“For the convenience of the government,” I suggested.
“Right.”
To clarify the sequence of events, I asked, “All this happened in 2013?”
“No. The reassignments and murders happened in June 2015.”
“Right before Walldrum announced he was running for president?”
“The maids were reassigned two days after.”
I laid out a likely sequence. “Day one, the Kremlin called a meeting to decide how to cover Walldrum’s tracks at the Ritz. Day two, they fired everyone with knowledge of the incident and doctored the hotel’s records.”
“Sounds right to me,” Sherri agreed.
For the benefit of suspicious eyes, Sherri squeezed my arm and kissed me on the cheek. And I don’t think she minded that it might piss off Jill Rucker. “But that’s another story,” as Lou Jacobi said in the movie.
“Tell me about Anya’s friend, Yulia.”
“She lives in the same building as Anya’s mother. I visited Yulia, but she was reluctant to talk. I offered a thousand U.S. dollars. Can you pay her?”
“If she has worthwhile information, sure. When can I meet her?”
“See that lady in front of us, green coat, pushing a baby carriage? That’s Yulia. So, get your money ready. This lady is pay-to-play, all the way.”
I detoured into a public urinal, took ten hundred-dollar bills from my money vest, rolled them into a tight cylinder, and secured it with a rubber band. When I came out, Sherri was talking to the lady pushing the carriage. I joined them.
Sherri introduced me. “Yulia, this is my friend. He’s also a reporter.”
We shook hands and I palmed her the roll of hundreds. She saw zeroes on the top bill and pocketed the money. Yulia was thin, dark, and sullen, an unhappy toiler in the fields of Putin’s paradise. “What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Tell me about the incident at the Ritz in 2013 involving Ted Walldrum and prostitutes.”
We strolled while Yulia told her story in broken English. “The morning after …” she screwed her face into a mask of disgust “… after the nastiness, my friend, Anya, and I went to clean suite where Walldrum stayed. Mattress was soaked with pee and stinking. I call housekeeping supervisor. Men came and took away whole bed. Later, they bring new one. We don’t think more about it, until day we are fired.”
“When was that?”
“Two years later, 2015.”
“How did you know your firing was about Walldrum?”
“Supervisor call meeting to remind us of nastiness in 2013. He tell us not to discuss with anyone. He say it is state secret.”
“Did you see Walldrum or the women in the room?”
“No.”
“How do you know Walldrum was there?”
“I see pictures of Walldrum in room and women standing on bed peeing.”
“Where did you see these pictures?”
“I know man who worked at Ritz. He was FSB and make movies of guests in their rooms for kompromat. He take other pictures for himself.”
“For what purpose?”
“He want to give pictures to CIA so they can see who is victim of FSB kompromat. In return, he want to leave Russia with family. Go to United States.”
Sherri and I exchanged glances. We knew this could be big.
Yulia continued. “The day Walldrum say he is running for President of United States, this man come to me and Anya. He is very excited. He say he had way out of Russia and show us pictures of Walldrum and women in the middle of the nastiness. Next day, everyone on our floor must leave Ritz.
“Anya love working at Ritz. She is very angry. Later, she talk to reporter about the nastiness. They kill her … and reporter.”
There were tears in Yulia’s eyes. I let her run with the grief for a while and we didn’t talk. The baby whimpered. Yulia gave it a little reassuring pat on the cheek and a loving smile. I nodded for Sherri to continue.
“What happened to your FSB friend?” asked Sherri.
“They send him to Tula, far away from Moscow. No opportunity there for him to meet Westerners and sell photographs.” Suddenly, she was energized. “But you are here now. You are not reporter. You are CIA, yes?”
Moscow Rule Number 6: stay within your cover. I repeated, “I’m a reporter. My paper has CIA contacts. I need to speak to this man with the kompromat pictures?” I didn’t believe he was in Tula. If so, this conversation would have been pointless.
Yulia raised her arm. Up ahead, a tall man in a fur hat and dark overcoat waved back with his newspaper and started toward us. He needed a shave and—judging from his scowl—and an attitude adjustment.
Yulia said, “That is man with pictures.”
“You said he was in Tula.”
“He is on holiday, in Moscow for Winter Festival.”
Whatever. I hope he’s in Moscow for a show-and-tell with the Walldrum photos.
Sherri and I had our own signals with our shadows, Tony-D and Jill. We looked back and got all-clears that we weren’t being followed or walking into an obvious trap.
The Tula visitor did kissy-face routines with Yulia and Sherri, and gave me a big hug and a frisk. Any listening devices? No. Just friends meeting in the park.
He kept his voice low, speaking excellent English, switching to Russian and safe subjects when anyone came close. He got right to business. “You are looking for photographs of a certain hotel guest?”
“Yes.”
“I will give them to you, if you get me and two other people out of Russia.”
I was sure he was talking about Yulia and the infant in the carriage.
He declared, “You are CIA.”
“I’m an investigative reporter working for a newspaper in the States.”
“You’re also wasting my time. Do you want the photographs or not?”
“I want them. Why haven’t you traded them before now?”
