“Doug Robb,” answered Steve. Sirotsky had the iron grip of a prizefighter.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick lips, narrow eyes, and a light black beard. He ushered Steve into a spacious living room. Olga Sirotsky rose from a white suede sofa to greet him, and then stood beside her husband as if they were posing for a cover of Moscow Life. They were both in their early thirties. Olga was a strikingly beautiful woman with light gray eyes and blond hair that fell to her shoulders. She wore a white dress shirt, tight black Prada jeans, and crocodile moccasins. The top three buttons of the shirt were open, exposing the soft swell of her breast. Boris was more laid back in a black t-shirt, jeans, Gucci loafers, and a diamond-studded Rolex glittering on his wrist.
To prepare for this meeting, Steve had read the profile the Financial Times had written about the couple two years ago. They were very open about their wealth: vacation homes on Korfu and in Gstaad, a five-story apartment in West Kensington in London with three Rothkos and two Chagalls. That surprising candor about their success was before Kozlov decided he would also like a piece of the action.
Steve accepted a glass of Glenfiddich from Olga and then sat in an armchair facing the Sirotskys on the couch. Olga’s shapely long legs were curled beneath her.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” said Steve. “I speak Russian.”
“We were told,” said Boris, spreading his arms. “So here we are. What can we do for you?”
“I am working on a research project,” said Steve, taking a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “I have the names here of six Russian-controlled offshore companies registered in Cypress. I need to know who the real owners are, what businesses they are in, and what records you can get of their transactions. I’m particularly interested in real estate purchases they have made in the United States through certain other offshore front companies. I have those names also here. I suspect that many of those purchases were for properties owned by Walter Stokes or his family. Many of the loans were probably also to him.
“Can I see the paper?” asked Olga.
He passed it to her then took another sip of scotch. She read through it with Boris, pointing her finger at some of the entries. Boris raised his eyebrows. “Interesting list,” he said. “Who are you working for, Mr. Robb? May I assume that is not your real name?”
“Robb will do,” said Steve. “I am working for a very small private group. I can’t go any further than that.”
“You are not CIA?” asked Boris.
“I am not. Another thing: It is highly likely these companies I am giving you are also connected in some way with Kozlov, or people very close to him.”
“So that would link Stokes and Kozlov,” said Olga.
“And perhaps destroy them both,” said Boris with a slight smile.
Steve nodded. “That is a possibility.”
“By when do you need this information?” asked Olga.
“Shall we say one week?” said Steve. “You can always follow up with additional information as you get it.”
Olga and Boris raised their eyebrows and looked at each other.
“Please excuse us for a few minutes while we discuss this,” said Boris. “Feel free to have another drink.” He and Olga walked into the kitchen and closed the door. Steve refilled his glass and waited. He thought about Maya and her child and Brian Hunt and how it had all come down to this: on his own in Moscow, trying to hire a pair of millionaire Russian hackers to destroy the presidents of the U.S. and Russia. He could hear raised voices coming from the kitchen. They weren’t arguing in Russian but in some other language he didn’t recognize. After fifteen minutes, they took their seats again facing Steve. Olga was scowling.
“We have decided to discuss accepting the job,” said Boris. Olga said nothing. Her lips were tight.
“Discuss accepting?” Steve looked puzzled.
“Yes. First of all, we are only agreeing to talk with you because of the person who sent you to us. We have grown to respect her – unlike many of her colleagues. We have no doubt that we could do what you are asking; we have the skills and the contacts. But we are not sure if you will be able to afford our services.”
“Try me,” said Steve.
Boris nodded. “You are asking us to undertake a task that will be – shall we say – very risky. It may involve the most powerful interests in our country. As we are sure you know these are very strange times here. Three people known to be connected with our country and your elections have met untimely deaths in Moscow over the last two months. You have read about them.”
“I have,” said Steve.
“That risk necessarily affects our price,” said Boris.
“I understand.”
“You are asking us to get very sensitive detailed information on six different companies?”
“That is correct.”
“We will require from you two million American dollars.”
“Two million; that should be….”
Boris interrupted, “Two million dollars for each of those companies.”
“That’s twelve million dollars!” Steve’s eyes widened.
Boris raised a hand, “Plus – three million dollars more.”
“More? For what?” asked Steve.
“You can call it good will,” said Boris, with a tight smile. “We have excellent contacts in the government, in the major banks, and so on, but we need to keep the people who help us happy. For you, that is just money. For us, it might be our lives.” He pointed his index finger at Steve. “Fifteen million dollars. Half is to be paid in advance and the rest when we deliver the information.”
“No disrespect meant,” said Steve, “but how can I be sure you won’t just take the seven and half million dollars you’re asking for up front and disappear?”
“A very good question,” said Boris. “You might also ask how you will know that the information we give you is true and not just something made up. You won’t, Mr. Robb or whatever your name is. Except that we have a reputation in this country. We do not operate like that. I am sure your friend has told you.”
Steve nodded grimly.
“So then,” said Boris, “you have our offer. We are not carpet merchants. You can take it or you can leave it.”
“Thank you,” said Steve. “It’s now my turn to absent myself to consult my team. You will have an answer within twenty-four hours.”
Boris gave a thin smile and nodded. He handed Steve a card with the couple’s confidential contact details. “This is our ‘open’ contact. We are sure you know that we will not communicate anything pertaining to this matter on this channel.”
Olga shook hands with Steve stiffly and remained in the living room, a worried frown on her face, while Boris walked him to the door.
Prior to this trip, Steve had spoken with Jake Pearlstein, his deep-pocketed backer in Palm Desert, and explained he would be trying to recruit one or two of Russia’s top hackers.
“I don’t know if it will work, Jake,” he’d said. “But, considering the risks involved, I do know it will be expensive.”
“How much we talking about?” said Pearlstein.
“I’m flying blind,” said Steve, but anywhere from $5 million to $20 million, even more.”
“Sounds like an expensive ballpark,” said Pearlstein. “I could probably handle it. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
After talking with the Sirotskys, Steve returned to his hotel room and sent an encrypted email to Pearlstein, “Hi Jake, weather’s fine here in Moscow, they’re saying it might be 15 degrees tomorrow. Miss you. Best, Doug.”