The Hawaladar

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

THE BISTRO Le Francais, a well-known restaurant located on the Galernoya Alitsa, a major thoroughfare in Saint Petersburg, Russia, had always been one of Dr. Aleksandra Lebedev’s favorite places to dine whenever she was in the city. Dinner for two at the restaurant could be horribly expensive, but the cost was of little concern to her this evening. The statuesque, sophisticated-looking redhead knew she would not be paying for the meal. Her dinner companion would be picking up the tab.

The Bistro was a very popular place for both intimate and business-related dining. It was almost always crowded, secluded booths were dimly lit, and space between the tables was well-distanced, making it particularly conducive to private conversation. That was important to the lady scientist this evening since she was more than just a little apprehensive about her meeting with the likes of her host. The popular restaurant seemed to her the perfect location for the two to meet.

Dr. Lebedev’s dinner companion, Demitri Fomin, knew perfectly well what his attractive dinner guest was trying to accomplish by selecting such a place for their rendezvous. The restaurant was the same sort of secure, neutral location he would have chosen for their meeting had he been in the same situation as she. So, he feigned complete satisfaction with the doctor’s choice and suggested they reserve a table for 10:00 p.m. He knew the hour to be late, but was relatively certain she would agree with his recommendation as to time. Like many high-quality Saint Petersburg eating establishments, the Bistro Le Francais was open for dining until the early hours of the morning, making 10:00 p.m. one of the restaurant’s more active times for business. The din of chatter amongst the patrons and the noise of serving them would not only drown out the rather delicate nature of the couple’s conversation, but also offered a certain level of comfort to a woman dining alone with someone she was perhaps a little unsure of.

“You have excellent taste, Doctor, I come to this place often. The French cuisine here at the Bistro is excellent. If you had asked me beforehand, this would have been one of my top five choices in the city,” and Dimitri Fomin knew all the best restaurants in Saint Petersburg. As head of the Russian Mafiya there he had the resources to dine out as often as he wanted, and at whichever restaurant he chose. “If you like roast duck, let me recommend their Canard á L’orange. It’s excellent.”

“Whatever you suggest is fine with me, Mr. Fomin, but let’s order our dinner right away, and get on with the discussion at hand, if we could. We can visit as we eat. I’m on a bit of a tight schedule this evening.” Dr. Lebedev actually had nowhere else she needed to be, but she was not really in the mood for small talk. She wanted this meeting over as quickly as possible and had little appetite for sharing some long, drawn out dinner, playing nice with someone she really did not care much for. Dimitri Fomin was former KGB. She knew him in a prior life, disliked him immensely then and would not have been having dinner with him now were it not out of necessity. She was in possession of a very sensitive product she wanted to sell, and Fomin and his unsavory associates were necessary intermediaries for getting that product to the highly select group of people who might ultimately be interested in purchasing it—and at the price she wanted.

“Fine, doctor, I’ll order for us immediately, and then we can get down to business.” Fomin motioned for one of several waiters standing against the wall across from their table, quickly ordered the roast duck for the both of them along with an appropriate bottle of wine, and then returned to the conversation. His tone of voice, however, now sounded far more serious and subdued than it had been previously.

Ah, there’s the old Fomin I remember, thought the doctor as she observed the change in the mobster’s expression. Cold, insidious bastard.

The well-dressed, attractive, middle-aged woman, still looking far younger than her age, and the cheap-suited, bull-necked, crew cut old former secret agent, obviously every bit a man in his late sixties, made for an odd-looking couple. Their table was the subject of much speculation around the dining room.

The past near twenty-nine plus years since the fall of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in 1991 had been a long and difficult period for Dr. Lebedev, but things just might finally be starting to look up for her. Before the communists were ousted, the then brilliant, young biochemist with a recent PhD from the University of Moscow had been one of the most widely respected, up-and-coming members of the special research arm of the Biopreparat (“the System”), which was the organization in charge of the old USSR’s Biological Warfare program.

