drug is stockpiled in this region for further trafficking to Ukraine and Romania. The drug continues by air from the military airport next to Tiraspol or by trucks toward the north of Moldova and then continues to Poland, Lithuania, or Latvia. The route continues in Transdniestria, reenters Ukraine at Chernivtsy to move westward to Hungary and Romania. (3) There is an important transit from the eastern border of Ukraine with Russia. The trucks from Northern Caucasus cross the border at Taganrog, Luhansk, and Kharkiv en route to Hungary and Slovakia. (4) Another transit route goes through the eastern border of Belarus with Russia since there is no control of this border with Russia….
Ukraine lacked adequate law enforcement and an independent judiciary which might be able to block the influence of organized crime. Alex’s eye settled on a concluding sentence, a masterpiece of understatement.
Institutionalized Ukrainian corruption is perceived as the worst in the world. This is no small accomplishment.
Nigeria, but worse. Oh, Lord …
She finished the document. She closed the briefing book and settled back to think. A few moments later, the door opened and Michael Cerny reappeared.
He poured himself a fresh container of coffee and sat down. “Now I need to mention something else,” he said. “ Ask you, actually. Up until this moment in time, have you ever heard of something called ‘The Caspian Group’?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “But that’s why you’re here. They’re based in Kiev. They’re a private equity firm. Almost all of their investments are related to government contracts in Ukraine and in the United States. They cozy up to the proper people in both governments, take a financial position in an industry, then move into the industry.”
He took a long drink of coffee.
“Let me illustrate to you how it’s structured,” he continued. “Picture a triangle with the three corners anchored by the politicians on one, the military on the second corner, and the oil and gas industries on the third. Then picture a second triangle, interconnected with the first. Concentric perhaps. Now assume that one triangle is an American one and the second is Ukrainian. Then figure that the two triangles, for financial purposes, are interlocked and service each other. Any corner can connect with any other corner. Follow?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But what’s the big deal? The world runs on the oil and gas business. I’m sure the triangle is filled with venal overpaid self-serving people making their fortunes off the backs of ordinary folks. Deplorable, but nothing new.”
He broke open a new file, which he pushed before her.
“I’m going to give you this to take away,” he said. “An FBI dossier on Caspian Industries. Examine what Caspian Industries is doing. A lot of money and a lot of product disappear into thin air, escaping taxation completely. See the problem?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When you go to Ukraine,” he said, “you’re going to meet this man.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. He handed her the photograph. “Say hello to Yuri Federov.”
Alex looked at an eight-by-ten surveillance shot of three men, all of whom had the Russian wise-guy look to them. They were seated at a table in a night club. There were women at the table who looked as if they were being paid to be there, one way or another. Everyone was smoking. The men had short haircuts, almost shaved heads, and wore silk suits with open collars. A Eurotrash night out. There was a stage show going on in the background. More women, but not much clothing.
Cerny leaned forward and pointed an index finger at the man in the center.
The man was a thick-browed thug with wide shoulders, a lantern jaw, and a hard dark pair of eyes. He wore some sort of a medallion at his open neck. Alex could see that it was no companion piece for the gold cross she wore around hers. She
Ukraine lacked adequate law enforcement and an independent judiciary which might be able to block the influence of organized crime. Alex’s eye settled on a concluding sentence, a masterpiece of understatement.
Institutionalized Ukrainian corruption is perceived as the worst in the world. This is no small accomplishment.
Nigeria, but worse. Oh, Lord …
She finished the document. She closed the briefing book and settled back to think. A few moments later, the door opened and Michael Cerny reappeared.
He poured himself a fresh container of coffee and sat down. “Now I need to mention something else,” he said. “ Ask you, actually. Up until this moment in time, have you ever heard of something called ‘The Caspian Group’?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “But that’s why you’re here. They’re based in Kiev. They’re a private equity firm. Almost all of their investments are related to government contracts in Ukraine and in the United States. They cozy up to the proper people in both governments, take a financial position in an industry, then move into the industry.”
He took a long drink of coffee.
“Let me illustrate to you how it’s structured,” he continued. “Picture a triangle with the three corners anchored by the politicians on one, the military on the second corner, and the oil and gas industries on the third. Then picture a second triangle, interconnected with the first. Concentric perhaps. Now assume that one triangle is an American one and the second is Ukrainian. Then figure that the two triangles, for financial purposes, are interlocked and service each other. Any corner can connect with any other corner. Follow?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But what’s the big deal? The world runs on the oil and gas business. I’m sure the triangle is filled with venal overpaid self-serving people making their fortunes off the backs of ordinary folks. Deplorable, but nothing new.”
He broke open a new file, which he pushed before her.
“I’m going to give you this to take away,” he said. “An FBI dossier on Caspian Industries. Examine what Caspian Industries is doing. A lot of money and a lot of product disappear into thin air, escaping taxation completely. See the problem?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When you go to Ukraine,” he said, “you’re going to meet this man.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. He handed her the photograph. “Say hello to Yuri Federov.”
Alex looked at an eight-by-ten surveillance shot of three men, all of whom had the Russian wise-guy look to them. They were seated at a table in a night club. There were women at the table who looked as if they were being paid to be there, one way or another. Everyone was smoking. The men had short haircuts, almost shaved heads, and wore silk suits with open collars. A Eurotrash night out. There was a stage show going on in the background. More women, but not much clothing.
Cerny leaned forward and pointed an index finger at the man in the center.
The man was a thick-browed thug with wide shoulders, a lantern jaw, and a hard dark pair of eyes. He wore some sort of a medallion at his open neck. Alex could see that it was no companion piece for the gold cross she wore around hers. She
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