CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 12) ENTER IGOR KUNTEVICH
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
28.
At eight minutes before midnight in Geneva, Tom Richardson’s cell phone jingled.
Earlier, he had spent a most interesting afternoon and evening with one Igor Kuntevich.
The Russian, who billed himself as a book publisher based in Moscow, claimed to have read about Richardson in the International Herald Tribune online. As to how he had tracked the rogue American spy from Paris to Hotel Cornavin, where he had phoned Richardson from the lobby, Kuntevich remained cagey, explaining it as “Friends-connections.”
In fact, Kuntevich, who wore his long brown hair in a ponytail and, with a full beard looked as if like he’d traveled through a time warp from Haight-Ashbury, was an officer of the SVR, Russia’s foreign intelligence service. Book publishing was a hastily designed cover to woo the ex-CIA officer.
Normally, the SVR took elaborate measures to create a legend. But in this case, Kuntevich’s ploy was only a pretense, as the Russians expected Richardson to see through it anyway.
This was Kuntevich’s assignment: To give Richardson a plausible way of selling secrets to the Russians without ostensibly dealing with the SVR or defecting.
Richardson had a manuscript for sale, a Russian publisher wanted to buy it, simple as that.
More important, from Richardson’s perspective, this Russian publisher was willing to pay big—cash money. Kuntevich had even brought along a down payment of $25,000, neatly bundled stacks of $100 dollar bills in a black computer bag, so eager was he to seal the deal.
But Richardson, seeing through the ploy, as expected, determined that the Russians were capable of paying far more than the 50-grand advance on royalties Kuntevich offered in two parts. Indeed, it took the American less than an hour to double the amount to $100,000, payable into a ciphered Swiss bank account that the bold Kuntevich had already opened for Richardson.
Cocky sons-of-bitches, these Russians.
Richardson quickly realized an advance was all he would ever get out of Kuntevich, not because the U.S. Government would freeze monies, but because trying to get a penny more would be fruitless. It’s not like he would sue them in Moscow, and if he did, the Russian intelligence services had other ways of dealing with problem people. He also saw in Kuntevich’s eyes desperation to make a deal on any terms.
And so the Richardson teased the Russian, explaining he’d already had a good offer from a British publisher.
Kuntevich had shrugged. “You can sell to them, and they publish in UK, no problem for us.”
“But they want world-rights,” added Richardson.
“We buy only for Russia,” said Kuntevich. “And we are fast. We publish in six months.”
“I also have a famous movie star who wants to option my book, for a great deal of money.”
“How much?”
“Seven figures.” This wasn’t true, but Richardson wasn’t beyond bluffing.
Kuntevich nodded, tight-lipped.
“That’s what gets my attention,” added Richardson. “Seven figures.”
The Russian locked his eyes into Richardson’s own. “It is worth seven figures?”
The American grinned. “You know it is.”
Kuntevich went off for taking further instruction from superiors in Moscow on how much higher he could go, up front, in pursuit of secrets.
And now, near midnight, Richardson answered his phone.
“Yeah, I can make it over to Geneva,” said Hollywood movie star Josh Penner. “But first I need to consult with some studio suits, make sure they’re willing to put up. No point reading your material unless I have the means to buy it.”
“You can’t buy it yourself?”
“OPM,” replied Penner.
“OPM?”
“Other People’s Money. That’s how Hollywood operates.”
“So how much time do you need?” asked Richardson.
“A week.”
“Not longer. I’m under pressure to make a quick deal, and I’ve been offered a lot.”
“From who?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here, and we’ll try to structure a deal that gives everyone what they want. By the way, why did you announce we already had a deal?”
Penner hesitated for a second, caught off guard by this question. “That’s the way we operate in Hollywood. You want something, you pretend it’s a done deal.”
“But how did you know I was being held by the French?”
Penner snickered. “ I didn’t.”
“What?”
“It was just a hunch because I couldn’t reach you. I thought it was the most likely reason based on your situation.”
“That’s odd,” said Richardson.
“Yeah, well, nobody’s ever accused me of being normal.”
“But what if I wasn’t being held by the French?”
“Who cares? They’d deny it, some people would believe them, some wouldn’t, and it would make your story all the more interesting from Hollywood’s perspective.”
Richardson absorbed this, confirming all the weirdness he’d ever believed about Tinseltown. “Okay. No later than a week.”
Penner disconnected and turned to face Charles Mulberry, his CIA case officer, who had insisted this call be made in his presence. “Catch all that?”
Mulberry nodded appreciatively without feeling a need to conduct his teeth-counting OCD ritual. “How soon can you make it to DC?”
29.
Igor Yourevitch Kuntevich, who went by the nickname Kunty, had been born in Moscow 39 years earlier, the son of a career KGB officer.
Kunty had joined the SVR in the mid-1990s after graduating from the Red Banner Intelligence Academy. He was assigned to Directorate PR, responsible for political intelligence, in their United States Department. In 2005, Kunty completed the Senior Intelligence Staff Course and transferred to Directorate KR, External Counter-Intelligence, where he was assigned to the France desk.
The name “Thomas Richardson” first crossed Kunty’s desk while Richardson was still employed by the CIA, when one of the SVR’s spies within the French DGSE had reported Richardson’s imminent arrival as a CIA officer in Paris. And then Richardson did not arrive. Enquiries were made—and the answers were provocative. Richardson was not a happy camper; he was a loose cannon. And he apparently knew extremely important secrets about operations and personnel in France.
And so Kunty had created a dossier on Richardson and, through assorted officers, tried as best he could to keep tabs on the ex-CIA officer’s situation and whereabouts.
His big break came when the International Herald Tribune published news of Josh Penner’s media conference. Kunty immediately flew to Paris and, liaising with an SVR officer stationed at the Russian Embassy, learned through a French informant where Richardson was living.
From that point it was a matter of checking into Hotel Lutece on Rue Saint-Louis en I’lle, awaiting Richardson’s return, then trailing him to Geneva.
Now, using a new pay-as-you-go phone, he communicated with SVR headquarters at Yasenevo, near Moscow, pleading for authorization to pay seven figures for Richardson’s manuscript. It required approvals from higher-up, which meant time, so all Kuntevich could do was kick back and take long walks around Lake Lemann.
When he finally obtained a green light to go as high as one million dollars, Richardson told him to hang tight; that the movie star he’d mentioned would fly into Geneva to make his own offer.
Clearly, the rogue ex-CIA officer enjoyed playing one off against the other.