But not anymore. The fall of the USSR had been a godsend to men like him. Men who didn’t have any scruples about getting their hands dirty. Men who projected strength. Once the politicians were no longer in charge, there was a huge power vacuum. Former KGB members were only too happy to fill the void.
Pavel found that he was quite a talented businessman. There were so many similarities to his work in the KGB. You always had to be one step ahead of the competition. Deception and innovation ruled the day. To Pavel, business was just a new way of playing the same old game.
After the collapse of the USSR, the Red Army had an enormous inventory of weaponry, and very little need for it. The Cold War was over. Where there was confusion, there was great opportunity, Pavel knew.
The first time he walked into a former Soviet weapons cache and demanded to see the commanding officer, he expected to get pushback. But Pavel was surprised to find out that the same methods of influence and persuasion he had used in the KGB worked just as effectively in his new field.
Arms dealer. The bottom rung of the long ladder he would climb.
There were national armies around the world that would pay top dollar for Russia’s unused weapons. The Russian military men who oversaw the weapons didn’t care where they went. Those men just didn’t want to get in trouble. Don’t rock the boat. That way of thinking had served them well in the Soviet era. But in the post-Soviet world, there were so many possibilities. The Russian military men were happy to accept cash and black market items in exchange for misplacing crates of weapons.
The first man to question Morozov got shot on the spot. The second man suddenly had no questions.
The money started rolling in after that. Pavel Morozov sold Russian weapons to whoever wanted them, all around the world. If you were looking for an AK-47, go somewhere else. But if you were looking for ten thousand of them — Pavel was your man. Need a tank? How about twenty? The first pallet of shells would be free.
But others were in on the game as well. The mid-90s — that was when the Russian and Ukrainian mob had gotten their legs under them. They were also staffed with former KGB, GRU, and Red Army veterans. The imbalance of supply and demand quickly sorted itself out. Competition got stiff.
Pavel Morozov had made his first pile of cash. It was time for him to think bigger. He began investing. Putting money into companies and nation-states that couldn’t get loans from anywhere else. Iran. Iraq. North Korea. African militias. Some of his best customers.
As oil money pumped up Russia’s economy, it breathed life back into the sleepy bear. Russian leadership wanted to flex its military muscle once again. But some of the objectives would be seen as questionable on the world stage.
Morozov saw an opportunity.
Why arm militaries around the world when you could get paid more by fighting their battles? The Russian soldier was still one of the best in the world. So he founded Bear Security Group. Soon, ex-Spetsnaz commandos were training troops and even doing some fighting in hot spots around the world. Places no one else wanted to go. Places others couldn’t go, because the political will wasn’t there. When Russia wanted to invade Crimea, they first sent in teams from Bear Security Group. When Russia wanted to help anti-American forces in Syria, Morozov’s mercenaries were flown in.
Eventually, Pavel’s men would fight right alongside Russian special forces soldiers. It often became hard to distinguish between them. Such was the beauty of the private sector. For the right price, one could get the best quality.
Morozov didn’t stop with creating a private military. Anyone could do that, although surely not as well as he. But what very few other firms could do to his level was espionage. A private security contractor was nothing without a good intelligence network.
Private spies. Perhaps his greatest idea.
Morozov supplied critical intelligence field agents and information to the highest bidder, around the world. Often times he had opposing national intelligence organizations bidding against each other to gain access to his information. They had to, lest it fall into their competitor’s hands. Even the CIA had paid to access some of his dossiers. Although they would never admit to it in a million years.
Now, having conquered the world one bullet at a time, Pavel Morozov sat on his yacht, basking in the glorious sunlight off the coast of a nation that had once considered him an enemy. He was too rich and powerful for that now. As long as he kept himself separated enough from the many private wars his companies fought, he was untouchable. Besides, as a master spy, he knew how to keep clean.
Life was good. Especially when it gave him gifts. Like it had last year, when his men had stumbled onto Max Fend in the South of France.
“Mr. Morozov, we will be lifting anchor and heading back into Key West.”
He looked up at Charlotte. “Very well. Thank you, dear.”
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
“You still haven’t told me about last night. You went out into town — how did it go?”
“It was fine,” Charlotte said.
“Any details you need to tell me about?”
“No.”
Pavel looked at the topless girls next to him. Oiling each other up so they would tan better. Drunk off expensive champagne.
One of them said, “Mr. Morozov, what happened to that other girl who was always with you? The blonde?”
“Her? I think she went for a swim.” He laughed to himself.
They looked at each other and didn’t ask any more questions.
He turned back to Charlotte and quietly asked, “Are we all set for next week?”
“We’re all set to head up the Florida coast tomorrow morning, sir. We’ll be in St. Augustine by Wednesday, just as you requested.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Anything else?”
He shook his head and waved her away. She left without saying another word. He looked at one of the girls next to him and snapped his fingers. “Hey. Go get me a champagne. Make sure it is cold.”
The girl hurried off, not wanting to take a swim.
Jake Flynn knew that his investigation was high-priority now. The FBI had sent one of their Gulfstreams down to Brunswick to get him. That was a first. He’d briefed the director and deputy director via conference call on the way back up to D.C. While the Bureau leadership was interested, Flynn still got the impression that there was more to Max Fend than they were letting on.
He had just been dropped off at his car in the Reagan International Airport parking lot when his phone rang.
“Special Agent Flynn.”
“Jake, it’s Steve Bravo. Can you meet for coffee again today?”
“Definitely. Same place?”
“Yeah. Seven p.m. work?”
“See you there, thanks.”
Flynn drove his G-car with the blue light on the dash. The light wasn’t flashing, but most people driving in the left lane of the highway got out of the way once they saw it. They figured him for an undercover cop. The worst was when people didn’t get out of the way. They just slowed down to the speed limit, while everyone else zoomed by. But he didn’t get any of those on this trip, thank God.
He arrived at the coffee shop in Springfield a few minutes before seven and ordered a cup of decaf. Damn caffeine would keep him up all night if he had one now. He sighed, realizing he would probably be up all night anyway, working on the Fend case.