The Domino Game (50 page)

The surge of speculation was climbing again. Committee members at either side of Chisholm were firing questions at him but he was ignoring them, his eyes, behind his rimless glasses, fixed tight on Hartman.
What the hell was
this?

Hartman could see the question carved into Chisholm’s face, but the senator’s ego was too big to let anyone else know he was just as much in the dark as they were. Hartman pulled a breath.

“A week and a half ago Mr Aven escaped from a prison in a place called Novokuznetsk in south-central Russia. Mr Chairman, without going into detail at this time on how this was done, suffice it to say that last night’s events were orchestrated in a manner by which it was intended to appear as if Mr Aven had been my killer and that his actions had been motivated by revenge for my failing to honor my commitment that the United States government would provide protection for him and his family. In fact, last night Mr Nikolai Aven was responsible for saving both my own and my daughter’s life. I would seek leave now, Mr Chairman, members of the Committee, to introduce Mr Nikolai Aven to the chamber in these proceedings.”

Chisholm was pounding his gavel again, staring between Hartman and the door.
“Order! The committee room will come to order
immediately!”

Hartman swung aside, watching. Nikolai was stepping through the doorway into the hail of light, following the path Hartman had taken only minutes before. Half a dozen steps behind Kelly followed, Larisa beside her, clutching her hand. While the cameras swung to Nikolai they stepped aside, merging into the crowd at the back of the room.

“Mr Hartman!” Chisholm was halfway to his feet, his voice tight with anger. ‘This is totally irregular. Completely unacceptable!”

Nikolai was beside Hartman now, dragging back a chair, sliding into it, pulling it to the table. Hartman looked up at the figure looming from the dais, his voice controlled and even.

“I agree, Mr Chairman. What has happened to me and my family – not to mention Mr Aven – is completely unacceptable and, with respect, you and the members of this committee and the public are going to hear about it right here and right now and by way of that experience it is my fervent hope that our government and the people of this country will finally begin to wake up to what is going on and commit themselves to doing something about it.”

Chisholm was shaking with rage, his face crimson. His mouth began to open and he started to speak, but before he could the Deputy Chairman to his left extended a hand, pressing him back. Hartman saw it all. Before him and above, half a dozen times larger on the screen. Chisholm’s deputy was making his play. Hijacking the moment. He made eye contact with Hartman and nodded solemnly.

“We’re listening. Please go on, Mr Hartman.” Beside him Chisholm subsided to his chair.

Hartman nodded. ‘Thank you.” Beside him Nikolai had set the DVDs down on the table.

“If it pleases the Chair and the committee, we have two digital video recordings we would like to exhibit. These are copies of video tapes that formed the basis of the material information that came into Mr Aven’s possession nine years ago, which led to our first meeting and Mr Aven’s ultimate fate. The gentlemen who appear in these tapes are speaking in Russian, however,” Hartman’s hands moved to the pile of documents,” I have here transcripts of the dialogue translated to English which I can attest as true copies of the original Russian transcripts which Mr Aven provided to me at our first meeting at the Rossiya Hotel in Moscow in May 1995. The two gentlemen who appear consistently in each of these tapes are Mr Marat Ivankov and his then lieutenant, a Mr Vitaly Kolbasov. Mr Kolbasov as it happens was murdered in Moscow this last weekend. The other gentlemen you will see in these tapes were, at the time the original video was taken, high-ranking officials of the Russian government. I will explain more about each of them and the context of the meetings as we view the footage. For the record, I understand that both of these men are also now deceased.”

The Deputy Chairman had assumed control now. He nodded to an attendant standing beside the stenographer at the side of the platform. The man stepped across to Hartman’s table, consulted with him a moment then nodded, took a DVD in either hand and returned to the equipment panel in the corner of the room. The screen above the committee and its twin mounted high on the rear wall faded to black as he inserted the first disc.

Hartman leant forward again towards the microphone.

