passing his way at the time. The funds for his power and for his army come from the poppy, of course. With the Taliban in power in Afghanistan, Baseer and the other warlords are finding that their traditional business is hard; heroin is not on the menu under Taliban rule. But they still manage to produce a reduced crop of poppies, mainly in the inaccessible valleys in the north of the country, which is Baseer’s area of control.
‘Well, as an Uzbek Afghan he has excellent connections through family and clans across the border in Uzbekistan that are far stronger than any political line drawn on the map, or any alliance with the Americans. His chief ally there, as perhaps you know, is Uzbeddin Cherimov, the great trader and backer of the Uzbek president. Between Cherimov and the president, the Uzbek KGB was nicely finessed into doing what it does best, facilitating the drugs trade and taking a cut before the line of graft moves up further to Moscow’s mafia and KGB interests.
‘Cherimov is more the international figure in a small group, which includes Uzbekistan’s president and General Meklikov, the old KGB general from Moscow who coordinates from the Forest all the drugs and arms movements through Uzbekistan. The three of them met, in fact, at the Silk Route Hotel in Tashkent last month, 15 August. That’s a national president, Meklikov, a KGB general and Cherimov, a drug baron. Quite a useful gang. It was a regular meeting between the three of them for the division of spoils and future planning.
‘But it’s Cherimov who travels beyond borders the most out of the three. He always has. He’s been a Russian Olympic representative for nearly twenty years; travels everywhere under the Olympic flag. He has a mansion outside Tashkent where all the servants are former athletes. He also has a cotton business that exports from the Fergana Valley in Uzbekistan out to Western Europe and ultimately to America. The main port for the final leg is Brest in France. Originally the heroin went hidden in cotton bales, but now it uses different routes. Through Bulgaria, Serbia, Austria and down into Italy, it is now transported in refrigerated trucks, with the correct baksheesh chucked in the direction of customs officials. The trucks aren’t opened at the borders, the excuse being that it would destroy perishable produce; it’s tomatoes and fruit on the manifest.
‘The northern route goes through Ukraine by rail. There’s over a hundred thousand acres of farmland in Ukraine in a single block that’s owned ultimately by Russian and Ukrainian mafia bosses and overseen by the KGB. In the centre of this land is a railway station, away from prying eyes. Here all the exports are repackaged and sent on under different bills of lading.
‘Cherimov’s been a target of Western agencies for years and I don’t know why he’s still free. He was thrown out of Australia at the last Olympics. Last month he was arrested in Paris, but here’s the strange thing. He wasn’t put in jail or charged with anything at all. He and his cronies were escorted to the Belgian border in three limousines in the dead of night by a team of French police motorcycle outriders. He walked free in Belgium. He is, it seems, untouchable.
‘He stayed in Brussels for three days at a very nice apartment out in the diplomatic area, where the European Commission people can rub shoulders with the world’s diplomats. The apartment belongs to a close friend of Putin, a Russian foreign policy adviser at the European Union.’
Finn pauses and Willy walks over to the bar and brings three beers and some bread and cheese he has bartered for his fish. Willy smiles at me, even though I’m Russian.
‘The Exodi companies,’ Finn continues, ‘are a money-laundering operation for these drug sales. They are also laundering money for certain KGB-controlled arms sales that don’t go via the usual KGB routes and, for one reason or another, need to be even further beneath the parapet. There’s a lot of cash. In the Exodi companies and others we’ve yet to reveal completely, it seems we’re talking about more than twenty-eight billion dollars.
‘For drug sales in the West, there are a number of ways the cash is moved, then laundered. Exodi in Paris provides a security service for some less-than-mainstream national airlines. Each pair of security officers on each plane carries a bag for clothes to wear at the other end. Except the bag isn’t full of clothes, it’s full of cash. Suitcases full of cash that pass through airports all over the world, every day of the year, because they’re being carried by airline security officers.
‘Anyway, whatever way the cash is moved it’s finding its way to Exodi in Liechtenstein which has an account in Vaduz under the name of Fartrust. It’s a trust account with several signatories, including Cherimov’s. The account has various companies behind it, registered in the Caymans.
‘But here’s the strangest thing: only a small proportion of the money goes to the Caymans. Of the twenty- eight and a half billion dollars that was in this Liechtenstein account at the start of this year, only about thirteen million has found its way to the Caymans. Hundreds of millions are going to the Banque Leman in Geneva and at least another hundred million has found its way either directly, or via the Banque Leman, to another Swiss bank in the poorest canton in Switzerland, the Banque Montana in the canton of Valais. The rest must be scattered in these banks or others like them; we don’t know yet.
‘Exodi Geneva is the mover of these funds, while Exodi in Luxembourg opens another account at Westbank but it is a secret account with no published account to back it up legally. Much of the money, I’m sure, is there. Frank, whom I told you about, has found that in one of the Exodi Luxembourg’s secret accounts in Westbank there’s another one and a half billion dollars, or thereabouts.
‘And here’s the great thing, the jackpot perhaps. Frank believes that a great deal of money also passes into this account from Russian state companies: oil and regular arms exporters, diamonds, and others. This money is being mixed with the mafia drug money from Cherimov. It’s all in the same fund. Russian state company funds and Russian mafia money all in the same bed together.’
Finn claps his hands together to indicate this perfect marriage.
‘You have been busy,’ I say and he smiles.
‘So. Now you’re here we need to look further,’ Finn says to me. ‘I need your help.’
‘They did tell me you only wanted to use me,’ I reply.
‘They’re absolutely right. But first we have to talk.’
As if he has been silently asked to do so by Finn, Willy gets up from the table and goes over to the bar where he begins to busy himself with things his barman would normally have done.
Finn stands up and holds out his hand.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk,’ he says.
We walk for maybe a mile up the dark beach in the opposite direction to Marseilles’ industrial smokestacks. Finn holds my hand, a little too tightly I think. He is tense. Out at sea the lights of a big yacht imperceptibly move along the coast keeping pace with us. There is little wind and we can just hear its motor.
Once we are beyond the area around Willy’s little enclave there is nobody apart from a couple of kids smoking dope and staring dumbfounded at the stars, and we soon leave them behind.
Finally, Finn loosens his hand from mine and gestures for us to sit down on the beach. We sit close together. The nights are nearly as warm as the days. Our knees touch and we look out at the yacht with its faraway lights.
‘Did they tell you why they were sending you?’ Finn says at last.
‘Yes.’
‘What did they say?’
‘You have a source, Finn, that’s what they said. It’s the highest priority to them. To us,’ I add, and wonder how I’m going to square all this with myself.
I look at him then.
‘It seems you’re not just the amiable joker you seem to be,’ I say. ‘It seems this source lies at the very heart of Moscow’s plans and he’s all yours.’
‘The Plan,’ Finn says.
‘Yes. The Plan. Patrushev knows now.’
Finn pauses and picks up a shell and seems to study it.
‘Do they know about Mikhail?’ he says.
‘Mikhail?’
‘Mikhail is what we call this source in London. You must write that in your first report to them.’
He squirms his foot into the sand.
‘So your job, then,’ he says carefully, ‘is to find out who Mikhail is. Perfect. We have breathing space. We can string them along for some time, keeping them waiting for that.’
‘To find the enemy within,’ I say.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’s why you’re here professionally.’ He turns and grins and then his face becomes
