The White Queen's Move... The Party's Gold

The address of my site with the works of http://www.proza.ru/avtor/evdal.

The book “The Party’s Gold” can be bought from the online-store at: http://www.lulu.com/shop/alexey-evdokmoiv/the-party-gold/paperback/product-21415350.html

Sequel to "The Party’s Gold” of http://www.proza.ru/2014/08/28/36.

ANNOTATION:

New York, Paris, London, Moscow… The name of a socialite Nadezhda Smirnova is in the midst of many international scandals. The new tabloid sensation… who is she? An innocent victim or a dangerous criminal? Continuation of the novels “Dangerous Travel” and “The White Queen’s Move.”

PART ONE

PARTY GOLD

NEW YORK. OUR DAYS…

Another hot June night was at its height… The canary yellow disk of the moon hanging in the inky sky was reflected in the greenish waters of the East River and fell on the fancifully curved arches of the George Washington Bridge. Twinkling lights of the billboards lit up the way for the belated passersby, who were hurrying from the stations of the already shut down subway to their apartments and townhouses. Luxurious limos were pulling over near the restaurants and night clubs of the upscale Fifth Avenue. New York was falling asleep after a hard day at work. Lights were going out in the windows, and only the 150-feet glowing crystal of the Statue of Liberty, towering above the great open spaces of the Ocean, was still peering into the hazy distance with billions of stars scattered all over it.

That summer night, the luxury apartment of one of the top managers of the investment bank Morgan Stanley was filled with a lively buzz of his chatting guests. Manhattan noises are almost never heard here on the thirty fifth floor of the sky-high Trump World Tower located in one of the most desirable neighborhoods of the city.

A carelessly dressed young man, utterly out of keeping with the place, was standing by the window overlooking the Upper Bay dazzling with the Brooklyn lights. His ruddy tie loosened, he kept his cell phone pressed tightly against his ear, repeating the same phrase anxiously, “Come on… pick it up… come on!”

His impatient look would change into a mix of fear and irritation whenever any of the guests passed him by, casting an indifferent glance at him.

Finally, something clicked in his cell phone and a discontented voice came through, “What the hell… at 2 a.m.…”

Interrupting his interlocutor, the young man covered his mouth with his palm and whispered quietly,

“Shut up and listen, Jerry… she’s here!”

“…Who she?” the voice asked with perplexity.

“What do you mean who? Smirnova, dammit!” the young man explained impatiently.

After a moment’s silence, the voice let forth a stream of oaths mixed with ecstatic exclamations. The young man frowned, tapping the phone on his lap nonchalantly, waiting for the voice to calm down, and as soon as it did, said,

“Are you done?”

“Well, then listen… I wasn’t meant to be here. Our old grumbler needs information for this Sunday’s issue of the magazine, so he sent me here to talk with Richard Grant. I didn’t make it to Grant but half an hour ago I see… Smirnova herself come out of the elevator with that manager of hers, good-looking man. My eyes popped out of my head! We’ve been looking to get hold of her at one of the VIP social events, but here she is! Now they’re at Grant’s office. Talking about something…”

Another stream of ecstatic exclamations came out of the phone.

Interrupting, the young man continued,

“I’m calling you why, get the cameraman here. I’ve captured her on my phone, but you know it’s going to be of poor quality. Plus, what if I get to interview her, you never know…”

The voice responded with a hoarse laughter.

“Don’t you laugh at me…” the young man objected in an injured voice. “She’s here with no bodyguards and I don’t think Grant would want to force me out. He doesn’t need a scandal right now. He has to be nice to the press…”

The voice fell into silence skeptically.

“All right… I have to go,” the young man hurried off. “They’re coming out. Come on, get the cameraman here. You can come over if you want to. Well, talk to you later…”

The young man hurried towards the center of the hall. While passing by a tall, elegantly dressed young woman, he slipped awkwardly and grabbed at her hand trying not to fall. The woman started and a small purse dropped out of her hands.

“My deepest apologies!” the young man exclaimed in confusion.

He picked up the purse off the parquet floor and, handing it over to the woman, smiled guiltily.

“Sorry again. That was embarrassing…” he said.

Her big blue eyes sweeping over the man, she smiled, too.

“Don’t worry. That’s okay.”

The woman turned to a broad-shouldered man in a tailcoat with a distinguished Roman profile and a touch of noble grey hair and, apparently continuing their interrupted conversation, asked,

“So you think I should accept his offer? I think it’s risky.”

“Excuse me…” she heard someone say from behind her.

The woman turned around. The young man was still standing next to her.

“Excuse me,” he repeated. “Would it be okay if I asked you for an autograph?”

The woman’s eyebrows quirked up.

“An autograph?” she sounded confused.

“Yes, an autograph!” the young man exclaimed. “I know you. You’re Nadezhda Smirnova! I read an article about you in Cosmopolitan lately…”

The woman frowned discontentedly.

“Sir, you must be taking me for someone else.”

“No way! It’s you… I saw your photographs, too.”

