The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  “Did you service him?”

  “Yes, when I was available.”

  “What services did he like?”

  “Rough stuff. He liked to hurt the girls.”

  Jill called out, “Is that why you called him a pig?” and pretended not to listen while she opened the drawers of Tatyana’s desk.

  “He liked to watch them pee … on each other. He wanted to take every opening. He liked back door. He was rough there. Some girls didn’t like that. There was trouble on his first visit. Pyotr tried to protect us, but KGB told him give Walldrum whatever he wants. Next time, Pyotr find girls who don’t mind rough sex.”

  “Who is Pyotr?” I asked.

  “He was house manager where we worked.”

  “Was the KGB filming Walldrum having sex?”

  Tatyana said a fearful, “I don’t know about such things.”

  Jill came over and stood behind Tatyana. “How do you remember Walldrum and what he liked so clearly after thirty years?”

  “I … I see picture on television … and I remember him.”

  Jill grabbed Tatyana’s ponytail, yanked her head over the chair back, and gave her a sharp tap on the throat. “You’re lying about remembering what he likes. You saw Walldrum on television and went to the archives to refresh your memory.”

  When Tatyana stopped choking, she gasped, “No! I tell you truth. I swear.”

  Jill yanked her hair. “Where’s your ‘john’ book?”

  “What you say? I don’t know what is ‘john’ book.”

  “The book with the names of your customers and what they like. Where is it?”

  “I have no book. I just remember.”

  Jill yanked her hair again. “What color was my scarf?” Jill had removed it and stuffed it into her pocket.

  Tatyana hesitated.

  “You can remember a john from thirty years ago, but you can’t remember what I was wearing when I came in a few minutes ago? Bullshit!”

  Jill got in her face. “I think you saw Walldrum on television. You recognized him and realized you had valuable information. So, you went to your john book and looked him up. That’s where you got all those details. Either that or you are lying to us. Now, you show us the book, or we take back the money and kick your ass for wasting our time.” Jill yanked Tatyana’s hair and tapped her on the windpipe with a two-fingered blow. Tatyana lunged forward again, clutching her throat and gagging.

  I chimed in as the good cop. “If we see the book and it’s real, you get the jackpot.”

  With a raspy voice she said, “Book not here. I hide it. I think someone would come to take it away.”

  “Get it,” Jill hissed.

  Tatyana said to me, “You come back tonight, seven o’clock.”

  Jill pulled her hair again. “Bitch, if you don’t show up tonight, I’ll make sure your name and address are on the front page of every Western newspaper in the world. When that happens, the FSB will come here and that will be a very unpleasant visit for you.”

  Tatyana pulled her hair free of Jill’s grip. “I come here tonight. You bring ten thousand euro.”

  * * *

  We needed to kill time before our next meeting with Kedrova and decided to check out our safe house. My double had given me the address when we swapped IDs at the arcade. The cab dropped us near the place and we did a walk-by reconnaissance. It was another Stalin-era monstrosity-cum-apartment building with no good escape routes if the police or FSB cornered us. We decided to skip it and went to the train station. While having lunch, Jill and I observed the layout. We bought tickets for a late train to Moscow, downscale luggage, and some typical Russian clothes.

  With more time to kill and the need to get lost in a crowd, we went to the Hermitage Museum and wallowed in the decadent Western art that had become jewels in the crown of Soviet Communism. When our cultural tolerance was exhausted, Jill and I had dinner in a nearby restaurant. We put together Plan B to deal with Kedrova, in case Plan A—exchanging euros for her john book—went wrong. I had no intention of walking into a prostitute’s lair with ten thousand euros, hoping she would be honest enough to hand over a piece of political dynamite that would prove our president had been susceptible to blackmail since the 1980s.

  As we were finishing the meal, I slid my lock-picking kit across the table to Jill. “Do you know how to use this?”

  She inspected the contents. “Sure.”

  That answer was a relief because its use was essential to Plan B. It was also disturbing. Where did Jill learn to pick locks? I filed the question in my memory for later consideration.

