The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  “I’m not going to address your conspiracy theories. You ought to be on talk radio with an imagination like that.”

  “You were gambling that I hadn’t gone home because I was carrying the Walldrum documents with me. You wanted to catch me before I had a chance to stash them or make copies. When it comes to dealing with the Russians, whoever has those documents is holding the trump cards. That person can negotiate almost anything.”

  I noticed that Rodney tried to avoid discussing things Russian. He moved on. “The only relevant issue for your future is that you found the sources and got verification of the compromising material on Walldrum. Where is it?”

  “What’s relevant to me is you ruined my career, my finances, and my relationship with Vanessa, and sent me out into the cold. How much did they pay you for me? What am I worth on the Russian market?”

  “I don’t know anything about the Russian market, but you’re worth ten million dollars to Bowen if you have the kompromat. That’s what your contract specifies. Take it and stop whining about what might have been.”

  “That’s what I intend to do. I have what I was paid to get, the lowdown on President Walldrum: his money laundering for the Russians, a Russian whore’s diary listing his sexual preferences, compromising photographs of him with prostitutes in Moscow, and a lot more. Now, I want to get paid, but I can’t find Bowen. That’s why I came to you.”

  “How should I know where he is?”

  “You sold me out to Bowen. You two want the same thing. I’m pretty sure you can find him when you need to, and right now, you need to. Here’s a clue. He was last seen in Mexico City riding in a limo with Russian diplomatic plates. Go to your sources. I want to see Bowen sitting at Lenny’s bar at noon tomorrow. He knows the place.”

  “Or what?”

  I took the digital recorder from my pocket and held it up. “Or this recording of you telling me that my firing was sanctioned by the Seventh Floor goes to the Agency inspector general.”

  “And if, by chance, I find Bowen … ?”

  “All I want is my ten million, but you’re not off the hook. By now, Claudia is spilling her guts about her role in my firing to Lyle Palmer at Stratton, Radcliff, and Bowles. And there are a couple of dead men on your yacht and some bullet holes in the woodwork that need your attention.”

  “You’re a real prick, you are.”

  I smiled. “You taught me everything I know.” Not true, but I enjoyed saying it.

  I had advice for Rodney. “If the SVR gave you a Russian passport, now is a good time to dust it off and call Aeroflot for a one-way ticket to Moscow. But your reception won’t be a warm one unless you or Bowen deliver the kompromat I collected on Walldrum and a list of sources.”

  My parting reminder to Rodney was: “Bowen. Noon, tomorrow. At Lenny’s.”

  * * *

  I don’t know what strings Rodney pulled, but at noon the next day, Bowen was at Lenny’s sitting on the same barstool where I met him weeks ago. Same 260 pounds of him and expensive suit. Same cowboy boots and Rolex. Not the same air of self-assurance. Velma poured us scotch and we took our drinks to Lenny’s private dining room.

  I opened. “Thank you for coming.” Politeness only costs ten million dollars.

  Bowen was not polite. “Did you bring the documents?”

  “They’re in a safe place. We’re here to talk about payment and delivery. Here’s how it’s going to go down. You and I are going to meet in Geneva, Switzerland, day after tomorrow. The one-million retainer fee you deposited in the escrow account; you keep that. I want five million wired to this account”—I gave him the number—“at the WorldCorp Bank, no strings. The money is to be released to me as soon as the bank opens for business on the day we meet in Geneva.”

  Bowen balked. “I’m not giving you five million dollars without inspecting the merchandise.”

  I handed him a copy of the Riga-Ritz photo. “Notice the clever FSB staging with the prostitutes and the future president in the foreground and the name of the hotel clearly visible over Walldrum’s right shoulder. I have the camera chip and it’s genuine.”

  I snatched the photograph from his hand. “As for the rest of the kompromat, I’m sure your stooge, Jill Rucker, told you about the prostitute’s diary we picked up in St. Petersburg and some bank records that might be of interest to investigators at DOJ. So, do we have a deal on the five million up-front payment?”

  Bowen said a reluctant, “Yes.”

  “My contract is for ten million. When you come to Geneva for the exchange, bring the other five million in cash.”

