The Domino Game (34 page)

“They’re everywhere.”

25

MOSCOW

Marat Ivankov’s eyes
trailed across the blinking stock quotes on the flat screen monitor.

Another five per cent yesterday; seven the day before. He tapped into the portfolio program, typed a command and watched the figures reset, allowing himself a satisfied smile as his eyes ran to the bottom Line. At yesterday’s close of trade the value of his total investment in ELECTROSET had almost doubled. He clicked to a fresh page headed MISSION TECHNOLOGIES… and that was doing nicely for now as well. $480 million invested had grown to almost $850 million in just a few weeks and this was just the beginning. The real game hadn’t even started yet.

He drew a contented breath and logged off from the system. Reached for his coffee and sat back and sipped.

In two weeks’ time ELECTROSET’s repulse system trial results would be announced and the stock would take off into the stratosphere, then MISSION TECHNOLOGIES would fall on panic and that was when he would make his move. The takeover. His war chest already set aside in Monaco ready to make the 51 per cent play. Then when that was bedded down, the merger. The two corporations and their technologies folded together into a single massive entity that would make them the most powerful defense contractor in the world. And as the ELECTROSET shares skyrocketed on expectation, the two dozen front companies through which he held his stock would start selling down, cashing out at a huge premium that would pay back the entire MISSION TECH investment and still leave him, at current best guess, with 25 per cent of the new conglomerate for absolutely nothing.

Alchemy, that’s what it was. Money from thin air! And the Trojan horse that would make it all possible was already in place. Malcolm Powell, with his unquestioned integrity and reputation and his political connections, already positioned on the MISSION TECH strategic advisory board, ready to guide the process through with his charming blueblood style. And while Powell would take center stage, behind the scenes a supporting cast was already being assembled by Ivankov’s other trusted retainers: a coterie of investment bankers and lobbyists and public relations experts and commentators who – in exchange for their obscene fees – would work day and night to see the project through to completion, more than content to remain wholly ignorant of the identity of their ultimate client.

That reminded him. Powell.

Ivankov set the Rosenthal cup gently in its saucer and shrugged back the cuff of the gown, glancing at his watch. Eight a.m. here made it eleven the previous night in New York. Time to check in. His hand moved past the hotel telephone to the oversized cell unit that lay beside it. It was longer and heavier than most. A little awkward to use but that was because the technology was still in its early stages. Its advantage on the other hand was that it was completely secure. The encryption security platform developed by a small Finnish company he now controlled made transmissions between its master unit and a half-dozen counterparts scattered around the globe totally impossible to trace or intercept. In time – six months or so perhaps – the system would be taken to the market and the rewards would be enormous. Then a year or so later another of his companies would announce that it had developed a method for breaking the codes and international security agencies would be falling over one another in their rush to secure that technology, by which time the next level of encryption platform would already have been developed and he would be ahead of the game again.

He hit the three-digit code that would connect him with Malcolm Powell and waited. Counted through a half-dozen chimes before the call was answered and the line opened up, Powell’s deep, rich voice overlaying the conversation and laughter in the background.

“Just a moment. Have to close the doors.”

Ivankov listened. Picking up footfalls on tiles. The rolling sound of timber panels being drawn along a track, closing out the chatter. Then Powell was speaking again as he walked. “That’s better. I’m in the study now.” His voice was crystal clear despite the encryption and the relays and the seven and a half thousand kilometers between them.

Ivankov pulled up a picture of the elegant, five-level brownstone. Where was it? West something. Eightieth? Eighty-first? They all looked the same.

“Okay. Sorry for the delay. We’ve got a dinner party going on here. I had the phone patched to my pager. So…” Ivankov imagined the American sinking into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk, “how are we travelling?”

