No Such Thing as a Good Russian

CHAPTER ONE

Lake Joseph

Ontario, Canada

I was luxuriating in the Canadian version of hot weather, lying on a wooden dock, a beach towel underneath my body to insulate my tender parts from the heat of the boards of the dock that extended into the calm water. The water around the dock was so clear, I could have seen every detail of the bottom of Lake Joseph about two meters under the surface if I stood up and looked down. 

Staring upward through lightly-tinted sunglasses, at a cloudless sky. I blinked and turned my head to look, across the small bay, to the opposite mainland. I could see - and envy - the wondrous cottages and companion docks that populated much of the beachfronts in my view. Each cottage owned several hectares of land and, on that land, there were countless trees in the background and large, clean rocks in the foreground. Some of the cottages had grass lawns and sand strips between the line of boulders and the water.  Some had frontages that were left in states called ‘natural’ by environmentalists or ‘scruffy’ by recreationists. The best groomed and most incredible of these cottages was a monster.

In truth, the wooden dock on which I lay was not mine. It came with the small but comfortable cottage I rented about two weeks ago. I had chosen this cottage precisely because its dock pointed directly across the bay at the much grander waterfront of that super cottage. My cottage would be a closet in that place across the inlet.

It was a typical summer day in Ontario’s so-called ‘cottage country’. It was hot; to a native, 31 degrees on the Centigrade scale. In the U.S., about 300 kilometers to the south, distance would be measured in miles (approx. 200) and temperature in Degrees Fahrenheit. So, 31 degrees C would be 87.8 degrees F. Thanks to climate change, some states within the USA see thermometers registering 115 degrees F as a new norm - killing weather.

Enough about measurements, except for this comment: isn’t it strange that the U.S. won its independence from Britain in 1776 but still clings to the British system of measurement while the rest of the free world has the metric system? Is this a reluctance to do away, once and for all, with the colonialist trappings installed by lordly egocentrics?

My mind took a sharp detour from such anachronistic thinking this clear, warm morning. I flipped back to trying to figure out what brought me to this idyllic spot on Lake Joseph in the Muskoka region of Ontario, a province in Canada.

CHAPTER TWO

I retired from the Canadian Armed Forces several years ago. A pal who shed the khaki before me told me about an opening in the federal government and, much too quickly, I applied for the newly-created position in the offices of the Minister of Foreign Affairs. 

I forgot a basic lesson I learned in my first year at Officer Candidate School: always scout out a potential enemy and plan every detail before confronting an opposing force. I was surprised when I was awarded the job and I became Special Security Advisor to the Minister after asking only two questions - how much is the pay and where is my office? The pay seemed overly high but I wasn’t going to argue. The briefing official was vague about my workplace but left me assuming I would get one, somewhere in Ottawa, Canada’s capital. 

After signing the contract, I discovered I should have been more curious. What was carefully explained to me was: there already is a National Security Advisor to the Prime Minister. I was attached to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and answerable to a very important person but not the PM. I wasn’t 'special' good or 'special' valuable. I was 'special' because no one else had the same title I would have. Eventually, I learned that no one else would want the same title because it didn’t come with a job description. I would do what the higher-ups told me to do, anytime, anywhere, anyhow. 

What skills did I have for the job? Well, at retirement, I held the rank of Major with the Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, one of the best-known fighting units of the Canadian Armed Forces. Also, I was a former member of JTF2, Joint Task Force 2, the premier special forces brigade. I was trained in overt and covert warfare, which included security as in ‘Special Security Advisor.’ As it turned out, proven over a few years in this position, my job entails a little bit of security, slightly more of warfare and lots more of the arcane arts of trouble-shooting. 

My office is in a building housing several cells of the Department of Global Affairs, a sprawling creature with many offices and buildings in and away from Ottawa’s Parliament Hill and abroad. My nook was near offices of Foreign Affairs which is a part of Global Affairs. Actually, I was above the Foreign Affairs offices in an area I think of as ‘the attic,’ since I share the whole top floor with storage rooms, an unused meeting room and a shabby washroom with two toilet stalls. No one but janitors come to my attic on a routine basis, partly because I have outlawed smoking on this floor. 

