The Russian Crisis

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Petrenko recognized what he had come to think of as The Voice before the second word. It was early evening and the Russian Federation agent was lounging in his apartment, chewing on beef jerky while he watched a Russian language film on Netflix. The ringing of his cell had interrupted a scene involving a shootout and Petrenko was annoyed.

"Petrenko, we have a problem." The Voice was more urgent.

"Yeah... I have a problem with you..." Petrenko let his ire show.

"You know," The Voice overrode Petrenko, "that JPI is well aware of the taking of their code. But, we thought there was nothing they could do about it. They weren't going to tell the world, were they?" The Voice slowed now that Petrenko was listening. "But that son of a bitch Phillips is screwing around..."

Petrenko frowned. He knew Phillips would be a problem. "How?" he asked.

"JPI will be developing new software. The code we have will lose its importance and that means its value."

Now Petrenko was confused. The Voice kept referring to 'we'. What did The Voice mean. What would it mean to Petrenko? Suddenly, the word value lodged in his brain. "You mean we will not get money?"

"Yes, we will," The Voice was reassuring. "But we have to move quickly. You must tell your friends that I need twenty million dollars - that's US dollars - for the code. Half immediately, half when we deliver the code." Petrenko noted the 'we' again, "If I don't get it, I'll go to the Chinese." Desperation was creeping back into the disguised voice. "I swear I'll take it to the Chinese."

Petrenko cut in. "I want half."

Even disguised, the incredulity in The Voice was clear. "You bastard... for what?"

"For dealing with ... with the Russians."

After a short silence, The Voice said, "Ten percent. That's it." The Voice went on to provide Petrenko with an account number at a bank in Lichtenstein into which the money could be deposited by wire transfer. "But ASAP or you won't get anything, Petrenko. Got it?"

His stomach was heaving and his head hurt. Petrenko understood now that his dream opportunity was slipping away. "Tell me what Phillips is doing. Tell me what I can do."

The call went on for several minutes as The Voice told Petrenko the latest news. Suddenly, it was disconnected as the caller reached some magic limit beyond which the call might be traced. Petrenko wasn't even trying but The Voice couldn't be sure.

After half an hour of deep thought - or what passed as thought by Petrenko - he called his handler at the consulate. He did not mention JPI's response to the theft of the source code. He could claim ignorance if the handler had knowledge of the development scheme. He restricted his report to the demand of The Voice for ten million U.S. dollars up front 'immediately' with another ten on delivery. Petrenko was astounded when the handler agreed.

"We expected more," Sokolov, the handler said, surprising Petrenko even more. The handler never discussed anything with Petrenko, he just ordered the Ukrainian to do various tasks. Petrenko provided the bank account number and Sokolov said the half-payment would be transferred before end of day. Petrenko would have to depend on The Voice for his share; another detail he didn't reveal.

Disconnecting, Petrenko marveled at the reaction of the consulate, congratulated himself for his brilliance in negotiating the deal and said to himself. "Not enough?" Petrenko smiled to himself. His two-million-dollar piece of the pie sounded like plenty to him.