  Jill took the kit and went off to execute her part of Plan B. I killed more time in the restaurant and held my table by reading a newspaper and ordering shots of cheap vodka that I poured into my water glass. I needed a clear head for my meeting with Kedrova.

  Half an hour before our scheduled meeting, I had a cab drop me a couple of blocks from Kedrova’s apartment and walked the rest of the way through a light snow.

  I knocked on Kedrova’s apartment door. No answer. I knocked again. “Tatyana?”

  A door creaked open down the hall. I turned to see an elderly, white-haired woman peering at me. She shut the door quickly and I heard the lock fall into place.

  I knocked again. Nothing. I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened and I stepped inside. The door slammed shut. The guy behind the door with the gun said, “Tatyana’s not here.” He was big, bald, dressed in all black, and very serious … and, yes, he wore a heavy gold neck chain. It looked almost fashionable against his black silk shirt. He motioned me toward the living room, which looked like it was in the process of being searched.

  Another man was standing at Tatyana’s desk. He was smaller than the door guy, with a narrow face and dead eyes. He had a gun, too, but his clothes didn’t scream “pimp.” He wore a camel’s hair sports coat over a tan shirt, paisley tie, and brown wool slacks. He said, “Did you bring the money?”

  “What money?” I asked the question in Russian.

  “Search him,” ordered the living room guy.

  The door guy patted my overcoat pockets and removed two stacks of five-hundred-euro notes. He smiled at his colleague and tossed the money onto the cocktail table. Both men gave me a nasty smile. The door guy continued to pat me. “What have we here?” He pulled the gun from my holster and carefully placed it next to the money.

  The boss in the paisley tie smiled and rephrased a line from Glen Frey’s “Smuggler’s Blues.” “He always carry weapons ’cause he always carry cash.” Both of them laughed.

  The humor vanished when the door man found my fake FSB credentials. I thought I might have to change his diaper. He went pale and handed the creds to his boss. Maybe I was going to need two diapers. These guys were freaking out, which meant they weren’t FSB. That was good.

  “No need to panic,” I assured them. “This is the new Russia. There’s plenty of money for everyone. You keep the cash. Give me Tatyana. Is she in the kitchen?”

  I kept my arms in the surrender position as I glanced toward the kitchen and moved in that direction. As I had hoped, they reoriented themselves to face me with their backs to the rest of the apartment. Both of these guys were in a temporary state of shock, but it wore off quickly.

  The boss said, “I know the FSB men in this area. Why don’t I know you?”

  “I’m on special assignment from Moscow. Where is Tatyana?”

  “She’s gone,” said the boss. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Behind you,” Jill said, stepping out of the bedroom with her pistol leveled at them. “Drop your guns.”

  These guys moved like they had worked together before. The boss turned, stepping away to his left. The door guy turned to his right, stepping away. Those moves increased the distance between them, presenting Jill with more separation between her targets. That didn’t help these guys. Moving to his right, the door guy would be able to bring his gun to bear on Jill first. Jill shot him first. Her silen
cer gave a little “thunk” and his head exploded. I kicked the boss off balance and Jill shot him once in the gun arm and once in the gut. He went down. I clamped a hand over his mouth so he couldn’t scream.

  Jill knelt and pointed her gun at his head. “Did you find Tatyana’s book?”

  He hesitated. Jill whacked his kneecaps with her pistol.

  Through his pain and my fingers, the pimp screamed, “Fuck you!” Jill shot him.

  “Are you crazy?” I whispered. “Now, we’ve got nothing, no Tatyana and no book.”

  “We couldn’t leave them alive. Besides, he was dead when I gut-shot him. Let’s get the hell out of here. Somebody might have heard his screams.”

  She was right, but so was I. Without one of these guys telling us where Kedrova was, all we had to show for our St. Petersburg trip were two dead hoods and our faces on a wanted poster. I retrieved my gun and bribe money from the table.