“There is one final point I would like to make before the committee views this material, Mr Chairman. During the period in which the original videotapes were recorded, and at the time of my attempt to lift Mr Aven and his family to safety, I believe it is significant to note that the United States Ambassador to Russia was Mr Malcolm Powell.”

Malcolm Powell had stayed in all day. Even cancelled his lunch with Haysbert at the India House Club on Hanover Square just so he could be sure to be available when the media started to call. He’d loosely fashioned what he would say last night before going to bed then slept on it and spent the morning refining the words, practicing them in front of the mirror to make sure he really did look sincere. The radio and press he could handle by phone but the networks would want vision so it was important he got the expressions just right.

At two in the afternoon the news stations were still running the story but as yet there had been no report that the second body had been identified and Powell was starting to wonder whether he may have gotten ahead of himself. It was always possible, he supposed, that Aven had been incinerated beyond recognition, but then Ivankov would almost certainly have thought of that and made sure there were enough pointers laid along the path. Still, maybe it was going to take more time yet for the police or the FBI, or whoever was in control, to sort it all out.

He considered that for a while then ran the volume back down on the monitors and spent the next hour working, sorting through papers and correspondence and reviewing investments until three, when he decided to reward himself with a generous single malt. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet propped on the edge of the desk, nursing his scotch when he heard the chime of the doorbell followed by the commotion in the hall. A moment later Cora, the maid, knocked at the study door.

“Yes, Cora,” Powell called from his desk. “What is it?”

The study doors slid apart enough for the maid to bob her head inside.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr Powell, sir,” her voice sounded unusually anxious, “but there’s a whole lot of television people out the front with vans and cameras and everything and they’re wanting to speak to you, sir. They asked if you were home and I told them you were, I hope that’s all right. They were terribly rude, pushing and shoving one another.”

At last! Powell swung his feet aside and drained his drink. ‘That’s all right, Cora. I’ll be right there.”

There was a trace of doubt in Cora’s reply. “You’re sure, sir?”

He slid back the door and smiled down at her. “Of course I’m sure. You run along. Leave it all to me.”

She dipped her head. “Yes, sir.” Left the door ajar and hurried off down the hall.

Good heavens! Could you believe it? The impatient bastards were actually ringing the bell again. Ringing the bell and even pounding on the door. Powell shook his head. Remembered the scotch and thought to pull a small spray of breath freshener from his pocket to dust his mouth. Attention to detail: that’s what it was all about. That’s what made the image and the image made the man.

Through the drawing room window he could see the vans in the street. Not just
in
the street,
blocking
the street. Now that was ridiculous. Where did these people get off. He strode down the hallway and reached for the brass knob, turning it, pulling it inwards then stumbling to an abrupt stop at the threshold, his face frozen in confused astonishment. Not just two vans, but half a dozen. As many cameras, if not more. Twice that number of reporters, jostling and pushing, thrusting microphones towards him, pressing forward up the steps, closing in.

Something was wrong.

Malcolm Powell felt an awful hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

They were all talking at once, firing questions, calling out at him, trying to grab his attention.

He pulled back a step and raised his hands as if that might keep them at bay, his eyes darting from one demanding face to the next, trying to make out words, trying to piece them together.

Nikolai Aven… What do you know about… Hartman… Ambassador to Russia. Attempted murder… Mr Powell, do you have any
comment?

So it was about Hartman’s death after all.

Powell’s tension began to subside. He almost smiled, then he remembered the circumstance. Held up his hands again and patted down the air, his voice steady and somber.

“Please… Ladies and gentlemen, please.”

For a moment the swarming throng grew quiet, like the calm before the storm, then someone at the back broke ranks, calling the question.

“Mr Powell, what do you have to say about this afternoon’s
events?”

There was accusation in the tone. Certainly no deference. Powell’s brow furrowed. What events? His head spun to the right as the second question tore at him.

“What can you tell us about your relationship with Mr
Ivankov?

To the left, with the third.

“Do you deny you are aware of Ivankov’s involvement with Russian organized
crime?”

The questions were flying now, Powell’s head spinning with each new implied accusation, a cloud of horror descending over his face.

