While I was talking to Rodney, another piece of my plan to find sources in Russia fell into place. “Rodney, there’s one more thing, I need you to update my Doyle identity. Make me a solid citizen, no government connections, and no foreign travel, except for my current trip. Doyle’s profession should be something easy to discuss, maybe a schoolteacher. I need the legend yesterday.”
“For what purpose?”
“For what I came here to do. ‘You either trust the guy you put in the field or you don’t put him there.’ Those are your words, remember?”
CHAPTER 10
OF COURSE, SHERRI was, in the main, correct. I didn’t have a plan for St. Petersburg. What I had was the name of one of the prostitutes who allegedly arranged Walldrum’s alleged romps when he visited the city. The hard evidence—no pun intended—was on film and in Putin’s safe. I did have an idea as to how we might get a leg up in St. Petersburg. I didn’t tell Sherri. Where we were going, the more compartmented the operation, the better the chances of everyone coming home.
For the St. Petersburg part of my plan, I started at the U.S. Embassy in London. Inside, I approached a civilian security officer, easily identified by the wire in his ear. “I need to speak to the FBI liaison agent.”
“Your passport, please.”
I surrendered it for the third time since entering the compound. The security officer gave the document and me quick looks. “Just a minute, please.” Holding on to my passport, he walked away, talking into his sleeve mic.
Minutes later, a brunette in pearls and a tan pants suit emerged from the inner sanctum and walked toward me. On the way, she executed a brush pass with the security officer, who handed off my passport with a deftness suggesting they had done it before.
The lady came to me and announced, “I’m Special Agent McNair. How can I help you,”—she glanced at the passport—“Mr. Dolby?”
“My business is confidential. May I see your credentials?”
McNair showed a moment of irritation, followed by a hint of a smile. She flashed her creds long enough for a speed-reading and returned the wallet to her pants pocket.
I took a furtive glance around the room and asked, “Could we speak in private?”
“Follow me.” McNair led me from the reception hall to a small interview room.
We sat at a table and I told her, “I’m working undercover in London for the CIA. I’m not interested in current or future FBI operations. I need some really old background on Russians who might live in or near London.”
“Why aren’t you routing this request through your London station chief?”
“Because he has no need to know I’m here. I report directly to Langley.”
That produced a frown.
I said, “There’s an emergency number in my passport. It will get you Langley. Ask for Rodney. He’ll vouch for me.”
McNair gave me a skeptical look and departed. She returned in a short time and handed over my passport. “What do you need, Mr. Dolby?”
“I have a profile of the kind of person I’m looking for. I’d like you to tell me if there’s a Russian criminal in London who fits that profile.”
“Come with me.” McNair led me to an elevator, up to her floor, and down a corridor to her office. I sat in the guest chair. She sat at her desk and fired up the computer. “Give me the profile.”
“He’s maybe Russian mafia, in London or near the city. Pimped Russian women to foreigners in St. Petersburg—it was Leningrad then—in the late 1980s and early 1990s. He may have had KGB connections.”
As I watched her fingers dance over the keys, I wondered if it was the intent of the digital revolution or effective use of the taxpayers’ money to transform a law school graduate into a clerk-typist.
“We have a hit,” announced McNair. “Your man is Viktor Lukovsky, sixty years old. He ran a prostitution and human trafficking ring in St. Petersburg from the mid-1980s until 1996. He couldn’t do that without a green light from the KGB.”
McNair peered at the computer monitor. “Here’s an interesting tidbit. Lukovsky’s operation overlapped the years when Putin was deputy mayor of St. Petersburg, 1994 to 1996. Odds are that Putin knew him. When Putin left St. Petersburg for Moscow, so did Lukovsky.”
“What did Lukovsky do in Moscow?”