  Calmly, Jill told me, “Tatyana’s dead. These two killed her. I heard them talking about it. And they didn’t have Tatyana’s john book. They were searching the apartment for it when you got here and interrupted them.”

  I said, “I’m not leaving empty-handed. We’ll take ten minutes to search this place.”

  We divided the rooms, searched the likely hiding places, and found nothing. I returned to the living room to see Jill was taking a watch off one of the dead guys.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “If this looks like a robbery, the police are less likely to call the FSB.”

  Good idea. Jill and I emptied their wallets and took the rest of their valuables.

  We eased into the hallway and I closed the door to Tatyana’s apartment. Both of us turned as, again, a door creaked open down the hall. The white-haired lady who eyed me when I arrived was gesturing for us to come to her.

  Jill and I looked at each other. I’m sure one word occurred to both of us: witness. My second thought was, Are we going to whack this old lady? That was the ten-million-dollar question. She had better have a damn good reason for opening her door. As we walked toward the elderly tenant, my mind spun through ways to deal with her.

  She put a finger to her lips for silence and opened her door wide. We entered and found ourselves standing in an apartment that was the twin of Tatyana Kedrova’s. Our hostess was wearing a flowered flannel housecoat, wool socks, and ratty slippers. She closed the door quietly, and we spoke Russian.

  She addressed me. “Tatyana said you have something for her.”

  “Tatyana has something for me. What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know,” replied our elderly hostess. “After your visit this morning, Tatyana went out. She was gone for two hours and came back. Two men came to visit her. Later, they all went out together. Then, your friend”—she glanced at Jill—“came and let herself into Tatyana’s apartment. After that, the two men came back to the apartment without Tatyana. You came soon after they did.”

  The chronology of comings and goings at Tatyana’s apartment was all very interesting, but the cops might arrive any minute and we needed to get out of there.

  Before I could whack this busybody, she said, “You came for Tatyana’s book. I know where it is. You have something for Tatyana?”

  I reached into my pocket and gave her a packet of bound euros. The old lady flipped through the bills like a Vegas casino cashier and announced, “This is half, I think.”

  I smiled and gave her the other packet. She took the money, went to another room, and returned with a diary. The old lady said, “Tatyana left this with me before the two men come to see her. She said I was to give it to you only. I think she was afraid the men would take it from her.”

  I leafed through the book while Jill looked over my shoulder. It was a diary and john book. Time to go.

  We had been speaking Russian and I got an inspiration. I flashed my FSB creds and said, “You have the thanks of state security. Keep the money. Stay in your apartment. You saw nothing. You heard nothing. You will speak to no one of this.”

  She gave me a fearful nod, but wouldn’t look me in the eye after seeing the FSB ID.

  The odds were that Tatyana’s elderly neighbor would spill the beans at some point. Two murders down the hall, a visit from a couple of bogus FSB agents, a mysterious book, and ten thousand euros were just too much for a busybody to keep quiet about. So, it would be smart for us to get out of St. Petersburg as soon as possible.

  Jill and I walked far enough away from Tatyana’s building so as not to be identified with it. We rode the Metro to the railway station and caught the 10:50 train to Moscow. Jill and I took sleeping compartments in separate coaches. If the authorities knew about us, they would be looking for a couple.

  Alone in my compartment I had time to think about my partner, and what I thought was not comforting. Jill Rucker was a total professional during the shootout at Tatyana’s apartment. When she got the drop on the two Russians, she stood sideways, making herself a smaller target, anticipating they might turn on her. When they did, she dropped the guy who presented the greatest threat first, one round in the side of the head. She shot the second guy twice in the gun arm and once in the gut so we could question him, and kneecapped him when he wouldn’t talk. Bowen hadn’t sent me just a paymaster and logistician. He sent an assassin—a very good one. With those unpleasant thoughts, I drifted off and awakened in the morning as we neared Moscow.