For nearly four years, Dr. Lebedev had run a highly secret program located on Vozrozhdeniye (“Rebirth”) Island, situated in the western part of the Aral Sea, a body of water divided by the border between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Between 1936 and 1992, when it was closed down, Vozrozhdeniye was one of several such sites of its kind located around the USSR, where a great deal of research and open-air testing occurred on the use of such infectious diseases as Smallpox, Anthrax, Tularemia, Plague, and Ebola for use as weapons of mass destruction.

During her time on Vozrozhdeniye, she established quite a name for herself with breakthrough research in genetic alteration. Government officials for whom she worked made sure of that by putting her front and center at seminars and symposiums all over the country, publicly touting the unclassified portions of the work she did for them. It was part of their deal with her. They would pay her well and give her enough exposure to make a name for herself in the scientific world, and in return, she would devote the best years of her life to the USSR’s bio-weapons program.

Most of her more significant work, however, was far too classified for open discussion with peers, and known only to but the few to whom she directly answered in the Biopreparat. During her time on Vozrozhdeniye, for example, not only had she overseen the research unit responsible for developing and placing into arsenal a virulent, weapons-grade strain of Variola Major—or Black Smallpox as it was more commonly referred to by the unscientific world—but she also came quite close to successfully altering the genetic makeup of both the Ebola and Smallpox viruses in such a way as to provide a workable recombinant chimera for use as a biological weapon. Had the program on Vozrozhdeniye Island not been shut down when it was, one of the most dangerous weapons ever known to humankind might well have found its way into the Soviet arsenal.

When Vozrozhdeniye was closed, Dr. Lebedev was transferred by the new Russian Federation to a somewhat similar position within the Scientific and Production Association located in Novosibirsk, Russia, but it was an arrangement where both her level of responsibility and compensation within that organization were much diminished from that which she previously had held on Vozrozhdeniye. Worse yet, funding for the kind of research she was most involved in previously was no longer a high priority to the cash-strapped, new Russian Federation. The position in Novosibirsk ultimately proved tenuous, with her eventually being let go to join what was then an ever-burgeoning crowd of unemployed, former Soviet scientists, technocrats, and apparatchiks.

Many of the doctor’s former associates, who experienced the same fate as she, failed to see what was coming, but not the bright, young lady biochemist. She had predicted the whole, inevitable turn of events, and had made special plans to ensure her future. She had given up way too many things personally in deference to her career and to accommodate the demands of her former overseers, to be relegated to frittering away the remainder of her life in some low-paying, nondescript industrial job like she and most of her former associates—who were lucky enough to even find positions—were having to accept in recent years.

At 56, Aleksandra Lebedev was intelligent, well-educated, still very attractive, and had many good contacts in both the public and private sectors. So, why not put those assets to good use now for personal benefit? The lady scientist had worked extremely hard for most of her career but had nothing much to show for it financially since the former USSR became part of the dustbin of history. To her way of thinking, she had earned the right to eventually enjoy some of the good life, and now that the Russian Federation had ushered in full-blown capitalism, there was tremendous opportunity out there for a bright entrepreneur with sufficient Rubles to invest. After carefully biding her time for the near thirty years since her days with the Biopreparat, Dr. Lebedev was certain she had a sure-fire way of getting some of that money.

“All right, young lady,” began Fomin in a voice now lowered to a sinister whisper. “Let’s get right to business.” It was difficult for Dr. Lebedev to hear him over the chatter and background music within the restaurant. “My associates and I understand through a mutual acquaintance that you are in possession of a fairly sizable amount of a certain rare commodity you wish to sell. A commodity that has supposedly never existed from a program that never was. Is that correct?”

