Conspiracy in Kiev (18 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

I
t was not a Valentine’s Day evening that Alex was looking forward to. In fact, she was downright unhappy with it.

Robert was already in transit with the Presidential Protection assignment out of Washington. He would arrive with the president the next afternoon. She and her fiancé had already made plans to meet in a restaurant near her hotel in the late afternoon, when his shift would be over. In the embassy, all other protective people had drawn assignments as security tightened around the president.

Yet suddenly, what Alex was doing was secondary to the entire trip. The goals of the American president were to get to the cathedral the next day, lay a wreath, and exit the country as quickly as possible. And trouble continued to hang in the air.

For a moment, at a few minutes before nine that evening, Alex knelt quietly in a quick prayer in her hotel room. Then she inserted a loaded magazine into her gun and packed it into her purse along with her cell phone. She wore the new dress that Federov had sent over. Against the cold, she pulled on a pair of boots and a heavy wool overcoat.

Two minutes later she was in the lobby. A Mercedes limousine was already waiting. Federov stepped out and beckoned. She sighed and went forward to the vehicle.

“Get in,” he said. “We’ll have a great evening.”

The things she would do for her country.

Dancing with the stars. Dancing with the gangsters. Well, this was part of the assignment too. Find out as much about this thug as possible. Keep him in sight. Who knew? Maybe some tidbit she picked up could put him in jail for two hundred years. She could always hope.

They were alone in the back of the limousine, where it was warm. They spoke Russian. The vehicle began to move. There was much room in the backseat. Alex stretched out her legs, loosened her coat, and tried to get comfortable. After a moment Federov reached to her and opened the coat, pushing it aside. His eyes devoured her in her new dress.

“You are quite beautiful,” Federov said.

She sighed. “I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, Federov—”

“Please call me Yuri,” he interrupted.

“I don’t know where you’re trying to go with all this, but I explained to you, I’m engaged. I’m not interested in any relationship other than our professional one.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Do you?” She sounded skeptical.

“What am I doing wrong?” he said. “You are very safe. I’m making sure of that. And I am being a gentleman. We are conducting business, you and I. And so perhaps I like going out with a beautiful American woman seen on my arm? Is that so wrong?”

They came to a stoplight. The driver ignored the red and eased through with impunity.

“By itself, no,” she answered.

“Then where’s the problem?”

“We just need to understand each other.”

“We do,” he said. “So I need to understand something too?”

“What’s that?”

“Why does your government want to kill me?” he asked. “And why do they use you as their instrument?”

“What?”

He repeated.

“I know of no plans to have you killed,” she said.

“Of course. They would
use
you, not
tell
you.”

“You’re making me angry, Yuri. I’m not lying to you.”

He studied her carefully and shifted gears. “Then maybe a kiss,” he said. “One kiss.”

“No.”

“Maybe later.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Then you don’t know the Russian system,” he said. “If I can’t get what I want the proper way, I steal it. When you’re not looking, when you least expect it, I will have a kiss from you.”

“I’ll be on my guard,” she said, trying to parry his advance and defuse it.

“I’m sure,” he said with a laugh. “I’m sure.”

He sat back and relaxed.

The driver took them through the snowy streets of Kiev and into a neighborhood that was lively with neon and flashing marquees. Alex tried to memorize the route but it was impossible. Federov kept her talking and she guessed that was the reason.

Clubs and bars were packed one next to another along a trendy urban strip. The car stopped in front of a place named Malikai’s.

Federov’s driver jumped out and opened the doors for them. Alex felt like a gun moll. A skin-headed bouncer guided them past a waiting line of people, and they entered the club. People seemed to know Yuri Federov. Everyone was quick to jump out of his way.

They walked down a flight of steps, through a dark corridor. Alex could barely hear above the blasting techno beat from the sound system.

“Is this a restaurant or a club?” she asked.

“Both,” Federov answered.

But it wasn’t that easy.
Restaurant
, Federov explained, meant bar in Ukraine, whereas
nightclub
meant restaurant and
bar
meant nightclub, which is where they were. And not to put too fine an edge on it, even though Malikai’s was a nightclub, it also had a bar and restaurant.

“Very confusing, isn’t it?” Alex said.

“Not as confusing as Russian-Ukrainian politics,” he answered.

