The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  I decided to push my luck. “If I give you our photographs, can you get Jill and me airport security passes?”

  “I think not. Too many people would be involved.”

  “Anyway, good work,” I told Pavel. “Thank you.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome … and no hacker required.” He remembered something and took several folded sheets of paper from his pocket and gave them to me. They were hand-drawn floor plans of the Moscow branch of the Allgemeine Volksbank.

  We said good night and Pavel drove away.

  CHAPTER 23

  Moscow, the Minister’s Office

  THE MINISTER SAT at the desk in his cavernous office overlooking the square. He wore his olive drab general’s uniform with yellow and red lapel piping. Pinned above three rows of ribbons on his left breast was a gold star dangling beneath a ribbon of white, blue, and red—the flag colors of the Russian Federation. The medal signified that he was a Hero of the Russian Federation who had shown “conspicuous bravery … in the service of the state.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Zabluda and Major Ipatyev strode up to the general’s desk and saluted.

  The general returned their salutes and looked at them with hooded blue eyes beneath heavy white eyebrows. In a gravelly voice he ordered, “Succinctly, without the sauce, tell me why you have not found the American spies, Geller and Rucker.”

  Zabluda replied, “Sir, my men were in St. Petersburg, ready to execute the mission. I had two teams, one for surveillance and one for wet work. As a courtesy, I informed the FSB sector commander, Colonel Dragonov, of the outlines of my operation and requested minor assistance.

  “Colonel Dragonov is ambitious. He saw an opportunity to enhance his reputation by taking over part of my operation against the Americans. He called his benefactor, the deputy director. The deputy ordered me to stand down my surveillance team, and gave the surveillance mission to Dragonov.

  “Dragonov bungled it. He lost Geller and Rucker minutes after they left the cruise ship. I ordered Dragonov to take emergency measures to find the subjects and—”

  “You ordered?” The general reminded Zabluda, “Colonel Dragonov outranks you.”

  “I gave him the option of taking my … recommendations or I would expose his incompetence.”

  The general pursed his lips and stared at Zabluda, who continued, unfazed.

  “While I attended to other matters, Major Ipatyev stayed in Colonel Dragonov’s operations center to monitor implementation of the measures I recommended.”

  The general shifted his steely gaze to Ipatyev.

  The major related the efforts to find Geller and Rucker. “Sir, Colonel Dragonov’s staff reviewed video recordings of every conceivable location where Geller might have been, but was unable to locate him. They also interviewed taxi drivers and bus drivers who may have transported the subjects, but were unable to find or track Geller and Rucker.”

  “Not even a trace?” asked the general.

  “A trace, yes, sir. We found two abandoned suitcases in lockers at St. Petersburg’s Moskovsky train station. The suitcases contained clothing and other personal articles belonging to a man and a woman. Security camera footage shows the subjects putting their suitcases into the lockers and, separately, purchasing one-way tickets to Moscow.”

  “When did they travel to Moscow?”

  “Four days ago, the same day they arrived in St. Petersburg by cruise ship.”

  Zabluda spoke up. “The timing suggests they made contact with their sources in St. Petersburg soon after their arrival and acquired the information they came for.”

  “Where were you, Colonel Zabluda, during this Dragonov dragnet?”

  “I left St. Petersburg for Moscow as soon as I discovered that Dragonov had lost the subjects. I assumed Geller might be in Moscow already or on his way. I came here to organize the search.”

  “Are Geller and Rucker in Moscow now?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Major Ipatyev. “They took the overnight train to Moscow the same evening they purchased their tickets.”

  “Where are they?”

  Zabluda answered. “The trail went cold after they got to Moscow. We know they arrived on the train during morning rush hour, very clever. They separated and took several cabs to throw us off the scent. Later that day, security cameras recorded them at Partiyanskaya Metro station. They were gone before we could establish surveillance. I’m sure they vary their travel modes and patterns. Good tradecraft,” observed Zabluda.

  “What about the doubles who replaced Geller and Rucker on the cruise? Have you arrested them?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because arresting them might alert Geller that we’re tracking him.”

  “How would he know that the doubles were arrested?”

  “All it would take is passing a few hundred dollars and a cheap cell phone to a member of the ship’s crew, a cabin boy or a low-level member of the security staff. That’s how I would do it. So, I don’t want to signal Geller that we know he’s in Russia. I need him to be comfortable until I’m ready to take him down.”

  The general was not pleased. “So, Geller is comfortable and moving freely about Moscow while you are doing what?”

  “I’m following leads, General. Two days after Geller and Rucker arrived in Moscow, our technical support unit alerted me that someone initiated an Internet search for two obituaries. One was for a former maid at the Riga-Ritz. The other was for a newspaper reporter who was investigating certain activities at the Ritz. Both were murder victims and the cases remain unsolved.”

  The general grumbled, “That again? Who was reading those obituaries and why?”

  “It was an American woman, Sherri Layton. She arrived in Moscow on a tourist visa, two days before Geller and Rucker. She and her boyfriend were here for the Winter Festival.”

  “That is their cover,” surmised the general.

