Winter Palace (29 page)

The troubled look firmed into a clear-sighted determination. “So I take it as my own personal responsibility to remind everyone with whom I have contact of the Lord Jesus' saving grace. I do
not
condemn. I simply remind. I point to the Bible. I teach from the Bible. I teach as I myself was taught. I pray with them. I encourage them in the Lord. And I hope that all who seek shall find the one true Answer.”

“What I'm about to tell you is documented fact,” Consul General Stan Allbright told Jeffrey that afternoon when he and Casey picked him up at the Markov palace. They were driving toward an unidentified appointment, with Casey at the wheel. “But it's also highly confidential, so I want you to keep it under your hat.”

“I understand.”

“For the moment, we're going to assume that even if there's no connection between our two dilemmas, they are at least not in conflict, and possibly in parallel. You have any problem with that?”

Jeffrey shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”

“Okay, here's the picture.” Allbright crossed his legs in the Chevrolet's roomy interior. “Everything we've been able to uncover points toward the Orthodox church not being directly involved in anything going on here. The mafia clans—and they call themselves that, by the way, mafia, even spell it out like that in Cyrillic. So the mafia and the Orthodox, they occupy two totally different worlds. What makes your story interesting is the suggestion that maybe, somehow, there is a bridge between the two.”

Casey spoke for the first time. “All those unemployed spies got to have something to occupy their time.”

Jeffrey looked from one to the other. “You mean the KGB?”

Allbright nodded. “You've probably heard stories about how some of the priests used to spy for them. That's true. But what is not true is this assumption some people make
that because a few of the priests were twisted, everybody in the church was on the take. That is plain nonsense.”

“A minority,” Casey interjected. “Powerful, dangerous, deadly. But still a minority.”

“Now, these Orthodox priests who were controlled by the KGB,” Allbright went on, “they've lost their power base. Just like the KGB itself has.”

“Can't say I've ever had a chance to talk with one,” Casey offered. “But I kind of doubt that they're real happy about the current state of affairs.”

“What this means,” Allbright continued, “is that there are two struggles inside the Russian Orthodox Church. One is between the devout and the xenophobes—that's what I call the ultraconservatives who believe that only the Orthodox should tend to the spiritual needs of Russia. You get this struggle in a lot of churches, sure, but not like here, where the lid's been screwed down tight for over seventy years. Anyway, the one point these two groups agree on is the second contest, which is in effect a major house cleaning. And guess who's on the way out.”

“The priests who spied on their own church.”

“Right the first time,” Casey said.

“I bet that's easier said than done.”

“Absolutely,” Allbright said. “The KGB infiltration goes right up the ladder, although it's not as complete as you might expect. In some places, though, like in the Ukrainian Orthodox church based in Kiev, the power structure's pretty much rotten to the core. So instead of obeying the commands of the Patriarch in Moscow, they just broke away entirely.”

“And where does that leave us?”

“The only people these soon-to-be outcast priests can rely on,” Allbright responded, “are their old buddies over at the KGB.”

“Who are in a pretty shaky position themselves,” Casey added.

“Exactly. But the KGB hasn't been sitting around on its
hands while its power vanished. On that point you can bet your whole bundle. Part of the organization is digging in its heels and shouting doom and gloom at the top of its collective voice. The radicals are working hard as they can to bring down the democratic government and replace it with a dictatorship. Some of these are diehard Communists, some are right-wing military fanatics, others are just out to feather their nest.”

“A real mixed bag,” Casey said. “They'll stay together only as long as they don't have power. Right now, though, you'd think they were all long-lost brothers.”

“This faction also contains the KGB department that used to control the flow of black-market goods,” Allbright said.

“Which was where the mafia gained their first foothold in the Russian power structure,” Casey explained.

Jeffrey asked, “So you really think the mafia's involved here?”

But Allbright was not to be hurried. “Any place as tightly controlled as the former Soviet Union needed a safety valve for illegal goods, especially for items the bigwigs wanted, like Western radios and cameras and such. The KGB was the guy riding shotgun on the stagecoach. Only now, with their power structure in shambles, the horses are in control and the shotgun riders are hanging on for dear life.”

Allbright began drumming his fingers on the car window. “Over in the Asian part of Russia there's a saying that goes, ‘A man needs two legs to stand upright.' A lot of people feel like Russia's trying to make headway with only one working leg. This newest Russian revolution has made great political strides, but from the legal side there's total chaos. Economically too. The mafia's taken a long look at this situation and decided to fill the vacuum and their pockets all at the same time.”

“How does this tie in with your missing girl?”

“This is pure conjecture,” Allbright replied, “but I think
maybe our lady just happened upon something she shouldn't have seen. They took her because she was there.”

“If it's the mafia in control,” Casey said, “our only hope is if they figure she's worth more alive than dead.”

Allbright pointed to the blank-faced building up ahead, a concrete and glass structure not far from the Neva River. Uniformed policemen flanked the entrance, stood sentry at either corner, and arrayed themselves in silent ranks across the street.

“KGB headquarters,” he said, then went on with his explanation. “There's a second group emerging in there. Been hard at work over the past few months, made a strong impression on me and some others. Real law-and-order team. They're trying to adapt to the new world order, become a sort of super-police, kind of like our FBI.”

“A definite minority,” Casey added. “Powerful, though, and growing stronger every day. They're about our only hope when it comes to problems like ours.”

“Follow our lead here,” Allbright ordered. “Don't open your mouth until we're in the group's offices and the door's locked. As far as they're concerned, their most dangerous enemies are people under the same roof.”

“The mafia in Saint Petersburg is just as powerful as the city government,” the scruffy young man declared. “Here and every other major city in Russia.”

