The celebrated attorney, the Ice-Cold Ogilvie, grabbed the papers and with swift, practiced eyes began reading. As he flipped from one page to another, the blood drained from his face to the pallor of death. “My God, they know it all. My offices are wired! How? Why? It’s insane! We’re impenetrable!”
“Again, I suggest you tell that to Jason Bourne and his old friend and station chief from Saigon, Alexander Conklin. They found you.”
“They couldn’t have!” roared Ogilvie. “We paid off or eliminated everyone in Snake Lady who even suspected the extent of our activities. Jesus, there weren’t that many and goddamned few in the field! I told you, they were scum and we knew better—they were the thieves of the world and wanted for crimes all over Australia and the Far East. The ones in combat we knew and we reached!”
“You missed a couple, I believe,” observed Sulikov.
The lawyer returned to the typed pages, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. “God in heaven, I’m ruined,” he whispered, choking.
“The thought occurred to me,” said the Soviet consul general of New York, “but then, there are always options, aren’t there? … Naturally, there’s only one course of action for us. Like much of the continent, we were taken in by ruthless capitalist privateers. Lambs led to the slaughter on the altars of greed as this American cartel of financial plunderers cornered markets, selling inferior goods and services at inflated prices, claiming by way of false documents to have Washington’s approval to deliver thousands of restricted items to us and our satellites.”
“You son of a bitch!” exploded Ogilvie. “You—all of you—cooperated every step of the way. You brokered millions for us out of the bloc countries, rerouted, renamed—Christ, repainted—ships throughout the Mediterranean, the Aegean, up the Bosporus and into Marmara, to say nothing about ports in the Baltic!”
“Prove it, Counselor,” said Sulikov, laughing quietly. “If you wish, I could make a laudable case for your defection. Moscow would welcome your expertise.”
“What?” cried the attorney as panic spread across his face.
“Well, you certainly can’t stay here an hour longer than absolutely necessary. Read those words, Mr. Ogilvie. You’re in the last stages of electronic surveillance before being picked up by the authorities.”
“Oh, my God—”
“You might try to operate from Hong Kong or Macao—they’d welcome your money, but with the problems they currently have with the Mainland’s markets and the Sino-British Treaty of ’97, they’d probably frown on your indictments. I’d say Switzerland’s out; the reciprocal laws are so narrow these days, as Vesco found out. Ahh, Vesco. You could join him in Cuba.”
“Stop it!” yelled Ogilvie.
“Then again you could turn state’s evidence; there’s so much to unravel. They might even take, say, ten years off your thirty-year sentence.”
“Goddamn it, I’ll kill you!”
The bedroom door suddenly opened as a consulate guard appeared, his hand menacingly under his jacket. The attorney had lurched to his feet; trembling helplessly, he returned to the chair and leaned forward, his head in his hands.
“Such behavior would not be looked upon favorably,” said Sulikov. “Come, Counselor, it’s a time for cool heads, not emotional outbursts.”
“How the hell can you say that?” asked Ogilvie, a catch in his voice, a prelude to tears. “I’m finished.”
“That’s a harsh judgment from such a resourceful man as you. I mean it. It’s true you can’t remain here, but still your resources are immense. Act from that position of strength. Force concessions; it’s the art of survival. Eventually the authorities will see the value of your contributions as they did with Boesky, Levine and several dozen others who endure their minimal sentences playing tennis and backgammon while still possessing fortunes. Try it.”
“How?” said the lawyer, looking up at the Russian, his eyes red, pleading.
“The where comes first,” explained Sulikov. “Find a neutral country that has no extradition treaty with Washington, one where there are officials who can be persuaded to grant you temporary residence so you can carry on your business activities—the term ‘temporary’ is extremely elastic, of course. Bahrain, the Emirates, Morocco, Turkey, Greece—there’s no lack of attractive possibilities. All with rich English-speaking settlements. … We might even be able to help you, very quietly.”
“Why would you?”
“Your blindness returns, Mr. Ogilvie. For a price, naturally. … You have an extraordinary operation in Europe. It’s in place and functioning, and under our control we could derive considerable benefits from it.”
“Oh … my … God,” said the leader of Medusa, his voice trailing off as he stared at the consul general.
