Chapter 2
Across the country, in an abandoned warehouse outside of Baltimore, Maryland, Victor Popov stepped to the side to avoid being splattered by blood.
“Careful!” he snapped in his native Belarusian and motioned at his suit. “This is Armani.”
“Sorry, Mr. Popov,” Grigoriy said, panting.
He’d just punched Simon Burkin again, this time in the gut, causing Burkin to spit the blood that had almost hit Grigoriy’s boss.
Once Popov was sure nothing else would be expelled, he crouched in front of Burkin.
The only thing keeping the man in the chair was the duct tape wrapped around his torso and arms.
Popov grabbed the man’s hair and pulled it so that they were face-to-face.
“Please,” Burkin said in English, consciousness hanging by a thread. “I’m…sorry. I made a…m-m-mistake.”
Popov stared at him wordlessly.
“I’ll do…whatever you want.”
Popov patted the man’s cheek, then said in the same language, “This is the attitude I expect.” He stood up. “Too bad you were not thinking this way when you stole from me.”
“I’ve learned my lesson,” Burkin said, his tone urgent. “I swear…I’ll never do that again.”
“In that we are agreed.” Popov looked at Grigoriy. “You know what to do.” He then turned and headed for the door.
“No!” Burkin yelled after him. “Please! I can—”
Popov shut the door to the sound of Burkin struggling for breath.
No one stole from Victor Popov and lived to talk about it. Even fleeing half a world away, as Burkin had done, was not enough to keep the man from suffering the consequences.
Popov was a former general in the Belarusian army turned oligarch, with connections in high places. Going up against him was idiotic.
His little face-to-face with Burkin was normally something he would have left to others. But he had business in the States, and Burkin had been a nice appetizer ahead of what he was sure would be a very profitable trip.
His phone began vibrating.
He checked the screen, grinned, and accepted the call. Still speaking English, he said, “Good afternoon, Keith.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Popov,” Keith Miller said. “May I be one of the first to welcome you to the United States. I trust you had a good flight.”
“I did, thank you.” Popov had his own jet, a Gulfstream G650, and had spent the first part of the flight being entertained by a want-to-be model named Mila and the rest fast asleep. “Do we have a meeting time yet?”
There was a smile in Keith’s voice when he said, “That’s why I’m calling. Are you free for dinner?”
“I am and can be in D.C. in an hour.”
“We think it would be better if the meeting took place outside the district.”
“Where?”
“Would Baltimore work for you?”
Popov smiled to himself. “I believe so, yes. Where and when do I meet the senator?”
“Actually, he would prefer if I met with you alone.”
Popov remained silent for a moment, then said, “That was not our agreement.”
“I understand, but he thinks—”
“Keith,” Popov said, cutting off the man. “If your boss wishes to receive the generous fee I have agreed to, then he will be there. If not, we can part ways now.”
This time, Keith was the one who was silent for several seconds. “Very well. He’ll be there.”
“And where is there?”
“I’ve reserved a private room at a restaurant called Penny Mike’s, for seven-thirty. I’ll text you the address.”
“I look forward to it.”
—
As was his habit, Popov entered the private dining room at Penny Mike’s Thai-fusion steak house fifteen minutes late. It was his way of making sure those he was meeting with understood his time was more important than theirs.
As expected, Senator Andrew Carson and his lackey, Keith, were waiting for him.
“Senator,” he said, grinning broadly. “So good to see you again.”
Carson forced a smile and stood as the Belarusian approached. “Hello, Victor.”
The man extended his hand to shake, but instead, Popov pulled him into a bear hug. “Friends do not need to be so formal.”
He slapped the senator on the back a few times, then laughed good-naturedly as he let him go.
“Please, have a seat,” Carson said, clearly in a hurry to put the table between them.
As Popov took his chair, he nodded at the other person present. “Hello, Keith.”
“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Popov,” Keith said.
“The pleasure is all mine.”
Orders were taken and small talk ensued until the drinks and food arrived. The serving staff then left, with instructions that the senator and his guests were not to be disturbed.
“So, gentlemen,” Popov said, once they were alone. “What news do you have for me?”
Carson glanced at his aide and nodded.
Keith pulled a manila envelope from a briefcase and slid it across the table to Popov. “Your inside man.”