“Quite right,” she agreed, still in Russian. “Politics works in strange ways,” she said.

The noise in Malikai’s was deafening. Federov had to incline his head so that Alex could shout into his ear. They moved past the line that stood waiting for a table. Federov obviously never waited to be seated.

“The owner, Malikai, is a friend,” Yuri said. “His brother plays ice hockey in North America. We share a love for ice hockey. And beautiful Western women.”

They obviously shared a love for something, because Malikai himself turned up a moment later and embraced Yuri. Then Malikai turned and bellowed over the music.

“Natalka!”

Natalka, a hostess, materialized out of nowhere. She got another tight hug from Yuri too, one that lifted her straight off the ground. She was a trim woman in a sleek black dress and a ruby on the left side of her nose. She looked as if she was used to getting manhandled in this place and took it in stride in exchange for a solid paycheck.

The crowd on the floor parted for them, and Natalka led them to a semicircular front row table in a corner that was midway between a bar and a stage. One of Federov’s friends was at the table, a man named Sergei with his own friend, Annette. Annette wore a gold minidress that was as short as Alex’s. In a good American touch, she seemed to be knocking back a Jack and ginger. She also looked as if she were quite plastered already. Sergei had a pistol on his belt that he was making no effort to conceal.

In terms of booze, Federov didn’t even have to order.

An ice bucket appeared, as did caviar, blinis, and a tray of hors d’oeuvres, presented by a mustached man in a red tunic who assisted Natalka. He said nothing but no one would have heard him if he did.

Then, almost by magic, Natalka produced from nowhere a bottle of vodka that bore a blue and yellow Ukrainian label. She opened it with surgical precision, poured four generous shots, and plunged the bottle into the ice.

Alex scanned the room. Everything was all shined up. Lots of chrome and glass and glitter. The entire world looked as if it had been wiped down by a paper towel and a bottle of Armor All.

Federov proposed a toast to American-Ukrainian relations. Alex made sure that Federov drank first, then joined him. She was careful to eat along with the vodka. The liquor was powerful. It had a kick that could give liftoff to an aircraft. A buzz was setting in. Without even trying to, she was getting hammered.

“How do you mean that?” he asked. “What you said about politics being strange?”

After being exploited by the Russians for several generations, she explained, one would have thought the Ukrainians would be in a hundred percent agreement on getting rid of their old Soviet masters. Yet this was not so, as was already evident.

Federov met her comments with a shrug.

“Putin is a dictator and often seems like a gangster,” she said. “Yet he has wide support.”

“He has brought stability,” he said.

“At the expense of freedom.”

“You can’t eat freedom and you can’t spend it either.”

“No,” she said, “but to some degree the suppression of freedom is nothing more than a power grab. Putin has also turned the Russian Orthodox Church into an official state religion, harassing most of the other Christian denominations that flourished since glasnost. What’s wrong with religious freedom?”

“Russia is not required to give freedom of religion,” Federov answered with an indignant snort. “Russia is not the United States and neither is Ukraine. People here differ from Americans. Religious freedom is not a panacea. The Russian Orthodox Church was nearly destroyed during Stalin’s rule and throughout the Soviet era. No Protestant churches would survive if ninety percent of their followers were annihilated. This is the main reason the Russian Church is worthy of respect and why Protestants must not preach in this country. And that’s only for people who want their religion.” He paused for a moment. “I am an atheist and most people I know are atheists. Atheism makes more sense.”

“I don’t agree with you at all.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

“And I don’t understand the Ukrainian relationship with Russia, either.”

“Few Americans do.”

“Then explain it to me,” she challenged.

“Most Ukrainians accepted Communism as their fate or even believed in it,” he said. “Most older people lived better under Communism. I know of a woman who was the conductor of a factory orchestra, one of many. The factory has long since been privatized, the orchestra dissolved, and the woman was demoted from a ‘member of the intelligentsia’ to someone living with her mother on the latter’s tiny pension. Our friendship toward Russia is not a perversion of crazy people. It was an option that was attractive to people like the woman I’ve described, not to mention the Russian-speaking people in the eastern district oblasts and Crimea.”

She had no response. She began to wonder if somehow she had been drugged.

Then he looked at her for a long second and appeared to be preparing to move the discussion to a new level. The noise in the joint was important as it allowed Federov to speak freely.