Did you know Viktor Patrushev? What about Stephasin? Are you aware of how he died? What do you have to say about your involvement with Mission
Technologies?”

They were closing in and he was trying to move. Trying to edge backwards. Trying to shut them out but they were already inside, tugging at him, so close he could smell their breath, feel their hands grabbing at him and their spittle streaking his face. Closing in around him like a pack of starving wolves
.

39

MOSCOW

Marat Ivankov regarded
himself in the mirror.

It had been a difficult time but the storm was passing and he had weathered it all with remarkable ease.

He lifted his head, his fingers rising to his neck, adjusting the bow tie.

Of course the banks had panicked for a while and that had caused some problems. In fact for three months it had been one nightmare after another. The US investments frozen. The stock values plummeting in the wake of the publicity. The taint of it all rolling on to Europe and even causing problems back here in Russia. But everything was stabilizing now and even his lawyers were becoming increasingly optimistic about the likely outcome. There would be charges laid by the American SEC of course, he accepted that, but his people had already begun negotiating a settlement and it was looking like a billion or two at most in penalties and fines. Then for a while he would have to put up with the inconvenience of having everything tied up while the FBI nosed around with the criminal investigation, but his lawyers were already assuring him that was going to be a non-event. With Kolbasov out of the way, Malcolm Powell was the only one who could link him to the attempt on Hartman, and if Powell tried to do that he would be admitting complicity himself. His lawyers had already pointed that out to Powell’s in one of their many discussions. So the media could speculate all they wished but, in the end, nothing would come of it. His people would see to that.

There were still a few problems arising from the tapes to be resolved back here in Russia, but that would all be taken care of in due course, he had no concerns about that. The necessary insurance had been bought and paid for a long time ago. If he had been ten years younger he would have stopped at nothing to establish the origin of the copies and settle the score, but with time and experience he had become somewhat more philosophical. Best to get on with life and carry no grudges. Grudges only impaired one’s judgment.

Anyway, that other world was a thing of the past. He had moved on now. His connection with the underworld had been completely severed, the deal wrapped up and settled early. Discounted heavily for cash, of course, but that was the way things went. The eternal paradox: when you needed money you had to pay the price. But so what? Sometimes you won; sometimes you lost. All that really mattered was survival.

He reached behind him for the jacket of his dinner suit and shrugged into it, regarding his reflection, patting down the lapels. He found it amusing that the number of invitations he received to social events such as this evening’s had actually increased with his notoriety. He doubted it would have been the same in the West but then this was Russia, and Russians saw things differently. To be truthful he had to admit that he was actually beginning to enjoy his newfound celebrity. He took a last look, turned away from the mirror, collected his overcoat and white silk scarf and made his way towards the door.

Just two bodyguards now, one doubling as a driver. He was economizing and besides, they were really all he needed. The man from outside the door fell in behind, following him down the hall, held the elevator door for him and followed him inside.

Ivankov pulled on his coat and draped the scarf around his neck, watching the lights dropping down the panel as the elevator descended. The doors opened onto the Kaminski’s lobby and he strolled out. The staff who recognized him stopped and nodded deferentially as he passed. He nodded back, smiling, looking beyond them to the sleek black Maybach 6.2 saloon waiting in the forecourt. His new toy. The most expensive automobile in the world. It had been his gift to himself. There were times when it was important to make a statement.

He nodded as his bodyguard opened the door, then slipped inside, sinking into the rich soft leather, spreading out his overcoat and settling it across the seat. The bodyguard moved to the front of the Maybach and took the seat beside the driver, turning expectantly.

“The Bolshoi,” Ivankov instructed without looking up.

The driver nodded and hit the central locking. It occurred to Ivankov that was an exceptional precaution but the man was relatively new and he had come well recommended. He wore a patch over the eye he had apparently lost fighting in Chechnya. It looked impressive, Ivankov thought. A solid image. He settled back in the huge seat and hit the remote, turning on the personal television, scrolling it through to CNN as the driver pulled the limousine out into the traffic. Didn’t even notice the silenced Glock as the man beside the driver swept it back through the space between the two front seats.

