And yet, Jack wondered, how much was he being manipulated by this staff employee? The truthful answer was that he couldn’t tell, and that was somewhat troubling. He trusted Arnie, but he trusted Arnie, because he had to trust him. Jack would not know what to do without him… but was that a good thing?
Probably not, Ryan admitted to himself, checking over his appointment list, but neither was being here in the Oval Office, and Arnie was at worst one more thing not to like about this job, and at best, he was a scrupulously honest, extremely hardworking, and utterly dedicated public servant…
…just like everyone else in Washington, D. C., Ryan’s cynicism added.
C H A P T E R – 6
Expansion
Moscow is eight hours ahead of Washington, a source of annoyance to diplomats who are either a day behind the times or too far out of synch with their body clocks to conduct business properly. This was more a problem for the Russians, as by five or six in the evening, most of them had had a few stiff drinks, and given the relative speed of all diplomatic exchange, it was well into the falling night in Moscow before American diplomats emerged from their “working lunches” to issue a démarche or communiqué, or a simple letter of reply to whatever the Russians had issued the previous working day. In both capitals, of course, there was always a night crew to read and evaluate things on a more timely basis, but these were underlings, or at best people on their way up but not quite there yet, who always had to judge which possibility was worse: waking up a boss with something unworthy of the nighttime phone call, or delaying until the post-breakfast morning something that the minister or secretary ought to have been informed of right now! And more than one career had been made or broken on such seeming trivialities.
In this particular case, it would not be a diplomat’s hide at risk. It was six-fifteen on the Russian spring evening, the sun high in the sky still, in anticipation of the “White Nights” for which the Russian summer is justly famous.
“Yes, Pasha?” Lieutenant Provalov said. He’d taken over Klusov from Shablikov. This case was too important to leave in anyone else’s hands— and besides, he’d never really trusted Shablikov: There was something a little too corrupt about him.
Pavel Petrovich Klusov was not exactly an advertisement for the quality of life in the new Russia. Hardly one hundred sixty-five centimeters or so in height, but close to ninety kilos, he was a man the bulk of whose calories came in liquid form, who shaved poorly when he bothered at all, and whose association with soap was less intimate than it ought to have been. His teeth were crooked and yellow from the lack of brushing and a surfeit of smoking cheap, unfiltered domestic cigarettes. He was thirty-five or so, and had perhaps a fifty-fifty chance of making forty-five, Provalov estimated. It was not as though he’d be much of a loss to society, of course. Klusov was a petty thief, lacking even the talent— or courage— to be a major violator of the law. But he knew those who were, and evidently scampered around them like a small dog, performing minor services, like fetching a bottle of vodka, the Militia lieutenant thought. But Klusov did have ears, which many people, especially criminals, had an odd inability to consider.
“Avseyenko was killed by two men from St. Petersburg. I do not know their names, but I think they were hired by Klementi Ivan’ch Suvorov. The killers are former Spetsnaz soldiers with experience in Afghanistan, in their late thirties, I think. One is blond, the other red-haired. After killing Grisha, they flew back north before noon on an Aeroflot flight.”
“That is good, Pasha. Have you seen their faces?”
A shake of the head: “No, Comrade Lieutenant. I learned this from… someone I know, in a drinking place.” Klusov lit a new cigarette with the end of its predecessor.
“Did your acquaintance say why our friend Suvorov had Avseyenko killed?” And who the hell is Klementi Ivan’ch Suvorov? the policeman wondered. He hadn’t heard that name before, but didn’t want Klusov to know that quite yet. Better to appear omniscient.
The informant shrugged. “Both were KGB, maybe there was bad blood between them.”
“What exactly is Suvorov doing now?”
Another shrug: “I don’t know. Nobody does. I am told he lives well, but the source of his income, no one knows.”
“Cocaine?” the cop asked.
“It is possible, but I do not know.” The one good thing about Klusov was that he didn’t invent things. He told the (relatively) unvarnished truth… most of the time, the militia lieutenant told himself.
Provalov’s mind was already spinning. Okay, a former KGB officer had hired two former Spetsnaz soldiers to eliminate another former KGB officer who’d specialized in running girls. Had this Suvorov chap approached Avseyenko for cooperation in a drug venture? Like most Moscow cops, he’d never grown to like the KGB. They’d been arrogant bullies most of the time, too besotted with their power to perform proper investigations, except against foreigners, for whom the niceties of civilized behavior were necessary, lest foreign nations treat Soviet citizens— worse, Soviet diplomats— the same way.
But so many KGB officers had been let go by their parent service, and few of them had drifted into menial labor. No, they had training in conspiracy, and many had done foreign travel, and there met all manner of people, most of whom, Provalov was sure, could be persuaded to undertake illegal operations for the right inducement, which invariably meant money. For money, people would do anything, a fact known by every police officer in every country in the world.
Suvorov. Must track that name down, the militia lieutenant told himself as he took a casual sip of his vodka. Examine his background, determine his expertise, and get a photo. Suvorov, Klementi Ivanovich.
“Anything else?” the lieutenant asked.
Klusov shook his head. “That is all I have uncovered.”
“Well, not too bad. Get back to work, and call me when you discover more.”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.” The informant stood up to leave. He left the bill with the cop, who’d pay it without much in the way of annoyance. Oleg Gregoriyevich Provalov had spent enough time in police work to understand that he might just have discovered something important. Of course, you couldn’t tell at this stage, not until you ran it down, every single option and blind alley, which could take rather some time… but if it turned out to be something important, then it was worth it. And if not, it was just another blind alley, of which there were many in police work.
Provalov reflected on the fact that he hadn’t asked his informant exactly who had given him this new flood of information. He hadn’t forgotten, but perhaps had allowed himself to be a little gulled by the descriptions of the alleged former Spetsnaz soldiers who’d made the murder. He had their descriptions in his mind, and then removed his pad to write them down. Blond and red-haired, experience in Afghanistan, both living in St. Petersburg, flew back just before noon on the day Avseyenko was murdered. So, he would check for the flight number and run the names on the manifest through the new computers Aeroflot used to tie into the global ticketing system, then cross-check it against his own computer with its index of known and suspected criminals, and also with the army’s records. If he got a hit, he’d have a man talk to the cabin crew of that Moscow-St. Petersburg flight to see if anyone remembered one or both of them. Then he’d have the St. Petersburg militia do a discreet check of these people, their addresses, criminal records if any, a normal and thorough background check, leading, possibly, to an interview. He might not conduct it himself, but he’d be there to observe, to get a feel for the suspects, because there was no substitute for that, for looking in their eyes, seeing how they talked, how they sat, if they fidgeted or not, if the eyes held those of the questioner, or traveled about the room. Did they smoke then, and if so, rapidly and nervously or slowly and contemptuously… or just curiously, as would be the case if they were innocent of this charge, if not, perhaps, of another.
The militia lieutenant paid the bar bill and headed outside.
“You need to pick a better place for your meets, Oleg,” a familiar voice suggested from behind. Provalov turned to see the face.
“It is a big city, Mishka, with many drinking places, and most of them are poorly lit.”
“And I found yours, Oleg Gregoriyevich,” Reilly reminded him. “So, what have you learned?”
Provalov summarized what he’d found out this evening.
“Two shooters from Spetsnaz? I suppose that makes some sense. What would that cost?”