My ultimate boss is the Minister of Foreign Affairs who runs Global Affairs but is not named the Minister of Global Affairs. My real boss is Foreign Affairs Deputy Minister Sylvester Archambault.

If all this seems confusing, think of what I go through every morning when I wake up.  I’m sort of on the edge of everything - which brings me back to lying on a dock poking into Lake Joseph. 

CHAPTER THREE

I took off my sunglasses and took up a monocular. Through this little and hopefully unobtrusive gadget, I could see every feature of the waterside of the massive cottage. I struggled with calling that place a cottage. It was a mansion, estate, chateau, palace... but not a humble cottage in any way except location. The place rose three storeys above its foundation but each of these storeys was at least 12 feet high. Where there weren’t windows, the exterior consisted either of stone, stucco, frame siding or cedar shingles. This mix of materials had been designed by masters who understood cohesion and beauty. But these materials added up to less square footage than the window glass.

Apertures dominated this side of the mansion. A pair of massive windows rose from almost the base of the main wall to a few feet from the edge of the overwhelming sloped roof. Each of these was twenty feet wide by thirty-plus feet high. (Yeah, I use ‘feet’ and ‘meters’ interchangeably. Sue me.) They were divided into sections but each section was large enough to cover the entire side of a normal cottage on this lake. Smaller but still impressive portals were located to the sides of the main duo, each fitting superbly into the building without seeming out of place.

The roof held its own in the windows’ competition. Huge skylights covered more than half of the area that I could see. They shared the main attributes of the rest of the windows. The glass was tinted so the occupant could see out but the voyeur could not see in. All I saw were reflections of the surroundings and the sky. As well, I knew from my training that the glass was as bulletproof as glass can be. It had that look - solid, thick, impenetrable by anything short of an armour-piercing missile. 

There was a patio across the expanse of the building, with an astounding array of furnishings, cooking equipment, a pool and two hot tubs.

I knew from public records that the place had been built in 2021. It had been bought in April, 2022, considerably expanded, and was now owned, on paper, by a numbered Ontario company that was owned by a corporation that was owned by a conglomerate that was owned by who-knows? The board of the numbered company was chaired by a local lawyer but, as a private firm, that was all that was made public. However, since I was a servant of the federal government, I knew more. But not everything.

The brown envelope had been brought up to my aerie from the office of the Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sylvester Archambault. Archambault works in the main building housing the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the guts of the minister’s department. I’m happy not to be there in an uninspired, almost scary blockhouse on Maple island close to Ottawa’s downtown. The place is reached by a span across a short stretch of water so it appears like an ancient castle surrounded by a moat and accessed only by a drawbridge. Global Affairs has its H.Q. next door. Strange to think these walled-off castle-like edifices are focused on the world at large and Canada’s place within the community of nations. The buildings hint more of paranoia than amicability. 

‘Major Daniel T. Court.’ The envelope was addressed to me and bore my military title even though I hadn’t held the commission since retirement from the PPCLIs. Deputy Archambault has a penchant for referring to my military rank. Either he was in awe of military personnel or he wanted to remind me of those characteristics he wants most from me. Mine not to reason why. 

Inside the envelope was a sheaf of pages of closely spaced type giving me information about the cottage I was surveying and its principal occupant. As well, it sketched out my mission, with emphasis on the term ‘sketched.’ In other words, my mission seemed vague and impossible. It was also typical of the jobs Archambault liked to assign to the Special Security Advisor - me. The written material was even less helpful than the ill-defined heads-up the deputy had given me in person a week ago when I was summoned to his office by his long-suffering secretary.

The file in my envelope began with a prologue written in 2022 by a department analyst:

‘Boris Luca Devin is described in a number of news media accounts as a Russian oligarch. This implies that Devin held and managed funds (currency and property) for Vladimir Putin and, now, his successor.  However, there is no evidence that Devin had a close relationship with President Putin or that he launders money for anyone. 

