Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 14

"Maybe we should get a drink," Jimmy Zim suggested. It was the first intelligent thing he'd said since we met.

We didn't leave the emba.s.sy, just the floor. The amba.s.sador had a private study, which the deputy amba.s.sador was glad to make available after Jimmy Zim explained the situation to the CIA's chief of station. Fogglebottom was invited to find something else to do, an invitation he accepted with a frown. Zim and I settled into a pair of thickly padded leather chairs, the CIA officer with a Scotch, me with a double dose of Bombay Sapphire.

According to Jimmy Zim, Polorski was a member of a particularly nasty strain of the Russian mafiya-not that there are any strains that go around buying Barney dolls for your kids. The group included former Russian para-troopers, some special ops guys, and mixed in Georgians and Poles, an unusual feature that indicated its size. Organized along business as well as military lines, the group specialized in selling banned weapons and other items to African and Middle Eastern countries. There had apparently been contact between Pyongyang and members of the enterprise some months before.

"We think it's possible they've worked out a deal to trade Yong s.h.i.+n Jong's life for one of Korea's nukes," said Jimmy Zim.

"Hmmmph," I said, sipping my drink. Zim claimed to have dug out the background in the past few hours, since hearing from me and Fogglebottom what had happened. But I had my own suspicions. One of them was that Polorski had come to America specifically with the idea of infiltrating my organization somehow. He might have tried getting into Yong s.h.i.+n Jong's compound himself, then decided to let d.i.c.k do it, convincing Sun or even Kim Jong Il to hire me as bird dog.

The alternative was that he'd come over without any plan and just lucked into a jackpot. But I didn't believe in that much luck.

The real question was how much the CIA had known about Polorski beforehand. Zim hemmed and hawed when I asked, giving me some bulls.h.i.+t about late translations on intercepts, too many foreigners to track, human error-all the usual c.r.a.p you hear from the Christians in Action when they're not playing straight with you, which is eighty percent of the time. Given the CIA's track record, it's entirely possible he was telling the truth-that they had had no idea who Polorski was until he screwed me. But it was certainly a question I'd've liked to ask my good friend Admiral Jones.

"We want the nuclear weapon that Polorski's going to trade for Yong s.h.i.+n Jong," said Jimmy Zim. "If that's what they're up to."

"That's nice."

"Can we count on your help for this?"

"I wouldn't," I told him, putting my drink down and walking from the room.

[ IV ].

I WASN'T WALKING INTO the sunset, or giving up on finding Yong s.h.i.+n Jong. No way that was going to happen, if only because Trace was sure to want to observe the quaint Apache custom of castrating her lying lover, tying him to an anthill in the middle of the desert, and pouring honey on him while the buzzards circled above. She'd follow Tall, Dark, and Dogmeat to the ends of the earth if she had to, and frankly, so would I. But for the moment I didn't see any point in working too closely with Jimmy Zim. Not only didn't I trust him, I didn't like him. In fact, I was in a pretty p.i.s.sed off mood at everybody, including Disney, whose outrageous admission prices to their Tokyo Park put a major dent in my operating budget when I arranged to meet my Russian friend Ivan15 there.

Ivan is a member of the Russian FSB-that's the Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the foreign spy service once known as the KGB. He's "covered" in Tokyo as a diplomat, a pretense that fools absolutely no one. He and I have had our various encounters over the years, and while I trust him as far as I can sneeze, he's an impeccable source of information about the Russian mafiya, a subject that he will discourse on for hours if he's in a good mood. And the best way to put Ivan in a good mood is to take him to Disney World.

There's probably something Freudian about his attraction to Mickey Mouse, but I've never a.n.a.lyzed it too carefully. When I met him on line to the Jolly Trolley, he was grinning from ear to ear-Goofy had just waved at him. I did my best to feign interest in animated characters and amus.e.m.e.nt rides, while gradually working the conversation around to Ike Polorski. Ivan recognized the name immediately-you could see the flicker in his eyes-but we boxed around for another half hour or so, riding the Jolly Trolley twice and even visiting Minnie's House, before he finally admitted that the FSB had listed him as a "person of interest" within the past two months. This apparently translated as someone they would shoot first and interrogate later. Polorski had sold weapons to a Chechen group that had subsequently used them to blow up a school full of children in southern Russia.

