“The timing would be right,” Ninchenko said, his tone changing from a theorizing political scientist to a reporting intelligence officer. “Gravilov flew into Kiev yesterday, the domestic airport. He was in Ukraine already. He’s the roof for the Dnepropetrovsk clan, the president’s people.”
“If he’s imbedded here,” Gage asked, “why would he get so personally involved in a United States stock fraud and risk putting himself in the FBI’s crosshairs?”
“Hard currency. Euros, dollars, francs.” Ninchenko pointed west, as if toward its sources. “Our money is worth nothing outside of Ukraine and barely anything here. And times have changed. It used to be you could pay off a plant director and get steel at half the international price, then sell it on the world market. But the World Bank threatened to cut us off if we didn’t clean up the steel trade. So Gravilov had to find other sources of hard currency.”
Gage stabbed a piece of smoked salmon, cut it in two on his plate, and took a bite. He nodded at Slava in approval, then looked back at Ninchenko. “For what?”
Ninchenko raised a forefinger. “One example. Suppose the government is preparing to privatize a state- owned factory. How does Gravilov make sure that his bid is accepted? Say the plant is worth a hundred million Ukrainian hryvnia. He pays the government ten million in hryvnia for the plant domestically and a two-million-dollar bribe offshore.”
“How can he get away with paying a tenth of what it’s worth?”
“What’s ‘worth’?” Ninchenko spread his hands and shrugged. “Even in Soviet times the government calculated depreciation. Five percent a year for twenty years. So, on paper, a plant can be worth exactly zero, even if it is the largest in the world.”
Gage did the calculation. “If Gravilov cleared ten million dollars from SatTek,” Gage said, “he can convert that into a hundred million dollars in Ukrainian assets.”
Ninchenko nodded.
“So who’s he paying off?”
“Makarov, Hadeon Alexandervich. The president’s son.”
“Hadeon. Is that Russian or Ukrainian?”
“Ukrainian. It means ‘destroyer.’”
“Destroyer? What kind of man names a baby Destroyer?”
“Man who plan to make dynasty by crushing everybody,” Slava answered. “But son has bad genes. Hadeon Alexandervich is reckless. No limits.”
“Do you think he got a cut of SatTek?”
“At least indirectly,” Ninchenko answered. “It’s a complicated relationship. Basically, Gravilov provides physical protection and intelligence. Hadeon Alexandervich has lots of enemies, and Gravilov keeps track of what they’re doing, especially the political opposition. He also leans on people if Hadeon Alexandervich takes an interest in a factory or a business. Like his father, Hadeon Alexandervich is insatiable. He has to be fed all the time.”
“The Thais have an expression for corruption,” Gage said. “They call it eating the state.”
“If not for me,” Slava said, “he eat everything. I elbow him once in a while to keep my seat at table-but there is difference.” Slava thumped the table with his forefinger. “I never take from poor. No one freeze in winter because of me.”
Slava opened a vodka bottle, poured three shots, then pushed himself to his feet, rattling the glasses and dishes on the table. Gage and Ninchenko also stood.
“To Hadeon Alexandervich, may he go to hell. Head-first.” Slava paused to let the image complete itself in his mind. “On heels of fucking father.”
Slava clinked his glass against Gage’s and Ninchenko’s, then tossed the vodka to the back of his throat and swallowed. He then noticed that Gage hadn’t emptied his glass.
“I not say I send, just he go.”
Gage downed the vodka, and then the three of them sat down.
A waiter in a tuxedo shirt and black pants knocked, then entered and removed the appetizers and their plates. He returned a minute later with bowls of red beet borscht, a dollop of sour cream centered in each one.
As Gage stirred his soup, his mind looped back through the conversation.
“Matson needs a place to hide his assets where the U.S. can’t reach them,” Gage said. “And Gravilov needs hard currency. It’s a perfect marriage.”
“But first they need to find something for him to invest in,” Ninchenko said. “In a way that allows Gravilov to take a cut.”
“That must be on tomorrow’s agenda.”
“Why not just go to the prosecutor now?” Ninchenko asked. “And tell him what you think Matson is doing over here.”
“I can’t take the chance. For all I know the U.S. Attorney sent him to meet up with Gravilov. He let him travel to London once before.”
“They allow informants to do that?”
“They’ve let them travel to Afghanistan to put heroin deals together and to Colombia to fly cocaine back to the U.S., so sending a financial crook like Matson to Europe isn’t considered much of a risk.”
“Except to him,” Slava said. “Matson may think he buy, but he not keep. Alla poppa and Gravilov take everything.”
Slava went silent as Gage tasted the soup.
“What you think?” Slava asked.
“I think Matson may end up dead.”
“Of course.” Slava pointed at Gage’s bowl. “But I mean about soup.”
“Perfect.”
“It proves the rule about borscht,” Ninchenko said. “There’s no in-between. It’s either good or bad.”
Slava smiled. “Not like Ukraine. Everything here is in-between.”
Gage smiled back. “Maybe you should’ve been a philosopher or a food critic, instead of a…”
“Gangster?” Slava finished the sentence.
“I was trying to think of a euphemism.”
Slava looked uncertainly at Ninchenko.
“It’s a word that means the same thing,” Ninchenko explained, “but doesn’t sound quite so derogatory.”
Slava’s puzzlement didn’t fade.
“Bad. Derogatory sort of means bad.”
Slava grinned. “Just like gangster.”
The waiter returned, removed their soup bowls and replaced them with plates bearing wild partridge in juniper sauce, potatoes, and sauerkraut salad with carrots and apples.
Ninchenko’s cell phone rang. He answered it, but didn’t speak until the waiter left the room.
“Matson and his lady have retired for the evening,” Ninchenko said, after hanging up. “They ordered room service breakfast for eight o’clock.”
Gage looked at Slava, then back at Ninchenko. “I wonder if he’ll live long enough to digest it.”
CHAPTER 63
At 9 A. M. Gage and Ninchenko entered a battered Volkswagen van in the courtyard of his apartment building. Two boxy Russian-made Lada chase cars, one white and one light blue, were already stationed along Shevchenko Boulevard outside the Lesya Palace Hotel, ready to follow Matson whichever direction he traveled.
Ninchenko’s cell phone rang like a starter pistol.
“Matson just got in the car,” Ninchenko reported five seconds later. “Alla isn’t with him. Black Mercedes 430. Four-digit plate, 0087. Government. The police aren’t allowed to stop it. Whoever is inside has immunity.”
“A get-out-of-jail-free card,” Gage said.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Ninchenko glanced over at Gage. “Do you have those in the States?”