The woman exchanged glances with the man she was talking to and, upon receiving a nod of approval from him, uttered in a tired voice,

“Okay, you’re right. Where do you want me to sign an autograph for you?”

The young man pulled a business card out of his pocket swiftly.

“Here you are…”

While signing it, the woman shook her head and looked at the young man satirically.

“You’re a reporter with the New York Post… and all this show was to just obtain an interview from me?”

A shy smile appeared on the young man’s face again.

“Seriously, I feel bad asking you…”

The woman exchanged glances with the man again.

“Well…” she sighed. “You’ve chosen the right time. I’m actually ready to give one…”

WASHINGTON. SIX MONTHS AGO…

FBI special agent Michael Douglas has never been a dreamer. Young as he was, only twenty eight years old, he learned to take a sober view of things and, making an important decision, always rely on common sense, rather than intuition or luck. Born in a family of modest means, he always solved his problems himself, without seeking help or advice from anybody. To enter Columbia University, he had to serve in the US Marine Corps for two years and roast himself in Iraq and Afghanistan. He graduated from the faculty of law three years ago and was going to become a lawyer, but when he had a chance to work for the FBI, he decided to go for it. Although working with the FBI was less rewarding financially and had fewer prospects than working for some private company, first of all it was secure and predictable, while unfortunately he had to deal with all kinds of unexpected contingencies too many times in his life; and secondly, he always associated becoming an FBI agent with joining some inner circle of government officials.

He passed both a psychological test and a lie detector test, but when it came to his university study, the selection committee had doubts. Michael still could not understand why, among two dozen candidates, the committee chose him. Perhaps, it was because of his college boxing championship title and service in the Marine Corps, but nevertheless a week after he passed his entrance exams, the entered the FBI building in Quantico. He had to work hard there, too. He was a good shooter and physically fit, but had problems with criminalistics. That is why his placement in the FBI main office after graduation was a big surprise for him.

Douglas parked his car on one of the streets adjacent to Pennsylvania Avenue and, passing by the former Ministry of Press building, headed to the FBI headquarters. He walked through a metal detector and showed his pass to a guard, crossed a well-deep inside yard with dozens of pictures of the FBI founding father J. Edgar Hoover and walked up to the third floor. Hardly had he sat down in the chair when an in-house telephone rang.

“Hello, Douglas speaking…” he picked up the phone.

“Hello, Michael!” responded Douglas’s department manager, a forty-year-old sturdy fellow and tireless womanizer Robert Hoffman. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m good, sir… Thank you…”

“I’m glad I found you, Michael…” Hoffman was speaking with someone on another phone. “There’s work for you, so I’m waiting for you in my office. And bring two coffees from McDonald’s, will you? I didn’t have breakfast today.”

Douglas slipped on his blazer, locked the office door, grabbed two coffees, and walked up to the fifth floor where the managers’ offices were located on. Several agents from the same department as Douglas were waiting by Hoffman’s door with papers to sign.

“Oh, Michael, come on it…” Hoffman’s rosy-cheeked, tanned and somewhat equine face showed up in the doorway.

He took Douglas by the hand and brought him to a table heaped up with newspapers and computer disks.

“Have a seat…” Hoffman opened up his coffee and took a few quick sips.

Douglas sat down in the chair with a notebook on his laps to listen to what Hoffman had to say. Hoffman came to their department just a few months ago. He replaced the FBI veteran Eddie Stone who had been running the department for nearly fifteen years and enjoyed indisputable authority with his employees. Stone was in his late fifties, so he was pensioned off his cushy job when the FBI leadership were asked to find a nice job for a certain person. Douglas knew that Hoffman got the job thanks to his wife who was friends with some bigwig from the Obama administration.

“Listen, Michael, here’s the thing… Yesterday, the director asked me to figure out something.”

Hoffman opened his safe and took out a heavy folder with some documents. He pulled out a few prints and handed them over to Douglas.

“Our guys in Langley discovered another laundry of the Columbian drug cartel and the names of a few well-known New York financiers popped up. The file has their names,” Hoffman tapped on one of the prints with his finger. “Our boss asked us to look into one of them…” Hoffman paused trying to recall the name, but then read it out, “Alexander Gon-gad-ze… Do we have anything on him? Study who he spends time with. Maybe, you’ll find something interesting, although…” Hoffman waved his hand hopelessly, “I think it’s a waste of time. CIA’s been investigating him for half a year now but they’ve got nothing. Almost all New York financial heavyweights are mixed up in such criminal conspiracies, so don’t waste too much time on him. Make up our conclusion. I’ll read it and take it to the director. We’ve got other things to do. If you have no questions, you can go.”

Douglas returned to his office, put the folder in his safe and, rubbing the face with his hands, sat down at his computer. The work promised to be long and boring.

Keeping his eyes on the ceiling, he tried to remember the password to access the FBI database. When he realized he could not do it, he started opening his desk drawers. When he finally found a travel brochure on Macao, which he happened to visit last year, and leafed through it, he found the required number and letter combination. It was written with a pen on the last page of the brochure.

