what he is doing in this matter!”
“I understand,” said Chudin, obviously trying to remain calm. “I will ask. On another matter … and I assume the reason he is not in Kiev … Can you tell me anything about the bombing of his office?”
“No,” said Smirnov. “My agents are working with your militia. Together, perhaps we can solve something in this ancient city before it becomes even more ancient.”
“And before we become ancient and are forced into retirement,” said Chudin.
After Smirnov hung up, his secretary returned with a hard copy of the report and Smirnov put this and a copy of the computer disk in the envelope marked Secret . Perhaps this afternoon someone upstairs would be on the job and be kind enough to open the envelope.
The Gypsy named Nagy would be traveling up the elevator where Smirnov could only assume his file was getting thicker and thicker each week.
That afternoon Smirnov received a scrambled call from Sergei Izrael, his old roommate at the National SBU Academy. Izrael had been head of the Odessa field office but was recently transferred to Slavutich, the town built for Chernobyl workers. Izrael called Smirnov at least once a week. During their conversation, the Gypsy came up again.
“Why are you interested in Nagy?” asked Smirnov.
“A private investigator implicates a Moscow Patriarchate priest, and following this he is bombed,” said Izrael. “We had many female clinics in Odessa, and I preferred observing non-pregnant nymphs on the beach.”
“You have a way with words, Sergei.”
“I owe it to our beloved days at the academy. I wish I was still in Odessa. But it was a promotion. Yuri, do you recall after graduation you and Brekhov and myself vowed to keep one another informed, no matter who moves up the ladder?”
“Yes, so what is new?” asked Smirnov.
“Something Brekhov said might relate to female clinics being bombed and adult video stores burning down. But the information must stop with you.”
“I understand,” said Smirnov.
“A deathbed letter from another Moscow Patriarchate priest was sent to Brekhov. He reported it to headquarters in your building and was told to send it in and close the file. No copies, no report, by order of SBU Deputy Anatoly Lyashko, head of the Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime.”
“Now I understand why you called on a scrambled line.”
“You are alone?” asked Izrael.
“Yes,” said Smirnov.
“The deathbed letter implied teenagers are being recruited and kidnapped to be trafficked and used in pornography and members of the church are involved. To cover themselves, they bomb female clinics, burn down adult video stores, and implicate rival churches. Murders of the Moldavian Ivan Babii, the Ukrainian pornographer Belak, and the American pornographer Donner also may be part of a plan to cover a trail leading back to Kiev.”
“The upper floors of this building?” asked Smirnov.
“I cannot say for sure,” said Izrael.
“I wonder,” said Smirnov. “I’ve always wondered about the agenda of our Anatoly Lyashko, especially being head of Combating Corruption and Organized Crime.”
“Yes,” said Izrael. “NGOs like La Strada have also wondered about him. Perhaps this is why no information has been released concerning the murders of the pornographers in the Carpathians and the fate of the teenagers taken from them.”
“We tread on sensitive ground,” said Smirnov.
“I agree,” said Izrael. “One last thing before we end this unpleasantness: the reason your superior, Anatoly Lyashko, keeps quiet. Pornographers kidnap teenagers, use them in videos, and then sell them on the trafficking market. Mostly girls, but there have been some boys. Either Lyashko does not want to upset every parent in Ukraine who has a child missing—”
“Or he has other reasons,” said Smirnov.
“Reasons related to his expensive SBU Bentley and an apartment in Kiev while his wife lives far away near
“I understand,” said Chudin, obviously trying to remain calm. “I will ask. On another matter … and I assume the reason he is not in Kiev … Can you tell me anything about the bombing of his office?”
“No,” said Smirnov. “My agents are working with your militia. Together, perhaps we can solve something in this ancient city before it becomes even more ancient.”
“And before we become ancient and are forced into retirement,” said Chudin.
After Smirnov hung up, his secretary returned with a hard copy of the report and Smirnov put this and a copy of the computer disk in the envelope marked Secret . Perhaps this afternoon someone upstairs would be on the job and be kind enough to open the envelope.
The Gypsy named Nagy would be traveling up the elevator where Smirnov could only assume his file was getting thicker and thicker each week.
That afternoon Smirnov received a scrambled call from Sergei Izrael, his old roommate at the National SBU Academy. Izrael had been head of the Odessa field office but was recently transferred to Slavutich, the town built for Chernobyl workers. Izrael called Smirnov at least once a week. During their conversation, the Gypsy came up again.
“Why are you interested in Nagy?” asked Smirnov.
“A private investigator implicates a Moscow Patriarchate priest, and following this he is bombed,” said Izrael. “We had many female clinics in Odessa, and I preferred observing non-pregnant nymphs on the beach.”
“You have a way with words, Sergei.”
“I owe it to our beloved days at the academy. I wish I was still in Odessa. But it was a promotion. Yuri, do you recall after graduation you and Brekhov and myself vowed to keep one another informed, no matter who moves up the ladder?”
“Yes, so what is new?” asked Smirnov.
“Something Brekhov said might relate to female clinics being bombed and adult video stores burning down. But the information must stop with you.”
“I understand,” said Smirnov.
“A deathbed letter from another Moscow Patriarchate priest was sent to Brekhov. He reported it to headquarters in your building and was told to send it in and close the file. No copies, no report, by order of SBU Deputy Anatoly Lyashko, head of the Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime.”
“Now I understand why you called on a scrambled line.”
“You are alone?” asked Izrael.
“Yes,” said Smirnov.
“The deathbed letter implied teenagers are being recruited and kidnapped to be trafficked and used in pornography and members of the church are involved. To cover themselves, they bomb female clinics, burn down adult video stores, and implicate rival churches. Murders of the Moldavian Ivan Babii, the Ukrainian pornographer Belak, and the American pornographer Donner also may be part of a plan to cover a trail leading back to Kiev.”
“The upper floors of this building?” asked Smirnov.
“I cannot say for sure,” said Izrael.
“I wonder,” said Smirnov. “I’ve always wondered about the agenda of our Anatoly Lyashko, especially being head of Combating Corruption and Organized Crime.”
“Yes,” said Izrael. “NGOs like La Strada have also wondered about him. Perhaps this is why no information has been released concerning the murders of the pornographers in the Carpathians and the fate of the teenagers taken from them.”
“We tread on sensitive ground,” said Smirnov.
“I agree,” said Izrael. “One last thing before we end this unpleasantness: the reason your superior, Anatoly Lyashko, keeps quiet. Pornographers kidnap teenagers, use them in videos, and then sell them on the trafficking market. Mostly girls, but there have been some boys. Either Lyashko does not want to upset every parent in Ukraine who has a child missing—”
“Or he has other reasons,” said Smirnov.
“Reasons related to his expensive SBU Bentley and an apartment in Kiev while his wife lives far away near
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