The second floor contained Popov’s luxurious personal bachelor quarters (his family lived in a huge dacha outside of town) and his offices. His personal staff of four stayed busy taking care of myriad business concerns.
Security goons inhabited the ground floor. A minimum of sixteen men stood duty at all times, working twelve-hour shifts: one in the back parking lot, one at the iron driveway gate to the street, two on the roof in a disguised guard shack, two on duty in the CCTV room / security center, two at the rear entrance—the only entrance—to the building, and one man each on the second and third floors. The rest functioned as rovers and relief for the other posts. The men rotated posts every hour to help break up the boredom.
Popov’s corner office had views out onto Nikolskaya through two-inch-thick ballistic glass, coated with a special film to prevent laser eavesdropping. Likewise, ballistic ceramic sheets had been placed between layers of the floor, ceiling, and walls of Popov’s second-floor quarters when the building was retrofitted.
Viktor Popov felt safely ensconced back in his Moscow office, surround by an impressive collection of Imperial Russian porcelains, Fabergé silver and gold pieces, Imperial porcelain Easter eggs, silver and cloisonné bowls and cups, gold Russian Imperial military plates, and a gorgeous “Virgin and Child” enameled religious icon. He felt so good, he decided to have a cigar, which he rarely did unless there was cause to celebrate.
“Mikhail, we pulled off a half-billion-dollar heist. Not quite as impressive as what Wall Street does to the American taxpayer, or what Mr. Putin has done to our fellow Russians, but still, we did it, and with flair,” he said, relishing the first few puffs.
Travkin, wearing a trendy Hugo Boss suit, sipped some cranberry juice. He wasn’t feeling as ebullient, since they didn’t have the diamonds, and he was smarting from the ongoing debacle that had befallen their operations in America via a series of FBI and IRS raids on most of their U.S.-based business operations.
“I’m glad you are here and safe, Uncle, but I’m not sure it’s time to celebrate yet. We’ve been badly damaged—especially in the eyes of our fellow thieves-in-law, who now perceive us to be weak and in chaos.”
“Sometimes it’s good to be underestimated. The money flowing to us, Mikhail, will turn everything around. Now, what have you heard?”
“Bennings and Petkova were taken into custody by Las Vegas police on the rooftop where you crash-landed. They were then turned over to military police. Some of our friends in Washington heard rumors that they escaped from custody. And now other friends are telling us there is a massive manhunt for both of them in southern Arizona and northern Mexico.”
“And the diamonds?”
“Recovered by Las Vegas police.”
“Meaning half of them have disappeared by now.”
“I’m not sure the police will steal any, considering who they belong to. And that could become a problem for us, as we have discussed many times.”
“The Italians won’t come after me in Moscow. We’ll plead ignorance. After I’ve made some money, I’ll make a substantial peace offering to smooth things over.”
Travkin nodded, then slowly took another sip. “Will he come for you?”
“Bennings? If he really escaped to Mexico, he might try. But the Americans will do everything they can to locate him. And they can do a lot. Still, if the U.S. authorities can’t find him, maybe the Russian authorities can. He and Petkova will be traveling under false identities, so get their photos to every port of entry, every unit, department, bureau, division, detachment, and office that might be appropriate. Make the reward for apprehension three million rubles.”
“And Petkova’s child on the second floor?”
One guest suite housed three-year-old Kala Petkova and a nanny who stayed with her twenty-four hours a day.
“She’ll be on a train to Siberia very soon, maybe tomorrow,” said Popov dispassionately.
Travkin couldn’t tell if he meant that in a literal way or as code that the little girl would be terminated. If Popov ordered him to have her killed, he’d pass it on to a man he knew who would have no problem with the task. But he hoped the child was really going to Siberia.
A knock sounded at the heavy mahogany door, and a female voice inquired, “Viktor?”
“Come in, Sasha.”
Sasha was a tall redhead with a narrow face, bright blue eyes, and other pleasing attributes; she worked as Viktor’s executive assistant. “One of the strands we have intercepted carries data for a small bank in Chicago. The hackers say we can take it right now for fifty million dollars.”
“That’s exactly ten percent of five hundred million. Which is the peace-offering figure I had in mind for the Italian,” said Travkin.
“The man will get his diamonds back from the police, but… why not?” said Popov, pouring a shot of vodka into an emerald-encrusted, solid-gold shot glass. “Transfer the fifty million into one of the Panamanian accounts. Be prepared to send it on soon.” Popov gestured for her to leave.
“Yes, Viktor.” She turned away and quietly left.
“So, we haven’t hit any of the big targets yet?” asked Popov.
“Not as of twenty minutes ago,” said Mikhail. “But there is already over seven billion dollars confirmed, waiting to be transferred to us, just for the data from a few of the target strands we will acquire.”
“That’s a nice number,” said Viktor, seemingly lost in thought. He put down his cigar. “Go call the Italian and get his bank account information. We’ll make peace. To peace and enormous riches, Nephew. We’re turning a new page.”
As Popov reached for his glass, Travkin pretended not to notice and walked out of the room. Viktor Popov lifted his glass and drank alone.
CHAPTER 47
Herb Sinclair got out of a taxi two blocks from his flat in Moscow’s Nagorny District. It was just after midnight and he felt a little tipsy, but very satisfied with the sex from the young woman he’d had tonight; her perfume lingered in his nostrils, and that made him smile.
He casually looked about for a tail, then performed good countersurveillance as he took twenty minutes to walk home. He knew that nothing about him stood out, and that he looked like any other middle-class, middle-age Russian man heading home after having a few drinks and some fun.
He avoided a couple of broken vodka bottles in the poorly lit, narrow concrete stairway of his apartment building. Russian pigs, he thought. Four doors greeted him on the small second-floor landing; his was the first one on the right. Unlike the others, his door and locks were strong. He unlocked all three locks, twisted the doorknob, and took a step inside.
Something sticky from the doorknob was now on his hand, and he wiped it on his pants. Damn kids! No wonder they all grow up to be drunks. But then a jolt of fear stabbed Sinclair, and he froze before fully entering the dark room; something was very wrong. He reached inside his jacket for his gun.
“Herb, it’s me, Kit Bennings. Close that door, quick.”
But Sinclair was still going for a gun.
“Pull a gun and I’ll shoot you where you stand. Slowly bring your hand out from your jacket.”
Sinclair carefully brought his hand into the open.
“Now close the damn door.”
A light came on in Herb Sinclair’s apartment.
Kit Bennings sat in an easy chair with a suppressed automatic pointed at Sinclair. Yulana Petkova sat in a straight-backed chair across the room, also holding a suppressed pistol. A body covered by a blanket lay on the floor near her.