“I’ve been in fucking Tula for two-and-a-half years. Even Russians don’t come to Tula. Forget about MI6 or the CIA.
“Here’s a sample.” He pulled back the baby’s blanket revealing an 8-by-10 photo of Ted Walldrum looking on with a smile, while three women urinated on the bed. Over Walldrum’s shoulder, on a desk, I could make out the hotel logo on a leather-bound services book, and a copy of the International Times. The newspaper date could be pulled up without much technical effort. Someone—probably one of Walldrum’s Russian companions—had done a masterful job of setting up the future President of the United States. Or was someone setting me up? Hey, that’s Moscow.
Leaning over the carriage, Mr. Tula shuffled through five more photos while he cooed at the baby and smiled for the benefit of any surveillance cameras. When he thought I had seen enough, he pulled up the baby’s blanket. “Satisfied?”
“I need to see the negatives.”
He laughed derisively. “What century are you from? They’re digital photos.”
“Then, I need the camera card.”
“You get the camera card when I get to New York.”
“It doesn’t work that way. If you’re FSB, you know that. Nobody’s going to buy retouched pictures from you. Give me a couple of photographs and the card. If they stand up to technical analysis, you can negotiate a way out.”
“Without the photos and the card, I have no bargaining power.”
“Don’t you have photographs of other Westerners you’ve compromised?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, if you convert ‘maybe’ to ‘yes,’ there’s your bargaining chip. Your move.”
“No. It’s your move. You want the photographs. Figure out how to protect my interests. Put some effort into it. I could make an anonymous phone call to the FSB and you would be in an interrogation cell by midnight.”
I gave him a hard stare. “If that happened, the first thing I’d give up is Yulia’s name and address. Your description would be the second. It won’t be hard for the FSB to find out who was taking dirty pictures at the
Ritz in 2013.”
Sherri intervened. “Let’s not threaten each other. A compromise is possible. You”—she addressed the Tula guy—“have valuable photographs, but they’re worthless unless you find a buyer. We’re buying. Suppose we buy the pictures and the camera chip from you. We can deposit the purchase price in a Swiss account. That way, if the CIA won’t smuggle you out, you may be able to bribe your way out.”
Tula hesitated. “How much money?”
Sherri looked at me.
“Seventy thousand Swiss francs.” I made it sound like a first and final offer.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
Sherri asked, “How do we know the photographs are genuine? We don’t. We have to trust each other to get this deal done.”
“If you are not CIA, where would you get seventy thousand francs?”
Sherri smiled and stayed with our cover. “Do you know how many newspapers we would sell around the world with one of your photographs on the front page?”
“When will you deposit the francs?”
I answered. “As soon as we authenticate the photographs, three weeks.”
“That’s too long.”
“It’s not. I have to smuggle the photographs out, get a technical analysis, and make arrangements for your payment.”
“How will I know when the francs are in my account?”
“Your newspaper.” I pointed to the one under his arm. “In four weeks, there will be a job announcement in the International Times for a forensic accountant. The job number will be your numbered account at the WorldCorp Bank in Geneva. The code at the end of the job description will allow you to access your funds.”
“What about my way out of Russia?”
“If your photos are authentic and an exit is possible, someone will contact Yulia.”
“I don’t like these arrangements.”
“Can you think of better ones?”
Tula looked off into the distance, probably considering his options. Then, he laid his newspaper in the carriage and pretended to focus on the baby. He stuffed the photographs into an envelope and folded the newspaper around it. We all walked awhile in silence. Abruptly, Tula turned to me and shook my hand. There was a camera chip in his palm.
“Goodbye, Mr. Reporter. I hope to see you soon. Now, kiss Yulia and don’t forget to say goodbye to the little one.”
I bear-hugged Tula, did the kissing routine with Yulia, patted the baby’s cheek, and took the newspaper and envelope. Sherri, Yulia, and Tula gathered around the baby carriage to shield me while I slid the newspaper under my overcoat.
Sherri and I broke off and walked a few blocks. I had Sherri signal Tony-D to join us. Jill lagged discreetly behind us on overwatch.
When Tony-D arrived, I said, “Nice job, you two. Your work is done here. I need you to pack up in Moscow and go to Panama City.”
Tony-D wanted to know, “Florida or the Canal Zone?”
“The Canal Zone.”
“What’s in the Canal Zone?” asked Sherri.
“I’ve got a lead on how Walldrum’s money laundering scheme works. Informants told me that Walldrum got a four-hundred-million-dollar construction loan to build the Panama Walldrum Tower. He skimmed off over a hundred and fifty million and laundered it for the Russians.”
Tony-D whistled. “I was in the Panama Walldrum Tower on a VIP security team once. Every item I saw there was top quality. I worked at my uncle’s architectural firm for three summers and I can tell you that a luxury forty-five-story condo-hotel averages out at seven-to-twelve million dollars per floor. Forty-five floors at the minimum of seven million a floor comes to well over three hundred million. There’s no way Walldrum built his Panama Tower and skimmed a hundred and fifty million off the construction loan.”
Sherri asked, “What if he used cheap labor and substandard construction materials?”
“Walldrum couldn’t build it and skim that much money if he used slave labor and plywood.” Tony-D asked me, “Are you sure about the size of the skim?”