"Very nasty human being," said Ivan. "Horrible man. Do not trust."

What a surprise. Usually you find Girl Scouts in his line of work.

"I put you in touch with Colonel Setrovich, antimafiya force," said Ivan.

"He likes Disney, too?"

Ivan frowned, then shook his head.

"Can I trust this colonel?"

Another frown.

"If your interests are similar, you may work in parallel," said Ivan. "But trust-that is something I would be surprised to find anywhere in Russia these days."

WHILE I WAS having fun in Tokyo, Doc and the others were resting up and getting their bearings in South Korea. After escaping the Chinese fighters, they had landed near Kunsan on the coast. After hearing that we were OK, Doc and Lo Po started working on tracing Polorski. But even with the help of our navy connections and Lo Po's friends in the Chinese military, the chopper's course and whereabouts remained a mystery. The U.S. uses a number of "platforms" to keep track of traffic in and out of North Korea via China, and at least according to everyone Doc spoke to, no helicopter or unscheduled truck traffic had made the crossing.

"He could have slipped into one of the food convoys," said Doc. "He's had plenty of time."

"Maybe. But if they're setting up some sort of swap, I doubt he'd trust Kim or Sun well enough to simply go over the border like that. He'd have a more elaborate plan."

I told Doc to see about tickling some of our South Korean friends and to keep working the phones. In the meantime, Lo Po and his people were returning to Shanghai, where he had other pressing business. I thanked him with the usual terms of endearment, as well as a promise to return the many favors I owed him as soon as possible.

"Remember old Chinese saying, d.i.c.k."

"What's that, Lo Po?"

"Payback is a b.i.t.c.h."

Back home, Karen was doing a fine job of handling Red Cell's business, with a little help from Danny Barrett, my vice president in charge of kicking a.s.s. Matthew Loring had determined that the computer e-mails we'd been bombarded with had been the result of an e-mail advertising campaign gone bad. The owners of the Chinese restaurant responsible for the campaign had pretended not to speak English when he called to ask them to do something about it, so he'd written a reverse computer virus that would attack the sender's servers and stop the attack.

And in his spare time, he'd tracked down some more of Yong s.h.i.+n Jong's accounts-including two with hedge funds in Singapore that were not recorded in his name.

"Large accounts," said Karen. "Fifty million dollars apiece. They were opened about four months ago, and haven't been accessed since."

That gave Kim Jong Il one hundred million reasons to call his b.a.s.t.a.r.d a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

IT TURNED OUT that I had met Russian FSB Colonel Setrovich about a year and a half before, when I had traveled to St. Petersburg for a conference on international tourism. He'd been with a group of FSB officers who had tried to convince me that vodka was superior to gin; it was a losing battle, but they fought a good fight.

"I think I may still have that hangover," he confessed when I finally reached him. "But, enough fun. I understand you are interested in Ike Polorski."

"Very interested in him," I said.

"He is man I would personally like to cut open his stomach, pull out his liver, and force it down his throat," said the colonel. "I have real love for him."

Colonel Setrovich was busy trying to squeeze information from some former mafiya a.s.sociates who were living in semi-exile in the cold Russian northeast. But he would be back in his office in Khabarousk, a city about a thousand miles from Tokyo, the next day, and suggested we meet there around five.

"We may be able to find this Polorski," said Setrovich. "Or his friends. We show him Rogue Warriorstyle love, yes?"

"Sounds good to me."

"And then we will renew our debate," he said. "Vodka better than gin. You see."

As soon as he hung up, I dialed Karen.

"How do I get ahold of Matthew Loring?" I asked. "And how good do you think his Russian is?"

MATTHEW'S RUSSIAN WAS nonexistent, but he was fluent in the language that counted: computerese. Colonel Setrovich might or might not be forthcoming when we met, but I figured his computer would be. The plan was simple-while the colonel and I traded drinking songs, Trace and Matthew would sneak into his office, fire up the computer, and see what they could find.