No listeners, no microphones.

He spoke Russian. “Have you ever heard of a pair of Americans named Peter Glick and Edythe Osuna?” he asked.

She asked him to repeat the names. He did. No recognition.

“New names to me,” she said. “Should I know them?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. They are involved in this visit by your president.”

“Part of the delegation?” she asked.

He laughed. “No. They’re a pair of American spies,” Yuri said. “They were recently retired.”

For a moment she was taken aback, thinking his explanation was a joke of some sort. Then she realized it wasn’t.

“I don’t know them,” she said. She wondered whatever other name they might be going by, but she let the opportunity slide by. “I’m afraid that’s not my department. Spies,” she said, slurring slightly. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about them.”

“Of course,” he said without conviction.

THIRTY-NINE

Y
uri had big hands, big ideas, and big talk. All three were all over the place. But he also had unending charm when he wanted to, and a certain rough magnetism. The briefings in Washington had touched upon that, but hadn’t conveyed it completely.

Alex worked her gaze around the club and took stock. Students, pretty girls, athletic looking young men, a few high-ranking soldiers in uniform, and some diplomats. More pretty girls, in fact, hordes of beautiful women, plus a batch of local wise guys. Conspicuously missing: Kaspar and Anatoli, Federov’s presumed bodyguards. Alex asked where they were.

“Why do you ask about them?” he asked.

“I would think you would have them with you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you always seem to,” she said.

He laughed. “Things are not as they appear. Kaspar and Anatoli,” he said, “they are my ‘mushrooms.’ I keep them in the dark and feed them with manure.”

“Lucky them,” she said.

“You learn never to rely on or trust anyone fully,” he said. “Your best friend today is your mortal enemy tomorrow, hey. That’s the nature of my business. And if I weren’t worse than everyone else, I wouldn’t be alive to tell you that.”

“Then why don’t you get out of your businesses?” she asked.

“What would I do?”

“Count your money. I’m sure you have a lot hidden in various places. Switzerland. Cayman Islands. Monaco.”

He laughed.

“What’s funny?” she asked.

“You know me too well. Was that your briefing before you arrived or your intuition?”

“Both.”

“I like smart women,” he said. “I’d like a smart woman as a wife someday. Then maybe I would settle in Switzerland and become a farmer.”

“You had a wife,” she said. “You used to beat her.”

“She wasn’t a smart woman.”

“That’s why she was your wife. But you didn’t have any right to beat her.”

Surprisingly, his look went far away, then came back as he poured more drinks. “Yes, I used to think I had that right,” he said. “Perhaps not. What about you?” he asked.

“What do you mean, what about me?”

“Would you marry a wealthy Russian man, a former gangster, and be the smart, rich wife of a Swiss farmer? Marry me and I will retire and grow cheese.” His eyes twinkled in a devious way. “You would be Madame de la Gruyere, and I would make many babies with you.”

She smiled grudgingly. “Is this part of your plan to seduce me tonight?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Or is it the vodka talking?”

“Either way, your plan isn’t working.”

“Shame on me. I must try harder.”

“I’ve already found the man I want to marry,” she said.

“See, I was right,” he said.

“About what?”

“You’re very smart.”

The music was blasting, then came to a halt. An announcer introduced a singer in Ukrainian and French. Then, to much applause a drop-dead gorgeous blond girl appeared on stage. She wore a slick minidress, a silvery-blue satin that reflected the glitter of the club. It was clinging so tight to her that it looked like she’d put in on with a shoehorn.

She was about twenty, slim and feline. She had legs that wouldn’t stop. Her voice was husky but smooth and velvety. She sang beautifully. Great to look at, great to listen to. She took a microphone and launched into a series of Tina Turner songs from the seventies and eighties. She performed from a stage that was elevated about three feet above the club floor.

Alex took her to be Estonian or Latvian, judging by the blond hair and cheekbones, though she worked under a French name. Yvonne Marie Something-or-other. Now Alex was
really
feeling the vodka. She had once been to the Crazy Horse Saloon in Paris where drinks had always packed a similar wallop. She smothered another blini with caviar and decided life wasn’t so bad after all, and maybe Federov wasn’t, either.

Federov watched Yvonne-Marie with a smile and turned to Alex. “Do you like her? She used to be my girlfriend,” he said.