“That’s a blank in his resume. He came to London a few years ago claiming to be a retiree, living off investments and a pension from the Russian government. The Brits and Bureau like him for money laundering, but nothing sticks. He has no visible connections to the Russian mafia, other than a public dinner once or twice a month with some hometown mobsters. They get drunk, sing, tell Russian stories, and chauffeurs drive them home. The Brits can’t even nail Viktor for DUI.”
“I need something from this guy. Give me an in to him. What are his wants and weaknesses? What’s the personal side of his life like?”
“He seems to have everything he wants. He owns a yacht. Hangs with expensive call girls. He doesn’t shop them; they’re his personal harem. Viktor has either a very active libido or a very active imagination.”
“Or a very large wallet,” I suggested.
“Could be the girls like all three. He has plenty of money and spends it.”
“Family?”
“He bought three penthouse apartments in the building where he lives, one for himself, one for his wife, and one for his mother.”
“A separate apartment for his wife? What’s that about?”
“She leads a separate life, with a monogamous, live-in boyfriend. Viktor doesn’t seem to care. She ignores his harem.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“What about his mother?”
“Her name is Elena Lukovskaya. She loves England and English culture. Most days, she has high tea at Fortnum & Mason. She attends lots of plays and does charity work for London’s poor.
“Viktor has a three-hour dinner with her—just the two of them—every Tuesday and Thursday. Every other Sunday, he takes her yachting on the Thames.”
“Sounds like mom is the soft spot in Viktor’s armor.”
“He’s devoted to his mother. Involve her at your peril.”
“I don’t have another choice.”
“Then be careful. Don’t be put off by his good ol’ Ukrainian peasant act. Viktor Lukovsky is a made man in the Russian mafia and a stone killer.”
* * *
With that chilling thought to keep me company, I went back to visit Sherri in her hotel room.
“Sherri, I’m working a plan to get more precise information on the St. Petersburg source. I need your help.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“There’s a woman here in London named Elena Lukovskaya. This is her address and photograph.” I got them from Agent McNeill. “This woman goes to Fortnum & Mason most days for high tea and she is addicted to stage plays. I want you to accidentally make her acquaintance. Try to steer the conversation to why you’re in London. Tell her that you’re with a friend who’s on his way to Russia to find his mother, who he has never met. That’s step one.”
“What’s next?” Sherri was warming to the task.
“Once she’s hooked, the two of us will accidentally bump into her. You introduce me. I’ll take it from there.”
“Why are we doing this?”
“Elena Lukovskaya has a son who might be able to help me locate Ironside’s St. Petersburg source. I need Ma Lukovskaya to introduce me to her baby boy.”
“When do you want me to start?”
“First thing tomorrow. Use your security team, if you need them for surveillance. And, Sherri, be careful. This woman is connected to the Russian mafia. So, don’t force the interaction. If she suspects she’s being played, no telling where this could go.”
CHAPTER 11
I WENT BACK to my hotel intending to have an early dinner in the hotel restaurant and spend the evening planning my approach to Mob Mom, Elena Lukovskaya. I was into the soup cour
se when Jill Rucker slid into my booth on the other side of the table.
Pulling her chain, I asked, “Did I call you?”
“No. Mr. Bowen called me. He wants an update.”
“Tell him to call me.”
“We’ve already had that conversation. He doesn’t want to talk to you directly.”
“And I don’t want to talk to him through you.”
“He’s paying your bills and he wants a progress report.”
“Have you read my contract?”
“No.”
“Bowen did and he signed it. It says I get paid for results, not progress reports. Refresh his memory when you talk to him.”
“Next time I call him, what do I say about your progress?” She was persistent.
“Tell him there is no progress.”
“What about your trip to Dumfries?”
“Who told you about Dumfries?”
“An unnamed source. I guess you forgot to tell your team I was an intern.”
There was one thing I didn’t forget. That was, there was no one on my team, except Sherri, who knew Jill Rucker existed, and Sherri would not have told Jill about Dumfries.
I tried to sound disappointed. “Dumfries was a dry hole.”
