Close Quarters

FIFTY-ONE

Brian Callahan’s attention was torn away from the screen showing Watchman’s location and the two vehicles tracking him by the arrival of an internal messenger. The man was holding a sealed envelope. He handed it over, got a signature and disappeared back the way he had come.

Callahan opened the envelope, one eye on the screen. A single sheet of paper inside detailed the results of research into the private investigator, Greb Voloshyn. It gave his home address, workplace and some facts about BJ Group, his employers. Callahan was about to put it to one side for reading later when he noticed a familiar acronym further down the page.

FSO.

He felt a jolt go through him. The FSO was the Russian Federal Protective Service, responsible among other things for the security of the Russian president and other high-ranking ministers. They were bodyguards of the highest order, similar to the US president’s Secret Service detail. To most western observers, the FSO was simply another branch of the once all-powerful KGB, now the FSB.

And Greb Voloshyn was listed as a former officer of that organization.

‘Can you handle this?’ he said to Lindsay. ‘Something’s come up.’ He held up his pager. ‘Call me if anything happens — I won’t be far away.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

Callahan hated leaving her at such an important juncture, but there was something he had to deal with that couldn’t wait. He hurried along the corridor and took the elevator to the research section where the report on Voloshyn had been compiled. He checked the researcher’s name listed at the bottom of the form, followed by a signature. David Andrews. He was one of the team of IT and intelligence geeks who trawled the internet’s darkest corners and instigated investigations into whatever officers like Callahan required. It was an intensive job and demanded absolute focus and accuracy. Andrews’s particular strength was his knowledge of the current Russian security and intelligence apparatus and its history.

He found Andrews and took him to one side. ‘I don’t have to ask if you’re sure of your facts,’ he said, ‘but do we have any way of telling if Voloshyn is still connected to the FSO?’

Andrews gave a knowing smile. He was short and chunky in build with a wispy moustache and the complexion of a man who spent too much time below ground out of the sunlight. Like a groundhog, Callahan thought not unkindly. Only a particularly smart one.

‘They’re always connected, sir. Guys like him might leave the service, same as the FSB and the SBP — the Presidential Security Service — but there’s more than just an esprit de corps involved; they have a duty to remain in touch at all times. Like auxiliaries, I guess. As we’re beginning to learn with the events in Ukraine at the moment and South Ossetia before, some of these people were farmed out with a deliberate mission in mind.’

‘To do what?’

‘To infiltrate government departments in the former satellite states of the old Russian Federation. We know the Ukrainian Ministry of Affairs and their intel and security services have got former FSB and GRU members in their ranks, as have a few government offices. It’s the way they do things: infiltrate and take over. By the time anybody finds out what’s going on, it’s usually too late.’ He grinned and made rabbit’s ears signs with his fingers. ‘Like the Borg Collective.’

‘The what?’ Callahan scowled. He was never entirely sure with some of the geeky types down here if they were having a quiet joke at his expense or not.

‘Star Trek, sir. The Borg Collective was an alien race who—’ Andrews stopped, sensing he’d lost his listener with the first two words. He was right.

‘But Voloshyn’s with a private security company based in Kiev.’

‘Same thing, different uniform. During my research on Voloshyn I found references to BJ Security working in Russia, on contracts issued by government departments and under direct orders of Russian military and security personnel. But they’ve also got connections with Russian organized crime. In fact one of their directors recently finished a five-year term for robbery. They’re a pretty diverse organization and a lot bigger than their public face indicates. In fact,’ he added, ‘I recently circulated a report advising that BJ Group has established a representative office here in Washington DC.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, sir. I believe there’s been a watch placed on it since then, but there’s nothing on the file yet. I checked.’

‘What, they’re just watching it?’

‘Yes, sir. The FBI and Homeland are arguing over whether to leave them be until they make a mistake, or close them down. Trouble is if they do that the guy could go underground and they wouldn’t know where he was.’

It made sense, Callahan thought. Keep your suspects where you can see them. ‘You said guy. One man?’

‘Yes, sir. Name of Gus Boranov. Looks, dresses and sounds all-American, but my guess is his heart is pure Kremlin. He has a nice office downtown and does a lot of entertaining.’ He grinned cynically. ‘I guess they don’t believe in travelling economy.’

Callahan felt as if he’d been living in a bubble. On the other hand, that was why the CIA employed people like Andrews: to keep a weather eye on what else was going on out there. This news altered his whole line of thinking. ‘Right. So what’s the bottom line with this Greb Voloshyn?’

‘Bottom line?’ Andrews shrugged. ‘Bottom line is, I don’t have definitive proof right now, but I’m prepared to bet my girlfriend’s car, which is a very nice 1978 Mustang, that Voloshyn is still a serving FSB or FSO officer.’ He smiled with the supreme confidence of a man who knew his job. ‘And you can take that to the bank. Sir.’