Chapter 40
HAMBURG, GERMANY
BY early afternoon they learned that Dorfman was dead. The news sent Ivanov into a fit of rage. He went on for a good five minutes, ranting that he had never trusted the man, which caused Shvets to silently ask himself why the fool had let a man he didn’t trust handle such a large sum of money. After that, Ivanov, whose job and nature was to be paranoid, spewed out no fewer than a dozen conspiracy theories in as many minutes. He was convinced that Dorfman had gotten drunk and whispered secrets in the wrong person’s ear. That this person had then decided to bump Dorfman off and take the money for himself. But then again, there were supposed to have been safeguards in place, so the criminals had to have had a certain level of sophistication.
Ivanov had a long list of enemies that he ran through. There was a Cuban general he’d screwed over in an information swap five years earlier. How that man could possibly fit into this scenario was beyond Shvets, but he’d asked for the list of possible suspects so he simply listened and let Ivanov purge the information from his vodka-soaked brain. There was a German industrialist whom he’d fleeced a year earlier, a Spanish tycoon as well, and then there were a host of Jews and Bolsheviks who had been out to get him for years. None of it appeared to be useful, but then again maybe it was.
Shvets took the information and boarded a Lufthansa flight to Hamburg. Before leaving he’d called their man at the consulate and told him to work his contacts with the local police and get him a copy of the crime scene report. When he arrived at five-thirty-six that evening, Petrov Sergeyevich was waiting for him, the report in hand. Shvets had met Petrov briefly a few years earlier. After a polite exchange, Shvets told him to drive him to the bank. He sat in the passenger seat and read the report. Herr Dorfman had been stabbed in the thigh and shot once in the head. His wife was found bound and gagged and locked in the basement. She reported two men wearing masks entering the house at approximately ten in the evening. She did not hear them speak and could not give police a description other than the fact that they were roughly the same size.
The dogs, strangely enough, were unharmed. One was locked in the basement with the wife and the other was found wandering around the first floor. At some point the latter dog stepped in the pool of blood by Dorfman’s head and then tracked it around the first floor. There was no sign of forced entry and none of the neighbors had seen a thing. Shvets found it interesting that the wife and dogs were unharmed. That more than likely ruled out the vying factions in Moscow, although if Shvets was advising them, he would have tried just this thing to throw off a man like Ivanov. Whoever they were dealing with was very professional.
Shvets finished the report, closed it, and decided it was nearly useless. Anything was possible. Dorfman could have told someone about the money and that someone could have gotten the idea in his head to steal it. Twenty-six million dollars could do that to certain people. Shvets had thought about it himself. He had the skill set to make it work. It would have been so much easier if Dorfman had stolen the money and tried to disappear. They would have tracked him down. They always did. The fools habitually ran off to some beachside resort where they naively thought they would blend in with the locals and tourists.
They reached the bank shortly after six-thirty and Shvets weighed the benefits of having Sergeyevich accompany him into the building. He decided against it. There was no need for muscle. At least not yet, he hoped, and besides, the fewer who knew about Ivanov’s vulnerable position the better. The bank was typical. Tall, covered in glass, and imposing, all meant to give the impression of stability and security. It was one of many things Shvets was counting on.
The armed guard who tried to stop him in the lobby told him the bank was closed, but Shvets assured him that he did not wish to make a financial transaction. He was tempted to add that that was, of course, unless the guard could somehow refund the $26 million that had been stolen from Shvets’s employer and associates, but Shvets was fairly certain that this man was incapable of making that happen, so he instead asked to see the head of security.
When the security guard hesitated, Shvets said, “Of course this has something to do with Herr Dorfman’s death.”
That changed things significantly, and in less than a minute Shvets had been escorted to the top floor, where he came face-to-face with another, much older security guard. Same white shirt with black epaulets and black pants. Shvets flashed his SVR credentials and told the man secrecy was of the utmost importance. He was then told that the bank president was extremely busy.
“No doubt meeting with the board of directors.” The uncomfortable look on the man’s face gave him the answer he was looking for. “I will wait no more than two minutes. Tell him now, and tell him that it involves Herr Dorfman. There are some very influential people in Russia who require some immediate answers.”
Shvets sent the man off to deliver the message. Less than a minute later, the guard came back down the hall with a well-dressed man who looked as if he had been through a difficult day. The guard stood awkwardly nearby while the bank president said, “I am Herr Koenig. How may I help you?”
“I am Nikolai Shvets. I am with the Russian government.” He again flashed his gilded badge and then, nodding toward the receptionist, said, “Is there a place where we can have a word in private?”
“Yes,” the banker offered, nodding enthusiastically. “Please follow me.”
Shvets was disappointed when they ducked into a glass-walled conference room instead of the man’s office. There was nothing to learn from this bland space. No photos of loved ones. Not a single hint of personal information. He would have to ask Sergeyevich to look into the man’s life for some leverage.
Koenig remained standing, obviously impatient to get back to the board. “What is it you wish to discuss?”
“I understand,” Shvets said, “that Herr Dorfman had a very unfortunate evening last night.”
The man nervously cleared his throat. “The police have advised me not to discuss matters surrounding the murder of Herr Dorfman.”
“Would you like me to inform the police that $26 million of Mother Russia’s money went missing this morning, or would you like me to go straight to the press with that announcement?” Shvets was well aware of his lie, but he could hardly tell the man the money belonged to various terrorist groups and the head of the SVR’s feared Directorate S.