“Really? For how long?” she asked. “A week?”

“One night,” he said. It didn’t sound like a joke.

Alex had never heard soul music sung by a six-foot blonde in a silver-blue mini before. But in the old Soviet republics, she well knew, anything was possible. Believe nothing that you hear and only half of what you see.

Yvonne-Marie then launched into a version of “Proud Mary” and the dance area filled to overflowing. Presumably the river they were rolling on was the Dnipro.

Alex scanned the room again. Everyone was carrying on, singing, dancing, shouting, groping, kissing. Alex looked closely and saw plenty of army or police haircuts in civilian clothing. A reminder to be careful. The distinction between those who enforce the law and those who break it was vague here at best. She felt her head spin slightly and missed Robert horribly.

Yuri forced another vodka on her. She got through half of it before she realized she was flying. For a moment she wondered again if the drinks were spiked, but she equally realized that they were all drinking from the same bottle. Yuri knocked back a third and a fourth shot. So did Sergei.

Alex cautioned herself. No more booze. She tried to make conversation, her mind rambling all the way back to the FBI dossier that she had read on Federov, and the warnings about him personally.

“Now we dance,” Federov said.

“Oh no! Oh no,” she protested.

“Oh yes!” he said, standing. He gave her an amazingly handsome smile.

“No,” she said.

“Please,” he begged.

“One dance, in exchange for answers to some questions,” she bargained.

“Dance first,” he said.

Several seconds pounded past her. The vodka loosened her inhibitions and wore down her reserve.

“All right,” she said.

Federov took Alex by the hand and pulled her out onto the floor. The singer on stage moved quickly from Tina Turner to Whitney Houston and the next thing Alex knew she was breathlessly being swung around to the tune of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” Remarkably, Federov could dance well. He knew how to lead. He knew how to hold a woman. The rest of the dancers cut them plenty of space, and too much of it was too much of a blur. Twice Alex was ready to stumble and Yuri’s hand on her arm steadied her.

The song came to an end. Applause filled the room. The singer took a break, excusing herself in Russian, French, and English. Alex wobbled while Federov led her back to the table. He held her arm supportively as she slid into her seat.

She was sweating, not from nerves now, but exertion.

“See?” he said. “I’m not such a monster, hey?” he asked.

“I’ll need more convincing than just a good tumble around a dance floor,” she said.

“What else do you need?”

He poured two double shots of vodka. He knocked back his; she didn’t dare touch hers. Meanwhile, Sergei and Annette were on another planet.

“What do you sell to the North Koreans?” Alex finally asked.

“What?”

“Pepsi-Cola or
Playboy
?” she asked, continuing Cerny’s facetious comment of two weeks earlier. “Park Enterprises,” she said, recalling the dossier. “What’s that all about?”

He smiled. “Like much of what is in your files about me, this is not accurate,” he said. “The government does business with Park, not me. As for
Playboy
, I would only want a copy if you were in it.”

“You’re much too fresh with too many drinks,” she said.

“So if I’m fresh, slap me, hey?” he said.

“No.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m not going to give you an excuse to hit me back.”

“I won’t hit you back,” he said with a gracious smile. “Slap me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

She started to laugh, her head spinning more rapidly by the second. Playfully, she raised her hand. He did nothing to deflect it or stop her. He gave her a nod. She brought her hand across his cheek, barely harder than a pat.

“There,” she said.

He shook his head. “That wouldn’t have broken the shell on an egg,” he said. “Do it for real.”

She hesitated, then, buoyed by the vodka, impulsively proceeded. She whacked him one at three quarters strength, hard enough to make some noise, hard enough to be heard at the adjoining table. People who saw it stopped talking and gazed with horror at how Federov, probably the most feared man in the place, would react.

With half a grimace and half a smile, Federov’s mouth formed a perfect “O” for a second or two. His hand patted his cheek. He shook his head and laughed heartily. For a moment that was frozen in time, Alex looked at him in panic, thinking she had overstepped or blundered into a trap.

But he reached to her with his powerful arm and hugged her in congratulations. Then he removed his arm. His expression told everyone around that all this was in great fun, there would be no problems, no violence.

“I’ve never allowed a woman to slap me in public and get away with it,” he said. “You are the first.”