“I don’t believe you. You were gone for most of the night.”
“Look into my eyes. Can you see that I don’t give a shit what you believe?”
“Give me a break, Max? I’m just the messenger.”
“I don’t know if you are Bowen’s messenger. You pop up here and introduce yourself as my new contact with Bowen. My line to him is out of service. I can’t verify that Bowen even knows you. Since you have an open channel to Bowen and I don’t, tell him this operation comes to a halt in two days unless the retainer he promised is deposited in the escrow account and I have proof. Can you do that?”
A reluctant “yes.”
“Good. Tell Bowen that I would consider that progress … and it would prove to me that you are actually in touch with him.”
Her tone became conciliatory. “Why are you busting my balls? I’m the middle man here. I’d rather be helping you than sitting in my hotel room and playing gofer for Bowen. Give me something to do.”
I didn’t trust Rucker as far as the restaurant door, but idle hands and minds are dangerous and I was thinking about taking her to St. Petersburg. “If you want to be helpful, get me brochures on Baltic cruises sailing in the next three weeks.”
* * *
I spent the evening writing out my strategy for approaching the retired mobster, Viktor Lukovsky. That was the easy part. What I couldn’t figure out was how to approach his mother and convince her to introduce me to her son. I decided to postpone dealing with that problem until Sherri made contact with Mob Mom. I went to bed and dreamed of having a yacht in Monaco and a penthouse overlooking the marina.
The next morning, I arose early, went through my exercise routine, and had breakfast in my room to avoid running into Jill Rucker. My pursuit of dossier sources was at a standstill until I heard from Sherri, or Rodney told me who Ironside’s second U.K. source might be.
As I considered Ironside’s travels, I realized my premise of a second U.K. source might be faulty. As a U.K. citizen, Ironside could travel anywhere in the European Union without a passport. He could have met with Russian sources all over Europe. Knowing how good Ironside was at tradecraft, he would have financed any European travel with cash to cover his tracks and protect his sources. Maybe he had a third passport that he used for travel to Russia. This mission might be more complicated than I first thought. Was Sherri right? Should we focus on Novak’s Moscow leads? All those possibilities gave me a headache. I was getting an aspirin when someone knocked on my door.
“Room service.”
I opened the door to a waiter standing behind a table set with a flower arrangement, snacks, and a bottle of cooling champagne. “Compliments of Mr. Rodney,” the waiter announced as he rolled the cart into the room. “Would you like me to uncork the champagne, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
The waiter handed me a sealed envelope. “Mr. Rodney said you should open this straightaway. It contains your theater tickets.”
I went to the dresser for my wallet.
“No, thank you, sir. Mr. Rodney is a generous tipper.”
As the waiter departed, I tore open the envelope. Instead of theater tickets, I found a note. Trafalgar Square at the monument base, now. I’ll find you.
I took a cab to the Square, went to the base of the monument, pulled out a tourist map, and tried to look lost.
Rodney passed by and said, “Join me on the tour bus. I have your ticket.”
I waited a few beats and followed him to the bus, a red double-decker job with an open second deck. The first deck was populated, but not crowded.
“Upstairs,” commanded Rodney.
“It’s as cold as a witch’s tit up there.”
“True, but the witch has no ears. Get up here.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I followed him up into the elements and we settled into a seat near the back. The deck was empty except for a few hardy souls near the front. They were huddled behind a plastic windscreen that shielded the first few rows from the wind.
I didn’t want to spend much time up there. So, I opened. “You’ve come a long way from Langley in a short time. You must have something important for me.”
“I do, but first, tell me about Bogdanovich.”
“He’s Ironside’s source for events alleged to have occurred before 2000.”
“How is that possible? Bogdanovich died in 1998.”
“He’s alive. He faked his death and defected to MI6. Before that, his job with the KGB and FSB was creating situations to blackmail Western visitors to Russia. When Bogdanovich defected, he brought over dossiers on his victims and gave them to MI6. One of those dossiers was on our president, Ted Walldrum.”
