Operator - 01 (21 page)

“How does it ever start? You look the other way on a poker game because one of your buddies plays in it and then he sends you a case of beer. You drink it instead of returning it because it’s a thank you, not a bribe. Then you catch some low-level dealer selling pot and you let him do it because he promises to tell you if anyone is selling crack or crystal meth. One day an envelope arrives with 10% and you don’t send it back. You find a brothel and let it go because it’s clean and they don’t cheat their customers. When they start giving freebies to your deputies, you look the other way. It’s like cancer: if you don’t kill it when it’s small, you don’t kill it at all.”

“What about the Russians?” I press him.

“It started the same way. It just…got out of control,” Buddy says reflectively. “I got a call from a friend. He asked me to tell him if we got any complaint calls for a certain address. And he wanted me to let him take care of it before we sent a unit out…” he began.

“Vanderhook?” I ask.

Peterson nods. “He’d done me a few favors and it didn’t sound like a big deal, so I said okay. Then he drops by a few weeks later and gives me a case of single malt scotch. Before I know it, he’s giving me addresses all over town and I’m getting envelopes full of cash from him. Dorothy’s baby sister Annie? Her husband lost his job a few years back and those kids weren’t going to be able to go to college. It didn’t seem like a big deal to look the other way to help them.”

“When did you figure out what was really going on?”

“About a year ago. There was a 9-1-1 call routed to us for a domestic disturbance at one of those addresses. I went over to handle it myself. Had to threaten to bring my deputies with a warrant and shotguns to get those bastards to let me in. Some guy beat the hell out of an eight-year-old girl. She screamed, and it was summer, when folks keep their windows open. I wanted to lock the bastard up, but the Russians threatened me. They told me they’d expose me and hurt my family. They knew where the money had been going – to Annie and the kids. They said there’d be a house fire; they’d all die if I tried to shut them down.”

“And Mel?” I ask quietly.

“One of the girls snuck out of a house last week. It’s happened before but they don’t bring girls here who can speak English, so it’s not usually a problem. Only this time, Melissa found this girl and you know Melissa spent that time in Russia, so she understood what the girl was saying. The guy who was running that house, he figured it out, broke into Mel’s house and killed her. Michael, in spite of everything I’m telling you, I never would have let that happen if I knew,” Buddy says, and I can see that there are tears in his eyes. I stare back at him coldly until the man averts his gaze.

“Do you know who this man is, the one that killed her?” I ask. Buddy starts to answer, starts to speak, and I can see the lie on his lips. I shake my head slowly. Buddy pauses to consider his options. He decides to tell me the truth.

“His name is Yuri. Big blond guy with arms like a wrestler,” Buddy says.

“Does he have tattoos here?” I ask, pointing to the back of my neck. “Intertwined snakes?”

Buddy nods. “He does, but a lot of them do.”

“I think I’ve seen Yuri. He tried to kill me,” I say, with no trace of emotion in my voice.

“Then you’re lucky to be alive,” Buddy says and then reconsiders. “I know that sounds strange, especially after Monday night. It looked like that warehouse was hit by an armored division, but it was just you, wasn’t it?” Buddy expects me to answer but I don’t. “Still, though, there’s something about Yuri. He’s not like the others. They’re all in it for the money but…it’s something else with him. He wasn’t among the living or the dead that we counted last night, by the way. If he disappeared, it’s just as well. I would steer clear of him if I were you.”

I consider this. Part of me would like nothing better than to hunt Yuri down and see just how different he is. But Alpha’s words are coming back to me and I don’t think I’ll get a pass on a private vendetta. So I file the information away as I leave the house. I walk around the corner, where I slip into the passenger seat of a black Chevy Suburban. Dan Menetti is at the wheel, wearing an FBI windbreaker over his suit. I peel open a Velcro flap on my jacket and pull out the recording device concealed beneath it, handing it to him.

“Did he talk?” Menetti asks anxiously. I nod. He smiles, interlaces the fingers of his two hands behind his head and leans back for a moment. “Ah, this makes these late nights in the middle of nowhere worth it.”

“I think he’ll cooperate when you pick him up,” I say. “And I’d appreciate it if you keep this out of a trial if at all possible.”