‘On June 20, 2022, Devin turned 54 years of age. According to data obtained through the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, Devin is five feet, eleven inches tall and weighs 222 pounds. Given these statistics and his current health, Devin has a life expectancy of 76 years. Devin’s primary residence, for tax purposes, is a condominium apartment at the address below. (A Toronto address was included.) This unit is a penthouse consisting of 3,640 square feet and valued, in 2021, at $3,765,000.

‘However, CSIS reports that Devin spends most of his time at a cottage on Lake Joseph, about 190 kilometers northeast of his Toronto address. This cottage consists of approximately 7,830 square feet and has a value (2022) of $25,346,000. This includes 11 hectares of property with considerable frontage on a small bay opening to Lake Joseph. It is noted that the cottage was built in 2021 but was expanded by Devin after purchase in 2022, using additional workers at overtime rates to add substantially to the structure.

‘It should be noted that Lake Joseph and neighbouring Lake Rosseau have a so-called ‘Billionaire’s Row’ of cottages owned mostly by wealthy persons including international celebrities. Devin’s cottage is not considered to be in this ‘Row’ and Devin is not known as a member of this ‘In-Crowd.’

‘Boris Luca Devin is listed in several authoritative guides as CEO of an entity called Devine Incorporated. CSIS has failed to determine a great deal about this entity and can point only to mentions of Devine Incorporated in one interview given by Devin to a newspaper published in Russia when Devin moved out of that country in 2020 and another to a local podcaster in the town of MacTier, when Devin moved into the cottage in late 2022. In the printed article, Devin said he was ‘unhappy’ with the Russian regime and was taking his organization offshore. In the podcast interview, Devin said, simply, that he looked forward to private and peaceful relaxation in my remote location.

‘While CSIS and other agencies are unable to determine Devin’s total wealth or to identify all of his holdings, data including account balances and public investment filings indicate Devin controls billions of dollars of investment in Canada and other billions of dollars (CAD) in Europe and Asia.

‘He has permanent residence status in Canada due to his wealth and has never, as far as is known, committed a criminal offence of any kind in Russia, Canada or elsewhere.  Devin pays considerable tax on his investment income in Canada. There is no suggestion from any agency of the federal government that Boris Devin or his company attempts to evade taxes or uses his funds and property for illegal purposes or illicit gain.

‘While Canada has issued sanctions against many Russian individuals, government and military officials, Russian companies, government agencies and others, Devin has not been sanctioned by Canada because of activities related to the ongoing war in Ukraine. Devin may be active in the anti-war movement in Ukraine and throughout NATO nations.’

The pages written by government analysts praised Boris Luca Devin and I wondered, as I came to the end, why I was reading this stuff in the first place. Perhaps, I was to vet Devin before he was awarded the Order of Canada. A sterling fellow all round and an opponent, it seemed, of the Russian Federation.

CHAPTER FOUR

Then I read more. The following pages were penned in late 2022 by the National Security Advisor to the Prime Minister, Allison Gaitor.

(Not for the first time, I wondered what was in the mind of this woman when she married a man named Gaitor and took his last name. Had she no imagination? Allison became Allie to everyone who knew this woman, so, her obvious descriptor became Alligator. But, then, come to think of it, the new name she was given while in her mid-30s suited perfectly her whole attitude. She waited quietly just under the surface until a victim wandered into her territory. She snapped and dragged her quarry into the depths before they realized what was happening. I think she just liked the anime.)

Her comments gave me a whole other perspective on Boris:

‘We have been advised by reliable sources that Boris Luca Devin may be carrying on activities which are of a criminal nature and of immediate danger to the Canadian fabric. At present, there is no hard evidence of the illegal actions of Mr. Devin but my officials assure me such evidence can be found. They warn, however, that discovering and gaining possession of this evidence will be a difficult undertaking. 