  CHAPTER 18

  Regional FSB Headquarters, St. Petersburg, Russia

  WITH MAJOR IPATEV at his heels, Lieutenant Colonel Konstantine “Kostya” Zabluda was livid when he charged into the operations center. Though in civilian clothes, his height, muscular physique, determined stride, and obvious anger commanded the attention of the staff as he marched past their desks and consoles. The focus of Zabluda’s ire was the FSB regional commander, Colonel Dragonov.

  Dragonov, a slim, compact man and a head shorter than Zabluda, was in uniform and talking to one of his staff officers when Zabluda interrupted with, “What kind of surveillance report is this! They went to the restrooms! They joined the tour group. He asked questions about the Italian masters! There’s nothing here!”

  “Because there’s nothing to report,” replied Dragonov, with smug satisfaction. “It looks like your American master spy came to St. Petersburg to see the sights.”

  The officer who had been talking to Dragonov moved away.

  Zabluda threw the report on the floor. “Geller didn’t come here to see the fucking sights! He came to gather information from traitors, enemies of the Russian Federation! I want to know who he contacted. Who did he talk to besides members of his tour group and the waiter at lunch! That”—he jabbed a finger at the papers on the floor—“is not surveillance, it’s nonsense! Who did he talk to!”

  Calmly, Dragonov replied, “He talked to the tour guide, but he’s one of our informants.” Sarcastically, “Maybe our guide is your traitor?”

  Struggling to control his temper, Zabluda asked, “When did Geller leave the tour group?”

  “He didn’t. Did you even read the report?”

  “What about his traveling companion, Jill Rucker? Did she leave the group?”

  “No.”

  “How did you organize the surveillance?” demanded Zabluda.

  Dragonov calmly replied, “Mobile teams in different cars followed the tour bus from the beginning of the tour to the end. Static observation teams were posted at every stop on the tour, including inside the restaurant where the tour group had lunch. Finally, the subjects were under constant observation on the tour bus. I had a couple of agents join Geller’s tour. They pretended to be on the cruise. The male agent surveilled Geller; the female agent surveilled Rucker. They were with your spies all day.”

  “I want to speak to those agents now.”

  “They went home after they completed the report you filed on the floor.”

  “They have cell phones, don’t they?”

  “Of course.”

>   “Recall them.”

  Reluctantly, Dragonov gave the recall order to a subordinate.

  Zabluda said, “In the meantime, I want the immigration photographs of Geller and Rucker distributed to every police officer in the city. Start with transportation terminals first. If Geller is still in the city, he’ll be leaving soon.

  “Radio the cruise ship. The ship’s photographer is our informant. Tell him to send us current pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dolby. Geller and Rucker are traveling under that cover.”

  Dragonov listened passively while Zabluda paced, issuing orders as they came to mind. “I want every piece of video footage that could have covered Geller: from the cruise dock, from the immigration booths, from every street and shop camera within a five-mile radius of the cruise terminal. Interview every taxi driver and bus driver working within that radius from the time Geller and Rucker cleared immigration until noon. Set up the necessary staff and equipment here to review the video coverage.” Zabluda added, “This is first priority, Dragonov. Put your St. Petersburg organization on full alert. Work your people on twelve-hour shifts until we find out who Geller and Rucker contacted.”

  “That is not my first priority,” replied Dragonov. “It is your first priority. My superior in Moscow decides what the priorities are here.”

  Zabluda got very close to Dragonov as he said, “I work for the superior of your superior’s superior. If calls are made to Moscow, I will make one to tell my superior that your surveillance team lost two American spies. I don’t think you want that going to your chain of command until you’ve had a chance to find them.

  “You think I don’t know what happened here? You went to your friend, the deputy director, and had my surveillance team replaced with yours. You wanted part of the credit for my operation to improve your chances for promotion. Well, you screwed things up and, now, you have a problem.”

  Just then, a man and woman in civilian clothes entered the operations center. The man addressed Dragonov, “You wanted to see us, Colonel?”

  “No. Colonel Zabluda wants to see you.”

  Zabluda demanded, “What were your orders regarding the surveillance of subjects Geller and Rucker?”