“Nope,” Clark said. “He’s a spook. He’s Kremlin now, but he’s ex-FSB. Active-measures operations.”
Suddenly, Ryan knew he was on the trail of something big, he was certain of it. He looked out across the square at the restaurant, his heart rate increasing. “Well, hot damn!”
“No, Ryan,” Gerry said, “this isn’t good. Look, I’m glad you seem to be on the right track over there, but in every conversation we’ve had about the analytical work you’d be doing in the field in Europe, you’ve gone out of your way to stress that there were no indications of physical involvement by organized crime or FSB in your investigation.”
Jack said, “That was true, up until now. Look, guys, this man Limonov had nothing to do with the work I was doing in Rome.”
“But he’s tied to the same lawyer who set up the company who purchased the artwork.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I think it’s just a coincidence. I know the players in Rome — they were Russians, sure, but I didn’t get one ping down there on this guy Limonov. I am somewhere between highly confident and absolutely positive that Limonov is a guy who just happens to be meeting with the same lawyer as the Russians operating in Rome. I have no idea what he’s doing here, but I sure am curious because he’s so opaque.”
Clark said, “Well, I’m curious, too, but Kozlov is no one to mess with. He’s trouble, pure and simple. He was originally identified as Russian intelligence about three years ago on an operation here in D.C. Then he showed up in Kiev last year. According to our links into CIA SIPRNet there are suspicions he was the brains behind that assassination on the bridge in front of the Kremlin a few months ago.”
Jack slowly scanned the square again. For an urban area, this space couldn’t possibly have been any more tranquil. There was nothing to worry about here, he felt sure. “Well, that’s interesting,” Jack said. “Wonder what he’s doing with Limonov. Moving Kremlin money?”
Clark said, “I have no idea.”
Jack thought about it. “He wasn’t mentioned on Frieden’s appointment book, only Limonov was. Looks like he’s traveling as Limonov’s hanger-on. I wonder if Limonov could be moving money, and this ex-FSB thug is here protecting Limonov.”
Gerry said, “I’m liking your involvement in this less and less.”
“Look, we are a small team. Smaller now since Sam died. But this is important, and I’m being careful.” Jack thought of the incident in Rome with the photographer Salvatore. He’d never gotten around to mentioning it to Clark, and now sure as hell didn’t seem to be the time to bring it up.
Jack said, “If there is a chance we can get at some of Volodin’s money, then we can—”
Gerry said, “Wait. Volodin’s money? You’re taking a hell of a leap. What makes you think Limonov is working for Valeri Volodin?”
Jack demurred, chastised that he’d gone too far in justifying his operation. “I don’t know that he is. But whoever he is working for, apparently it is some Kremlin fat cat, somebody who can send this Vladimir Kozlov to babysit him.”
Gerry said nothing.
“Think about it. It’s someone high at the Kremlin. We’ve dug up a lot of bit players involved in Kremlin finances, but not this guy. He has to be working with someone whose assets we haven’t uncovered yet. Someone like Volodin.”
“Someone like any one of fifty other guys with Kremlin ties.”
“Fair enough, but I’ve got a strong feeling about this one. Limonov only shows up in business-related searches. He doesn’t have any criminal background, and he obviously isn’t any sort of a politician, or we’d know him. If he is what my analysis says he is, and if I was the kleptocrat leading a nation who needed someone to control my money, he’s exactly the guy I’d want doing it. Some finance manager who isn’t looking to make a name for himself. Who keeps out of trouble and out of the news, and who quietly makes a lot of money.”
Clark said, “If he’s such a big-shot manager, how come we don’t know about him?”
“I asked myself the same question. But then I thought about it. You don’t get famous by getting rich. You get famous by getting rich and using your riches to acquire power. The wealthy guys who’ve parlayed their wealth into a seat at the table in the Kremlin are the guys on our radar.”
“Very true.”
“And this Limonov just sits at his desk and sets up shell companies, moves money out of Russia and into offshore vehicles.”
Gerry said, “Okay, with Clark’s permission, we’ll let you keep soft surveillance on Frieden for a little while longer. You can dig into Limonov all you want via analysis, but I don’t want you walking the streets behind him, tailing him in your car, or anything idiotic like that.”
Jack was poised on the bench, watching the restaurant, and ready to do just that. Instead, he stood up, tossed the rest of his lunch in a garbage can, and started back to his office. “I wouldn’t even consider it, Gerry.” He said it behind a sly grin.
26
The prince sat in his Mercedes limousine, idly looking out the window at the tourists and the shoppers strolling by on Rodeo Drive, many of whom were staring back at his vehicle and the smoked-glass windows. He imagined they were wondering if some sort of a movie star was sitting inside, and this made him chuckle.
He was no actor, but there wasn’t an actor on this planet with a portfolio a tenth the size of his. The prince was Saudi Arabia’s deputy minister of petroleum and mineral resources, which meant he was second in line to one of the highest positions in the nation. He was also from the House of Saud, the royal family, which meant his personal wealth was all but incalculable.
The prince enjoyed his visits to the West, but not quite so much as his wife did. She loved to shop and he loved to make her happy, or at least he understood the benefit to him if she remained happy, so he placated her with a little time in which to shop, and a lot of money to spend while she did it.
Every time they left the kingdom he gave her at least a full day of roaming the stores, and she had become an expert at taking advantage of these days. In Milan, in Paris, in Monaco, in Singapore, luxury boutiques had been raided by the prince’s wife, and usually the prince felt like the getaway driver, because he preferred to wait outside in the car.
His security detail preferred it as well.
He’d met his wife at a Formula One race in Abu Dhabi eight years ago; she was a Czech national and a model. Since the day they met she’d done her best to spend his money. He didn’t care, she treated him well in the process, and she couldn’t possibly put a dent in his riches, no matter how many bags, necklaces, shoes, and designer pedigree dogs she purchased.
And as much as she loved to shop, she loved to get out of the kingdom even more. This trip to California had a business component to it, of course. The prince was being courted by the American government. It was known to all that the current minister of petroleum and mineral resources, the prince’s uncle, was suffering from inoperable bowel cancer. He did not have long, and the Americans hoped relations on the energy-trading front would remain the same or even improve when the younger man took over. To that end, they brought him over as often as they could and did their best to show him and his wife that America was a friend to the Saudis — especially the Saudi oil industry.
But the prince wasn’t thinking about work now, he was thinking about his wife. He sat in the backseat of a Mercedes-Benz S-Guard, one of the most expensive armored cars on earth, and he looked out the window onto Rodeo Drive. His wife was in the Bulgari store with one of their bodyguards, and he was outside with two more, plus his driver and a personal assistant.
He considered asking his PA to text her and demand she hurry it up — it was nearly lunchtime, after all. But just as he turned to give the command, his phone chirped and he answered it.