Steven Gore - Final Target

“It’s fundamentally different-and it’s invisible unless you’ve been here awhile. The president of Ukraine rules not by fear, but by blackmail.”

Ninchenko let his words sink in as they gazed out at the storefront pharmacies and markets and cafes along the four-lane street. Rising above them were apartments privatized after independence and, in the distance, an office tower under construction. Each an opportunity for graft.

Gage’s mind marched along behind Ninchenko’s logic, until he reached what seemed to be an impossible conclusion. He looked at Ninchenko. “You mean that the president actually encourages corruption?”

“Exactly. Because it creates leverage. That’s the real function of State Security and the Intelligence Directorate. Leverage. It’s information gathering for the sake of blackmail.”

“And the opposition?”

“Opposition politicians gather their own intelligence to try to control the president and his entourage. I provide it to them. So does Slava.”

Gage felt slightly off balance, as on his first day in Bulgaria ten years earlier, where people nodded when saying no, and shook their heads when saying yes.

Ninchenko smiled, watching his words impact Gage, then pushed on. “And Slava gives the opposition more than just intelligence. I suspect he put the equivalent of ten or fifteen million dollars into the opposition presidential campaign.”

“Ten or fifteen million?”

“Like he said yesterday. Politics is business. It’s an investment. He’ll get it back twenty-fold.”

“But only if the opposition wins.”

“Of course.”

In the silence that followed, Gage found himself viewing Ninchenko as larger than the role Slava had put him in.

“Pardon my saying so,” Gage said, “but you don’t seem like the kind of guy who works for a man like Slava.”

“And you don’t seem like a guy who works with a man like Slava.”

“Touche. But you know what I mean.”

Ninchenko looked over at Gage, appraising him. “You and I aren’t that different. We grew up reading Mark Twain and Jack London and Tennessee Williams. You studied philosophy in college. Me, Marxist theory. We both went into law enforcement. You left to attend graduate school and didn’t go back. I left to attend law school, and did go back. We both work in the gray area. You, light gray. Me, dark gray.”

“I see you’ve done a little research.”

“Just made a call. You’ve been in Ukraine three times before. Once in a money laundering case, once to locate a Russian fugitive from the States, and once as part of a delegation from the International Association of Fraud Investigators. State Security has a file.”

“You know why I’m here this time, but you haven’t answered why you’re with me.”

Ninchenko wiped away condensation from his window.

“You know what that is?” He pointed with his thumb toward the northeast as they turned left onto a broad boulevard crosshatched by trolley lines.

Gage looked over at the desolate expanse of dead grass, leafless trees, and a stark television tower piercing the gray sky.

“That’s Babiy Yar,” Ninchenko said. “Grandmother’s Ravine. We’re still in Kiev. Thirty-three thousand Jews were murdered here by the Nazis in two days. A million people heard the shots and the screams of victims being buried alive. There was no secret, but Ukraine denied it to the world for fifty years. Why? Because they wanted them dead. And some still do.”

“Like who?”

“The OUN, Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists. It’s a terrorist group that wants to drive everyone out of the country who doesn’t meet their criteria of Ukrainians. Russians, Poles, Jews.”

“You say that like you’re Jewish.”

“Literally, I’m not. Figuratively, all Ukrainians are Jews, they just don’t recognize it. Stalin intentionally starved to death six million Ukrainians during the Great Famine in the thirties. But now forty percent of Ukrainians believe life was better back then. They still don’t understand that Ukrainians were the Jews of the Soviet Union. And those forty percent are most of the people who support the president.”

Ninchenko’s window clouded over as he spoke.

“So why Slava?” Gage asked.

“Why Slava?” Ninchenko paused as if preparing to explain something that he’d thought through. “Because he provides a real service. He doesn’t deceive himself about who he is. He’s a man of his word. He has a sense of fairness.”

Ninchenko glanced at Gage. “Why is he helping you? He’s pretty sure you can get Gravilov indicted in the States without him. He probably could simply wait, then make his move. But he did you wrong by not trusting you in the natural gas deal, so he owes you.”

Gage had seen Slava’s rage and had looked up the barrel of his 9mm. Both had impaired his view of Slava as a dispassionate public servant.

“He’s not what anyone would call a saint,” Gage said.

“Of course not. Has he killed? Who knows how many times.”

Gage didn’t ask the question that came to his mind: What about you?

“Slava lives in the same kind of a parallel universe you’ve seen all over the world,” Ninchenko continued. “The rules are the same, they’re just applied differently. You and I are just visitors there. Would I kill for Slava just so he can grab somebody else’s money? No. And he knows it. Would I kill because it must be done? Of course. You have and you will. That’s why he brought me in on this job and why he’s willing to work with you even though you’re an outsider. He says you have heart.”

Gage wasn’t sure how to take that kind of compliment from a man like Slava-but he didn’t have time to consider it.

Ninchenko pointed ahead toward the wrought-iron gate and guardhouse of a fenced pine forest.

“Puscha Voditsa. A military sanatorium. They’ve already turned in.”

Gage’s head snapped toward Ninchenko.

“Military?”

His mind raced ahead before Ninchenko could respond: If Matson was willing to betray SatTek shareholders by selling SatTek’s intellectual property to Mr. Green, would he be willing to betray his country by-

Gage knew the answer before he had even fully formed the question. He felt his body tense in self-reproach. He should’ve guessed it weeks ago.

“Matson didn’t come to Kiev to hide,” Gage said. “The punk is here to sell missile and anti-terror technology to Ukraine.”

“That’s insane.” Ninchenko shook his head in disgust. “Transferring that kind of expertise to Ukraine is the same as releasing it to Iran and Syria.”

“Can you get us inside?” Gage said, eyes fixed on the sanatorium entrance.

Ninchenko nodded. “We can use my old SBU identification. They’d be afraid to look too closely at a major’s documents.”

Ninchenko’s cell phone rang after the guard had waved them through the gate. He engaged in a quick conversation, then said, “They’re headed toward the medical center.”

They drove past an iced-over lake surrounded by tennis, volleyball, and badminton courts. They passed an empty swimming pool and a dining hall, finally arriving at a white stucco building, where the driver parked in a lot filled with black Mercedes and BMWs and a scattering of camouflaged Morozov personnel carriers.

“They give medical-sounding names to things soldiers simply like to do,” Ninchenko said. “A steam bath is called climate therapy. A hot tub is called balneotherapy. A sanatorium is really just a place to hide out from the family-”

“And buy the technology to build radar and missile targeting devices.”

“No better place.” Ninchenko opened his door. “Let me take a look.”

Ninchenko blended in with the men entering the medical center. The driver assumed his waiting position: seat back lowered, window a crack open, cap over his eyes. Gage pulled his coat up around his neck, then slid down in his seat as the cold air seeped into the van.