  “Yes, sir. Layton used the obituaries to identify the maid and find her mother. Layton questioned the mother about her daughter’s death. We know this because we followed the same path and interrogated the mother yesterday.”

  “Was the mother cooperative?”

  “Fully cooperative. She told me Layton claimed to be a reporter, seeking information about the maid’s death because her murder was never solved.”

  “And never will be, if you do your job. Is the Layton woman working with Geller?”

  “Yes. We have video footage of Rucker meeting Layton at Leningradsky train station three days ago.”

  “What did the maid’s mother tell Layton?”

  “The little she knew. Her daughter worked at the Ritz. She was transferred without explanation and killed in a robbery weeks later.”

  “Where is the Layton woman now?”

  “She left the country yesterday, one day after she talked to the maid’s mother.”

  “These Americans seem to be a step ahead of you every time. Layton’s gone and you can’t find Geller.”

  “Geller is very good at his job.”

  “It sounds like he’s better than your best, Zabluda. Is he?”

  “Not better, sir, just faster, thanks to the head start Colonel Dragonov gave him in St. Petersburg. And, so far, Geller has been lucky.”

  “How do you intend to change your luck, Colonel?”

  “First, we will pursue any clues to his whereabouts. Second, every plainclothes and uniformed officer in Moscow has his picture. We may get lucky and catch him moving about in the city or on his way out.”

  “You’ve alerted the transportation authorities?”

  “Of course, but Geller would have anticipated that. We can’t expect to catch him with something as routine as an airport, seaport, or train station security check. In his shoes, I would have planned something unique for my escape.”

  “You may have to, if you don’t find Geller.” The statement was not meant to convey humor. The general added, “There is no margin for failure on this mission.”<
br />
  Zabluda was not one to be intimidated by rank or threats. He continued with a professional demeanor. “Without the sauce, General, I may not be able to establish surveillance in Moscow. Geller lived and worked here. He knows the territory. I’m sure he has contacts here and even friends who might hide him and help him move about. I have little hope that we will find Maxwell Geller or his partner before they leave Russia. And, as I said, I assume Geller has an escape plan that gives him a better-than-average chance of getting out of the country.”

  “What is your plan to deal with that eventuality?”

  “We know where Geller will go when he leaves Russia. I plan to be there waiting for him and I will complete my mission.”

  CHAPTER 24

  IT SNOWED THE next day, not enough to bring Moscow to a halt, but enough to stay at home if you had no pressing business in the city. Farmer Boris—I never knew his real name—came to wake us with a breakfast of stew, black bread, and tea. Following Pavel’s advice, I rewarded Boris with an envelope full of rubles. He nodded, but said nothing and left.

  After Jill and I ate, we settled down to plan our visit to the records counterfeiting room at the Allgemeine Volksbank using the hand-drawn floor plans Pavel had given me the previous evening. We sat next to each other on a bench that ran the length of the wooden table, on which I laid the floor plans. We devised and rehearsed scenarios to convince the bank manager to take us to the counterfeiting unit on the third floor. Once we had those cold, we gamed every conceivable question and event that could prevent us from getting out of AVB without shooting anyone or getting shot.

  My interactions with Jill were mission-focused, but there was palpable tension between us from many sources. Jill resented me for keeping her in the dark about aspects of the operation. I was tense because I didn’t know who she was. According to Sherri’s research, the version of Jill Rucker with me had almost no history. I was angry that Jill was trying to deceive me, with so much riding on my success. There was also sexual tension born of close quarters in the snowstorm and abstinence since our hot sex on the cruise ship.

  By evening, we had exhausted all foreseeable scenarios and gamed all of our responses. Simultaneously, we turned to each other to speak. Looking into each other’s eyes, the tensions exploded with animal ferocity. We went at each other with a face-sucking, button-popping, zipper-ripping, crotch-grabbing lust. We propelled ourselves into one of the lower bunks, but it was too confining. We tore two mattresses from bunk beds, threw them and each other to the floor. We caressed and lunged at each other until there was a second, more exhausting explosion of tension. And a third. Until we lay naked and exhausted on the mattresses and the cold of the bunkhouse threatened us with hypothermia. I pulled quilts off all the bunks and made a warm nest for us on the mattresses. We lay there and slept the sleep of the dead until early morning.

  We showered, dressed, and checked our pistols. Pavel came early to take us to Moscow. The sky was slate gray and the snow was passable.

  The Moscow branch of the Allgemeine Volksbank was in a renovated building of classical style, high exterior steps, and massive columns designed to project strength and engender confidence. Depending on what side of the legal divide you were on, that confidence was a good cover or misplaced. An indicator of the extent of the bank’s criminal activity was that its parent organization had recently been fined five hundred million dollars for money laundering. Management just reached into shareholders’ pockets and paid the fine without batting an eye or admitting guilt. Nobody is guilty. Nobody goes to jail. Nobody gets screwed, except the shareholders. Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism.

  Jill and I were armed. Our guns triggered a buzzer and flashing lights as we passed through the screener. We flashed our phony creds.