“It’s not my call, but I’ll see what I can do,” Menetti replies as he nods sympathetically. “The accountant gave us eight hours of tape today. It looks like this little ring was the pilot project for a national operation. This is big stuff.”

“How far did it go?” I ask.

“The accountant didn’t know. I understand you’re working on another lead?”

“Yes. It’s possible that the SVR may have got the Tambov gang to start this operation to trap high profile men for blackmail: a pedophile’s honey trap. I had Sheriff Peterson place a call to the First Cultural Attaché at the Russian Consulate. He looks to be the organizer.”

Menetti whistles. His thick black eyebrows rise in an unbroken line. “He would be a great catch if you can help us reel him in. Of course he’s got diplomatic immunity, but I’m sure State would love to either expel him or threaten the Russians to reveal his involvement in order to get something else they want.” Which means that either way the sonofabitch behind all of this is going to walk away. Which I knew the moment I heard he was a consular guy. I’ve already figured out that the only way to make Constantine pay is to make him look incompetent with his superiors. Shutting down the Conestoga operation with as much publicity as possible is a good first step.

This gives me another thought. “I disabled Peterson’s home phone and cable lines and I’ve got his cell phone, but it would be good if you could pick him up in the morning before he can get to the office.”

Menetti shakes his head. “I need to get this to the SSA in charge of the case and he’ll want a transcript before we procure an arrest warrant. I doubt we’ll be able to execute the warrant before tomorrow afternoon. Sheriff Peterson is an elected official and the presiding legal authority in this town, so we have to play this by the book.”

“Understood,” I say, but this unsettles me. The Buddy Peterson I just left was a defeated man, but a lot can change in a few hours. I move to open the door to the Suburban and Menetti grabs my arm.

“You were smart to bring your old boss into this. I understand there won’t be any further investigation into the shooters from the other night – all resources are being put into rolling up the Tambov Gang’s activities in the U.S. We’re accepting the accountant’s story that it was a rival gang, even though there are some holes in that theory. I’ve never seen somebody finesse an FBI investigation that way.”

I agree that it’s impressive but I wonder what price I’ll pay for wriggling off the hook.

Chapter Seven – Thursday

My eyes snap open as I wake to the unfamiliar buzz of a Blackberry. The vibrating feature is designed to be urgent enough to attract attention through a briefcase or handbag, but on the hard surface of the laminated black nightstand, it yowls like a hungry cat. I extend a hand in time to catch it as it plunges over the side of the nightstand toward the floor. I fumble with the buttons one-handed for a moment before it silences itself. It takes me a few more seconds to remember the key sequence to unlock the device and retrieve the message. It’s a data file from Sammie, who lets me know he’s been instructed to support my activities. The file is a dossier on Constantine Drubich. It paints a somewhat darker picture than the description I’ve gotten from Veronica. I turn and look over at her, still sleeping soundly, her face tilted toward me on her pillow, the covers rising slowly with her respiration. I can’t quite believe she’s there. As I slide off the bed, her fingers, still intertwined with mine, grasp and pull me back toward her. My first instinct is to pull away, but I hold Veronica’s hand for a moment before my fingers slide free. This is unfamiliar territory for me. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise that we’d fall together after the trauma of the past few days, but it caught me completely off-guard. I shift my focus to the Blackberry.

Drubich is forty-five years old, a child of the Cold War. He was an intelligence officer with the KGB and served briefly in the same section as Vladimir Putin. He progressed to postings in the Baltic States and then the Middle East between the two Gulf Wars. He is Georgian by birth and was in Tblisi when Saakashvili came to office in 2004. He was reprimanded and recalled almost immediately. While the dossier doesn’t say why, the implication is that his loyalties to Russia were questioned. He was sent to St. Petersburg, a backwater for the SVR, and spent four years there until his unexpected promotion to the posting in New York. Now he heads the SVR intelligence network in the financial capitol of the world. He’s dark, handsome and speaks six languages fluently. And of course he’s Veronica’s former lover. I can’t wait to meet him.

I roll off the bed, grabbing keys and a Sig-Sauer P226 from the nightstand. The keys go into a pocket and the gun slides into a loop holster at the small of my back, between a white oxford shirt and black jeans. I pull on a sturdy pair of Merrill Trail Runners, shrug into black raincoat and glance at my watch. It is seven in the morning. I’ve slept just three hours.

