The Domino Game (29 page)

That was the way it went, he thought to himself, as the train hauled to a stop. The evolution of the species.

Kelly swung down and saw him immediately. Wove her way through the shallow crowd towards him and they fell into a hug. He grabbed her bag and wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Good trip?”

She made a face. “The air-conditioning was down and the guy next to me smelt like he’d been living with camels. Oh yeah, and some other guy tried to touch me up in the ticket line at Grand Central.” She fell into stride alongside him, heading for the stairs. Reflected and compared. “Pretty good, I guess.” She felt her father’s elbow dig into her ribs and dodged sideways, grinning. “So, how are you? And how go the conspiracy theories?” She caught his expression and raised a hand in surrender. ‘Sorry. Bad joke.”

He slid her another glance. “Okay, but watch your step, little girl. One more wrong move and you’re on the next train out of here.”

They took the staircase down the other side to the parking lot. Clyde had gone, Hartman noticed, and so had the other three cabs. A short line had formed at the taxi rank sign, waiting for their return. Jackets coming off; ties being unwound.

Kelly took a deep breath. “Fresh air. I thought they’d stopped making it.”

She watched from the passenger seat as they drove up the rise from the station and along South Broadway, passing picture-book shopfronts and Victorian cottages and kids trailing along the sidewalk behind strolling parents.

“You know, I must be getting old. I used to think this place was too cutesy but it does kind of grow on you.”

He flicked a glance to his daughter and saw Nance thirty-six years before. Wondered what part of the scene in particular Kelly was starting to find appealing.

‘So… birthday coming up, huh?”

Kelly slumped. Frowned. Dragged the answer. “Yeah… thirty-five. Getting old.” She ran her fingers through her thick hair and turned to her father. ‘How are things with you? Still seeing what’s her name?”

Touché. Her point. What’s her name was Gina Rosatti, a travel writer who lived in a converted carriage house on Gracemore Road. Gina, as it happened, was just four years older than his daughter, a matter regarding which Jack Hartman harbored a distinct discomfort. And what’s more, Kelly knew it. He shrugged. Flicked the indicator and waited for the traffic. “Now and then,” he answered a little too non-comitally. He swung the Cherokee right into Lake Road, slid a glance at his daughter and caught her grinning. “What’s that look supposed to mean?”

Kelly thrust her chin forward and gave a tight shake of her head. “Nothing. Just curious, is all.”

The house was a sprawling white two-story clapboard set at the top of a knoll on five acres at Pocantico Hills. Hartman steered up the long driveway between the post and rail fences and brought the Cherokee to a stop out front. They sprung the doors together and took the stairs to the veranda and Kelly stopped at the top, turning to breathe the air again, taking in the sweeping views down across the valley to the Hudson. He watched her. Draped a hand around her shoulder, joining her as she listened to the silence.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “So peaceful. Standing here like this you wouldn’t believe it could be such a rotten world.”

Jack Hartman followed his daughter’s gaze, thinking about her words, thinking about the piles of documents locked in his safe downstairs, about the pattern and the evidence that had now emerged and begun to fall into place. “It isn’t, Kel,” he said. ‘there’s just a lot of rotten people living in it, that’s all.” He broke the connection and turned away. “So, what’s for dinner?”

22

Kelly went upstairs
to freshen up while Hartman pulled the cork from a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio and filled two glasses. She came back down wearing shorts and a long shirt and holding a thick blue folder stamped with the Cassell Foundation logo. She saw the glasses immediately. Grabbed one without being invited, took a long drink and sighed with satisfaction before dumping the weighty folder on the counter. She took another mouthful of wine and looked at her father.

“I’ve been working on a study of corporate political donations.” Her eyes dipped to the folder. “This stuff came to me a few days ago. It’s all public record material so don’t worry: I’m not breaching any confidentiality. It’s just that seeing it all in a single package makes it especially interesting.”

Jack Hartman regarded his daughter. He set his glass down carefully and picked up the file. Kelly watched him. Continued.

“We’re talking donations by corporates, so other than their own year-to-year history there’s no discernible pattern until you cross-reference the people behind the companies. Directors. Consultants. Lawyers. When you do that you end up with some pretty scary stuff.”

Hartman turned back the cover and started sifting through the pages. Every so often he noticed a line slashed through with yellow highlighter. The same name. Kelly turned to the freezer, opened it and inspected the shelves. Closed the door, moved on to the pantry and continued her reconnoiter, talking across her shoulder.

“Last time you came down to the city you told me a little about what you’ve been working on: how your Russian friends have been moving into mainstream business. You mentioned a guy by the name of Malcolm Powell. Diplomat turned corporate front man. Said you’d come across his name a couple of times.

Hartman regarded his daughter. “Right. His name’s come up in connection with a number of the companies I’ve been looking into.” He looked down at the printed pages. Spoke the name distractedly. “Malcolm Powell. Former US Ambassador to Russia.”