Douglas entered the database and looked through the files it had. To his request for Alexander Gongadze’s immediate environment, several color photographs appeared on the screen. Douglas looked at them with interest. He saw a young woman with a beautiful face.

“Dammit, she’s gorgeous!” he shook his head. “Where do they meet them?” Douglas thought, recalling the face and body of his wife who got obese eating fast food and drinking Coke.

He read the captions under the photograph.

“So… Nadezhda Vladimirovna Smirnova,” the words sounded weird to Douglas. “Born, studied, lived…” he looked through her biography quickly trying to remember as much of it as he could.

As Douglas was winding up studying the files and was about to go have lunch, the telephone rang again. He picked it up and heard Hoffman’s voice again.

“Michal, it’s good you answered my call. I’ve got guys from Langley in my office. I’m sending them over to you…” short beeps followed.

“Damn!” Douglas cursed involuntary. “Why now?”

He glanced at his watch… it was 2.30 p.m. “If the meeting doesn’t end quickly, I’ll be left with no lunch,” he thought and, taking off his blazer, sat back in his chair. A minute later, someone knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Michael shouted unhappily.

Two men entered the room. He knew one of them – Richard Broddy from the European CIA. As for the other one, an elderly man whose face was all covered with scars, he has never met him before.

“Albert Lisovsky!” he introduced himself politely with a strong Slavic accent.

When the agents sat down in chairs, Douglas switched on the air conditioner, put Hoffman’s folder on the table and looked at them intently, as if inviting them to engage in a conversation.

His legs crossed, Richard Broddy was relaxed. Staring at the ceiling, he was pinching his reddish musketeer beard melancholically with his fingertips. The other one sat by the window. Frozen in a position of high tension, he was readjusting his large sunglasses.

“Well, gentlemen, is there anything I can help you?”

Douglas tried to sound confident, the way all detectives who had been working for the FBI for a long time always did.

“Here’s the thing, Michael…” Richard Broddy began calmly, shifting his eyes from the ceiling to Douglas and making himself comfortable in his chair. Exercising his rights as an old acquaintance of Douglas, he called Michael by his name. “Last year our investigation led us to an arms dealer, one of the ‘latinos,’ who was contacted by a well-known local financier. You must have come across his name in the file already. He’s of Russian origin. Now lives in France but once in a while shows up here in New York…”

Broddy paused. Taking advantage of which Douglas asked,

“Contacted how?”

“Well…” Broddy waved his hand vaguely, “it doesn’t really matter.”

The bank he owned would give him loans on very favorable terms. It made us think something was off about it. So we contacted the French counterintelligence organization to have them check the guy and they found out a very interesting fact. Three years ago, his girlfriend named Smirnova, also a Russian, was caught having a conspiracy meeting with a Russian Embassy in France official. They’ve been keeping him under surveillance and thus her name came up. They had a secret mail drop in the Bois de Boulogne. They deported the diplomat but didn’t touch her. They pretended to believe the tales she told about some Russians who were trying to win her over to their side. She made a written statement in the police commissariat claiming that the Embassy officials would pass her lists with some questions through the drop and demanded that she collected secret information through her friends. They threatened her that if she refused to cooperate, her relatives in Russia would have serious problems.

“Did her friends have that information?” Douglas wondered.

Broddy raised his eyebrows.

“Of course!.. They were well-informed. Two generals from the Ministry of Defense and one high-ranking official from the Chirac administration. Smirnova attended all social events in Paris and always was in the limelight. Such people were buzzing round her like bees round a honey pot. When those gentlemen learned who she was, they got scared and put pressure on the the Sûreté nationale, so they hushed up the thing. Besides, the newspapers found out about it somehow and made a big fuss. They wrote something like a poor widow, who was still mourning, was being dragged by some cunning Russians who murdered her husband into some dirty business… and so on and so forth. So they didn’t touch her. Besides, they wanted to wait until the scandal abates, she gets active and they could find more members of the network through her. But she’s been acting carefully since then, didn’t contact anybody and even moved to the US, got a green card. Although she still has her French citizenship. So, that’s what Monsieur Lisovsky told us in detail…” Broddy nodded towards the man by the window. Douglas was listening to him with growing interest.

“We got the analysts on the case and they determined a weird regularity. This banker is somehow connected with most castes related to financial fraud. Not directly… indirectly. He’s a friend of one person involved in the crime, a business partner with another. But the analytics claim it can’t be a coincidence!”

Broddy fell silent, opened a bottle standing on the table, and poured some mineral water into a glass.

“Do you think he has anything to do with it?” Douglas asked with suspicion.

Broddy was about to reply when the man in sunglasses who was sitting by the window spoke in a rasping voice,

“No, I know Alexander Gongadze. He’s not capable of it.”

The man stood up from his chair and, slightly limping, came up to the table.

“Who do you think is behind all this then?” Broddy asked in confusion, taking a sip.

“Here she is!...”

The man pulled a few pictures out of the folder and threw them on the table. Douglas saw the young woman whose face he was admiring on his computer screen an hour ago.