* * *

I spot my contact sitting alone at a deuce in the window of a small pub as I cross Partition Street in Saugerties. It’s a clear day, and the pub sits in a line of cheerful businesses near the center of the town. A red sign saying just “Pig” sits above it, and the building itself is highlighted in red over the cream façade. The shop next door has yellow trim and window frames, and the effect of these touches of color on the block is transformative. Saugerties is the good twin of Conestoga. The center of the town has the same pre-war architecture as my hometown, the same rough-at-the-edges Catskills grit. Unlike Conestoga, however, Saugerties has been renewed by a flourishing of its downtown area. Restaurants, galleries and shops sit cheek to jowl with other small businesses. Young families move here instead of trying to escape. The gastro-pub I’ve chosen for the rendezvous with Constantine Drubich is a good example of the changes. In Conestoga it would be a seedy bar where derelicts congregate over bottles of Muscatel and Miller High Life. Here in Saugerties, Pig features artisanal beers and exotic food like a coconut tofu sandwich and jerk chicken. I’ve spent an hour watching the bar and the street to ensure that Constantine has come alone. Veronica is less than a block away in the G8. There’s only one problem. The man who entered the pub ten minutes ago and looks so obviously out of place there, the man sitting at the table in the window of Pig Bar & Grill as instructed, is not Constantine Drubich.

Of course I’m not Buddy Peterson either, so it seems only fair that Drubich has sent a proxy. But I have to wonder if Buddy tipped him off, and whether that means I’m pursuing a dead end or worse. I step inside the pub and the man at the window table immediately rises to greet me. It’s clear that he knows my face. That’s another bad sign.

The Pig draws a mix of Catskill hipsters and local crowds. The man in the severe black suit who extends his hand is neither. He is tall and fair, near my own age and looks to be exceptionally fit. The suit is not tailored, and I get the sense he’s not entirely comfortable in it. I glance down at his shoes. They look like dress shoes, but they aren’t. They have rubber soles with a shallow tread pattern, so he can still run in them. They fit much better than the suit. As I take his hand, I see the calluses, the accumulated wear of real labor. This guy is a soldier, not a diplomat. That’s the third bad sign.

“Constantine Vladimirovich Drubich regrets that he is unable to attend today due to pressing consular matters,” the man says, bowing slightly. His voice is deeper than his size would suggest. “My name is Kiril Ivanov Dmitriev. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Herne.”

I know that he knows it, but hearing Dmitriev use my name makes me flush. Spycraft has never been my strong suit and I’ve already been outmaneuvered at it. At the end of the day, I’m more of a blunt instrument. I try to remind myself that Dmitriev isn’t a spy, either. We sit down. Dmitriev orders a glass of dark microbrew and a bratwurst while I opt for a burger and a Coke. I ask Dmitriev where he’s from and he names a small town outside of Kiev.

“You’re Ukrainian, then?”

“Yes, I am by birth, although my family has lived in Russia since I was a very small child. Have you visited the Ukraine?”

“Just a few trips to Kiev. It’s a beautiful city,” I say. There’s no point dissembling. This guy has read the dossier the Russians have on me. At least one of those trips will have featured prominently in it.

“It is a very different place these days. You must make a point of visiting again soon,” Dmitriev replies. He starts to speak again but just at that moment the bartender steps over to the table with our food. We instinctively revert to small talk while we eat and Dmitriev darts in and out of Russian, obviously testing my command of the language. He has prepared for this meeting, and he even knows something about my current role in the State Department. He also makes more than one passing reference to my military background. I return the favor and he nods in silent acknowledgement. After the plates are removed, I clear my throat.

Dmitriev picks up on the cue without missing a beat. “Indeed, to business. The Russian government was very distressed to learn of the involvement of the Tambov Gang in the prostitution ring. They are a very serious criminal enterprise and they have caused us a good deal of trouble in St. Petersburg. Please accept our apology and convey it to your government. Our Ambassador in Washington will be meeting with your Secretary of State tomorrow to repeat this message. We also understand that a very good friend of yours was killed and this distresses us greatly. Please accept a personal apology from my government,” Dmitriev says formally. He is obviously reciting a prepared statement.