  I said, “FSB,” and we kept walking.

  A guard scrambled to block our path. “Sir, it is forbidden to take your firearms into the bank. You can leave them with us. We will return them when you leave.”

  I gave him a hard look. “What if we’re here to arrest someone?” His mouth fell open. We walked past him, past the protesting secretary, into the manager’s office. The manager was a rotund guy who had consumed too much borscht or vodka. We walked to his desk and flashed our FSB credentials.

  I announced myself as, “Colonel Usenko. This is Major Yukovka. We’re here to inspect the special records unit. Please show it to us.”

  The manager was surprised. I anticipated he would try to clear our visit with the FSB officer who normally visited the unit. I was right.

  He sputtered, “I … I’ll have to call Colonel Kozar.”

  “Do you have his number at Lubyanka Prison? He was arrested this morning.”

  The manager turned pale. “For … for what?”

  “Are you considering a career in the security services?” Jill sneered. “You would make an excellent interrogator.” Both of us gave him deadpans.

  The blood drained from his face. While he was still on his mental heels, I said, “I require a list of the personnel assigned to the special unit.” He was glued to his spot and shaking. “Today, if you please!”

  That snapped the manager out of his trance. He sat at his computer and printed a copy. I handed it to Jill without looking at it or her. “And one for me.”

  He printed another. To really mess with his head, I made a show of reading down the list, pointed to a random name, and showed it to Jill. She nodded, having no idea what I was up to. I folded the list and put it in my pocket. I thought the manager might go into shock.

  “Take us to the unit. I require an operations briefing.”

  The three of us got into an elevator. The manager inserted a key and took us to the third floor. He led us down the hall to a large windowless room. It contained a staff of about forty people. There were no desks. Individual staff members sat at long worktables strewn with documents. Each table had two computers, a printer, and scanner. My quick assessment of this operation was that copies of original documents destined for the U.S. investigators were in one computer. Workers would look at the original and create a phony document on the second computer.

  For this to work, there had to be a staff of accountants to identify which documents had to be altered and how. Otherwise, this was just an exercise in chaos that any decent forensic accountant in the States could shoot down in flames.

  As those thoughts crossed my mind, a door opened near the back of the room and out popped a group of men and women with clipboards. They began to circulate among the tables checking work and giving instructions. They were better groomed and dressed than the worktable staff. These were the accountants leaving their coordination meeting.

  One of them saw us and rushed up. The manager introduced him. “This is Burkov. He is head accountant and supervisor of the special records unit.”

  Burkov looked puzzled.

  The manager picked up on it. “Colonel Kozar is—”

  “Is not available,” I said, cutting off any discussion of the colonel’s whereabouts.

  “This is an impressive operation,” I told him. I surveyed the room, rotating slowly so that my hidden body camera could take in the work area. I asked Burkov, “Is there a quiet place where you can brief us on the operation? That room you just left might do.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Burkov. “This way.”

  The bank manager turned to leave.

  I stopped him. “Please join us. This unit is one of your responsibilities, is it not?”

  As we walked toward the conference room, I noted that each table contained a nameplate identifying the worker. Arkady from the Omega meeting was sitting at one of those tables. He shot me a brief glance and turned away.

  When we were in the room with the door closed, I laid down the parameters of the briefing: fifteen minutes, purpose of the operation, goals, timelines, progress, completion date, and obstacles.

  The accountant accommodated me while my body cam recorded his presentation. When he finished, I s
aid, “Major Yukovka has some questions for you. I have some for the staff.”

  The manager rose half out of his seat to accompany me.

  “Please stay for Major Yukovka’s questions. They may be instructive.”

  I walked out into the work area, personnel list in hand covering the two thumb drives Arkady told me to purchase. There were cameras covering this floor. I knew it and Arkady knew it. The switch could be tricky. I walked the room, stood in front of each worker, placed the personnel list on his worktable, asked one or two questions and checked his name off the list. When I arrived at Arkady’s table, his two thumb drives were there in plain sight.

  I read from his nameplate, “Arkady Abramov. What is your job here?”

  “Sir, I am not allowed to discuss my work. Please speak to my superior.”

  “That is the correct answer, Arkady Abramov.” I laid the personnel list over the thumb drives and put a check mark by his name. Beneath the paper, I dropped my two thumb drives and palmed the two Arkady had prepared for me. It looked like a good switch, but you never know. If it came up shaky on the security camera, Arkady was going to take one for the team. I knew it; so did he.

  I moved on to other workers, repeating my routine to give Arkady cover. I was approaching the last row of workers when the door burst open and two guards rushed into the room, guns drawn, pointing at me.

  “Hands up!” both shouted.

  The bank manager heard the commotion and left Jill to investigate. “What’s going on!” he demanded.

  “He”—meaning me—“took something from that man’s desk.” The guard pointed to Arkady.

  I said, “I took my personnel list, you fool. I’m FSB.”

  “His list?” said the manager, obviously confused by the whole scene.

  “No!” answered the guard. “He took thumb drives. We saw it on the security camera.”

  I announced, “I’m FSB. Let me show you my credentials.”