“Again, my congratulations on your research,” said Steve.
“Thank you,” she smiled. Her earlier hostility seemed to have vanished as she continued, “This last company – Krypto – belongs to Sasha Volkov. He made his fortune also overnight when he was handed control of Russia’s potassium mining industry. He added oil and coal, the Bourneside Chargers Soccer Team, and a couple of banks. He also bought a number of overseas properties.” She flicked to a marked page. “These two condominiums in Austin, Texas total a hundred million dollars.” She turned to another page, “Another interesting note, one of Volkov’s banks, Argo, made a loan of four hundred million dollars to Stokes five years ago.”
“That’s when Stokes was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy” said Steve.
“A true friend in need,” said Boris.
“Okay, that’s five companies,” said Steve.
Boris looked uncomfortable. “The last one you asked about was Pyotr1,” he said giving a huge shrug and glancing at Olga. “Unfortunately, there we have to admit defeat. We were able to find nothing on it, other than the address that you already had. It is in Novosibirsk. It is a vacant lot. I swear to you, Olga and I spent many hours trying to hack into the company. But there was nothing to hack into. It is a totally empty shell. We have checked with all our contacts. No one has heard anything about it.”
“How could a company be totally empty?” said Steve.
Boris raised both hands, “In this country, anything can happen, believe me” he said. “Olga and I may earn our living by hacking, but you must believe us, we are scrupulously honest in dealings with our clients. You can ask anyone.”
Steve stood staring at the couple, not knowing how to react. “Please, have another vodka,” said Boris, refilling Steve’s glass. He poured another round for himself and Olga, who again was gazing grimly at Steve.
“You don’t know the risks we are taking!” she exclaimed. “We could be…”
Boris raised his hand. “Wait, Olga. She is right, but to prove our honor and sincerity, we have deducted two million dollars from the amount you still owe us.” He picked up a slip of paper from the table, and handed it to Steve. “Our bill. We have also deducted one-sixth from the charge for good will. So that means you owe us only three million dollars more. Once we have received notice you’ve transferred the funds, we’ll hand over these files to you.”
Steve realized they had him stymied. They might or might not be telling the truth about not being able to find out anything about the sixth company, Pyotr1. There was no way to challenge them. In any case, the data they’d gleaned about the first five companies and their links with Stokes was already very impressive.
“Too bad, you couldn’t unearth something about Pyotr1,” said Steve.
Boris shrugged again, “Yes, that is too bad. But it sometimes happens even to the best of us. Just the same, you will admit that the material we have developed is most interesting.”
“Absolutely,” said Steve. He’d made his disappointment about Pyotr1 clear enough.
“So now,” said Boris with a hungry smile, “It’s just a question of the three million.”
“I’ll do it right now,” said Steve. He picked up his iPhone, launched an enciphering app, and typed in a brief text message.
“Would you like some piroschkis ?” asked Olga, no longer the ice queen now that the money was on its way.
“Thanks,” said Steve. “I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
She disappeared into the kitchen to return with a platter of pastries and three bowls of soup. “You should try my borscht, as well.”
The soup and piroschkis were excellent. Steve hadn’t realized how hungry he was. “We’re going to miss all this,” said Boris gesturing with his soup spoon. “You should see our house in Moscow and the dacha. We have some wonderful art. We would have been honored to have you over, but considering the circumstances, it would not be wise.”
“You’re going somewhere?” said Steve.
“I think it is time for us to leave Russia,” said Boris. “At least for a while.”
He looked at Olga, who said nothing. Steve wondered which one of the couple was pushing to flee the country.
Olga’s mobile signaled an incoming text message. She looked at the screen, typed a short reply then nodded to Boris. “The payment has arrived,” she said.
“Actually,” said Steve, “I feel uncomfortable about having these large files with me in Moscow. Could you give them to me on a smaller digital format instead?”
Boris smiled one more time, “We had the same thought,” he said, taking two USB sticks from his pocket. “I’ve made two copies, just in case. All in-app view only and here’s the password.” He handed Steve a small slip of paper. “We will have the original files Fed-Exed to you by an associate in Frankfurt. Just tell us where you want them sent. But first, finish your dinner.”
Ten minutes later, Steve shook hands with Olga, who insisted he take a couple of piroschkis with him in a bag to the hotel, and Boris led him to the door. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Doug Robb, or Doug, if I may call you that. We wish you the best of luck with your project.”
It was drizzling, but the traffic was relatively light when Steve left the Sirotskys’ safe house, hailed a cab, and told the driver to take him to the Four Seasons Hotel. He slumped back in the seat and closed his eyes, still wound-up after his meeting with the Sirotskys. He went over in his mind the things he had to do now: contact the team back in the U.S. to start checking out the mountains of data he’d just been given. But that would have to wait until he was out of Russia. He’d call Pearlstein to thank him, figure out a safe place to conceal the two USB keys while he was still in country, and set up a meeting with Maya again before he left. Out of common courtesy, he owed her thanks for having set up the Sirotskys. But the heart of the matter was he simply needed to see her again, though he had no idea where yet another encounter might lead.
He got out of the cab in front of the Four Seasons, and walked through the lobby, nodding to the concierge. He would treat himself to a steam and a massage he thought as he entered the elevator. Just as the doors were shutting, two men wearing black leather coats entered behind him. The taller one, standing near Steve, had the acrid odor of garlic on his breath. When Steve got off on the fourth floor, the two men exited behind him. He walked down the hallway, the back of his neck tingling with the knowledge that the two men were just behind him and the two USB keys were just waiting to be discovered. When he reached his door, he wheeled to face his followers.
“Go ahead,” said the tall man, “Let us in.”
“By whose goddamned order?”
“Russian Army Intelligence,” said the tall man. He thrust a large gold badge in Steve’s face, “You are under arrest on suspicion of being an American spy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
Moscow
Steve was in the rear seat of a black BMW, handcuffed, and wedged between the two plainclothes men from army intelligence. Both of them, he now discovered, stank of garlic. They had ransacked his room, confiscated his laptop, attaché case, and the two USB keys in the false heel of his shoe. They then led him out of the hotel and into the waiting car, where they’d manacled his wrists and tied a blindfold on his face. His mind was in turmoil. An hour ago, he’d been elated by the information from the Sirotskys. Now, everything was shot to hell, his mission destined for ignominious failure. And his own fate?
Without diplomatic status, Steve had no idea what awaited him: brutal interrogations, years in prison, or execution in some dank, underground prison. So this is the way it all ends, he thought. Steve Penn exits stage left, leaving nothing and no one behind.