Ordinarily, I would have expected Trace to give Matthew a hard time. It wouldn't have been anything personal-she always puts newbies to the test. But something about Loring elicited her maternal instincts as soon as she saw him.

Maybe it was the fact that his suitcase looked to weigh more than he did.

"We gotta get Junior something to eat," she said after we spotted him coming out of the international arrivals area at Tokyo Narita Airport. "He's going to blow away in the wind."

Matthew was thin, though at six-four I wouldn't call him small. He had a good frame, with wide shoulders and long lean legs; his problem was that he had no meat on his bones. Karen had e-mailed me a picture of him that made him look as if he were in middle school. In real life, he looked even younger. He had round cheeks, huge eyes, and peach fuzz. The background check Karen had done confirmed that he'd graduated college, but if it wasn't for his height I would have thought he was just entering his teens.

He spotted me and Trace across the hall and stopped. He blinked those owl eyes of his twice, then opened his mouth without saying anything for a minute. Finally, he managed to blurt, "Mr. Marcinko? Sir?"

"Call me d.i.c.k, kid."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Marcinko."

"Oh, that's cute," said Trace. She took his bag. "Come on, Junior. Let's get something to eat."

"Um, I'm not really hungry, Ms. Dahlgren. It's, um, a pleasure to meet you."

Trace grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the nearest noodle shop. She forced two full helpings down his throat-think mother bird feeding a baby-before we had to take off for the plane to eastern Russia.

The flight to Khabarousk (also spelled Kharovsk) took about three hours, counting the time we spent circling the city while the pilot looked for coins to throw into the parking meter at the airfield. During the Cold War, Khabarousk was the headquarters of the Soviet Union's Far Eastern Military Command, which made it a pretty happening place if you liked thick woolens and surface-to-air missiles. Now it's even more important as a gateway between China, Russia, and the rest of the world. j.a.panese and Korean businessmen have invested billions here over the past decade or so, and though the airport remains pretty primitive, the city bears Asia's most obvious sign of prosperity: it's perpetually covered by a thick haze of smog.

If you hold your breath long enough, Khabarousk can be almost pleasant. The basic Cold War architecture of gray concrete has been supplemented by older and newer buildings with actual bricks; the main streets in the city center are lined with parks and very wide sidewalks. The sidewalks have to be wide to accommodate the foot traffic; many of the residents can't afford the inflated bus fare to get to work.

We found a hotel, swept the rooms for bugs-there were none-then mustered for a quick reconnoiter of the area. Colonel Setrovich's office was in a six-story 1950s-style cement-sided building a few blocks from the geographic center of town. A fat babushka sat at a desk in the lobby; the doors beyond her were keyed to open with swipe cards. We watched the place long enough to discover that the local employees' watering hole of choice was across the street, two blocks down.

"Come with me, Junior," Trace told Matthew Loring as the clock wound its way to five. "Let's go get a drink."

"I, um, I don't drink."

"Drinking is a job requirement in this company, Junior," she told him. "The sooner you learn, the better."

"AMERICAN BEAR! You are here!"

Colonel Setrovich's voice could have been heard over a sonic boom as I entered his office. I extended my arm; he grabbed me in a hug.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h, yes?" said Setrovich.

"The biggest."

"You outdrink me last time. Not now. I have practiced." Setrovich patted his belly, as if its rotund shape was proof. "Come. We have dinner. You pick up tab."

He thought this was the funniest joke in the world, and laughed all the way down the back stairs to the parking lot.

Colonel Setrovich's black Lada looked about ten years old; the rear quarter panels were dimpled with rust and flaking paint that didn't quite match the original. Setrovich had to jiggle the key a bit to get it to start. When it did, the engine gave a double hiccup that shook the car as if we were experiencing a 5.3 earthquake. The shake disappeared until the vehicle warmed up, then came like clockwork every forty-five seconds.

