"He's sure to ask what I'm doing."
"Tell him where you're traveling, if it's necessary. But any details about the investigation are a secret we don't share with anybody. That includes spouses."
It sounded like a call for professional suicide, but Yuri knew there was a little of the kamikaze in him anyway. "Any suggestions on where I should start?"
"I've put out some feelers around here. I suggest you visit your Ukrainian friend and see what you can turn up there. Are you available immediately?"
"I have a few loose ends to tie up, cases that have to be turned over to others. I can leave for Ukraine the first of the week."
13
The drive past the croplands southeast of Minsk, down through the area of lakes, woodlands and swamps known as the Polesye, then paralleling the mighty Dnieper River through the northern edge of Ukraine to Kiev, gave Shumakov ample time to ponder the mission he had been handed. As General Borovsky had indicated, at this point it was all theory. The Swiss bank accounts, the money flow into the commonwealth and the pair traveling among the capitals could have any number of meanings. It could involve setting up a legitimate new business venture. More likely, he speculated, they could be bankrolling some shady enterprise. That might be of interest to the prosecutors, but it would certainly have no bearing on the future of the government, the topic that had stirred the concern of Chairman Latishev and General Borovsky. Yuri's task was to check out the ominous possibilities and attempt to find who the money was going to, and for what purpose.
It was mid-afternoon when he arrived in the Ukrainian capital, a bustling metropolis of two and a half million people, after Moscow and St. Petersburg the largest city in the commonwealth. Happily the small black Zhiguli had made the trip with no problems, despite a constant vibration that sounded like the engine might be anxious to part company with the frame. Yuri and Larisa had been looking hopefully to the day they could afford a new car. Maybe an import, certainly something better than this aging Russian rattletrap.
At a squarish structure with tall, gaping windows perched high above the valley occupied by Kreschatik, Kiev's central boulevard, Shumakov headed for the office of Chief Investigator Oleg Kovalenko, his counterpart in the Ukrainian capital. Kovalenko was a large man with a double chin and black hair brushed straight back from a receding hairline. His easygoing manner and quick, broad smile gave him the appearance of a pliable teddy bear. Shumakov knew better. Though Kovalenko usually got what he wanted with a little flattery and a dash of charm, if that didn't work, he could become an unyielding block of granite.
"Yuri Danilovich," Kovalenko called from the doorway of his office. He rushed out to greet his friend with a crushing bear hug. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have invited some colleagues for an evening of camaraderie."
Shumakov smiled. "That's why I didn't call ahead, Oleg. I prefer to keep a low profile this trip." He also preferred a leisurely evening of good food and small talk to Kovalenko's "camaraderie," a raucous night awash with vodka and tall tales.
Kovalenko rolled his eyes suggestively. "Traveling in secret? What are you, a Chekist now? Come on in and tell me why Sergei Perchik has you traveling around the commonwealth."
Yuri grinned. Chekist was a term that had been used for the KGB. It held a derogatory connotation for most people. The Cheka was the first Soviet secret police organization, founded in 1917 by Feliks Dzerzhinsky, a grim-faced Belarussian. What would Kovalenko think if he knew the truth, Yuri wondered, that he was, in fact, working temporarily for the head of the Belarus KGB?
He followed Kovalenko into the office, which was furnished considerably better than his own. The desk was larger, the chairs newer. Yuri was impressed that his friend even had his own copying machine. An investigator with several more years of experience, Kovalenko also possessed the clout of a man who knew what skeletons hung in which closets among the Ukrainian high and mighty.
"How is that old bastard Perchik?" Kovalenko asked as he settled into his chair like a plump brood hen covering her nest.
"He is his usual charming self. I'm just following-up on my old investigation. Remember how our KGB general had all that cash stashed in a Swiss bank account?"
Kovalenko nodded.
"Heard of anything like that going on lately?"
Kovalenko looked thoughtful. "Not exactly like that. But there was an odd case just last week of a former KGB man picked up at the Hungarian border. He was bringing in a large amount of Western currency. Claimed he won it gambling at a casino in Budapest."
"Did he have the money hidden?"
"Under the rear seat of his car. Said he was afraid he might get robbed. The man was no dummy. That's a damned good possibility these days."
Shumakov nodded. "He would certainly do well to hide it if he got around the parking lots of our big hotels in Minsk."
"You have a problem, too?"
"It's a zoo. Those lots are overrun with prostitutes, money changers, kids competing to wash your car or peddle junk." No one seemed to have the resolve to clean it up, he reflected. "How did the border guards happen to find the money?"
"Pure bare-assed luck. They had a tip about a Chechen drug smuggler. This fellow happened along at the wrong time. His car was similar to one they were looking for. They found the smuggler later. But when they searched this unlucky bastard's car, they turned up bundles of dollars and marks."
"Was he Ukranian?"
"Yes. But he had worked in Moscow. We found him listed in your crime computer. That's how we knew he was former KGB. He had been under investigation, but there were no outstanding warrants. The militia officer who questioned him was inclined to believe his story. Said if he'd been up to something illegal, he surely wouldn't have used his real name."
Probably not involved with the group General Borovsky was interested in, Shumakov thought. He was aware of a few Belarussians who had made a killing at the gaming tables in Budapest. Still, there was one other possibility. "Do you know if he had visited any countries other than Hungary?"
"I don't recall. It wasn't our case, of course. I only got into it because somebody here let him out of jail without authorization."
"Why was he in jail if they believed the gambling story?"
Kovalenko walked over to a filing cabinet and began rummaging through a drawer. "We decided to hold him until we checked with Moscow. Be sure they had nothing on him. Of course, we would have needed a warrant to hold him more than three days. The Russians sent back a request that they be allowed to question him, but by that time, the fellow was long gone."
"Why did they let him go?"
Oleg Kovalenko pulled a folder from the drawer and returned to his desk. "A man posing as a militia officer got custody of him, supposedly for questioning. Let's see. You wanted to know where else he had been?"
"Right."
Kovalenko thumbed through the papers. "I think there was something in here… yes, here it is. Passport. Besides Hungary, there are stamps for Austria. Two. He must have gone through Austria and come back in again."
"Hmm… but no other countries?"
"No. Odd, isn't it?"
"Not if he entered Switzerland. The Swiss don't stamp passports."
Kovalenko leaned back, locking his large fingers behind his head. "Are you thinking the money might have come from there?"
"It's a possibility." Yuri shrugged. "What was his name?"
"His passport identifies him as one Nikolai Nikolaevich Romashchuk. Formerly a major, Second Chief Directorate."
Yuri Shumakov stared at his friend. Nikolai Romashchuk, one of the two former KGB officers identified in the Russian report as systematically visiting commonwealth capitals. He was virtually certain now the man had been to Switzerland, withdrawing cash from a secret bank account. But what was it intended for, he wondered? Some operation here in Ukraine? Or was this just a transit point? Romashchuk obviously had a contact in Kiev who knew of his capture and set up the release from jail. Who else was involved with him? Then another possibility came to mind. Could Romashchuk have been spirited across the border into Belarus?