Popov undid the envelope’s clasp and pulled out a small stack of papers. The top sheet was a driver’s information printout from the California Department of Motor Vehicles.
“Martin Lundstrom,” Keith said. “Goes by Marty.”
Beside him, the senator busied himself with his glass of wine as if uninterested in what was being discussed.
“His position?” Popov asked.
“Engineer,” Keith replied.
There was no need to mention where Lundstrom worked. The target company was a Palm Springs–based organization called Richards Renewable Energy—better known as RRE. Popov had picked it out from a group of similar companies months earlier, after extensive research.
“What makes you think he will work with me?”
“Marty was recently passed up for promotion to RRE’s head engineer. He believes the job should have been his.”
“Is he right?”
“From the information I’ve received, not even close. I’m told he has an extremely inflated sense of self-worth.”
“So, the company owes him? That kind of thing?”
“More like he thinks the whole world owes him.”
Popov took that in with a nod. Aggrieved employees were always the easiest to turn into corporate spies. And that was exactly what Popov needed.
Through trusted contacts, Popov had learned that before the year was out, the Belarusian government would be making major investments in renewable energy. Billions of dollars would be up for grabs.
Given his former career in the army, and his cordial relationship with the president, Popov knew he would be a shoo-in to receive a giant slice of that pie. The only caveat: Popov’s company needed to be legitimate.
He’d zeroed in on RRE thanks to an article he’d read. It was a growing company that was still privately held, making it the perfect target.
Every business had a weakness that could be exploited. All Popov needed was to find out what that was and use the weakness to force the partners into selling the company to him, far below market value.
He’d used this formula multiple times to great success. And like those previous instances, he had relied on assets who could be bought to assist him—in this case, the senator and his aide.
Popov flipped through the papers. There was information on employment history, current salary, a mortgage that was larger than someone in Lundstrom’s income bracket should have taken, a second mortgage that the man had used for God knows what, car payments, and three substantial credit card balances for which Lundstrom was barely servicing the monthly interest charges.
In the last twelve months, the engineer had been late with his main mortgage four times, his second mortgage five, and his credit cards two times each.
In other words, the man was even more financially vulnerable than the company for which he worked.
The final few sheets were paperwork that once signed would transfer both mortgages to a shell company called VP Bela Capital, owned entirely by Popov.
“Have you had contact with him?” Popov asked.
“Last week, and again yesterday,” Keith said. “The first time was to inform him that VP Bela would be assuming both of his mortgages. The second was to discuss his previous late payments and seed the idea there might be a way to ease his cash flow problems.”
“I assume he was interested in that.”
“He tried to hide it, but he clearly has been looking for any kind of a lifeline. I told him one of the company’s representatives would be in Palm Springs this weekend and contact him.”
Popov was scheduled to fly there the next evening.
“Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The oligarch signed the transfer documents and handed them to Keith, then stuffed the remaining papers back in the envelope.
“I’ll get this started right away,” Keith said. “The transfer should be complete by end of day tomorrow.”
“Perfect,” Popov said. “And I have something for you.”
He removed a thin, legal-sized envelope from his pocket and set it on the table. Inside was a cashier’s check for ten million dollars, made out to a political action committee focused on keeping the senator in office.
Keith moved it quickly into his briefcase without a word.
That appeared to be the signal for which the senator had been waiting. He downed the last of his wine and stood. “Unfortunately, Keith and I have business back in D.C. tonight, so we must be on our way.”
“Of course,” Popov said, standing.
“We should do this again sometime.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Senator?” Keith said.
The senator stared back.
“The party?”
“Ah, right.” Carson turned to Popov. “I was invited to a party on Saturday in Palm Springs. It’s being thrown by Damian Leon. Are you familiar with him?”
“Even we in Belarus know of Damian Leon.”
Not only had Leon been one of the top movie stars in the world earlier in his career, but he had also had the lead role in Popov’s favorite movie of all time, which made him Popov’s favorite actor.
Popov had heard about Leon’s famous annual birthday party and mentioned to Keith his desire to attend.
“Unfortunately, I can’t make it,” the senator said. “But Keith tells me you’ll be in California at that time.”
“I will.”
“If you’re free, you are welcome to go in my stead.”
“I would be honored. Thank you.”