Kelly shrugged. “Whatever.” She took a packet of pasta from the pantry, set it down on the bench and moved on. “You didn’t say much but I got the impression he wasn’t one of your favorite people. Anyway, while I was running through my own research I found that Powell’s name came up in relation to seven different Forbes 500 companies that have made combined political donations of close to a hundred million dollars over the last three years.” She lined up lettuce, tomatoes and onions next to the pasta and went back to the freezer again. ‘There’s a summary page at the back.”

Hartman took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and pulled up a bar stool, settling onto it, returning his attention to the folder and turning through the pages until he came to the one at the back. His eyes tracked down the list of names, sliding past the ones he knew about – the ones he’d given to the Committee already and the other three, the three aces he was still holding up his sleeve – settling on the last. The seventh. Hanging there. He put his wine glass down on the counter, picked up the page and brought it closer. Kelly was back at the pantry, scanning the shelves. She spoke to him across her shoulder.

“Interesting, huh?”

Hartman frowned at the page. “How recent is this?”

She set down two cans beside the pasta, one from either hand. Shrugged. “Last Monday.”

Hartman read the last name again. Tossed his head.

“Kel, I ran board searches Monday on the whole Top 500. With the hearing coming up I’m checking everything twice a week now. My searches didn’t come up with this.”

“With what?” Kelly leaned across him, tipping the page back so she could read it.

Hartman looked up at her. “The last one. MISSION TECHNOLOGIES. Powell’s not on that board.”

She plucked the page from his hand and squinted at the final name. “Oh yeah. That’s because we go deeper. Our database connections are amazing. They pick up everything. Not just directors but advisory boards, consultants – even partners in the legal and accounting and audit firms these guys use – anyone in a position of possible influence. ENRON woke us up to that.” She handed the page back. “If you go through the file you’ll find a print-out on each of the companies. If I remember correctly, on that particular one Powell picked up a special advisory board appointment a few months ago.
Government relations
. It’s no big deal financially, just a hundred grand a year, but here…” Kelly rifled through the loose pages in the file until she came to the one she was looking for. “Take a look at this. These are the political donations MISSION TECHNOLOGIES has made since Powell came on board.”

Hartman looked at his daughter. Then down to the spreadsheet she was holding. He took the page from her, laid it down on the bench and studied it, running his finger down the rows to the final line then tracking right until he came to the total.
“Holy shit! Forty million!”
he whispered.

Kelly arched her eyebrows. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it? At least it’s been a two-way bet. Half to either side.”

Hartman shook his head again. “Kel, this company – MISSION TECHNOLOGIES – it’s a major league defense supplier. They get government contracts worth billions every year.”

“Uh huh,” his daughter nodded. “It was also announced a couple of weeks back that they’re the front runner for the next phase of the HPM proposal.”

HPM. High-powered microwave. A new generation of missiles designed to fry microchips with massive lightning bolts of electrical energy. Hartman stared at his daughter. “And you’re telling me Malcolm Powell is now on their payroll?”

“Yep.” Kelly wiped her hands on a towel, picked up her glass and drank some more wine. “Looks like Mr Powell is a man of influence. He’s on the MISSION TECH team less than a month and the dollars are flying everywhere. And that’s only what’s declared.”

Suddenly her father was on his feet, pushing the bar stool aside, snatching up the pages, juggling them back into the folder. Kelly drew back in surprise. “Hey! Where are you going? What’s the rush?”

By the time her words caught him he was already at the top of the staircase that led to the basement. “Sorry, Kel. I need to check a few things. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Kelly shrugged. Stared at the pasta and the cans and salad things lined up along the counter. ‘So, what about dinner,” she called. “Clam linguine all right?”

“Sounds great,” he called back, already halfway down the stairs.

Of all the Moscow hotels the Kempinksi was still Marat Ivankov’s favorite. Admittedly it lacked some of the architectural grandeur of the turn of the century Metropol on Teatralnyy, opposite the Bolshoi, or the National on Revolution Square, but they were both located in the thick of things; too well favored by the modestly affluent for Ivankov’s liking. The Kempinksi on Ulitsa Balchug, on the south bank, was just that little further removed and although it was impossible to escape the tourists totally, since they were everywhere nowadays, the walk from the Kempinski to Red Square was too arduous for most, which meant that those who stayed there tended to be the older and wealthier, who were more familiar with the city. People with assurance who could afford their own drivers and were less interested in the affairs of others.

There were newer places too, of course, but given the difficulty of finding sites to develop or even acquiring old buildings for renovation, they tended to be further out of the city and while they were pleasant enough they were designed to an international formula and lacked the true ambience of the old capital. And, after all, when you were staying in a hotel in Moscow it should at least
feel
like Moscow, Marat Ivankov thought.

Not that he spent that much time in Moscow these days since, although it was a cliché, he was now more a citizen of the world. And when he did come back, appearance dictated that he spend at least some part of each visit with Irina and their two children, at the estate at Zhokovka outside the city. Personally he had never felt any compelling need to marry or reproduce, but over time he had come to realize that having a family could be quite helpful to his image and aspirations. During the early years appearing month to month with a different beautiful woman at his side had served as an appropriate status symbol, but he had moved on from that world now and it had been necessary to adapt. Not that it worried the men with whom he dealt, but it did tend to unsettle their wives. Something to do, he presumed, with insecurity, and this in turn affected the men who ended up torn between salivating jealousy and the practical need to maintain the peace at home. So when he worked out all of that and balanced it against his goals he decided it was time to settle down, as they put it. Or at least ensure that it appeared as though he had.