“Mr. Fomin, please. You and I both know that you have not been KGB for many years, and we both know what you do now. So, let’s quit talking in riddles. It will waste far less of your time and mine if we simply speak candidly and keep our voices quiet enough that no one else can hear us.” She saw Fomin’s eyes narrow. He seldom tolerated disrespect of any kind. “I have in my possession a substantial amount of weapons-grade Variola pathogens, which I am prepared to sell to any interested buyer willing to pay my price. I understand your organization knows of some potential purchasers, and that you might be able to move them for me. Is that correct?”

“Variola?”

“Yes, Smallpox, Mr. Fomin, Black Smallpox,” she snapped back, “but then you knew that.”

“My, Doctor, you do have a way of cutting through all the smoke in this room, don’t you.” Many Russian restaurants still accommodated the tobacco habit.

Fomin studied the set of his dinner partner’s jaw. It was obvious she was nervous, but she still exuded a level of confidence that was admirable under the circumstances. With her intelligence and good looks, there is no doubt he could have used someone like her on his team back in his KGB days. Too bad it's only business she has in mind this evening, thought Fomin. She looks great. Unaware of how repugnant she actually found him to be, Fomin would have been interested in making the evening a lot longer had he felt her willing—or perhaps in a situation where she had no place to run.

“I have little time for niceties. Am I correct in my understanding, Mr. Fomin?”

“Yes, that’s possible. My associates and I may indeed be able to make a market for your product, but that depends on your price. We’re talking about a very delicate transaction in a multitude of ways. The handling of such material is very sensitive, so costs will be high. Depending on what you’re asking, the margins on resale could be tight.” Fomin found it difficult to be direct. He always spoke in the abstract, the effect of nearly thirty years in the KGB. “That being said, I have heard several figures from others about what price you may be asking for this very special commodity, but I would like to hear that directly from you. How much are you looking to receive? Can you please share that with me?”

“Mr. Fomin, to begin, I have no intention of negotiating with myself. I’m well aware that there are perhaps only two stockpiles of such a ‘product,’ as you call it, which may yet remain in the world. One we believe to be in the hands of the United States military, and the other is held by us Russians under very tight security, with both countries claiming not to have them. So, although I do not want to appear greedy in this matter, I also know the value of what I have to the right party, and I do not plan to part with that which is in my possession without someone paying a price commensurate with its, shall we say, rarity. Therefore—and this is not negotiable—the successful purchaser will pay absolutely no less than $2 Million wired net to me at the time and place of my choosing before they take delivery. Further, with respect to timing, since I already have two other parties that are quite interested in doing this deal with me at this time, the date by which I wish to have this transaction completed is no later than seventy-two hours from now, with p*****t being made to a numbered Swiss account that I will provide the information on just prior to delivery.”

Fomin’s jowly, pockmarked face flushed red. He didn’t care for his dinner guest’s tone, but he remained calm and businesslike. “Well, Doctor, as I stated a moment ago, the margin on this transaction will be quite tight if you insist on a price at that level, but you are nevertheless correct. It is a near one-of-a-kind situation. We are interested. So, we should be able to come to some sort of agreement this evening. I am, however, curious. Are you at all concerned about what type of person or organization may be the end purchaser of this product you are trying to sell, and what perhaps their agenda may be?

“That’s not my concern. I’ve held onto and nurtured these pathogens for nearly thirty years now, letting the trail as to their source cool, and patiently planning on them to provide me with a comfortable, early retirement. I’ll let you worry about who the ultimate purchaser may be.”

“Enough said, my dear. Asked and answered on your price. Let’s now enjoy our meal and allow me to catch up on what you have been up to during the intervening years since we last saw each other.”

It was easy for Fomin to be gracious. He had no plans to pay the scientist’s price or anything like it. The dinner was simply a ruse to make sure she was in possession of the pathogens. Within fifteen minutes of their parting, Fomin’s men would be picking her up, and they had special talents for extracting information from even the most reluctant of individuals. They would find out the exact location of the deadly pathogens from Dr. Lebedev well before the seventy-two-hour deadline she had previously prescribed. After that, it would be better for all concerned were she to permanently disappear.