from one major city to another, touching base with his lieutenants to make sure everything is running smoothly. If it isn’t, people die.”
“Okay, I have a question,” Erika broke in. She had followed Ometov closely, and now she sat with her legs crossed, ankle on knee, leaning back, her hand open and cocked to stop Ometov. “How much do you know about Krupatin’s assassins?”
Ometov gave her a wry grin. “How much do I know?”
“Yes. The biggest problem for law enforcement in the European Community is—”
“Sharing intelligence. No one wants to share intelligence,” Ometov said with a weary nod.
“Exactly.” Erika closed her hand into a fist. “In the EC we have twelve different governments with twelve different political philosophies and twelve different legal systems. But police agencies are the same everywhere—they don’t trust anyone else with their intelligence. So these people, Krupatin’s people, can kill in one country, drive a hundred miles and kill in another country, catch an hour’s flight and kill in yet another country, and as far as the law enforcement agencies know, it is as if three different guys did three different hits. There’s no way to build a file on these people. Krupatin’s enforcers essentially have a free hand, because nobody’s keeping a running record from country to country.”
Ometov, who was leaning on the sliding glass doors and looking out at the courtyard beyond, had turned sideways to listen to her. He said, “You have a lot of palms here. I like palms. Very tropical.”
“The question is,” Erika said, throwing a look of exasperation at Hain, “who are Krupatin’s hitters? We know he has used his close Chechen friends. We killed two of them in Berlin six months ago, after they hit three Dutch traffickers. But does he use only Chechens? How does he set them up? How do they operate?”
Ometov looked down, seemed to study his feet, and then turned to the others again.
“Initially, of course, they were his Chechen associates. Thugs.” He shook his head. “Just thugs. There was very little need for finesse.”
“Initially,” Erika said.
“Yes. As time passed, as his organization became more sophisticated and his targets were men of greater importance, it was essential that the killings be conducted more … surgically. He began using active KGB agents who took assignments from him off the record. Of course, after the fall of communism there was no shortage of these men. There was no trouble moving across borders. Sergei has always had superb forgers. Documents are no problem.”
“The KGB agents are not so hard for us,” Erika said.“Our foreign intelligence from the cold war years is good there. But they are not the only hitters.”
“No, you’re right,” Ometov confirmed. “Often in other countries he uses ‘disposables,’ people who are hired to do the actual work and who are killed themselves when they return home—wherever that might be.” He paused. “And then there are a few ‘surgeons’—Krupatin’s specialty. These are the top assassins. They are usually highly educated people, professionals who are not from Krupatin’s world but who have had the bad luck somehow to cross his path. These people usually have access to someone special, someone who would otherwise be nearly impossible to get to without attracting sensational attention. But the surgeon has no problem, because he is one of them. He is a banker. An executive. A bureaucrat. A lawyer. Krupatin’s theory is, if you want to kill a politician, get a politician to do it. If you want to kill a stockbroker, get another stockbroker to do it. Because they are on the inside, they know how to do it without disturbance. And because they have no motive, they are never suspects.”
“What are you talking about?” Erika frowned.
“In very simple terms, these people are approached by Krupatin’s lieutenants and are given a choice. Either they do a job or a wife is
“Okay, I have a question,” Erika broke in. She had followed Ometov closely, and now she sat with her legs crossed, ankle on knee, leaning back, her hand open and cocked to stop Ometov. “How much do you know about Krupatin’s assassins?”
Ometov gave her a wry grin. “How much do I know?”
“Yes. The biggest problem for law enforcement in the European Community is—”
“Sharing intelligence. No one wants to share intelligence,” Ometov said with a weary nod.
“Exactly.” Erika closed her hand into a fist. “In the EC we have twelve different governments with twelve different political philosophies and twelve different legal systems. But police agencies are the same everywhere—they don’t trust anyone else with their intelligence. So these people, Krupatin’s people, can kill in one country, drive a hundred miles and kill in another country, catch an hour’s flight and kill in yet another country, and as far as the law enforcement agencies know, it is as if three different guys did three different hits. There’s no way to build a file on these people. Krupatin’s enforcers essentially have a free hand, because nobody’s keeping a running record from country to country.”
Ometov, who was leaning on the sliding glass doors and looking out at the courtyard beyond, had turned sideways to listen to her. He said, “You have a lot of palms here. I like palms. Very tropical.”
“The question is,” Erika said, throwing a look of exasperation at Hain, “who are Krupatin’s hitters? We know he has used his close Chechen friends. We killed two of them in Berlin six months ago, after they hit three Dutch traffickers. But does he use only Chechens? How does he set them up? How do they operate?”
Ometov looked down, seemed to study his feet, and then turned to the others again.
“Initially, of course, they were his Chechen associates. Thugs.” He shook his head. “Just thugs. There was very little need for finesse.”
“Initially,” Erika said.
“Yes. As time passed, as his organization became more sophisticated and his targets were men of greater importance, it was essential that the killings be conducted more … surgically. He began using active KGB agents who took assignments from him off the record. Of course, after the fall of communism there was no shortage of these men. There was no trouble moving across borders. Sergei has always had superb forgers. Documents are no problem.”
“The KGB agents are not so hard for us,” Erika said.“Our foreign intelligence from the cold war years is good there. But they are not the only hitters.”
“No, you’re right,” Ometov confirmed. “Often in other countries he uses ‘disposables,’ people who are hired to do the actual work and who are killed themselves when they return home—wherever that might be.” He paused. “And then there are a few ‘surgeons’—Krupatin’s specialty. These are the top assassins. They are usually highly educated people, professionals who are not from Krupatin’s world but who have had the bad luck somehow to cross his path. These people usually have access to someone special, someone who would otherwise be nearly impossible to get to without attracting sensational attention. But the surgeon has no problem, because he is one of them. He is a banker. An executive. A bureaucrat. A lawyer. Krupatin’s theory is, if you want to kill a politician, get a politician to do it. If you want to kill a stockbroker, get another stockbroker to do it. Because they are on the inside, they know how to do it without disturbance. And because they have no motive, they are never suspects.”
“What are you talking about?” Erika frowned.
“In very simple terms, these people are approached by Krupatin’s lieutenants and are given a choice. Either they do a job or a wife is
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