by J. C. Fields
The room had changed very little since the Blair administration. Griffin was told the previous occupant of the Oval Office distained the room due to its size and lack of splendor. Griffin held the opposite opinion; the room was perfect. He sat in the leather office chair situated in front of a small writing desk and turned to look at Joseph, who sat in one of the two cushioned chairs in the room.
“Okay, what did Sean find out?”
“He met with Kyle Sandifer in Arkansas.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Joseph nodded. “Apparently the visit from Boris Volkov shook him up enough that he left Washington, D.C. and drove across the country.”
“He drove?”
Another nod. “From what Sandifer told Sean, Orlov bought the firm for two reasons. First, he wanted the firm’s legal files to learn which government figures had legal issues, personal or financial. Second, and this is the part that disturbed Sean the most, they were going to use those files and the premise of the lobbying function of the law firm to basically blackmail those individuals. How they planned to do it, Sandifer was not told.”
The new president pursed his lips and stared out one of the two windows in the room. Finally, after several moments, Griffin said, “Is Mr. Sandifer safe?”
“Yes, he’s in Dallas now with his family. Sandifer has a lot of connections with security firms and they are being watched around the clock.”
“Good.”
“Sean has one of Orlov’s assistants in custody.”
Returning his attention to Joseph, Griffin smiled. “Does Orlov know this?”
“We don’t think so. Sean has him detained on a John Doe warrant. If Orlov has someone make an inquiry, the State Department will not have a record of anyone by that name being held.”
Griffin’s eyes danced with merriment. “Sean continues to surprise me with his unique approach.”
“Yes, he is resourceful.” Joseph kept his expression neutral, but felt pride in his recruitment of Kruger over two decades ago. “There’s another complication, sir.”
The president sighed. “Tell me.”
“One of Orlov’s attorneys here in the states is trying to locate Sean. Why, we can only guess, but so far, we think he hasn’t been successful.”
“Joseph, I don’t like where this is going. Who is it?”
“An American citizen with Russian parents. He does mergers and acquisitions for two of Orlov’s banks here in the states.”
Griffin smiled. “Has he done any lobbying for those banks?”
Joseph paused. Realizing what Griffin was thinking, he too smiled. “Don’t know. But it would be interesting to find out.”
“Yes, very interesting.”
“I do want to caution you about one thing.”
“What’s that, Joseph?”
“As I mentioned earlier, Sean has one of Orlov’s associates detained. If we detain another one, the man might lash out like a trapped animal.”
Another smile graced Griffin’s lips. “And do what?”
Joseph shook his head. “Not sure. Russians can be unpredictable…at least the ones I’ve dealt with over the years were. Add that to the fact Orlov and the Russian president are very close.”
The smile disappeared as Griffin’s eyes grew narrow. “How close?”
“They were both KGB foreign intelligence officers and rose to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. Both resigned in 1991. One went into politics and Orlov into banking. The NSA believes they speak regularly to each other.”
Griffin was quiet as he looked over Joseph’s shoulder through one of the windows. “I’ve only spoken to the man once. Should I discuss this with him?”
“No, not yet, sir. We need Sean to gather more evidence about who’s pulling Orlov’s strings. If we find evidence the Kremlin is behind it, you will have the facts to back you up.”
“When did Russians believe facts?”
A wry smile appeared on Joseph’s face. “As a rule, never.”
***
Ryan Clark pressed his cell phone to his ear after accepting the call.
“Yeah, I just got off the phone with Sean. He’s flying in this afternoon.”
Joseph sat at his new desk in his new office in the West Wing of the White House. The atmosphere of his position and surroundings would intimidate most men, but Joseph took it in stride. Having survived some of the world’s most dangerous hot spots during his CIA career, this was a walk in the park.
“The DOJ is preparing a warrant for the arrest of Peter Yanovich and they want you to serve it.”
Chuckling, Clark said. “That was fast. What’s he done?”
“He’s doing work for a couple of banks Dmitri Orlov owns and is not registered as a foreign agent.”
“Joseph, that isn’t a crime if he’s working as an attorney.”
“No, but he did lobby a few members of congress to get several M&A deals approved for the banks.”
“Whoops.”
“Yes, our Mr. Yanovich may not realize he has violated the Foreign Agents Registration Act of 1938.” Joseph paused briefly. “There’s another concern.”
“Which is?”
“We need to know if Yanovich was involved in the deaths of Jolene Sanders and Keira Pennington.”
“Give me the details and I’ll serve the warrant.”
***
The gray Chevrolet Malibu parked in an empty slot twenty feet from the entrance to Peter Yanovich’s office. Ryan Clark and FBI Special Agent Samantha Warren exited the car and walked purposely toward the office door. The one-story building containing the attorney’s office occupied the north side of the multi-use complex. Utilizing a spartan motif, each building provided low-cost office space for businesses ranging from dentists and lawyers to insurance agents.
Clark held the door as Warren walked in. A reception desk occupied the space immediately in front of the door where a young woman, barely out of her teens, sat. She looked up from the computer screen in front of her and asked, “Good afternoon, how can we help you?”
