to gather information from Krushen.”
They drove to the next intersection and Chenin got out. The moment the door closed, the black BMW glided away.
“Well, Kyril, what do you think our comrade will be doing after that conversation?”
Federov’s driver found it difficult to keep the humor out of his reply. “Hurrying home to change his undershorts I should imagine, Colonel.”
“I believe you may be right, Kyril.”
“Where to now?”
“A slow drive back to Lubyanka. Take your time, Kyril. I’m in no hurry to return to that damn mausoleum. In fact you can drive to Kirov’s apartment. I need to bring him up-to-date.”
LEOPOLD BULANIN REPLACED the receiver, smiling to himself at the conversation he had just had with Mischa Krushen. He reached out and ran a hand across the smooth surface of the digital recorder that monitored every call he received. Bulanin had always believed in insurance, in one form or another. And the digital kind was the most lucrative of all. Of course it might never need to be used, but just in case matters got out of hand, it paid to be prepared.
He had recently accepted a contract from Krushen that required him to provide extra men to keep a check on some people who might pose a threat to the status quo.
Captain Pieter Tchenko was an investigative Moscow cop who had been running an investigation that was getting too close to Krushen and the FSB. Krushen wanted the cop out of the picture in case he started making waves, and he was not overly concerned how the task was done. He also wanted to know if Tchenko had any data that might point fingers at Krushen and his department. Despite the FSB’s reputation when it came to stamping out such interference, Krushen wanted the matter resolved by an outside source. Mainly because he didn’t entirely trust all those who worked with and around him. It was not the first time he had used outside help.
Yan Chenin, who worked for Krushen, was showing signs of becoming a little nervous, and the man needed watching. Bulanin was constantly amused at the complexity of business that came out of Lubyanka. The building had always been host to rampant paranoia. Even now, since the demise of the KGB, the place reeked of subterfuge. Bulanin suspected that everyone who worked in Lubyanka had to have a permanently stiff neck from constantly looking over their shoulders.
Thankfully he was a plain and simple businessman. His police file, because he had read a copy provided by a friendly cop, had him down as a criminal. A racketeer. A member of the Russian mafiya. Bulanin didn’t care what they called him. He was successful, extremely wealthy and his association with people like Mischa Krushen meant solid, important connections.
He glanced again at his digital recorder.
And he always had his insurance to maintain those connections.
Bulanin reached for his cell phone, deciding that the first on his to-do list was the local cop, Tchenko. He would be the easiest to deal with, and anyway, Bulanin did not like cops. They were bad for business.
CHAPTER ONE
General Berienko spoke at some length, his commanding presence dominating the shadowed conference room and the men gathered around the large table. Seated next to the general, Mischa Krushen absorbed everything the man had to say, aware of a degree of unease coming from the group. They were all individuals with varying degrees of influence and power, each one committed to the older values of what had been the Soviet Union and distrustful of the way things were going in the New Russia. Each had a deep-rooted suspicion concerning America, watching the imperialistic moves the U.S. was making across the globe, and fearful that if it was allowed to continue, even Russia might be swept aside by the American monolith. Thoughts of armed confrontation with America was not to be considered within the near future. The downgrading of the once mighty Soviet war machine had removed its sting. It no longer had the mass of machines and men. The fracturing of the Soviet Empire had weakened its threat. It would take some considerable time to build up military superiority to its earlier strength.
When Berienko finished, he indicated that it was Krushen’s turn. A rumble of agitation rose from the group as it assessed what Berienko had said and Krushen allowed the moment to pass. He considered his options before he spoke, knowing that the men seated around the table were as committed as he was to Black Judas, but were still nervous as to the outcome if the project was brought into play.
“America has grown fat and greedy since the fall of the Soviet Union. It has reached out and used our demise to swell its wealth and influence. It has done it under the guise of helping Russia reconstruct. Admirable on the surface but by no means a selfless act. The Americans do nothing for nothing. Somewhere there is always the catch. There are those who do it by stealth. They employ others, often Russians themselves, to broker their deals for them. It allows them to infiltrate under a smoke screen. They manipulate or they buy or they bribe. They offer us their gifts like they did to the Indian tribes in their own country. Blankets and beads, trinkets to bedazzle while they stole land and slaughtered the buffalo. Now they do it with fast-food franchises. Burgers, and coffee in paper cups. And the people clamor for more, because they are blind to the larger picture. And all the while the deals go on behind closed doors. For Russian money and oil. Anything the Americans can add to their treasure chest. Nothing is done to halt this greed. Our so-called leaders do little except pretend concern, so we need to make things happen, and soon.”
“Mischa, as much as we love the sound of your voice, is there a point to all this?”
The speaker was a stoop-shouldered man with a shock of white hair framing his lined, old face. He was Georgi Bella, a Georgian with a fearsome reputation. He was old-guard KGB, and still a force to be reckoned with.
“With respect, Georgi, I am coming to the point. America wants to dominate. It is as simple as that. Look at the way they made war on Iraq. To get rid of Hussein? His demise was a bonus, something to add to the main prize. First they destroy the country and then return with their people and get money to rebuild. Again this was just a ploy to detract from the main prize. The oil. America would like nothing better than to get its hands on our oil, and they will try every trick in the book to achieve that. They want Middle Eastern oil, as well. To control it. To feed their greedy population and to maintain their war machine. In quiet rooms negotiations go on. Contracts are signed and deals are negotiated. All done behind the scenes by means of manipulation and coercion. The Americans are very good at this kind of thing. They have a sure ingredient that gets them what they want.”
“What is that? Fried chicken in a box and bottles of cola?” someone said.
A ripple of laughter followed. Krushen allowed it to flow, easing the mood for a moment.
“Money,” he said as the laughter settled down. “America lives and breathes on its fabulous wealth. It is what keeps the country alive. They have so much, yet they crave even more, and what it brings them. Power. Influence. If they can’t get what they want by flexing their military muscle, they use money. It makes them believe nothing is impossible for them. But I think it is also what makes them vulnerable. America exists on a knife edge of uncertainty. If Wall Street draws breath, the country panics. At even the hint of a financial problem, shares tumble. The interest rate fluctuates. Millions can be lost in an instant.”
“All very well, but how does it help us?” Bella asked.
“By understanding America’s vulnerability, we have something to attack. Not with missiles. But by going for the financial heart. By destroying the U.S.A.’s financial power base.”
“Black