The banker’s gray pallor deepened, and he steadied himself against the back of a nearby chair while he mouthed the number.
“I do not wish to go to either the police or the press, but that is up to you, Herr Koenig.”
“What would you like to know?”
“How much money is missing?”
“Counting your twenty-six million … forty-seven. But none of the money was actually in our bank,” Koenig said defensively. “In fact, we are trying to sort out what Hans has been up to for all these years.”
“What do you mean the money was not in your bank?”
“The deposits were all in Swiss banks or offshore accounts in the Caribbean and Far East.”
“But Herr Dorfman managed the accounts in his official capacity as a vice president of this bank.”
Koenig raised a cautionary finger. “We are not sure on that point. So far we have found no official records of any of these accounts in our system.”
Shvets wasn’t so sure he believed the man. “Up until a minute ago you were thinking your exposure was roughly twenty million. It has now more than doubled. What makes you think it won’t double again before tomorrow?”
“I disagree with your use of the phrase ‘your exposure.’ As best we can tell, Herr Dorfman was in no way acting as an officer of this bank while he managed these various accounts.”
“Herr Koenig,” Shvets said with a sad laugh, “you and I both know that will not stand up. Those deposits may not have sat in your vault, but you had an officer of this bank who was managing on a daily basis a minimum of forty-seven million, and quite possibly more. This bank earned fees off that money…”
“But—”
“Please let me finish, Herr Koenig. I am not here to assign guilt. I am here to catch whoever took this money so we can get it back to its rightful owners.”
Probably for the first time since midmorning, a touch of color returned to Koenig’s face. “As there always is in these situations … a financial forensic investigation is under way.”
“How long will it take to complete?”
“It could take some time.”
“Please be honest with me. I am going to head back to Moscow tomorrow and the men I work for … they are not nice. They could never have a conversation like this. They would much prefer to strap you to a chair and attach things to your testicles, so I suggest you tell me what you know.” Switching to a friendly tone, he added, “Then I can go back to them and tell them you are a reasonable man. Someone we can trust.”
Koenig struggled with what he was about to say and then blurted it out. “I’m afraid we will never find that money.”
“Why?”
The banker threw his arms out. “It has been spread to the wind. I have never seen anything like it in all my years. The initial round of transfers was executed via fax in three waves. They came from all over the world.”
“Where?”
“Hong Kong, San Francisco, New York, London, Berlin, Paris, Istanbul, Moscow, New Delhi…”
“Moscow?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to see the faxes.”
The banker shook his head.
Shvets sighed, “Ohhhh … why must we do this the hard way? Herr Koenig, I know where the accounts were held. Your branch in Geneva. You are not as innocent as you would like me to believe. You will show me those faxes, and if you don’t, some people will come visit you in the middle of the night and do to you what was done to Herr Dorfman.”
Koenig swallowed hard. “I think I can make that concession.”
“Good. Now why do you say we will never find the money?”
“My legal counsel has informed me that not a single bank that we transferred the money to today has consented to our request for information.”
“Certainly there’s a way.”
“It would involve years of lawsuits, and even then you would be lucky to track down a fraction of the funds.”
“Well, maybe you need to turn up the pressure.” Koenig watched as his words seemed to have the opposite effect from the one he’d intended.
Koenig stiffened. “I should warn you that a faction of the board feels very strongly that this is dirty money.”
“Dirty money?” Shvets asked, as if the accusation were an insult.
“There are rumors that Herr Dorfman was an agent for the East German Stasi before the wall fell.”
“Rumors are bad things.”
“And there is another rumor that he worked for your GRU as well. That he helped certain people launder money.”
Shvets gave him a wicked grin. Dorfman had, in fact, been a spy for the KGB, not the GRU. “Where have you heard such things?”
“From people who know such things,” Koenig answered cagily. “Would you like to talk to them?”
Shvets suddenly got the feeling that he’d lost the upper hand. He needed to say something to fluster Koenig. “Back to these banking laws for a moment. I assume these very same laws could be used to conceal gross incompetence of your branch in Geneva … or better yet, that one of Herr Dorfman’s colleagues at the bank helped himself to millions of dollars that did not belong to him. Don’t they say that most bank heists are inside jobs?”
“That is pure, unfounded speculation.”
“As is your gossip about Herr Dorfman being a GRU spy.” Checkmate.
Koenig squirmed for a moment and then offered, “Would you be willing to talk to the people who have sworn that Herr Dorfman was a spy?”
“Absolutely,” he said, even though he had no such intention, “but I would like to see those faxes first. Especially the one that originated in Moscow.”
Koenig studied him cautiously for a moment and then said, “I will have copies of the faxes made for you. Give me a minute.” He left the room, glancing back over his shoulder with a frown.
Shvets paced while he waited. This was starting to look like a big mess. Once these thieves in suits confirmed that Dorfman had worked for the KGB, they would not be the slightest bit inclined to repay a single dollar. The Germans hated the Russians almost as much as the Russians hated the Germans. Koenig came back a few minutes later. He had two other men with him this time, and Shvets knew the jig was up. Koenig handed over the stack of faxes. They were blank, except for the sending and receiving fax numbers. The man might as well have written “F*ck you” in large letters across the top sheet. Still, it was better than nothing.