When Jeffrey, Casey, and the Consul General had entered the main doors, their contact had been waiting for them. He had exchanged harsh words with the sullen guard behind the protective glass barrier, refused to sign his guests in, then led them down a grimy hall lined with closed, unmarked doors. The only sinister element to the entire building had been the silence.

The man led them into a large office containing a dozen battered wooden desks pushed into a trio of square groupings. A punching bag hung over the entrance. At their arrival,
the other four men and two women stopped their work and gathered near. Clearly they had been expecting the visitors. The outer door was quickly shut and locked.

They were all young, all hard-faced, all armed. They listened in silence as the Consul General related his own findings in surprisingly fluent Russian. Jeffrey spent the long minutes looking around the room. It was as cluttered and faceless as any American big-city bullpen. The biggest difference was the lack of electronics. There was no trace of a computer, nor any of the normal background radio static. He saw only one prewar telephone for the entire room. It did not ring the entire time they were there.

One of the young men spoke fluent English. When the Consul General was finished and they had conferred in quiet, clipped tones, he said to Jeffrey, “There are almost three thousand gangs operating in Russia, and another thousand or so from other states that work here from time to time. The markets are coming more under their control every day. Doing business means finding the right connections and paying them a share. If somebody doesn't pay on time, the answer here is to shoot him.”

“This group is Saint Petersburg's main anti-mafia squad,” the Consul General explained. “I've worked with them on a couple of items before, and think you should trust them. I do.”

“Hits go for about two hundred dollars these days,” the young man continued. He was dressed in rundown denims and a shirt that had seen better days. He needed a shave and a month of dedicated sleep. But his voice carried the authority of hands-on experience.

“Soakings, they're called. We get seven to ten of them a day just inside this city. The Azerbaijani mafia is battling for control of the central markets, so right now we're seeing a lot of intergang killings, more than usual. The Uzbekis are big in the local hash and marijuana trade. The Chechen control most roads and harbors. The Georgian mafia controls most of the restaurants. The Siberian clans control the flow of
gold and diamonds and furs. The Ingush are big in protection and shakedowns.”

“What about kidnappings?” Allbright asked.

A flash of grim humor circled the room after the young man had translated. “Everybody,” he replied flatly.

“And treasure?”

A glimmer of new interest surfaced. “Stolen?”

The Consul General turned to Jeffrey and waited. This was his ball to play as he chose. Jeffrey hesitated, knowing for certain what Yussef would think of his sharing the information with the KGB. Finally, he decided to go with his gut. “In the Ukraine. From a church.”

Swiftly the information was translated. Then, “Value?”

“Big. Very big. Hard to say without having seen it, but from what I've heard, well over a million.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

The group exchanged glances, and one of them released a silent sigh. “We have been hearing rumors,” the young man explained. “A couple of pieces missing here, more there, little bits and pieces that alone are not too much, never too much. Never as much as what you are saying, not apart. But together?” He shrugged. “A fortune.”

“Any idea who's behind it?” Allbright demanded.

“We don't know if what we hear is true at all. But we hear there is a gathering of pieces.”

Allbright shot Jeffrey a quick glance. “Here in Saint Petersburg?”

The young man shrugged. “Rumors only. But we think yes.”

“It would be logical,” the Consul General speculated. “The ports around here have the greatest amount of traffic with the West. And Saint Petersburg is the city closest to the Finnish border.”

The young man shook his head. “Something this big, I think by sea.”

Casey spoke up. “What about the Tombek clan?”

The room's atmosphere instantly rose to a new level of intensity. Even those who spoke no English reacted to the sound of that name. The young man asked, “What about them?”

“Are they involved in kidnappings?”

“They are involved in everything,” he replied flatly. “Especially things that make big money.”

“Like kidnapping foreigners,” Casey persisted.

“Maybe. Why do you think they are involved?”

“Casey thought he spotted a couple of their men following Mr. Sinclair,” Allbright explained. “Near to where Miss Stevens was taken.”

“Not think,” Casey corrected. “Know.”

Alert gray eyes focused on Jeffrey. “You were followed by Tombek?”

“So he says.”

Glances were exchanged with other members of the team. “You are still alive?”

Jeffrey fought off a sudden chill. “As far as I can tell.”

“Tombek is Chechen,” the man said, as though that were all the explanation required.

Casey explained to Jeffrey, “Chechen is a tribe from the Caucasus region of southern Russia. They are winning the bloody gang war for control of the Moscow markets.”

“Here, too, they are a problem,” the young man added. “Very dangerous. Very deadly. Many killers.”

Allbright asked, “Have you heard anything about them moving into stolen treasures?”

There was a moment's quiet discussion, a chorus of head shakes. “Nothing,” the young man replied. “But Chechen control much of the ports and international harbor traffic.”

“Like drugs,” Casey explained to Jeffrey. “Raised in the southern reaches of the country, then exported to Western Europe and America.”

“Big in trade,” the young man continued. “Like importing stolen cars or exporting Russian factory goods. We have heard
they are making big contracts with Western companies to supply steel. They have plans to make everything look legal.”

“Front,” Casey offered. “They have a Western group that is going to front for the gang.”

“Yes. This we have heard. There is much money in such trade, especially if they can make it look all legal with such a front.”

“But no treasures?” Jeffrey asked.

“Or kidnappings?” Allbright added.

“Who knows with Tombek? They are always hungry, always growing. Never enough. And always danger. There is great danger with all Chechen, but especially Tombek. Their only answer to a problem is to kill.”

Allbright demanded, “So you'll check it out?”

There was a brief discussion, then, “We will see if we can learn anything.” To Jeffrey, he asked, “Where do you stay?”

“A small guesthouse off the Nevsky Prospekt, near Kirpichny.”