  Bowen looked stunned. “Do you have any idea how much five million dollars in cash weighs?”

  “I know exactly how much it weighs. One million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighs twenty-two pounds and fits into the average microwave oven. Five million dollars weighs one hundred and ten pounds and fits into two large suitcases.”

  Bowen sputtered, “What … what if a customs official inspects the suitcases?”

  “Stop stalling, Bowen. An experienced operator like you wouldn’t try to cross international borders with two suitcases of hundred-dollar bills. You’d wire the money to one of your crooked banks in Europe. How about the Allgemeine Volksbank? Isn’t that the Kremlin’s money laundry of choice in Moscow? AVB has branches all over the European Union. You can pick up the money at an AVB branch and bring it to me in Geneva without ever seeing a customs inspector.”

  Bowen looked deflated, like a man who had exhausted his excuses. That’s where I wanted him. “Here’s how it’s going to work in Geneva. When you arrive with the cash, call the concierge at the Steigenburger Hotel and leave a message for me, with the name of your hotel and room number. I’ll send a representative to check the money.”

  “And after your representative checks the money … ?”

  “He’ll take you to the bank of my choice, which will be revealed to you at that time. My banker will run the money through a counter, just to be sure it’s all there, and verify that it’s authentic. It would ruin my day if you paid me in counterfeit hundred-dollar bills.” I gave Bowen a nasty smile.

  I was sure Bowen’s devious mind was conjuring other opportunities for mischief. To stifle them, I described my additional precautions. “The bank security staff will check for dirty tricks. So, don’t screw with my money. No radiation or chip trackers. No dye packs. No invisible paint. No distinctive odors. And don’t bother treating the suitcases with anything exotic. I won’t be taking them with me. If the banker finds no problems with the money, I’ll deposit it in the bank on the spot. It’ll be transferred immediately to a non-European bank. I’ll give you the dirt on Walldrum and you can leave the bank with your suitcases.”

  Sarcastically, Bowen asked, “Are there any other instructions?”

  “Let’s be clear. When my rep comes to your hotel, if he senses anything fishy about the money, if he even smells a double-cross or a Russian, the deal’s off. I’ll sell the Walldrum kompromat to the highest bidding newspaper or tabloid in Europe.”

  Bowen grunted. “They won’t pay you ten million dollars. You’ll take a loss.”

  “I’d rather take a loss than a bullet from your Russian friend, Zabluda.”

  His lips parted slightly, betraying surprise.

  “Yeah. I know about the airport reception committee in Mexico City. You and Zabluda in a limo with Russian diplomatic plates.”

  “Jill told you.” He said it with surprise and disappointment.

  I protected Jill’s CIA cover. “She didn’t tell me a thing. I didn’t trust her from Day One. That’s why I got word to you and the Russians that Jill and I were on that plane. I had people watching when she landed. I wanted to see how she would be greeted. I guess you’re all chums.”

  “Where is Jill?” asked Bowen.

  “Last time I saw her, she was laying on the floor of my bungalow in Panama with a busted head. She tried to hijack the Walldrum stuff. We had a dispute. She lost.”


  “Why did you go to Panama?”

  “I was looking for you,” I lied. “You’re a hard man to find. You really should stop changing your phone numbers. I came to D.C. because I thought Rodney would be able to find you … and here you are.”

  Bowen’s thoughts went to our upcoming Geneva meeting. “About security for the cash. It’s Russian money. They’ll want to provide the security.”

  “No Russians, Bowen. Hire locals.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Geneva, Switzerland, two days later

  SHERRI STOOD AT the door of Bowen’s suite wearing black slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a green blazer with the yellow WorldCorp Bank logo embroidered on the breast pocket. Above the pocket she wore a gold nameplate with her alias engraved in black letters, Heidi Kemp. To give her a severe, efficient look, she wore no makeup, rimless glasses, a short black wig, and green contacts.

  She knocked.

  A big guy opened the door. Sherri smiled and greeted him with, “Dobroe utro,” Russian for “Good morning.”