Smiling, Clark held his FBI credentials so the receptionist could see. “I’m Special Agent Ryan Clark and this,” he nodded toward his partner, “is Special Agent Samantha Warren. We need to speak to Peter Yanovich immediately.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
The receptionist blinked several times, sighed, reached for a phone and muttered, “Great, I was just starting to like this job.”
She punched in two numbers and waited.
“Peter, there are two FBI agents here to see you.” She was silent. “No, they didn’t say.” More silence. “Okay, I’ll tell them.”
After replacing the phone handle in its receptacle, she looked up. “He’ll be right out.”
One minute later, a slender man of average height opened the door behind the receptionist. He wore a white oxford shirt, open at the collar, with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a loosened tie. His dark brown hair appeared professionally styled and black frame glasses sat on a prominent nose in front of dark eyes that glared at the two FBI agents.
“What’s this about?”
“Peter Yanovich?” Clark held his credentials so the attorney could see them.
“Yes.”
“I am Special Agent Clark and this is Special Agent Warren. We need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”
Yanovich blinked several times, glanced at the receptionist and then back at Clark. He nodded and motioned for them to follow him.
Once they were in his office and the door closed, Clark said, “Mr. Yanovich, are you aware you are in violation of the Foreign Agent Registration Act?”
A frown was Yanovich’s only reaction. Finally, after several moments of silence, he said. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, sir,” Warren said. “We’re not kidding, this is very serious.”
The attorney lost his smile, looked at Warren and then at Clark. “I
’m a real estate attorney. How can that violate the Foreign Agent Registration law?”
Clark tilted his head slightly. “Are you denying you do Merger and Acquisition work for PC National and United Mutual Banks here in D.C.?”
Yanovich was silent.
Reading from the warrant she held in her hand, Warren said, “On October 13 of last year, did you meet with five senators serving on the Senate Subcommittee on Antitrust, Competition Policy and Consumer Rights?’
Without thinking, Yanovich nodded, “Yes.”
Warren continued, “In this meeting, did you offer to contribute to each senator’s PAC if they approved the merger of Graystone Pharmaceutical and Pharma Pro? A merger being financed by PC National.”
Suddenly realizing the direction her questioning was headed, Yanovich did not respond.
“Answer the question, Peter.” Clark stood next to Warren, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I want my attorney present before I answer any additional questions.”
Clark smiled. “That is your right, Mr. Yanovich.” He paused for a moment. “In addition to the violation of the Foreign Agents Act, you are a person of interest in the deaths of Jolene Sanders and Keira Pennington.”
The attorney’s eyes grew wide and he started to stammer, “A person of interest? Where the hell did that come from?”
Clark narrowed his eyes. “Since you have requested an attorney, you can discuss that charge with him.” He turned to his fellow agent to say, “Agent Warren, please read Mr. Yanovich his rights and place him under arrest.”
Chapter 25
Paris, France
The Next Day
The glass of house burgundy sat forgotten in front of Dmitri Orlov as he held his cell phone to his ear. Seated at his regular table in the bistro on the ground floor of his office building, a plate of bruschetta with tomatoes sat untouched as he listened to the caller. With every revelation from the person on the other end of the call, the tint of crimson on Orlov’s face deepened.
Finally, the caller ceased talking. Orlov remained silent, aware of the public nature of his surroundings. After several moments, he replied in his native Russian, his voice barely controlled. “I see.”
Taking a few more moments to squelch his anger, he took a deep breath. “Has he posted bail?”
Again, silence as he listened. “Please arrange for his release as soon as possible. Have him call me at his first opportunity.”
The call ended and Orlov stared at his untouched wine. Without thinking, he raised it to his lips and emptied the glass. Standing, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He placed a ten and a twenty Euro note on the table and walked back to the entrance to his third-floor office suite.
Sergey Brutka witnessed the entire episode from a table in the center of the bistro. Far enough away to remain unseen by Orlov, but close enough to hear the Russian’s responses to the phone call. Utilizing his understanding of the Russian language, he assumed his American colleagues arrested one of Orlov’s flunkies in the States.
Earlier when Orlov accepted the phone call, unbeknownst to him, Brutka sent a text message to a phone number given to him by Joseph Kincaid. The message was short: O on phone C. The message notified a specific individual in the enormous NSA complex to concentrate on a recently discovered phone number owned by the Russian.
After receiving the text message, the technician typed rapidly on a keyboard, setting in motion a complex series of events designed to pluck Dmitri Orlov’s phone call out of the ether and preserve it for eternity within the NSA’s massive Utah Data Center.
Speech-to-text software converted, in real-time, the conversation into bits and bytes then to Cyrillic symbols on a computer screen. When the conversation was complete, the young lady entered the file into a Russian-to-English translation program. Once this was done, she checked the original Russian against the translation. Being fluent in both languages, she made a few editorial notes to clarify the translation and saved the file. The English version of the conversation then traveled, via encrypted email, to a computer on the National Security Advisor’s desk at the White House. The individual currently assigned to this position by the new President opened the email and read the transcribed conversation. When he finished, a small smile appeared.