Coincidence.

Nothing sinister. Just random coincidence, that was all.

The woman was preoccupied as she had been last time, closing the door, buttoning her coat, tucking her keys into her purse, then she turned and saw him and drew up with a start. Her hair was a shade darker now and a good deal softer. She wasn’t wearing the same amount of lacquer and it suited her much better, Nikolai thought. The lines at the edges of her eyes and mouth seemed more pronounced but that may have been because of the dryness of winter. He allowed her that benefit of doubt. Their gaze touched as it had the last time and her lips moved again as they had before. Nikolai smiled and nodded and kept on walking, along the corridor through the lilac- perfumed air.

If they had passed on a street or in a restaurant he doubted she would have recognized him. His appearance had altered considerably over the last five months. He had put on weight. Not a lot, but enough to flesh out the hollows of his face, and his eyes and skin were clearer, he was better dressed and his hair was longer now, and well cut. But she had recognized him because of the coincidence. Their first encounter had been a random moment defined by time and place and now, by coincidence, that same moment had been repeated. The problem was, of course, that now she had noticed him she would be able to recognize him again when questions were asked. It was a nuisance. But then the problem could be fixed. By the time she had had a quiet chat with the man with one eye any memory she retained of Nikolai would forever be erased.

Five months and he was here again, no longer Russian now, but a citizen of the United States.

I owe you
one.

That was what Hartman had said to him the night of the fire.

Since then he had more than settled the debt. In fact, he had settled everything. With the police and the FBI first – the incident with Sergei had complicated matters a little but not, insurmountably – then with the Immigration authorities and, after that, calling down favors from people in high places to pressure the Russian government into clearing his slate. Of everything, that had taken the longest but this was, after all, still Russia. Sometimes those at the very top could be obstinate but ultimately they were always pragmatic, particularly when it was made clear just where further investigation into the money trail might otherwise ultimately lead.

Best to let bygones be bygones. Let the past rest in peace, look the other way and move on. So long, of course, as it was agreed everyone would play by the same rules.

Nikolai reached the end of the corridor and let himself into the apartment using the code. Not the same code as before: it had been changed more than likely a dozen times since then. Instead he used the code Zalisko had obtained for him as part of the price they had agreed in their telephone conversation two weeks before… Zalisko from Samara, the first friend of only two he had made in his nine-year journey through hell.

Tracking him down after so long had been easier than Nikolai had expected but that was because Hartman’s connections were his connections now as well; all Nikolai had to do was ask. Since the Senate hearing and the blitzkrieg of publicity that had followed, Hartman had been deluged with requests for advice from law enforcement agencies and corporations of every kind and it had been that reaction, reinforced by Kelly’s prompting, that had led him to set up the security consultancy in which he had made Nikolai his equal partner.

So he had been able to return to Russia using his own name, with a clean record, a new nationality, a new career and money in the bank. Perhaps not a lot of money by American standards, but enough. Enough to provide for Larisa and to pay their share of the rent. More than enough for Zalisko and everything else he needed here, now that he was back in Moscow again.

Nikolai stepped inside and eased the door silently shut behind him.

Vari wasn’t here, he knew that. By all accounts he hardly came here at all these days since, according to Zalisko’s contacts, he now spent most of his time in the apartment above the club. But he would come tonight when he received the message, Nikolai had no doubt about that.

He crossed to the window looking out across the city. It was dark outside. Dark and snowing, the flakes drifting down through the air, veiling all the crudeness and the ugliness, draping everything but the golden domes and spires of the Kremlin cathedrals in a molten carpet of white. From where he stood before the wall of glass that led out to the balcony, it occurred to Nikolai that he could have been looking into a crystal snow globe enclosing an imaginary world of purity and light.