“I’m sure about what I heard.”
Tony-D gave us his assessment. “Well, the numbers for the construction loan, the quality of the building, and the amount of skim don’t add up. There’s something fishy about this whole thing.”
I asked, “Do we know any experts on Walldrum’s business in Panama?”
“The reporter David Sanchez,” said Sherri. “He did a TV special on the Panama Papers. He’s an authority on financial corruption in Panama.”
“Get on down to Panama and find him. See if you can set up an interview for me.”
Sherri wanted to know, “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as I make a withdrawal from the Allgemeine Volksbank.”
* * *
Sherri and Tony-D went on their way. Jill and I took lunch in the Arbat district. Afterwards, we walked to our rendezvous with Pavel. It was cold, but I wanted to see if we were being followed. I checked behind us in store windows and sideview mirrors of cars. That was breaking Moscow Rule Number 4: Don’t look back; you’re never completely alone.
Why did I sense I was being followed when there was no one behind me?
Sherlock Holmes said, “When you’ve eliminated the impossible, what remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth.”
Maybe the person following me was beside me. Moscow Rule Number 2: Never go against your gut.
Jill distracted me from those dark thoughts with annoying questions. “Get anything good in the park?”
“It’s too early to tell.” That was true. The rest was to throw her off the scent. “The guy at the baby carriage knows a guy who might know something useful. The baby carriage guy will contact Pavel if the guy with the information wants to talk.”
“Any names for these guys in case you need to contact them?”
“There are things I don’t want to know. You can’t give up names you don’t know.”
“What was that cluster at the baby carriage about?” She was sharp. “That’s none of your damned business,” was what I wanted say. Instead, I lied, “The baby threw up.”
“Who was the woman?”
“Just a prop, as far as I could tell.”
Jill stopped asking questions. My guess? She wasn’t buying any of it.
* * *
We connected with Pavel and he drove us to the farm without any substantive conversation. When we arrived at the barn, I thanked Pavel. Jill and I headed inside.
Pavel said, “Max, a word?”
“Sure. About what?”
“Vasili Bogdanovich.” Pavel couldn’t call Bogdanovich “father” after believing that General Grishin was his father for all those years.
I told Jill, “I’ll be up in a few.”
She kept walking to the barn, and I heard her footsteps going up to the bunkhouse. To get away from the bitter cold, I slid into the front seat next to Pavel.
He asked, “How much time did you spend with Bogdanovich?”
“About eight hours.”
“What was your impression?”
“He was smart. He played his hand with his British handlers strategically. He made sure they would take care of him.”
“Was he a moral person?”
“That’s hard to know in the short time I spent with him. I can tell you that your father gave MI6 the kompromat material on Walldrum as soon as he heard Walldrum was running for president. I consider that a moral act.”
Pavel was silent for a while. “Did he mention my mother?”
“I didn’t ask about his personal life before or after he defected. We had a lot to cover in the time I was with him.”
“And he didn’t mention me?”
“No.”
Pavel said, “The name you gave me—one of Bogdanovich’s assassins—I found no record of him. Are you sure … ?”
“I’m sure. He worked directly for the Kremlin. His record is probably secret. My CIA contact identified him after he was killed in London.”
“You said there were others involved.”
“Also killed in London.” I didn’t tell Pavel about the one who escaped. I wanted to give him closure.
“Did you kill them?”
“No, but I know who did.”
Pavel looked away and nodded sharply as if the matter was finally settled.
I asked, “Do you have a family, Pavel?”
“I have a son. He is with my wife. We are divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I, but it was for the best. I had to make her divorce me. The work I do with Omega is dangerous. If I am caught, they would try to use my family against me. The divorce was to protect them. My wife knows that. It was hard, but she agreed that my work is important.”
“Do you get to see your family?”
“From a distance. I can’t make contact if I want to protect them.” Pavel turned and looked at me. “As I said, the work is important.”
It was getting dark. Pavel turned on the overhead light. He took a briefcase from the floor and placed it on the seat between us, removed a manila folder, and handed it to me. The folder contained Aeroflot flight schedules, along with crew names and their photographs cross-referenced to flights.
He said, “There are no direct flights from Moscow to Panama. I recommend you take a Moscow-to-Paris flight. It’s only three and a half hours. If our security services are after you, that flight gets you quickly to the West. Then, take Air France to Panama City. In the next few days, there are several flights from Sheremetyevo Airport to Paris.” He pulled another list from the folder. “Here are names and addresses of the crews on the Paris flights. Do you intend to contact any of these people?”
“That’s possible.”
“International flight crews are subject to surveillance by the security services. You should not go to their homes.”
“Where would you suggest?”
“Because of rest requirements before an international flight, these crews spend the night before their flights at this airport hotel.” Pavel pointed to the name and address he had printed at the top of a flight schedule page. “The hotel would be a good place to catch them.”
I looked through Pavel’s documents and found a pair of crew members on the same flights that conformed to profiles I had in mind—a male flight engineer who resembled me, a female flight attendant who resembled Jill Rucker.
The President’s Dossier Page 17