Settling down required what they called in the West a ‘trophy wife”, and from the broad selection of options available to him Irina Vlasova had been his ultimate choice. She was twenty-five when they had first met at the ballet in St Petersburg nine years ago. Quite beautiful of course, or he wouldn’t even have considered her, but it was her title that had really taken his attention.
Princess
Irina Vlasova, descended from a cousin of the last Tsarina through a family that despite losing everything had held fast to their bloodline in the desperate hope that one day their stature would be recognized again. And to their delight it had been. Princess Irina Vlasova had married one of the wealthiest and most influential businessmen in all Russia, possibly even the world, and had become the mother of his two children.

Irina had been a good choice. Educated, refined, but above all else, practical. The perfect hostess and companion when commitments required and even an enthusiastic bed partner when the occasion arose, but more than happy to live her own life in contented preoccupation with their children. Which all suited Marat Ivankov perfectly since – albeit with a degree of compromise and some additional discretion – he was now once again free to pursue his original lifestyle and that was another reason Marat Ivankov favored the Kempinski as well. He liked the staff.

They were quiet and respectful and discreet and they understood people like him. Accepted the inconvenience of his bodyguards and understood that when he was in residence his security requirements dictated the need not for just a suite but an entire floor, a stipulation that had on more than one occasion resulted in protesting, half-dressed businessmen and tourists being herded without explanation from their $1000 suites to make way for his unexpected arrival. And the staff had an understanding of his other requirements as well. Things arrived when you wanted them – he turned from the window, caught a glimpse of the exquisite naked form moving around the bedroom, gathering up clothes – and disappeared when you were finished with them, all without fuss.

In fairness, the ease and style with which such things worked was substantially a credit to Vitaly Kolbasov. In a way he still missed Vitaly’s day-to-day presence and the sharp, dangerous edge of the early years when they had worked so closely together. But the world had moved on in that regard as well, and a time had come when it had been necessary to sever the old connections, or – just as with Irina and the children – to at least construct that impression. For a while, during the financial crisis of”98, things had been touch and go, and if it hadn’t been for Vitaly, on more than one occasion everything may well have come crashing down around him. There had been the matter of the three Swiss investors who had laid down a hundred million to back him into the oil deal then got nervous and demanded their money back at the very worst time. But thanks to Vitaly and his connections they had come around and seen reason and been grateful in the end to take back thirty and call it a day. And by then there were only two of them so the loss per head wasn’t as bad as it would otherwise have been.

So when the time had come, given Vitaly’s aptitude and interests, it had been a natural progression for him to assume control of those parts of the operation that were more susceptible to public scrutiny: the brand counterfeiting, raw materials smuggling, and the money laundering and the clubs and the girls.

Marat Ivankov heard the sound behind him and turned back again. The girl was dressed now. Standing in the bedroom doorway, shaking back her thick dark hair and fastening the pearls around her neck. He smiled at her. Slipped a hand into the pocket of his brocade gown and pulled out a sheaf of American bills. Stepped across and moved behind her, helping her with the clasp; ran the back of a finger down her neck and pressed the money into her hand. She tried not to look but couldn’t help herself. Caught her breath and spoke in a whisper of soft dismay that sounded almost genuine.

“You are too generous.”

He smiled. Cupped her breast, squeezed it then let it go, signaling that she was now dismissed. He walked with her to the door and was about to open it when the bell chimed. His hand moved to the button below the small video screen mounted on the wall beside the entry and the screen bloomed with a color image of the hall. There were three figures in the field of vision: bodyguards stationed a few meters either side of the entry and Vitaly between them, stepping aside, looking around, waiting, his hands clasped behind his back. Ivankov reached for the handle, swinging the door into the suite and the girl walked out, allowing Vitaly just the slightest nod of acknowledgment as she passed. Kolbasov swiveled his head to watch her as she walked elegantly erect, head held high, down the hall.

“You were right, Vitaly,” Ivankov followed his gaze. “Exceptional.”

Kolbasov turned back, basking for a moment in the approval. Ivankov clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, inspecting his former lieutenant.

“Good to see you, old friend.” He let go and drew back into the suite, signaling Kolbasov across the threshold. “So…” He closed the door behind them. “How long has it been, eh?” He cast a hand in the air. “Sure, we talk all the time, but how long since we have
seen
one another?” Ivankov stroked his beard. It was starting to gray now, Kolbasov noticed. And Marat had put on weight, broadened out like a great brown bear. Standing there in his loosely wrapped brocade robe with his bare chest and his sweeping dark hair, it occurred to Vitaly that Ivankov looked for all the world like a
boyar
from the old Romanov court, except that he was, without doubt, now richer and more powerful than any mediaeval
boyar
had ever been.