummet of energy prices. Limonov had heard enough gossip around Moscow’s financial circles for him to assume the president still possessed assets somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty billion U.S. dollars. Most of that, Limonov knew, was in shares of state-owned companies, but a fair chunk of it would be in offshore accounts.

  With a poker face Limonov said, “Yes, sir. I am friendly with men here at the Kremlin. Your financial advisers. Obviously, they haven’t told me details, they are good men, but these are men who do not trifle with small change.”

  “I am told my portfolio is valued at twenty-one billion euros, or thereabouts. Is that a number that shocks you?”

  Limonov was not shocked, except for the fact that the gossip had proven so close to the accurate number. Still, he said, “You have worked hard building your fortune, and you have worked hard strengthening our nation. You have excelled in both endeavors.”

  Volodin went silent again, his eyes locked on Limonov’s. His thin smile was so tight his lips had lost some of their color. “Eight billion U.S. dollars, give or take, is held in banks abroad. My problem, Andrei Ivanovich, is that too many people know exactly where these foreign accounts are.”

  Limonov knew the total number of people involved in establishing and maintaining Volodin’s riches was five, which didn’t seem to him to be a large number, especially considering the sums these men were dealing with and the number of accounts involved.

  Still, he said, “Yes. The five bankers here at the Kremlin were necessary, however, because of all the financial intelligence required in order to ensure your assets were well hidden from outsiders.”

  Volodin looked down at his fingernails. “So that nobody knows where my money is, many people have to know where my money is. Is that it, Limonov?”

  Volodin seemed to be pointing out an irony, but Limonov wasn’t certain. He just nodded a little.

  “The locations of my foreign holdings, these are banks also used by other members of my government, other individuals, other people in my circle who require offshore accounts.”

  “Yes, sir. That is often the case. As it is with the network I have created, several investors here in Russia benefit from single entities that we have created as shells to—”

  “The problem, Andrei Ivanovich, is that the more people who know where my money is, the more people who can either get to it or stop me from getting to it.”

  “I assure you, no one knows where your holdings are. I’m sure your investment team went to unprecedented lengths to ensure this.”

  “But you just told me five people knew. Not including me.”

  “Well . . . yes, but I mean no one outside of the inner circle of accountants who you entrusted with your money.”

  Volodin said, “Don’t you think the West is looking at people like those five technocrats? Don’t you think they will use them to get to me? All five of these men are tight with FSB, with other known groups that outsiders know of. Don’t you think it is just a matter of time before someone in the FSB will accept a bribe or a political rival will promise the moon and the stars to one of the men involved with my portfolio?”

  Limonov had no answer, because he saw no solution to the problem. If Volodin wanted to stick his $8 billion in his mattress, he was welcome to do this, but Limonov felt certain that would be even more dangerous than having a deep network of bank accounts hidden under the names of dozens, if not hundreds, of trusts and shell companies.

  He only said, “I feel certain your accounts are safe.”

  Volodin shook his head. “Well, I feel less certain. I need to move money. I want you to help me. Only you. No one else must know. The fact that you turned down government w
ork, you aren’t in the confidence of the FSB, and you are not a known Kremlin cashier will help obfuscate the fact you are involved.”

  Limonov understood why he was here now. “I see. What percentage of your total offshore holdings would you like to move?”

  “All of it.”

  Limonov did not mask his shock. It would have been impossible to do so. “But why? I understand the sanctions have made many in the Kremlin nervous, but they won’t touch your money. They can’t. Plus, there is no indication the Americans are aware of specific holdings, and by moving money around, securing different locations, you will only draw attention from the Americans—”

  “This is not about America. This is about home.”

  Limonov thought for a moment, worked it out for himself. “Your assets were put in their present locations by men trusted by the FSB. Is there someone at FSB you do not trust?”

  Volodin nodded. “Of course there is.”

  “Well . . . Mr. President. I am no chief executive. But can’t you simply remove this person from his position? Replace him with someone you do trust?”

  “No. Replacing my potential enemies with other potential enemies is more problematic than simply moving my holdings. You are not known at FSB as being one of my financial planners, so they aren’t going to be expecting me to give you this access.

  “As it stands now, my personal assets are tied up in vehicles that are known to the FSB. In many cases they are controlled by the FSB. It is only via the goodwill of the Russian government that I have any money at all.”

  Limonov understood what Volodin was really saying. The Russian president had created a nation where he, the chief executive, made all the rules. It worked to his advantage now, but where would this arrangement leave him when he was no longer the chief executive? Basing his future on the hopes that his nation’s intelligence service carried benevolent feelings for him wasn’t much to bank on.

  Volodin wanted his money away from the gravitational pull of the next Kremlin leader.

  Limonov couldn’t imagine Valeri Volodin lying on a beach in Tahiti with a fruity drink in his hand, living out his days. But that wasn’t up to him. Volodin wanted a golden parachute, and he was willing to pay Andrei Limonov to set it up for him.

  Limonov said, “This . . . what you are asking, it will be very difficult. I have never dealt with the numbers you are speaking of.”

  Volodin continued to speak as if he had not heard Andrei Limonov. “And we need to do this quickly. Speed is our friend in this endeavor.”

  Limonov persisted. “The sums in discussion, even if I could mask the movement of the money, the arrival of the money somewhere else would cause certain suspicion. If I do this, I need to do this very slowly and carefully.”

  Volodin just shook his head. “This must begin within the next month or two. I will need to see your plan before that.”

  “This is an incredibly short time frame. May I ask what is the reason for the rush?”

