Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
The Federal Bureau of Investigation opened the file in early 2024 after a trafficking victim—a twenty-three-year-old Romanian woman—was recovered from a brothel in Tukwila, Washington. The FBI became immediately involved and Royce was able to identify Voronin’s organization as the source of her transit out of Canada. The bureau spent six months building a working picture and cultivated two confidential informants. One was a low-level dock worker who had been at one of the off-loads. The other was a woman who had been trafficked through the pipeline and escaped after eighteen months in the network.
Both informants died in the second year of the investigation.
A slide appears with their photos and Royce’s lips flatten in dismay over the loss of her assets.
“Mr. Salah was found in his apartment in March. Cause of death was officially listed as a fentanyl overdose, but he had no documented history of drug use.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Ms. Petrenko disappeared in July, and her body was recovered from Puget Sound.”
My chest squeezes painfully as I think of those women who were being off-loaded the other night. Where will they eventually die?
This is why Jameson was contracted to help with the case. The death of the informants put the FBI back to ground zero and they needed fresh eyes and an intelligence network as good as the bureau’s.
Royce taps a key on her laptop and a photo of Voronin appears. It was taken recently—he’s in a tuxedo. Early sixties with iron-gray hair neatly cut short on the sides.
He could be anyone’s grandfather out for a night at the theater.
“Voronin came from Russia to the United States in 1991 with organized crime ties through the St. Petersburg networks. He naturalized in 1998 and has no US criminal record. He owns a logistics consultancy in Bellevue and a primary residence on Mercer Island. He donates to the Seattle Art Museum and to Children’s Hospital. He’s a model immigrant on paper.”
“But not in practice,” Reid mutters.
Royce agrees and nods toward the screen where Voronin’s face smiles out at us. “In reality, we suspect he runs the largest maritime trafficking pipeline on the West Coast.”
She closes the laptop with a sigh. “How about you tell me what you’ve been able to glean since our last meeting?”
Malik takes control of the flat screen with his laptop, running through the last six weeks of work. He runs through BOB’s pattern analysis on vessel traffic in the Salish Sea as well as financial analysis of the shell companies adjacent to Voronin’s operation.
“We’ve identified two probable secondary cargo hubs, and we’ll be getting eyes on them in rotating shifts,” he says, nodding at the two new agents. “Wright and Fanasick will each lead their own teams.”
Malik gets to my contribution and nods my way. “As I told you in a written report a few days ago, Ms. McAdams had a run-in with Voronin’s men.”
“Yes,” Royce says, eyes glinting with anticipation. “This is what I really want to hear about.”
I clear my throat, feeling a little nervous under the spotlight. “I ran an analytical track that turned me on to a potential off-load sight on Fidalgo.”
“Which is the exact reason we wanted Jameson on this case,” Royce says, her eyes landing steady on me. “But I would like you to walk us through what you observed on Fidalgo Island on Thursday night. I’ve read the debrief by Mr. Mercer, but I’d like to hear every detail you can recall.”
I’m ready for this request. I expected she’d want to hear it and I spent a lot of time rehearsing last night after Malik let me know I’d be in on this meeting. I went over Cole’s debrief report, and I tried to figure out any angle that Royce might come at me for additional details that could put attention on Finn.
I start to recount the tale. The bluff above the dock, the photographs I took, the deer trail I hadn’t scouted, the arm around my throat from behind. I tell her about being marched down onto the dock, the handcuffed women, and the man who was apparently in charge by the name of Mikhail.
Royce holds up a hand and I stop, looking at her in question. The agent she brought along pulls a photograph from a folder and gives it to Royce who slides it to me. “Is this the man?”
It’s a surveillance photo, mid-resolution, taken from elevation. I look up at her. “That’s him.”
Royce nods slowly. “His name is Mikhail Sokolov. He has been on our watch list and we can connect him to Voronin’s legitimate business enterprises. We have him at Voronin’s residence on a dozen occasions and even as his plus-one at industry events. We can prove he works for Voronin in every way that matters except the one that would put him in prison.” She pauses, and I’m not sure it’s for dramatic effect when she says, “Until you.”