“Bill us, eh?” Kazakov sneered. “Wonder how much his bill is to leave us alone right now?”
This was a common occurrence throughout the business world, but especially so here in Bulgaria — the official shakedown. Graft and corruption were commonplace in business all over the world, but Bulgarians seemed to be the masters at it; every two-bit bureaucrat, military, or paramilitary officer had stopped by his many construction sites in the past few months, carrying yet another official-looking edict or notice, then unabashedly putting his hand out — some of them actually doing just that, putting their hands out — expecting payola right on the spot.
To Pavel Kazakov, payola was a normal, routine part of doing business — he even included it in his budgets. Generally, the closer he was to Russia, the less developed the region, or the more Russian the influences in the region, the lower the payola. Ten to twenty percent was a good figure to use in Russia, the Transcaucasus, most of South and Central America, the Middle East, and Africa; twenty to thirty percent in eastern and southern Europe, the Indian subcontinent, and Asia; forty percent in western Europe; and forty to fifty percent in North America. That was one reason he didn’t do much business in the West — payoff expenses were always high, and the local Mafia organizations were generally better organized, better protected, and deadlier if crossed. His reputation was also better — meaning, more feared — in eastern Europe and western Asia.
But there was a protocol to follow, too. In most of the rest of the world, payments were made only to the head of the labor union, or to the city or county engineer, police chief, inspectors, compliance officers, tax assessors, or the local army barracks commander. In Bulgaria, everyone had their hand out. The main guy was supposed to keep only a cut of the payoff, maybe twenty or thirty percent, and use the rest to grease the palms of his chief subordinates, immediate bosses, and anyone with whom he wanted to curry favor. Payola was meant to be shared — that’s how the institutions of graft and corruption survived and flourished. Many times, the bosses neglected to do that, thinking that because they were the boss, they were too powerful for anyone to retaliate against.
Pavel was all too happy to give payoffs in order to get a project done, as long as everyone else understood and played by the rules. He also enjoyed giving lessons on proper payola management.
“Tell him to leave the paperwork for us, and we will complete it and turn it in to his superior officer,” Kazakov said, mentally dismissing the officer.
“He says he has been ordered to collect the paperwork now, or he will order his men onto the mountain to arrest us and dismantle and confiscate all of our equipment.”
Kazakov closed his eyes against a growing headache. “For the love of God…” He paused for several long moments, his eyes closed tightly, resting against the chart table; then: “How many men does he have with him?”
“About fifty, sir. All heavily armed.”
Too many for his security staff, Kazakov thought — next time, he vowed to bring more men. He sighed, then said, “Very well. Have him and his men report to the senior site foreman at Trailer Seventeen. I will radio ahead and authorize Mr. Lechenov to give Captain Metodiev his ‘paperwork.’ Get out of here.”
As the Bulgarian army officer departed, Kazakov’s aide stepped up to him and asked quietly, “Trailer Seventeen is—”
“I know.” He watched as the Bulgarian officer gathered his men together and started marching them up the dirt access road into the forest. About a dozen Bulgarian soldiers armed with automatic weapons stayed behind — it appeared that they were guarding the trailer until their commander returned. “Peasants,” Kazakov spat. “Let’s get back to work.” But their work was interrupted by a satellite phone call. Kazakov picked it up himself — only a handful of persons had access to the number. “Shto?”
“They know,” a voice said. “The Americans, the president, everyone knows.”
“Stop talking in riddles,” Kazakov said. He recognized the person talking as Colonel-General Valeriy Zhurbenko, the chief of staff of the Russian Federation’s armed forces and Kazakov’s unofficial liaison to the Kremlin. He motioned for his aides to dismiss the engineers from the trailer. Once they were hustled out, Kazakov said, “This is a secure line, General. Speak so I can understand you.”
“Metyor was bugged,” Zhurbenko said. “The Americans rescued a spy last night that was taping conversations inside the facility.”
Kazakov got to his feet, stunned. “How do you know this?”
“Because the American president said so to Sen’kov,” Zhurbenko replied incredulously. “The American president admitted to him that they were operating a spy at Metyor, admitted sending in an exfiltration team, and — you will not believe it — sending in a stealth aircraft, a stealth supersonic bomber, to cover the operation!”
“What?” Kazakov exploded. “Me Americans flew a stealth bomber over Russia? Last night?”
“Not just one—two stealth bombers!” Zhurbenko said. “One aircraft was shot down near the Ukraine border. The Americans apparently flew a second one through Russia to protect the forces that went in to rescue the first bomber’s crew members. And the American president mentioned to Sen’kov that they had heard information on the bugs that an aircraft from Metyor was involved in the attack at Kukes.”
“Unbelievable,” Kazakov said. “Well, this means our operation may need to be stepped up a bit more.”
“Stepped up? You mean canceled, don’t you?”
“Canceled? There is no way in hell I’m going to cancel this operation now!” Kazakov retorted. “I’ve already laid one hundred and sixty-three miles of support and utility structures through some of the shiftiest countryside in all of the Balkans. I’ll be ready to start laying pipe in another two months in Bulgaria, and I can start in Macedonia soon as well. I’ve got foundries in seven countries ready to ship five hundred and fifty miles of pipe starting next month and extending over the next seven to nine months! I’m right on schedule, Colonel-General. There is no way I can survive if the schedule is delayed even one month, let alone canceled! I’ve written a quarter of a billion dollars in checks already, and I haven’t laid one centimeter of pipe or shipped one liter of crude yet! I cannot afford to waste one dollar or one hour.”
“We are not just under suspicion or surveillance, Kazakov — we are under attack!” Zhurbenko said. “Do you understand? The Americans flew into Russia and were virtually unopposed! We cannot stop them.”
“Stop them? From doing what?” Kazakov asked. “They sloppily executed a routine rescue mission. They lost a stealth warplane — that cost them dearly, believe me. Nothing that was done affects our plans. ‘Me only thing I’m waiting for, Colonel-General, is a commitment from the Russian Army to move when it must.”
“It takes time to move the numbers necessary,” Zhurbenko said. “Colonel-General Toporov said he has mobilized the first three brigades and can insert the first airborne battalion at any time—”
“One battalion? That’s not enough. That’s not nearly enough!” Kazakov said. “When the time comes, I need an entire airborne brigade off the ground and on its way. When the invitation comes to allow Russian troops into place, I don’t want a lousy battalion — I want at least a brigade of men on the ground, followed quickly by armor and air defenses, and set up within three days. Anything else would be a waste of our time.”