“You got this directly from Bogdanovich?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m receiving you weak and distorted, over.” That’s what you tell a guy when you don’t want to hear his question or he shouldn’t be asking. Secrecy was Bogdanovich’s only protection. However, my evasiveness wasn’t much protection. I was sure Rodney had connected my questions about the Dumfries house to Bogdanovich.
Rodney shifted his focus. “Why didn’t the Ironside Dossier surface before 2017?”
“Bogdanovich didn’t give MI6 everything when he defected. He fed the dossiers to the Brits over the years to be sure they wouldn’t dump him. He didn’t give up Walldrum until 2015, when Walldrum announced he was running for president.”
“Why didn’t MI6 give us the dossier as soon as Bogdanovich gave it to them?”
“Maybe they wanted to verify the allegations before passing the dirt to us.”
Rodney picked up the thread. “And they either couldn’t—or didn’t—verify before Walldrum won the Republican primary. At that point, they couldn’t tell us without appearing to meddle in our election.”
“Sounds right. They probably believed Walldrum didn’t have a chance. So, they sat on the dossier and prayed.”
“But,” said Rodney, “when Walldrum won the White House, the Brits knew they were holding the pressure plate on a ticking time bomb. They couldn’t let go and they couldn’t hold on. So, they used Ironside as a cutout to pass the dossier to the FBI.”
“That, minus a few details,” I said, “but, yeah, that route allowed the Brits to give us the dossier without admitting they sat on it.”
Rodney fell silent, apparently digesting the disaster.
Interrupting his thoughts, I said, “Your turn.”
He explained, “When we spoke on the phone, I couldn’t answer your question about Ironside’s second source for obvious reasons. I’m here to answer it now.” He gave me his serious look. “You realize that, by exchanging this information, we’re breaking laws in the U.S. and the U.K.?”
/> “I knew that when I asked you for a name.”
Rodney pursed his lips. “Boris Kulik. He’s the likely source for the post-2000 material in Ironside’s Walldrum dossier.”
“Who is Boris Kulik?”
“Number two man at the Russian embassy in London. He’s a young rising star in Putin’s universe, with oligarch connections. Before coming to London, he handled personnel issues for Putin’s office. Knows where a lot of bodies are buried, who buried them, and why. He saw the Russian Federation rotting from the inside and was disillusioned. Kulik was posted to London in 2016. He contacted MI6 and offered his services as a mole.”
“In return for … ?”
“Langley is not privy to his compensation.”
“What did he bring to the table?”
“His teaser was a thumb drive of secret Russian documents, two pages of the SVR phone directory, and pieces of the SVR organizational chart.” SVR are the initials of the Russian Federation’s Foreign Intelligence Service.
“Whatever MI6 gave him, we’d have paid more. Why didn’t he come to us?”
“Russian defectors won’t come near the Agency since Walldrum was elected. They think Putin has a pipeline into the White House and the CIA.”
“So, how did the Agency find out about this Mr. Kulik?”
“The Brits are a decent lot when it comes to sharing. MI6 invited us to a Kulik debriefing. Langley had to promise that the CIA station chief in London would be out of the Kulik loop. In return, we were allowed to observe the Kulik debriefing through a one-way glass and give our questions to a MI6 officer who asked them over the intercom. That way, Kulik heard a Brit accent, not an American one.”
Rodney shivered against the cold wind as the tour bus meandered through the streets. He had a brandy flask and shared it with me as he continued the story.
“Kulik’s no dummy. Based on the questions, he must have guessed that CIA reps were behind the one-way glass. He terminated the session and told his MI6 handler he wanted no contact with the CIA.”
“Did Kulik give the Agency or the Brits any of the compromising allegations about Walldrum that showed up in the Ironside Dossier?”
The President’s Dossier Page 5