“Do you really have a choice, Counselor? … Come now, we must hurry. Arrangements have to be made. Fortunately, it’s still early in the day.”
It was 3:25 in the afternoon when Charles Casset walked into Peter Holland’s office at the Central Intelligence Agency. “Breakthrough,” said the deputy director, then added less enthusiastically, “Of sorts.”
“The Ogilvie firm?” asked the DCI.
“From left field,” replied Casset, nodding and placing several stock photographs on Holland’s desk. “These were faxed down from Kennedy Airport an hour ago. Believe me, it’s been a heavy sixty minutes since then.”
“From Kennedy?” Frowning, Peter studied the facsimiled duplicates. They comprised a sequence of photographs showing a crowd of people passing through metal detectors in one of the airport’s international terminals. The head of a single man was circled in red in each photo. “What is it? Who is it?”
“They’re passengers heading for the Aeroflot lounge, Moscow bound, Soviet carrier, of course. Security routinely photographs U.S. nationals taking those flights.”
“So? Who is he?”
“Ogilvie himself.”
“What?”
“He’s on the two o’clock nonstop to Moscow. … Only he’s not supposed to be.”
“Come again?”
“Three separate calls to his office came up with the same information. He was out of the country, in London, at the Dorchester, which we know he isn’t. However, the Dorchester desk confirmed that he was booked but hadn’t arrived, so they were taking messages.”
“I don’t understand, Charlie.”
“It’s a smoke screen and pretty hastily contrived. In the first place, why would someone as rich as Ogilvie settle for Aeroflot when he could be on the Concorde to Paris and Air France to Moscow? Also, why would his office volunteer that he was either in or on his way to London when he was heading for Moscow?”
“The Aeroflot flight’s obvious,” said Holland. “It’s the state airline and he’s under Soviet protection. The London-Dorchester bit isn’t too hard, either. It’s to throw people off—my God, to throw us off!”
“Right on, master. So Valentino did some checking with all that fancy equipment in the cellars and guess what? … Mrs. Ogilvie and their two teenage children are on a Royal Air Maroc flight to Casablanca with connections to Marrakesh.”
“Marrakesh? … Air Maroc—Morocco, Marrakesh. Wait a minute. In those computer sheets Conklin had us work up on the Mayflower hotel’s registers, there was a woman—one of three people he tied to Medusa—who had been in Marrakesh.”
“I commend your memory, Peter. That woman and Ogilvie’s wife were roommates at Bennington in the early seventies. Fine old families; their pedigrees ensure a large degree of sticking together and giving advice to one another.”
“Charlie, what the hell is going on?”
“The Ogilvies were tipped off and have gotten out. Also, if I’m not mistaken and if we could sort out several hundred accounts, we’d learn that millions have been transferred from New York to God knows where beyond these shores.”
“And?”
“Medusa’s now in Moscow, Mr. Director.”
34
Louis DeFazio wearily dragged his small frame out of the taxi in the boulevard Masséna, followed by his larger, heavier, far more muscular cousin Mario from Larchmont, New York. They stood on the pavement in front of a restaurant, its name in red-tubed script across a green-tinted window: Tetrazzini’s.
“This is the place,” said Louis. “They’ll be in a private room in the back.”
“It’s pretty late.” Mario looked at his watch under the wash of a street lamp. “I set the time for Paris; it’s almost midnight here.”
“They’ll wait.”
“You still haven’t told me their names, Lou. What do we call them?”
“You don’t,” answered DeFazio, starting for the entrance. “No names—they wouldn’t mean anything anyway. All you gotta do is be respectful, you know what I mean?”
“I don’t have to be told that, Lou, I really don’t,” reprimanded Mario in his soft-spoken voice. “But for my own information, why do you even bring it up?”
“He’s a high-class diplomatico,” explained the capo supremo, stopping briefly on the pavement and looking up at the man who had nearly killed Jason Bourne in Manassas, Virginia. “He operates out of Rome from fancy government circles, but he’s the direct contact with the dons in Sicily. He and his wife are very, very highly regarded, you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do and I don’t,” admitted the cousin. “If he’s so grand, why would he accept such a menial assignment as following our targets?”