Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Betrayal

“What you think?” Khmelnitsky said. “Uranium-235. Twenty-one kilos. High enriched. Yuri say seventy-six percent, but who knows. Not make nuclear bomb,” he cautioned, “but you do nothing in Russia, I don’t care govno shit what you do. No bomb in Russia, FSB don’t care govno shit what you do.”

The Palestinian finished his measurements and looked up. Without converting a microscopic amount to uranium hexafluoride by mixing it with fluorine gas-tricky enough because it was poisonous-and then testing for U-235, there was no way of accurately determining the exact enrichment level, but he knew it had to be more than seventy-six percent. It was just too easy to go from seventy-six percent to over ninety. Why would you stop?

“What about the RDX?”

“Here. One hundred eighty kilos,” Khmelnitsky said, taking the top off another steel drum marked SPECIAL ORDER 102.

The Palestinian moved aside a layer of aluminum pellets, there to disguise it as an aluminum shipment, and opened a wooden box still marked with the Russian Army seal and markings and filled with a white crystalline solid. He cut off a small piece with his pocketknife and took out a set of vials that he mixed it with. He would be using RDX as the powerful secondary and tertiary explosives, and exploding bridge-wire blasting caps with PETN as the primary to set it off. It was all so elegant, he thought. So perfect and easy to work with and mathematical. He liked the neatness.

He inspected the remaining steel drums and indicated to Khmelnitsky to seal them up. As Khmelnitsky’s men worked, the Palestinian stood outside on the ground beside the freight car. Khmelnitsky smoked a cigarette beside him.

“Is kharasho, good, da?” Khmelnitsky said. “Fifteen million U.S. dollar. Very nice.”

“We agreed ten,” the Palestinian said, tensing. He’d expected this. They had discussed it in Damascus, what to do if the Russians made trouble. This was one of the danger points.

“Kanyeshna.” We agree. “Was ten. Now fifteen,” Khmelnitsky said, squinting through the smoke from the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Suppose I don’t agree?”

“We kill you. Keep down payment.” Khmelnitsky shrugged. “You die. Next one pays.”

“That would be a mistake,” the Palestinian said quietly. “You want a war?”

“Listen, druk. One time people come to Ekaterinburg for tourism; see Urals, see house where Bolshiviki kill tsar and family. Chto zahuy! Now people come see cemetery for Uralmash mafia. Big stones for graves with big fatagrafira picture of mafia guy, life size, with Mercedes behind him, guy in nice suit. Some graves with laser, kill enemy after you dead. No kidding. Is big tourism. So what you do? Kill me? What I give fuck? My fatagrafira all ready. I am still young guy. Look good forever on stone. This good business. You get bomb, fuck your enemy. Fifteen million and you, me, we stay druks. Get drunk. Everything kharasho.”

The Palestinian looked at the railroad cars and the flat sky, the color of stones. A Russian at his hotel had said millions died right where he stood, although he never believed the Russians about anything, except that they knew how to die.

“After the shipment is on board the ship,” he said.

“Sure.” Khmelnitsky smiled. “We go, you and me, drink Dovgan vodka, go to Ukraina, Donbas oblast region. We go Donetsk city. Put on truck. First make payment. Five million U.S. dollar now. Ten million when this govno shit on ship.”

The Palestinian nodded. He turned on his laptop and made the electronic bank transfer.

“Check your account now,” he said.

“Sure thing.” Khmelnitsky grinned. “I come back. Money kharasho, we go. If not, we kill you.”

T hey took the Aeroflot flight to Donetsk in eastern Ukraine, a coal mining and industrial city on the Kalmius River. They flew over the vast steppes, one city and town merging into the forests, grasslands, and suburbs of another. Khmelnitsky got drunk on the flight, and every time the blond airline hostess walked by, he would slide his hand up her skirt between her legs.

“Piristan!” stop it, she’d say, pushing his hand away and almost running toward the cockpit.

“Come sit here. I give you something instead of hand,” Khmelnitsky laughed, grabbing himself. “She’s nice, da?” he said to the Palestinian. “Nice ones,” molding his hands like breasts.

“What if she tells someone?” the Palestinian said. “We don’t want trouble now.”

“No trouble. They see this,” touching his Hawaiian shirt, “they know is Uralmash. They say nothing.”

The next time the hostess came down the aisle, she handed him a glass of vodka. “Compliments of the captain,” she said, smiling but with frightened eyes. She let Khmelnitsky fondle her breasts as she bent over to serve the drinks, her smile like the smile on a doll’s face.

“See, druk. I say she nice girl,” Khmelnitsky smiled. “No trouble.”

They landed in Donetsk and were met by four tough-looking Ukrainian men in suits with open shirts and no ties.

“Dobryaky mafia,” Khmelnitsky explained as they walked toward them. “They get percents from me. You pay nothing.”

The Ukrainians drove them to the railroad yard. They watched a gantry crane load the railroad container with the steel drums onto the bed of a long haul container truck. One of the Ukrainians passed money to an inspector as it was loaded and watched as he stamped and initialed the shipping manifest. Once the rig was loaded and checked through the gate, they drove Khmelnitsky and the Palestinian back to the airport, where, after a vodka toast, the two of them boarded an Aerosvit flight to Odessa. Three hours later they were having lunch at the largest of the eight commercial terminals in the Odessa port. Through the window, they could see gantry cranes loading ships along the quay.

“Dobryaky mafia same like Uralmash,” Khmelnitsky said. “All time, we do business, but Ukraina truly stupid huesos. Best thing about whole Ukraina country is that Dobryaky is same as Verkhovna Rada-how you say, Ukraina government. Whole country is corrupt. You do business at one counter.”

“Good for business,” the Palestinian agreed.

“Listen, druk, you-me, we do kharasho business. You tell me what you need: guns, bombs, drugs, women. We do business. Come through Ukraina. No problem customs, militsiya police, SBU. Everything taken care of.”

“If this works out, why not?” the Palestinian said.

After lunch they followed the Ukrainian freight forwarder as he handled the paperwork for the port and the ship. They walked out to the berth to inspect the MV Zaina, a mid-size Ukrainian 26,000 ton cargo vessel flying a Belize flag of convenience. The Palestinian knew she was owned by FIMAX Shipping, a legitimate Ukrainian company, and member of FIATA, that could stand up to scrutiny by the Ukrainian SBU, the Russian FSB, or the CIA.

The paperwork took most of the day. At one point the freight forwarder-Khmelnitsky called him Mikhailo-came to them.

“The customs man, that one,” glancing toward an agent behind the counter in a blue uniform, “wants another fifty thousand hryvnia,” Mikhailo said. The Palestinian did a quick mental calculation. It was about five thousand euros.

“Hooy tebe v zhopu! I cut his huesos eyes out!” Khmelnitsky cursed. The Palestinian put a hand on his arm.

“This customs huesos,” he said to Mikhailo, using the slang. “Is he reliable or does he always ask for more?”

“Always.”

“What you want to do?” Khmelnitsky said to the Palestinian.

“Pay him now,” the Palestinian said. “I’ll give you the money in the men’s toilet. After the ship sails, kill him. I’ll give you another thousand euros.”