Ivankov smiled briefly. He almost liked Malcolm Powell. Liked his directness and the slick, relaxed professionalism of his style. It had taken him a while to get used to the American at first but now, after a decade, he had actually come to enjoy their association. Found it refreshing, not to mention rewarding. Powell was the archetypal American success. Well-bred and educated. Accomplished businessman. Distinguished diplomat. Access to all the right ears and membership of all the right clubs. As comfortable and at ease in the polished boardrooms of New York and the corridors of the Capitol as he was on the tennis courts of Coral Gables or the tenth hole at Augusta. He must have been well into his sixties now but he was one of those men whose presence and stature had only magnified with age. Still slim and fit and erect with handsome, patrician features, sharp blue eyes and carefully cropped silver hair that all served to enhance the benevolently aristocratic image. Still, in his own mind, a ladies’ man, even if that was more show than substance. Ivankov smiled briefly, his mind tripping back absently to Powell’s last word.

‘Travelling? We’re travelling splendidly, my friend. By my calculations we’re three hundred and twenty million up already and this is only the first act.”

He heard Powell pull a breath. Impatient. “Cut the crap, Marat. You know exactly what I mean.”

He did of course, but sometimes he enjoyed toying with Powell. Pulling his strings. Ivankov smiled. Rocked back in his chair. “Ohhh… of course.” He changed the cell phone to the other ear, changing his tone as well. “It’s all under control, my friend. A week – two at most.”

There was a pause from the other end of the line.

‘Too long, Marat.” Powell’s voice was brittle. “I know this guy. He’s a goddamned bloodhound. Once he’s on to something he won’t give up.”

“Malcolm.” Ivankov closed his eyes with exasperated restraint. “What are you worrying about? So Hartman’s made some connections regarding my investments.” He flicked a hand in the air. “So what? America is a free country. I’m a legitimate, respected businessman. Nothing Hartman has come up with suggests I have broken any laws. So, what’s the problem?”

Ivankov heard the springs of Powell’s chair creak. Imagined him sitting forward, leaning into the glow from the antique lamp that sat at the edge of his cherry wood desk. “I’m not worried about what he’s found out so far, Marat.” Powell’s voice was strung with tension. “I’m worried about what he might find out between now and…” he drew a breath, “between now and his
evaporation
.”

Ivankov pursed his lips. Drummed his fingers on the table then closed them to a fist.

“Listen to me, Malcolm.” He was a patient man. Always had been. But now his patience was wearing just a little thin. “What do we know? What we know is that so far Hartman has identified three American corporations in which I have made reasonably significant investments. Just three… out of how many?” He answered his own question. “Out of dozens, Malcolm, that’s how many! And the only reason he has tracked those ones is because I happened to use the same investment companies for those particular plays. So maybe there are a few more he may trace but even if he were to live a normal life span he could never,
never
find them all. It’s impossible! And who cares? Who’s interested? As for you… so what if you are on the board of some of them or an adviser to others? What does that prove? Of course you know me. Why wouldn’t you? For heaven’s sake, Malcolm, I am an international businessman. You are an international businessman. Of course we are acquainted but there is no link between us anyone can prove. No smoking gun. So, I make a lot of money investing in companies in which you play a role. You’re a clever man, Malcolm. That’s why I invest in them. And anyway, for heaven’s sake, I make a lot of money investing in companies in which you
don’t
play a role. I buy and I sell and I make profits and I move on. That’s what business is all about, Malcolm. I don’t have to tell you that, surely?”

The line fell to silence. When Powell responded his voice was taut. Unconvinced.

“This isn’t Eastern Europe, Marat. They take insider trading and stock manipulation very seriously over here. If Hartman gets a chance to give his testimony to that Committee and either the authorities or the media start running with it, Christ knows where it could all end up. Okay, a lot of it’s going to be difficult or impossible to prove, but once the accusations start flying I’m finished. It’s okay for you. You can stay over there out of reach, but it’s not as easy for me, Marat. I’m American. I live here. This country is my life.”

Ivankov pursed his lips. Drew a breath and replied softly. “Let’s just run back a little, shall we? Where did all of this start? Tell me, Malcolm, whose idea was it all anyway?” He let the questions hang. Sat back, waiting out the silence.

“I’ll remind you shall I? It was you who came to me, Malcolm. You who sought me out back at the beginning through Stephasin because you were astute enough to see where I was going and you wanted to be part of it. That’s how it started, my friend, not with my ideas but yours. And let me ask you, have I not been generous? Have I not always kept my side of our bargain?”

