Konstantin Kirov had popped onto the Bureau’s radar half a year back, when Yuri Baranov had launched an investigation into allegations Kirov was embezzling from Novastar Airlines, the country’s recently privatized national carrier. Three months into the case, the Russian authorities had managed to slip an informant into Kirov’s head office. Since that time, all he’d unearthed were a few documents relating to some shell companies in Switzerland and Kirov’s connection with the Dashamirov brothers, a trio of Chechen warlords-cum-businessmen with whom he held interests in some aluminum smelting factories in Perm and a chain of used-car dealerships. As for Novastar, they hadn’t managed to find a thing linking Kirov to the missing $125 million, and Dodson had his doubts as to whether the Russian was involved at all—or, to be honest, whether the money was missing in the first place.
The link to Gavallan came as an adjunct to the Novastar inquiry. Baranov’s informant had whispered that Mercury Broadband was being used to launder the funds Kirov had skimmed from Novastar. Hence the surveillance on Gavallan. Hence the “Daisy” taps that monitored every E-mail going into and out of Black Jet securities. So far, the Russian stoolie hadn’t provided a shred of evidence to back up his claims, and Dodson had taken to wondering if the scuttlebutt on Mercury’s Moscow operations center and its failure to purchase adequate routers and switches for its IP backbone weren’t just diversions to justify the informant’s five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer, all of which came from Howell Dodson’s operational budget.
“Sir, I’d like to bring in Gavallan immediately,” suggested DiGenovese. “Rustle his feathers a little, question him about his dealings with Kirov.”
“The point being?” asked Dodson, with a little pepper. “Only thing you’d get out of him is an invitation to speak with his lawyer. No, son, we’ll bring in Gavallan if and when we charge him with a crime. Right now, let’s keep the focus on Mr. Kirov, where it belongs.”
“But, sir—”
Dodson cut him short with an icy glare. Like every agent who worked for the FBI, he thought twice these days about whom he did and did not arrest. After Whitewater and the special prosecutor’s spending forty million dollars of the public’s money for little more than a cum-stained dress and a couple of iffy convictions, the government had become more demanding before allowing its lawyers to get involved. These days, the powers that be were asking for a 90 percent probability of conviction before they’d even look at a case. Law enforcement had become a business. Guys like Howell Dodson had to demonstrate a good ROA if they wanted to move up in the ranks, “ROA” meaning “return on attorneys,” not assets. And that “return” was convictions.
“Trouble with you, Roy, is that you’ve got too much piss and vinegar running through your veins. This isn’t some Sunday afternoon raid in downtown Mogadishu. We are conducting a sound and systematic investigation into the alleged wrongdoings of some very sophisticated personalities. Time we slow down, examine the evidence.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, amen,” sang Dodson. “Finally, we agree on something.” And he offered his subordinate an approving nod to let him know there were no hard feelings.
Dodson had come to the Bureau late in life, abandoning a promising career as a CPA with an international accounting firm to help balance the scales of justice. Taxes were his bag, but sometime after his thirtieth birthday he’d undergone a conversion. The private sector wasn’t for him, he decided. Helping one bigwig after another whittle down their tax exposure brought scant satisfaction. He certainly didn’t need the money. The Dodsons were comfortable, thank you very much, Southern planters who’d moved from corn to tobacco to semiconductors without a backward glance. So on a whim, he quit, joined the FBI, and became a thirty-one-year-old neophyte loping over the O-course at Quantico, acing his criminal justice exams, and taking target practice with an H &K 9mm. Time of his life.
As chairman of the Joint Russo-American Task Force on Organized Crime—or the “ratfuckers,” as some wiseacre in forensics had nicknamed it—Howell Dodson’s mandate was to corral acts of racketeering associated with business endeavors aimed toward the West. In sixty months of operations they’d jailed crooked oil salesmen, murderous rug merchants, and every type of illegal operator in between.
Of late, however, pickings had been lean. Nine months had passed since the last arrest was made, and talk had surfaced about shuttering the task force, assigning its members to more productive areas of the Bureau. Feelers were put out to Dodson about taking a posting to Mexico City as the Bureau’s liaison to the Federales. It was a lateral move in title, but came with a higher pay-grade salary and a diplomatic allowance. Dodson read it as recompense for his two fingers and wanted none of it. Margaritas, mariachis, and menudo, he summed it up, cringing at the prospect. No, gracias.
Mr. John J. Gavallan hadn’t been the only man cheering when Kirov entered his life.
“Roy, I want you to humor me,” said Dodson, easing back in his chair. “If you’re so sure Gavallan’s in cahoots with Kirov, start from the get-go and make your case against him. It’ll be good for you to polish those argumentative skills. But make it quick. The missus is due in any minute.”
Dodson had recently become a father for the second time. At the age of forty-two, he’d been presented with twin baby boys to go along with his sixteen-year-old daughter. Every day at noon, Mrs. Dodson stopped by to leave her boisterous infants with their father while she whipped by Lord & Taylor and Britches of Georgetown to pick up a few household necessities.
“I’ll do my best,” said DiGenovese, rising from his chair and striding to a bookshelf. Between legal tomes and hefty accounting manuals, room had been cleared for a changing pad, a stack of diapers, and wipes.
“Gavallan’s company has hit the skids,” he began, pacing slowly, using his hands effectively. “Three years ago, he was on his way to joining the big boys; now he’s treading water while guys are passing him left and right. In the last nine months, he’s made three infusions of cash into the company to counter quarterly losses and keep his underwriting status with the SEC. Around twenty million and change if I’m not mistaken. The banking records we subpoenaed show he hasn’t taken any salary in six months. Bottom line: The guy’s hurting and he needs a savior.”
“If I might interject. Black Jet was hardly the only company interested in Mercury. All the big-name firms were courting Kirov. Any of them would have jumped at the chance to take his company public.”
“And loan him the fifty million to boot?”
“It is a bank’s business last time I checked,” said Dodson.
DiGenovese grinned madly, the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “Thank you, sir. You just made my case. If anyone would have loaned Kirov the dough, why did Kirov choose Black Jet over so many larger, more prestigious firms—the Merrills and Lehmans of this world? Gavallan’s never done a deal in Russia. He’s never done an IPO valued at more than a billion dollars. Now, all of a sudden he’s taking a Russian company public for two billion. By what stroke of good fortune did Kirov fall into his lap? Let me tell you. Because Gavallan’s the only one desperate enough to overlook all of Mercury’s shortcomings. Because he and Kirov are thick as thieves in this thing. Because both of them are dying to pull this deal off.”
“Dear me, you are drawing a picture of a very cold man. Not exactly the type I’d bet on to donate twenty million to a children’s hospital.”