The Russian Crisis

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Roman Petrenko was at home but had no intention of receiving callers. It was late in the evening and he was exhausted after spending many hours cooped up with the crazy Cuban in a dismal derelict building on the lakefront. He had been filthy and starving as well when he got home. He was in recovery mode.

The front door of his apartment slammed open and the short hallway into the living room was filled with the bodies of five men. It took only an instant for the 'visitors' to flood into the living room to surround Petrenko as he sprawled on a seedy green couch.

The men didn't display guns or issue orders. They simply stood around Petrenko watching him. The five men were alike; each was of average height with slim but muscular builds. They were perfect examples of special forces soldiers even though it had been years since any of them served with JTF-2. As part of the JPI security unit, they had to keep in shape.

Petrenko wasn't armed but wouldn't have reached for a gun or knife if he had one nearby. The man wasn't a genius but he knew when he was outmanned. He sat up but remained on the couch. His mouth tightened to a thin line and his eyes were open wide.

Jackson Phillips strode into the room. He was dressed in jeans and a dark grey shirt and had a stern look on his face.

"Mr. Petrenko, glad you're home. We have a few questions for you."

"You are Jackson Phillips. I know you but I have no idea why you are here in my home." Petrenko tried to sound aggrieved but his voice betrayed his nervousness. Phillips laughed in his face.

It had been some time since Jackson had been in CSIS and much more since he served as a soldier in some of the world's hottest spots but he regained his skills as an interrogator in short order. He sat on a wooden kitchen chair drawn close to the couch and took Petrenko through a series of questions while the five security men stood around the Ukrainian. Their lacks of expressions and complete silence was more threatening than yelling or shaking fists. Petrenko kept throwing sidelong glances at the men as Phillips asked him question after question.

In the end, the whole story came out. Petrenko told how he had been contacted by a person who disguised his voice with a voice changer application. Petrenko had called the person The Voice.

"How innovative," Jackson commented.

The Ukrainian hood and his crew had been middle-men between The Voice and, first, the Russian consulate and, then, the embassy. Petrenko took some pleasure in telling Jackson about the GRU team that had been shipped to Toronto to take over dealings with The Voice.

"They are hard men," Petrenko told Jackson. "And they are stupid. They think they can take over from Petrenko," he complained, speaking of himself in the third person. "It has cost them twenty million dollars and they are to get obsolete code. That's how smart they are. Idiots!"

When Petrenko said that, Jackson had trouble masking his excitement. "Wait," he said holding up a hand. "You said 'they are to get the code'. What does that mean? Do they have the code or not?"

"Ah," replied Petrenko sensing the chance of bargaining with Phillips. "... you don't know, do you?"

Jackson got up from the chair and shrugged. The men standing around Petrenko's couch moved in. "No... no," Petrenko pleaded as he pressed himself back into the sofa cushion. "I will tell you."

Jackson sat again as Petrenko explained how The Voice had delayed in handing over the source code. Apparently, the code was contained on a high capacity SD card and would have taken a simple hand-off but The Voice had insisted on a down payment and continuing anonymity. The GRU leader had demanded to know the identity of The Voice so he could keep up relations with the thief. Surprisingly, especially to Petrenko, the GRU captain didn't care about the millions paid and to be paid to The Voice.

"Putin wouldn't care about a measly $20 million," said Jackson. Petrenko nodded his head in agreement but said nothing.

"And you got some of it, didn't you?" Jackson sneered at the cringing crook.

"No. I did not get anything. I was loyal to Russia..." He was petrified that someone would take away the million dollars he had netted as his commission.

"If you want to keep anything out of this, you'll answer all my questions."

It took a while but Petrenko finally admitted he had banked the million-dollar payoff. He also pleaded with Jackson not to mention the money if his security team planned visits to Petrenko's own crew. "They don't deserve any of my money," he argued. Jackson promised nothing.

After Petrenko had spilled everything he knew, Jackson told his men to search the apartment. They rummaged through the unmade bed, unwashed dishes covering the kitchen counters, cupboards and closets full of junk and drawers stuffed with papers and assorted tools. They turned up a Glock automatic, several clasp knives and a baseball bat with mysterious stains on the barrel. They took all the bullets out of the Glock and pocketed all they found among the hoard. Among Petrenko's papers, Jackson found a printout of bank accounts and, on one, he discovered Petrenko's million dollars.

The Ukrainian's eyes narrowed as Jackson read the critical document. "Well, Petrenko. It looks like anyone could get a payout if he had the right password and, guess what? This looks like your password." Jackson jabbed his finger at a scribble on the paper and Petrenko began to tremble.

"Never store your password where it can be found," Jackson advised Petrenko as he and his men completed the search.

As the men prepared to leave the unit, Petrenko regained some of his bluster. "You cannot use anything you found here. You did not have a warrant."

Jackson laughed bitterly. "We aren't the police, Petrenko. And we won't be telling them. Neither will you. We will keep all this between us." He stopped and pinned Petrenko with a searing look. "Won't we?"

In a moment, the men were gone and Petrenko remained, quaking, on his couch. He feared Phillips, the security men, the GRU team, the Russian consulate, the embassy in Ottawa, Moscow, his own motley crew and even The Voice. Police were the least of his worries.

The security group dispersed when they left Petrenko's rental building, heading home. Jackson called Bill Brownley who had other duties and reported on his visit to Petrenko. He thanked Brownley for the loan of his men, then went to his Audi and drove away through the city streets. Before arriving at his condo, he stopped at a coffee shop with a parking lot. Over a cup of hot brew, he thought about next steps.

Leaving the thief in place somewhere within JPI was not an option. The Voice would continue to steal information and put the new software at risk. He mulled over the possibility that Maxim Blax had been the thief. He had full access to everything at the company including all its servers except those in outsourced data centres. He knew what the other side would pay for. Finishing his coffee, Jackson stared into the empty cup. He dismissed Blax as the thief.

There was little doubt Blax had been affected by the brain tumour. He was a completely different person from the one Jackson had recruited in the previous year. There was no other reason why Blax had become a petty tyrant and Trump-like narcissist. While the tumour could have caused him to take any weird actions, the theft took too much organization, too much caution and contacts Blax was unlikely to nurture given his state of mind.

But, Jackson figured, Blax's illness was responsible, in part, for the theft. The CEO had not retained security measures that would have stopped the theft in the first place. He refused to act after Barry and Jean had discovered the theft. He, in fact, fought against any action and forced Brownley to go behind his back to protect JPI as well as he could.

Did someone use Blax? Did the thief put the fierce resistance into Blax's mind? And who was the 'her' he was saying sorry to? Was there any connection?

Jackson's mind was still going through permutations as he went home and turned in for the night. The coffee kept him awake for several hours and, in the morning, he felt as tired as when he had fallen asleep.