At the other end of the line he heard Powell pull a grudging breath. “Yes, you’ve been generous.”

Ivankov considered the word. Generous. An understatement when you thought about it. How much exactly had he transferred to Powell’s accounts over the years? Ten per cent of everything he had collected on Powell’s advice: all up, what would that have been so far? Two hundred? Three hundred million? And all without Powell ever having to risk a cent. Powell was thinking about it as well, he could tell.

“I’m not saying you haven’t been generous, Marat. It’s worked well for both of us, but this ELECTROSET deal…” An anxious pause. “I’m worried about it. Worried that it’s too big.”

Ivankov sighed. “Malcolm, think through it again. What is there to be worried about? I take a major position in Mission Technologies and I keep it. Never sell. There’s no inside trading in that. Where’s the risk?”

“The risk is, Marat, that someone starts putting all the pieces together. Finding the pattern and putting all dominoes in line. Asking questions such as where ELECTROSET got the information it needed to develop the repulse system in the first place… and how it just happened to come up with the goods at the critical time. Not to mention who’s been behind the stock build-up and whether there’s any association between the buyers. I was the one who saw the possibilities and made the introductions and set up the connections and looked after the people who needed looking after. I’m not losing my nerve, Marat. I’m just being a realist, that’s all. Christ, you know the risks I’ve taken in the past. There’ve been a half-dozen times over the years I’ve put my balls on the line for you. Starting with Moscow.”

Ivankov picked up a pen from the desk, rolled it between his fingers, studying it.
Starting with Moscow.
So that was it.

Powell
was
beginning to lose his nerve. Sooner or later they all did. Patrushev. Stephasin. The others. They’d all had their use-by dates and now Malcolm Powell’s was approaching as well. He leaned forward with the pen, scratching absently on a piece of hotel stationery. Drawing lines and angles and joining them together as Powell continued speaking.

“I told you before, Marat, Hartman’s a bloodhound. He’s been watching us both for years, waiting for this opportunity. We have to deal with him before he does any more damage. If he’s out of the way then maybe we can pull it off. It’s over to you. I don’t want to know how you do it but it has to be done fast. And it has to be done in a way that keeps the whole thing clear of us. Both of us.”

Ivankov smiled tightly. Drew a circle and examined it; then another line.

“And it will be, Malcolm, I promise. Ever since you first raised your concern I have had people watching him while, in the background, I have been considering how best to deal with the matter. I’m almost there, Malcolm. I can’t give you the details just yet but when I do I think even you are going to be very pleasantly surprised at how I intend to deal with this particular situation. Surprised and quite impressed, I would venture. It’s all coming together, just be patient. As soon as I can I’ll let you know everything. Then six months from now when the whole thing is over and you check your bank in Bermuda and find another five or six hundred million sunbathing down there in your account, you know what? You won’t even remember any of this.”

The deep timbre of Powell’s voice echoed along the line. “I hope you’re right, Marat.”

“Oh, I’m right,” Ivankov replied lightly. He tipped his head aside, studying his drawing, adding another touch. “Six months from now you won’t remember a thing.” His pen connected the last lines and he sat back, admiring the sketch: a thin stick figure swinging from a gallows. His hand reached forward again, his pen scratching Malcolm Powell’s name above the drawing, wrapping the name in a balloon and linking the balloon with a flourish back to the figure’s head.

“I think it’s time to say goodbye now, Malcom.”

Nikolai turned his back to the scalding hot stream from the shower and breathed deeply, sucking the swirling steam into his lungs, holding it there for as long as he could, as if that might somehow cleanse him from within. Finally, when he felt no difference, he let it go. Expelled his breath and opened his eyes, lifting his head to the pulsing jets and letting them play across his face.

The floor and the walls of the shower stall were marble, he noticed; the tap fittings and the showerhead itself plated gold. The cars, the clothes, the lavish new apartment in one of the city’s most fashionable districts. Bulgaria had been kind to Vari. Exceptionally kind. From the edge of his vision Nikolai noticed a shadow loom into view beyond the drizzled glass. Vari’s voice followed, calling loud above the sound of the spray.