The Russian Crisis

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Serge Sokolov, Petrenko's handler, met the men from Ottawa as they left a terminal at Pearson Airport on the northwestern outskirts of Toronto. Sokolov had to circle the terminal several times before finding a place to stop at the Arrivals outdoor curb. The delay angered the slim man at the head of the little group.

"You are late," the leader told Serge as he scrambled out of the black SUV and around to the tailgate. "You were told 9:15 p.m. It is 9:45 p.m."

It was also Friday evening, a very busy time at the airport and a day before the GRU cadre was scheduled to arrive in Toronto.

"I did not expect you so soon. I'm sorry to be late but..." Sokolov lifted the suitcases into the cargo area. While the other three men climbed into the vehicle's rear seat. The handler heard grumbling as the men squeezed themselves into the two and a half seats in the rear.

"Enough excuses," the slim man ordered. "Let us go,"

With the leader next to him in the passenger seat, Sokolov drove the consulate car out of the airport on onto Highway 427 heading into the city. As he drove, he grew more curious about this gang. Two of the men in the rear seat were white; they were still complaining and spoke in Russian. The third man, the one compressed into the middle seat, was black. Sokolov assumed the man was speaking Spanish and didn't understand a word. Sokolov hadn't known there were any black people at the Ottawa embassy or, for that matter, in the ranks of the GRU.

The slim man in the front seat rounded out the quartet. He sat erect in his seat and stared straight ahead through the windshield. He hadn't spoken a word since entering the SUV.

"Good trip?" asked Sokolov with his eyes glued to the fast-moving traffic ahead. A speeder shot by on one side, too close for comfort.

"Just drive," the slim man commanded in a sharp, high voice.

The bitching from the rear seats died away and the rest of the 30-minute trip was spent in silence.

The slim man told the handler to drive to The Four Season's Hotel in Toronto's Yorkville district. The hotel was several miles from the consulate and Sokolov knew rooms in the hotel went for more than $600 a night. But his was not to reason why; his was to do whatever he could to keep from dying. He pulled the SUV into the laneway and into a parking space for cars to be unloaded.

After the bags had been taken out of the vehicle and placed on the sidewalk by a uniformed doorman, the group's leader told Sokolov, "Get the valet to park the car and come to the lobby."

Sokolov found the four men seated on a long couch in the lobby. Their suitcases were gone, supposedly taken to their rooms. "Gentlemen," Sokolov told them. "I hope everything is okay." The slim man said nothing but pointed to a bar that made up part of the lobby. "Order. Just coffee." Minutes later, the five men were seated around a table set by a large window with a view of the sidewalk on Yorkville Avenue. A steady stream of people passed by the window but they were ignored. Coffee cups sat on the table but no one was drinking.

"So," the slim man began in Russian. "You have screwed up, haven't you?"

Sokolov felt an icy touch on the back of his neck.

Over the next half hour, the slim man carried out a review of everything he knew about what he called "the JPI file." His knowledge surprised and shocked Sokolov; it was far more extensive than even he had known as Petrenko's handler. Sokolov realized he was a minor cog in a large and complex machine.

The leader summed up. Petrenko, he said, had been contacted by a person who must be a high-level executive or key manager at Jackson Phillips Inc. That person or several persons working together had stolen source code of all the platforms and solutions developed by a division of JPI. Sokolov had 'vouched' for Petrenko and, therefore, for the software thief or thieves. The GRU at the highest level had approved a down payment of ten million dollars to keep the thief from going to the Chinese, North Koreans or Iranians. The GRU also approved a further ten million once the source code was actually delivered into its hands.

"But," the leader went on. The theft had become known very quickly by JPI which, of course, has leading edge software constantly monitoring all its data including all access to its dedicated servers. Only a key employee at JPI could get to and copy the code.

It probably didn't matter that the theft was known to JPI, said the slim man, since there was no way JPI could change the machine code derived from the source code. No way it could protect JPI clients who had the software embedded in their military equipment. No way could JPI make a huge amount of its product immune to those who had the source code.

"No way that JPI could make the stolen software worthless to us." The slim man slammed his fist on the table causing the cups to jump and coffee to spill onto the tabletop. Several people at the other end of the bar area looked over but quickly looked away. "No way except that they found a way," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"So JPI is developing all new software to replace the current version. We planned to produce code within a year or less. Now, by the time we are ready to take control of all existing systems, JPI will be delivering brand new solutions. They will be well in advance of us instead of only a little. He glared at Sokolov who had shrunk into his padded seat at the table.

"Your thief has made things worse. Was this your plan against Mother Russia, Serge Sokolov?"

"My plan? God, no," blurted Sokolov, instantly regretting calling on the deity.

"So, Sokolov? Who is this thief?"

"I don't know. I swear, I don't know..." Sokolov was close to tears. He glanced at the other men hoping for sympathy but their faces were made of stone.

"You look at our black friend," the slim man observed. "He's Cuban, you know. And you also know what the Cubans can do to you, don't you?"

Sokolov was totally confused as well as petrified with fear. "I don't know..."

"He can find out what you know even faster than the rest of us." He waved at his white companions across the table and flanking Sokolov. "Shall I tell you the details?"

"No," gasped the handler. "Please, I can find out where the money went. I will ask Petrenko..."

The slim man laughed suddenly. The two other white men smiled broadly. The black Cuban remained expressionless. "We don't give a shit about the money," the GRU man made a dismissal motion with one hand. "Who is the thief?"

"And," he referred to Sokolov's comment, "Petrenko won't know. Our thief is very smart and Petrenko is very stupid. Even more stupid than you, Sokolov. No matter, we are smarter than even our thief. We'll find him or them ourselves and the code - for what it might be worth now."

Sokolov was allowed to go and the four men retired to their rooms. Once back at the wheel of the SUV, heading north to his condo, the handler wondered why these clever GRU men had talked so freely in the bar of a hotel. That bar could have been bugged. Any place could be bugged, he reflected. The consulate was wired for sound and video. Moscow was full of bugs. God, not Moscow, the handler thought. Please, not Moscow. He didn't want to be sent there.