“And why is that?” she asked. “Why am I so privileged?”

“Because I say so,” he said. “That’s the only reason that would matter.”

Then they both laughed. The whole table was laughing now. More vodka went around. By now, almost everyone was flying. Annette sat with her head slumped against Sergei’s shoulder, her hands in his lap, and he had one arm slung around her in return. It looked like they were going to get to know each other better that night, if they didn’t already.

Several minutes went by. The sound system kept the place at a high decibel level. Two traditional Ukrainian hits: “Summer of Sixty Nine” and “The Wall”. Bryan Adams and Pink Floyd. Glasnost on steroids. Yuri turned back to Alex who by now had moved onto some chicken dumplings, which were, like the live entertainment, better than they had any right to be.

He kept the conversation in English and resumed with some small talk. Weather, sports, and a few off-color jokes about Russian women. Then he eased into a few tidbits about local black markets and currency dealing.

Everything was grist for the mill for Alex. Little tidbits often filled out a big picture and she was amazed how much someone would talk after several shots of vodka just to show off his proficiency in English. Then again, she assumed he was throwing her information that he wanted her to know.

“What about you?” he finally asked. “Your assignment here in Kiev?”

“I think everything’s been completed. Successfully,” she added.

“Except for watching me,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“That’s part of your assignment, is it not?” he asked. “Stay with me. You’re keeping an eye on Federov.”

She said nothing. He had hit the nail right on the head. But he had also primed something else that Alex found troubling about Federov. It wasn’t his massive size, it wasn’t his violent history and it wasn’t his primitive attempts at seduction. It was the way he looked at her through his hard dark eyes. The look in his eyes was one of familiarity. It was as if he knew a great deal about her, much more than he should have, much more than she would have liked.

“Drink with me and tell me the truth,” he said, “and I will drink with you and tell you the truth.”

He poured himself another shot of vodka. Then he put her shot glass in her hand, wrapped her fingers around it and held it to her lips. She held the glass.

“
Pravda
,” he said. The truth.

She put the glass to her lips and, with a nudge from Federov, threw back another shot.

“Yes,” she said boldly. “My government asked me to do two things. Negotiate a tax agreement with you. And to watch you.”

He laughed.

“That’s good. That’s good,” he said. “I hope you enjoy watching me because I enjoy being watched by you. How’s that?”

He nodded his huge head and seemed to want to say more. Alex, as her head whirled, leaned across him, reached for the vodka and poured him more. He seemed pleased and intrigued. He also caught the glimmer of her engagement ring as it passed.

With respect, he asked about her prospective husband. That gave her the opportunity to tell him all about Robert. In one way, she hoped it killed his mood, or his ideas. On another level, she hoped it wouldn’t. Why not keep him talking?

He laughed again eventually.

“What?” she asked.

“I brought you here to seduce you,” he said.

“I’m wearing an engagement ring.”

“To some women that wouldn’t matter.”

“To this one, it does.”

He nodded and laughed again. “What would your boyfriend say if he could see you right now?”

“Robert would be jealous,” she said.

“What if he could see you in that dress?” Federov asked. “Showing all those lovely legs to every man in the club.”

“He
will
see me in this dress. I’m going to wear it for him.”

“Will you tell him you were here with me?”

“Probably.”

“Let me kiss you anyway,” he said.

“Not a good idea.”

“What if I try?”

“Then I get up and leave, Yuri. Don’t do it.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a New York Rangers jersey hanging behind the bar, and she recalled what the owner had said about a brother playing ice hockey in North America. Then there was a pause. Mercifully, more food came and Natalka poured more booze. Alex sensed a little easing down of the passions on Yuri’s part.

He thanked Natalka with a pat on her backside. Alex could barely believe what Eastern European women had to tolerate.

Yuri started a cigarette and maintained a stony silence. Music started again and Yvonne-Marie stood in the wings, which Alex could see from where she sat, waiting to come on again. The music was obviously important because it allowed Yuri to talk without anyone overhearing, not even Sergei and Annette who were preoccupied with each other.

Alex was reflexively fingering the little gold cross around her neck. Could her dad ever have imagined that the little cross would trek all the way to Kiev from Southern California? What would he have thought if he could have known?

Federov caught the gesture. “You’re a Catholic?” he asked in English.