The last time he had been here he was on the inside but now he stood somewhere beyond, the swirling storm of the past settling further every day. Patrushev and Stephasin, dead. Vitaly Kolbasov, dead. Malcolm Powell, ruined and disgraced, indicted on charges of securities fraud, residing now in the Danbury Federal Correctional Institute, bail denied pending trial, those of his assets that had so far been located confiscated while the FBI and the Department of Justice waited in line behind the SEC for their turn at the carcass. And Marat Ivankov?

In the wake of Hartman’s testimony the stock he was believed to control in a dozen US corporations had been frozen by the SEC pending a full investigation of Hartman’s claims. If Hartman’s people were right he would most likely end up being indicted and convicted in his absence but so long as he stayed well away from America the only damage he was likely to suffer would be to his wallet and his reputation. Nikolai had thought about that. A lot. It was one of the reasons he had returned.

He made his way across to the high-backed leather swivel chair facing the television on the far side of the room, standing there for a moment, looking down, then turning away.

One of the reasons. There were others as well.

Yesterday, after three days of searching records and being shoved from one uncooperative government department to the next, they had finally located Natalia’s grave.

She had been buried by the State in a pauper’s cemetery near the Monastery of the Savior and Andronicus beside the railway line on the banks of the canal. He and Larisa had gone there together that morning while Kelly stayed back at the hotel, understanding that however much she had come to care for both of them it wasn’t her place to intrude on the past. Her place was in the present, she’d told Nikolai as they lay together the night before, and if the present worked out, then maybe the future as well. The past was another world, she’d whispered as her finger traced the lines of the citadel scored across his chest. A world in which she could never join him and it would have been wrong of her, and disrespectful of Natalia, for her to try.

It had been Nikolai’s intention to have Natalia taken somewhere else – somewhere he and Larisa chose for her – as if it would take that act for her to know for certain that they had found one another and her as well. But the little cemetery, despite, or perhaps because of, its lack of pretense turned out to be a strangely serene and beautiful place, and as they stood beside her grave with its simple marker, surrounded by the sprawling magic carpet of snow, it had been Larisa who said what he had been thinking himself.

“She knows we’re here. I can feel it. I think she’s happy here, Daddy. Let’s not disturb her.”

So they didn’t. They turned away and started to go and then Larisa remembered something and ran back again, pulling a small round bundle from her coat and when he turned around Nikolai saw her nestling Boris the bear into the snow beneath the cross.

So now the past was settling. Soon Vari would be here and then it would settle further still.

Nikolai heard the sound of the door and turned to face it.

Vari Vlasenko’s thick form was silhouetted for a moment against the corridor light then his hand rose to the switch and his jaw fell open with surprise as he saw Nikolai standing on the other side of the room.

“Niko!”

Nikolai smiled. “Hello, old friend. I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Vari’s brow tightened in puzzlement, his brain working frantically behind his dark eyes. “How?”

Nikolai appeared bemused. “You gave me the code, remember?”

Vari’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head, cautious. “It’s changed. It’s a different code.”

“Is it really?” Nikolai pretended surprise. “I didn’t notice.”

Vari hesitated, his expression wary. He eased the door gently shut behind him. Shrugged out of his black leather coat and tossed it across the back of a chair.

He hunched his shoulders, rubbing his hands together, trying to appear unconcerned. “It’s cold in here, no?” He shuffled across to the sideboard and picked up the remote to work the heating. His lips rose in a tight smile. “So… What brings you back here, Niko?”

Nikolai regarded him. “What do you think brings me back here?”

Vari reached for a bottle of vodka and spun the lid, holding it up and turning back to Nikolai, his brows raised in question.

Nikolai smiled. “For old times’ sake. Why not?” He waited as Vari poured then took the glass, matching the other man’s sip with one of his own. Vari inspected him again, wrestling aside his distraction.

“You look good, Niko. America has been kind to you.” Nikolai nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps not as kind yet as Russia has been to you, old friend.”

There was a cigar box on the sideboard. Vari flicked the lid and examined its contents. Made his selection and lit it slowly, playing for time, Nikolai presumed. He drew in the smoke, held it a long moment then let it escape. Pushed out the last of it in a long steady stream. “So you know about my new business arrangement then?”