  “You may not. I understand your current assets under management are three billion dollars. You have also moved tens of billions of dollars offshore in the past several years. I need you to do that which you already do, but in a larger scale, and faster. Much faster.”

  Limonov wondered if Volodin had any clue just how difficult this would be. In an instant he told himself, Of course he knows. He’s just putting the screws to an underling to do his bidding.

  Volodin put his hand on Limonov’s shoulder, which did not convey the fraternity that he might have been intending. “Look, friend. You do this, your commission will be substantial. What do you think of one and a half points?”

  Andrei Limonov was an accountant, a moneyman, so he could not help making a quick calculation in his head.

  If he pulled off this impossible task for his president as directed, he stood to make $120 million.

  In a matter of months.

  A small gasp came from his already open mouth.

  Volodin squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, I see you are interested in this partnership. I will leave you to get to work. Come up with a plan, and then we will discuss implementation. I will instruct my staff to give you access to me twenty-four hours a day. You do nothing without my knowledge.” He leaned in a little and offered a thin smile. “This scenario doesn’t give you power of attorney over my finances or anything ridiculous like that. I have to trust you more than anyone else to offer you this job . . . but that’s not saying much.”

  Andrei Limonov just nodded a little. “All my actions will, of course, be utterly transparent to you.”

  Volodin stood. “Good.” He leaned over Limonov, and his thin smile came back. “Because there are two ways this ends for you, Limonov. Only two. Either you become rich beyond your wildest imagination and you have a job for life managing my assets . . . or I gut you like a fucking fish.”

  The threat was completely out of phase with the rest of the conversation. It stunned Andrei Limonov, and as Volodin turned and walked out of the beautiful sitting room in his customary quick gait, Limonov realized that had been the man’s intention. He found himself frozen with fear, unwilling to even let himself consider for an instant any outcome other than success in the contract he had just agreed to.

  After Limonov had sat there for a few minutes, one of Volodin’s beautiful assistants returned to the room. It was nearly three a.m., but she looked perfectly made up and wide awake. She said, “Can I walk you back to your car, sir?”

  Limonov stood on shaky knees.

  The job was impossible, but he’d done the impossible before. He wasn’t sure where to start. He knew it would take some time to create a new and impenetrable network of companies, banks, accounts, trusts, agents, and cutouts. He’d get started tonight, and he would work straight on through for weeks before giving the president his proposal.

  Valeri Volodin wasn’t a man to be kept waiting.

  20

  Present day

  Jack Ryan, Jr., was on his second day here in Luxembourg City, sitting in a tiny and dark sixth-floor office on Avenue Émile Reuter and peering up the street through a spotting scope set up to a video camera pointed at a fifth-floor window in a building on Boulevard Royal. There a man in his shirtsleeves sat hunched over his desk while his frumpy secretary sat at her own desk across the room and talked on her telephone.

  Jack felt like he was looking through a soda straw at the world’s most boring zoo exhibit, watching the nearly still-life experience of a European attorney at work.

  The tiny nation known officially as the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg kept itself out of the world headlines, but in some respects it was the heart of Europe. For starters, it was the third-wealthiest nation on the planet. Even though this was the case, most of the money that passed through Luxembourg, certainly the vast majority of it, did not belong to the Luxembourgers themselves. It was instead owned by offshore corporations, companies who used Luxembourg only for their banking and registration, so they could avoid revealing information to the actual home country of the companies’ owners.

  Luxembourg had been at this game a long time. It became a purveyor of offshore corporations in 1929 and today it is one of the largest tax havens in the world.

  Ten percent of all wealth on earth is held offshore, somewhere in the neighborhood of $7 trillion, and there were dozens of offshore financial havens; experts had pegged sixty that fit into the category of secrecy jurisdictions. There were differences in how the jurisdictions operated, but their mission was all the same. These nations were able to make money by doing things for citizens of other nations who wished to get around the laws in their home countries. The secrecy jurisdiction was happy to oblige in this endeavor . . . for a cut of the winnings.

  Of course these financial haven nations did not afford the same rights and privileges to their own citizens. No, they were taxed and tracked and held completely accountab
le for their finances. The foreigners were treated with deference, and the locals were “ring-fenced,” kept away from the financial goodies.

  The process was done through offshore banks. In nations with little regulation, any physical address could be registered as a bank. A guy sitting in a windowless cube with his feet on a cardboard box and a mobile phone in his hand could be a bank.

  You could go on the Internet and buy a bank. A service would set you up in a tax haven with two employees—a director and an assistant director—a filing cabinet, and a physical address. Money could be moved through accounts from one place to the other, and the two bank employees would never even see the amounts, the sending bank, or the receiving banks. They served only as ways for the owner of the money to check off a box on a regulatory document in the nation where the money was coming from, and another box on a regulatory document where the money was going.

  Not all offshore companies were involved with laundered money, not by any stretch, but those that were usually set up a complicated network, or ladder, using secrecy jurisdictions to get around revealing the details that would make experts like Jack Ryan, Jr., suspicious.

  The point of the ladder was very simple: It took money, made it disappear, and then made it reappear somewhere respectable and clean. A hundred million dollars from a heroin deal in Afghanistan between Chinese and Pakistanis, for example, could turn up in a Chicago bank, totally separate from the crime, the criminals, and, most important, those looking for the culprits.

  The criminals could access their money, and in doing so, they would not look like criminals. They would look like businessmen.

  And then there was something in the financial world called a “flee clause.” A flee clause in a trust agreement states that if the assets of a trust come under inquiry—if a financial examiner in Grand Cayman poses an inquiry about the trust’s ownership, for example—then the trust would automatically transfer out of the Caymans and into Panama.