All of this occurred before Orlov could sit down at his desk on the third floor.
***
Yanovich sat in a chair in the interrogation room, his orange jumpsuit ill-fitting and his hands restrained. As Kruger watched on the observation monitor, he noticed a trickle of sweat roll down the prisoner’s forehead.
With a slight grin, he turned to the man standing next to him. “Have them turn up the thermostat a few more degrees.”
Ryan Clark nodded and left Kruger’s side to accomplish his assignment. Fifteen minutes later, they both entered the room. The odor of male sweat assaulted their nostrils. Kruger waved the air.
“Whew, it’s kind of hot in here, Peter.”
Yanovich stared at him, his forehead bathed in streams of water rolling toward his eyes. He stopped his constant blinking to stare at Kruger. “Who are you?”
“The man you’ve been wanting to interview for a so-called book you never intend to write.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“He’ll be here shortly.” Kruger paused and sat down across the table. “But not right now.”
“I’m not answering any questions.”
“That’s a wise decision. However, I won’t be asking any. I’m here more as a courtesy.”
Yanovich blinked several times and shook his head. The sweat sprayed in all directions. He returned his stare to Kruger. “How considerate.”
“Yes, I think so. We’ve filed several complaints against you in federal court. First, a violation of the Foreign Agents Registration Act and secondly, as a person of interest in the deaths of Keira Pennington and Jolene Sanders.”
His blinking ceased as he stared at Kruger. “You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. We have several witnesses that identify you as the man who walked up to the park bench and removed Ms. Pennington’s purse.”
The attorney started to say something, but caught himself. Instead, he smiled. “Nice try, Agent. I was in court that day.”
“Yes, you were,” Kruger nodded. “But not when the murder occurred. Two men approached the bench. The first one pointed an object at the two women and walked off. You’ve been identified as the second man.”
Yanovich shook his head.
“Because of this identification, we were able to get a search warrant for your office and apartment.”
The prisoner sat straighter in his chair and bit his lower lip. He narrowed his eyes, “There was nothing to find, Agent. I wasn’t there.”
A small smile appeared on Kruger’s lips. “Right.”
He stood and walked toward the door. Clark opened it and walked out first, but Kruger turned just before exiting.
“We’ve turned the air-conditioning up, so it will be nice and cool in here before your attorney arrives. He’ll be curious about why you’re sweating. He’ll probably ask me and I’ll tell him.”
“Tell him what? You put me in a sauna?”
“No,” Kruger smiled. “You must be nervous about something.”
With this comment, he left the room and closed the door.
***
When Kruger caught up with Clark in the hallway, he saw a report in his hand.
“What’s that?”
With a smile, Clark handed the file to his mentor. “Third paragraph. Chemical analysis of a pair of shoes found in Yanovich’s closet. Both soles had residue left over from decomposed A-232.”
Kruger read the paragraph, smiled and handed the papers back. “Apparently our Mr. Yanovich isn’t as smart as I first thought. He should have thrown the shoes away. Was that the only article with residue?”
Clark nodded.
“Okay, let’s do this by the book. Charge him as an
accessory in the deaths of Jolene Sanders and Keira Pennington.”
“A good defense attorney will have a hundred reasons why that’s possible.”
Putting his hand on Clarks shoulder, Kruger smiled and nodded. “I’m counting on it. Yanovich isn’t the fish I want. I want Orlov. This connects Orlov, however slim, to the deaths of the two women. All we have to do is to make that connection stronger. Once Yanovich is released on bail, I don’t want him to be able to sneeze without us knowing it.”
“How’re we going to do that?”
“Your team and one of mine. JR.”
A sly smile appeared on Clark’s lips.
***
Sergey Brutka remained at his seat in the small bistro after Orlov’s sudden departure. He sipped on his espresso, keeping an occasional eye on a young female on the opposite side of the restaurant. Brutka’s age and self-awareness gave him the ability to know his allure to the opposite sex faded years ago, especially to younger women. Now this particular woman kept an unconcealed nonchalant attempt to hide her interest in his presence. He suspected her duties included watching for anyone paying too much attention to Orlov.
Using the ruse of a phone call, Brutka snapped a picture of the woman and sent it to a colleague at the headquarters of Interpol in Lyon, France. It would be interesting to see who she was. Now it became a waiting game to see who would leave the bistro first.
Forty-five minutes into his vigil, a text message arrived on his cell phone identifying his watcher. With a calm demeanor, he rose from his seat and strolled toward the restroom area of the bistro. Encountering his waiter on the way, he stopped him and said in his Ukrainian accented French, “Monsieur, thank you for your service today.” He handed the man a fifty Euro note for a fifteen-Euro meal and continued. “A woman whom I do not wish to converse with, if you know what I mean, has just arrived. Is there a back entrance I can leave by?”
The waiter looked at the money, smiled and whispered. “Of course, monsieur. Just go through the kitchen; there is a loading dock you can use.”