  “Dob—” The Russian, who wasn’t supposed to be there—per my agreement with Bowen—caught himself and replied in German, “Guten tag.”

  Sherri smiled and entered the suite. I followed her. The Russian who wasn’t there searched us and looked through Sherri’s tool kit. He missed the false bottom with the Glocks.

  Bowen was in the bedroom with the other security guard. They didn’t come out until the guy who had searched us gave them the okay … in German. “Alles gut.”

  Bowen was surprised to see me. “Max, I thought you were going to meet us at the bank.”

  “I thought I told you no Russians. I guess we both had a misunderstanding.”

  The two Russian money guards stared at me with dead eyes.

  Bowen gave me an apologetic shrug. “Russian money, Russian security. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Well, I do. The deal’s off.” To Sherri I said, “Let’s go, Mrs. Kemp. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  Sherri and I left the suite with Bowen in pursuit. He blocked us in the hall. “Wait!” he demanded in a harsh whisper. He asked Sherri, “Could you give us a moment of privacy?”

  She went to the elevator and stood there without pressing a button.

  Bowen turned to me and spoke in a low voice. “You already have five million dollars of their money. There are Russians in the lobby. They won’t let you out of this hotel unless I say our deal is on. What the hell have you got against Russians, anyway?”

  “You mean besides the fact that they tried to kidnap me in London and tried to kill me in St. Petersburg and Moscow?”

  Bowen raised his palms toward me in a calming gesture. “Okay, I get it. You don’t trust Russians, but there’s five million dollars in there and the Russians aren’t going to leave. Is there something I can negotiate with them that would make you comfortable enough to get this deal done?”

  I pretended to consider his offer. I knew the Russians would be there. It was time for Plan B, Phase 1.

  I told Bowen, “I don’t want to be caught in an ambush coordinated by the Russians in the lobby and your money guards, while I’m sitting on the kompromat and five million dollars. If you want this deal to go through, here are my terms. The money guards keep their guns. They cannot communicate with their pals in the lobby. I want their radios and cell phones, and they can’t use the hotel phone. When we leave the hotel for the bank, the lobby Russians can follow in their cars. They have to stay three car lengths behind us. If they come closer, I’m bailing out.

  “You tell your Russians that we’re on a strict timetable. If I don’t show up at the bank by a certain time, someone somewhere is going to press the enter key and everything they want to keep secret about Walldrum goes on the Internet. After we make the exchange, if I am not at a certain location by a certain time, watch the Internet.”

  Bowen said, “Wait here. Give me a few minutes on the phone.”

  I made a point of checking my watch. “You’re on the clock.”

  He went into the suite and returned five minutes later, smiling. “We’ve got a deal.” Bowen gave me a plastic hotel laundry bag containing three cell phones, and two body radios with cords and earpieces.

  “Where’s your radio?” I asked.

  Bowen raised his coat and turned around. He was clean.

  “I want to check the guards, too.”

  “No problem.”

  “And I want to sweep the suite for microphones.”

  “The suite is not bugged,” Bowen assured me.

  “I believe that you believe that’s true. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be sure.”

  I gave Sherri a wait signal as Bowen and I reentered the suite.

  I swept the sitting room. It was clean. The bedroom where the guards were keeping eyes on the money was an exterminator’s paradise. There were bugs in the phone and every light fixture near the bed. I removed them one-by-one as the Russians watched impassively and Bowen watched sheepishly. I dropped the bugs into the toilet and flushed.

  Back in the bedroom, I told Bowen and his guards, “I know there may be more bugs here that weren’t activated when I did the sweep. So, I’m going to make a sweep periodically. If I find another bug, I’m gone.”

  The three of them looked at me and said nothing.

  I said, “Bowen, ask the lady from the WorldCorp Bank to come in.”

  When Sherri was at my side, I said, “Let’s see the money.”

  The cash was in two suitcases on a king-size bed in the king-size bedroom. The Russians stationed themselves on either side of the room. While we worked, Bowen sat in a big comfortable chair sipping orange juice.

