Alex moved along. There was a section on the growing narcotics problem in the newly independent state.
Ukraine has become a significant conduit for Afghani and Southwest Asian heroin bound for European and American markets…
A dismal feeling started to creep over her. Ukraine made Lagos look like Disneyworld. Why was she spending her life with such things?
She flipped to the final pages, absorbing quickly.
The main trafficking routes are (1) the seaports of Odessa and Sevastopol; (2) Transdniestria is often mentioned as a high-risk region for drug trafficking. The drug is stockpiled in this region for further trafficking to Ukraine and Romania. The drug continues by air from the military airport next to Tiraspol or by trucks toward the north of Moldova and then continues to Poland, Lithuania, or Latvia. The route continues in Transdniestria, reenters Ukraine at Chernivtsy to move westward to Hungary and Romania. (3) There is an important transit from the eastern border of Ukraine with Russia. The trucks from Northern Caucasus cross the border at Taganrog, Luhansk, and Kharkiv en route to Hungary and Slovakia. (4) Another transit route goes through the eastern border of Belarus with Russia since there is no control of this border with Russia…
Ukraine lacked adequate law enforcement and an independent judiciary which might be able to block the influence of organized crime. Alex’s eye settled on a concluding sentence, a masterpiece of understatement.
Institutionalized Ukrainian corruption is perceived as the worst in the world. This is no small accomplishment.
Nigeria, but worse. Oh, Lord…
She finished the document. She closed the briefing book and settled back to think. A few moments later, the door opened and Michael Cerny reappeared.
He poured himself a fresh container of coffee and sat down. “Now I need to mention something else,” he said. “Ask you, actually. Up until this moment in time, have you ever heard of something called ‘The Caspian Group’?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “But that’s why you’re here. They’re based in Kiev. They’re a private equity firm. Almost all of their investments are related to government contracts in Ukraine and in the United States. They cozy up to the proper people in both governments, take a financial position in an industry, then move into the industry.”
He took a long drink of coffee.
“Let me illustrate to you how it’s structured,” he continued. “Picture a triangle with the three corners anchored by the politicians on one, the military on the second corner, and the oil and gas industries on the third. Then picture a second triangle, interconnected with the first. Concentric perhaps. Now assume that one triangle is an American one and the second is Ukrainian. Then figure that the two triangles, for financial purposes, are interlocked and service each other. Any corner can connect with any other corner. Follow?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But what’s the big deal? The world runs on the oil and gas business. I’m sure the triangle is filled with venal overpaid self-serving people making their fortunes off the backs of ordinary folks. Deplorable, but nothing new.”
He broke open a new file, which he pushed before her.
“I’m going to give you this to take away,” he said. “An FBI dossier on Caspian Industries. Examine what Caspian Industries is doing. A lot of money and a lot of product disappear into thin air, escaping taxation completely. See the problem?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When you go to Ukraine,” he said, “you’re going to meet this man.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. He handed her the photograph. “Say hello to Yuri Federov.”
Alex looked at an eight-by-ten surveillance shot of three men, all of whom had the Russian wise-guy look to them. They were seated at a table in a night club. There were women at the table who looked as if they were being paid to be there, one way or another. Everyone was smoking. The men had short haircuts, almost shaved heads, and wore silk suits with open collars. A Eurotrash night out. There was a stage show going on in the background. More women, but not much clothing.
Cerny leaned forward and pointed an index finger at the man in the center.
The man was a thick-browed thug with wide shoulders, a lantern jaw, and a hard dark pair of eyes. He wore some sort of a medallion at his open neck. Alex could see that it was no companion piece for the gold cross she wore around hers. She fingered her own neckwear for a moment.
“Yuri Federov is probably one of the most dangerous men in the world,” Cerny said. “And certainly no friend of the United States.”
“Where was the picture taken?” she asked.
“Paris. A night club somewhere near the Place Pigalle where he had interests.”
“When?”
“Late last year. December.”
“Who are the others in the picture?” Alex asked. “Are they important too?”
“Since you inquired,” Cerny said, “the one on the left is Marko Marchenko. The one on the right, a man named Michael Kozlov. A couple of gangsters. You don’t have to worry about either of them.” He paused. “Former business partners of Federov. They disappeared, and now he owns full interest in the club. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Thanks. I will. But I’m sure you have more details.”
“Kozlov’s remains were found in an industrial furnace in Toulon, in the south of France. Marchenko was found in the River Seine outside of Paris. He was in sixteen feet of water, but his feet had been wired to a diesel engine block. According to the autopsy, he had been alive when he was dumped from a bridge. Then again, apparently Marchenko had been alive when he was shoved into the furnace.”
She handed the pictures back. Cerny placed them in the files he was giving her.
“Federov,” Alex asked. “Is he Russian mob or Ukrainian?”
“He’s a blend of both. Worst aspects of each. Ethnically he’s Russian, socially he’s a Uke. Maybe if you can get close enough you can ask him that question. We wouldn’t mind knowing what he considers himself.”
“How close am I going to get?”
“As close as you can,” Cerny said. “And I should warn you. This guy knows how to turn on the charm. For whatever reason, a lot of women find Federov irresistible.”
She laughed. “An over-steroided gangster isn’t exactly my dream date.”
If Cerny was amused or encouraged, he wasn’t showing either.
“Yuri Federov owes the United States government about ten million dollars in personal taxes,” Cerny said, “and that’s just the beginning of it. Then there are the corporate taxes and a long list of criminal activities just since we last deported him.”
“And?” she asked.
“He has agreed to meet with a representative of our government to discuss the issues,” Cerny said. “That’s where you come in. One of the most dangerous men in the world. Federov is your assignment.”
ELEVEN
In Rome, an American couple known as Chuck and Susan were looking for a taxi. They had stumbled out of a late-night watering hole in the medieval neighborhood of Trastevere shortly after 3:00 a.m. on January 8.
It had been quite an evening, starting with “ladies night” at Sloppy Sam’s, a popular pub on Campo dei Fiori. In front of the commemorative statue of the philosopher Giordano Bruno, who was condemned to death by the Catholic Church for heresy in 1600, beefy shirtless male bartenders had served up discounted shots of Sambucco. Susan loved to sit at the bar, knock back the Sambucco, and ogle the guys, while Chuck worked the room for single women. Then Susan and Chuck had moved on to the Zeta Lounge around the corner. There a reveler could have all one could drink for one low price, and usually did. The Zeta was also well known as a pick-up joint for couples looking for a special sort of excitement.