Setrovich took me to what looked like a small house about two kilometers out of town. The place turned out to be a restaurant with two medium-sized dining rooms at the front and some smaller ones farther back. The colonel was apparently well known there; the woman who met us at the door simply nodded when we came in, then walked us silently through a zigzagging corridor to a room at the far back. It looked almost like a private study, with thick upholstered chairs and a table off to the side. Setrovich walked to the table, took off the sports coat he was wearing, and rolled up his s.h.i.+rtsleeve.

"Well?" he asked, putting his arm down in wrestling position.

"Loser pays," I told him, rolling up my sleeve.

"You already pay," he said.

"Double or nothing. I win, you pay. You win, I pay you and get the drinks."

"Dah!"

Setrovich's forearm was larger than a bull's thigh. I put my elbow down, looked toward the door, and caught Colonel Setrovich off balance with a posting toproll.

"You cheat!" he exclaimed.

I shrugged. "Best two out of three?"

"Dah. We go again."

Colonel Setrovich put down his arm. Now on his guard, he tested me gingerly; as soon as I started to push, he pushed back. I let him get some pressure on me for a few seconds, then started to press back. I could have taken him from there, but then I would never have gotten any information from him-I let him beat me back, then gave up with a bit of a flourish.

Setrovich grinned. His face was beet red.

"Let's leave it there," I suggested. "I'll pay for drinks."

"You very good man, American Bear," he said, slapping me on the back.

Several vodkas later-vodka was all they served-Colonel Setrovich got around to telling me what he knew about Ike Polorski. Polorski's military background was admirable-his paratrooper unit had been an elite within the elite, with every member trained to handle weapons ranging from knives to helicopter guns.h.i.+ps. He had gone on to lead a special squad of soldiers dedicated to improving security at Polish facilities-now who does that remind you of?

They even stole a submarine.

Or tried to.

"That trick got him kicked out of the service," said Setrovich. The submarine was the Orzel, a Russian Kilo-cla.s.s boat and the most advanced s.h.i.+p in the Polish navy. The admiral in charge of the fleet was ready to retire, and the embarra.s.sment over the issue meant he couldn't be promoted before his retirement, which cost him much money. "Admiral very angry. He talked to people, called in favors. Polorski was . . ."

Setrovich ran his finger across his throat. I suddenly felt a lot of sympathy for Polorski-our military experiences had a number of parallels. But our career paths differed once we left the service. He moved to Russia, where he joined up with some former friends and went to work with or for-Setrovich wasn't sure which-the mafiya. At first, they had merely smuggled stolen prescription drugs from the West into Russia. But as the years went on, they had dabbled in art theft and counterfeiting. Then Polorski and friends had put their military backgrounds to better use. They began stealing weapons from Russian army bases and selling them in places like Somalia. I say stealing because Setrovich did, but it's more likely that they simply paid off starving members of the chronically underpaid Russian military to give them surplus weapons, a popular pastime in the mid and late 1990s. Their customer list grew quickly, eventually expanding to include the Chechen rebels who murdered the schoolchildren.

That incident had brought Polorski's gang notoriety, but it was small potato peelings as far as Polorski was concerned. The gang was now selling to African and Middle Eastern governments, and had made at least one attempt to steal a nuclear weapon out of a Russian a.r.s.enal. Setrovich didn't say exactly where, but from his description it was probably from the air base at Belaja, where the air force keeps a stockpile of nukes just in case the day comes when they find enough spare parts to get their Backfire bombers back in action.

"Very dangerous man," concluded Setrovich. "Here, have more vodka."

[ V ].

WHILE THE COLONEL and I were trading drinks, Trace was working her way through the crowd at a bar across the street from Setrovich's office, fis.h.i.+ng for ID cards. It was a b.u.mp and grab routine-she b.u.mped up against someone, then gently grabbed the key card clipped to their s.h.i.+rt or belt. She had already gotten three cards-it never hurt to have a spare-and was on her way back toward Matthew when a big, grouchy Russian got in her way.

"Let's dance, then f.u.c.k," said the Russian.