  Sherri donned rubber gloves, took a scanner from her tool bag, and found the suitcase trackers immediately. She used her Swiss Army Knife to cut the chips out of the suitcase leather and dropped each into a bedside crystal candy dish with a loud “clink.”

  I looked at Bowen.

  He shrugged again. “Russian money, Russian suitcases.”

  Time for Plan B, Phase 2. I handed him the phone. “Call the concierge. Ask him to bring up the two suitcases I left at his station.”

  Sherri removed a special light and plugged the cord into the wall. The suitcases were smeared with Russian spy dust that stays on everything it touches for weeks. I expected that. I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, opened the suitcases, and emptied the cash onto the bed. The money was in neat packs of hundred-dollar bills, mostly new. Sherri scanned the money for spy dust. It was clean.

  A bellhop delivered the suitcases. The Russian guards inspected them. There was a money counting machine in one suitcase. The other contained bathroom scales.

  Bowen eyed the equipment. “You’re not leaving much work for your banker.”

  “You know the Swiss,” I said. “Time is money and they don’t like to waste either. Besides, they’ll check all this again. Double checks are better than singles.”

  Bowen shrugged and got himself another orange juice from the fridge. The Russians maintained their state of alertness, carefully watching Sherri and me. I weighed the bills, one hundred and ten pounds, on the money, and examined each stack for trackers, die packs, and exploding-Russian-whatevers. Sherri fed the bills into a money counter that verified the amount and used magnetic and ultraviolet sensors to detect counterfeits. As Sherri finished the counts, I bundled the stacks and loaded them into the suitcases delivered by the bellboy.

  When we finished, Sherri announced, in a fake accent, “Gentlemen, I sink our buzziness here ist concludet. If you are zatisfied, vee can proceed to zee bank.”

  Bowen said, “Let’s go.”

  “Very well. Zee bank has zent an armored car to transport you to our fazility to complete zee tranzaction. Follow me, pleaze.”

  Bowen objected. “We have our own vehicle, thank you.”

  “Zat is not possible,” Sherri announced, with the firmness of a mother superior. “Once vee have examined zee money, it must remain under bank con
trol. Othervise, zere will be furzer delayz at zee bank. I apologize if zis is an inconvence for you. Zee money must be transported in our car. Zat is our policy.”

  I said, “Bowen, just call downstairs and tell your lobby Russians we’re leaving in a bank vehicle.”

  We took the elevator to the lobby with Bowen carrying one suitcase and Sherri carrying the other. The Russians wanted their hands free for obvious reasons. For business reasons, they didn’t want me touching the money until I delivered the dirt on Walldrum.

  When we got to the lobby, the Russians I counted on the way in were gone. I could imagine them making a mad dash to the garage for their Putinmobiles.

  Sherri had called ahead and our transport was waiting at the curb. It was a black Mercedes SUV with a discreet, green-and-gold WorldCorp logo stencil on the trunk lid. Tony-D was behind the wheel wearing a chauffer’s cap, a green blazer that matched Sherri’s, and a name tag that read Rolf Swisher. He had a new moustache and gray hair protruding from his cap.

  Sherri made a show of calling the bank on her cell phone. When her party answered, she said, “Herr Huntsman, zey are leaving zee hotel momentarily.” She broke the connection and made a slight nod to Bowen and me, in turn. “Zank you, gentlemen. I vil zee you at zee bank.”

  The Russians loaded the suitcases into the SUV’s cargo compartment and our party of four climbed aboard. I rode shotgun, next to Tony-D. Bowen sat in the back crunched between the two Russians. Tony-D put the SUV in gear, but one of the Russian guards laid a heavy hand on Tony-D’s shoulder and kept it there, even after he said, in German, “Wait for our friends.”

  Almost as soon as he spoke, a white paneled truck big enough for a squad of infantry—or five million dollars and two hostages—pulled up behind us. The driver honked his horn.

  The Russian money guard released Tony-D’s shoulder. “You can go now.”

  Our short caravan took off into the streets of Geneva. It was near the end of morning rush hour. We had rehearsed the route for just two days, but you do the best you can with the time available. The truck with the Russians stayed three car lengths behind us, as agreed. Time for Plan B, Phase 3.