‘Mr. Devin has many and varied resources that can be utilized to protect his reputation. He has employed these resources to keep his business interests and even his name from public view apart from a few benign mentions. His properties in Toronto and in Muskoka are heavily protected and virtually immune to intrusion by any but a military force.  

‘Canada has not brought sanctions against Devin because of any connection to the situation in Ukraine.  We believe, however, he has acted in a number of ways to inflame activities in Ukraine and Russia, which could result in sanctions including removal from Canada and seizure of all his properties. We also suspect Mr. Devin is consorting with a number of international criminals, including saboteurs, even to meeting with and hosting these persons at his Canadian dwellings. 

‘The immensity of Devin’s alleged crimes and of his holdings in Canada and allied nations makes it urgent that we discover his activities in Canada and the extent of the dangers posed to this country and its citizens by Mr. Devin.  

‘Major Daniel Court, Special Security Advisor to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, has been tasked by the Department to ascertain the following:

Who is the real Boris Luca Devin?

What resources are available to Devin’s enterprises and where are they held?

How many persons are in Devin’s organization and who are these persons?

Is Mr. Devin doing anything that poses risks to Canada, its citizens and allies?

Do Mr. Devin and his operations in Canada provide this nation with benefits outweighing any risk they might pose (and vice versa).’

I read this paragraph with its neat little bullet points so beloved of bureaucrats. Then, I read the final sentence. It was handwritten and initialled by Gaitor. It was a clunker.

‘Major Court is forbidden to approach, or to contact in any way, the subject of this assignment.’

In other words, I couldn’t talk to Boris Devin or even send him a text. Quite the restriction!

I put the pages back in the envelope. I leaned back and let the full implications of the notes sink in. Truth be told, I was in shock for the first few minutes of my cogitation. I thought about the two accounts in the folder in front of me. 

The analyses by unnamed department experts and by Mrs. Gaitor were diametrically opposed. According to nameless bureaucrats, Boris Devin was a super-rich, upstanding immigrant living well and honestly in Canada. In Gaitor’s version, this guy was a danger to the state and evil to the core. Was Devin the paragon of virtue one person said he was or a war criminal working to ‘inflame’ the horrendous situation in Ukraine?

I could see Alligator, in my mind’s eye, as she penned her part of this file. Her face was made up of angular planes that made her look as intelligent as she really was. Her eyes were light grey with silver bits in the irises that made them jarring. Her mouth was turned up usually as if she was secretly amused but not in a good way. Her voice was normally quiet and pleasant but could turn to nasty, spiteful, condemning and belittling in a flash. 

Allie wasn’t my boss but certainly my superior because she was National Security Advisor to the Prime Minister. If she wants something done, it must be accomplished no matter who is assigned the task. This job was mine, once confirmed by word from my Deputy Minister. This came in a phone call from him only minutes after I completed reading the brief.

CHAPTER FIVE

Major. Deputy Minister Archambault said before I could offer even a ‘hello’, I believe you have received an assignment. He read a series of numbers that I had seen on the cover of the Devin file.  I’m confirming that you will move forward on the file. I must stress that this is a top-secret task and, under no circumstance...

Yes, sir. I am well aware of the rating. I have to say the file isn’t entirely clear. There are two quite different views here and....

There was a sigh from the other end of the connection. I shut up and waited.

He went on. I am aware of what you’re saying, Dan. I honestly don’t know what to tell you except to work out for yourself which view is more likely. What I really need is a solid opinion from someone who doesn’t have an axe to grind. Do you understand?

I did, strangely enough, get what he was saying. For whatever reason, the analysts, representing the factual side, thought Boris Devin was an ideal guy to keep in Canada while Allie Gaitor, for whatever reason, wanted the man hanged, drawn, quartered and sent in bits and pieces back to his motherland. I was to ignore both opinions and learn for myself the truths of the Russian émigré. Had Boris exiled himself from his native Russia because of disagreements with the government and the president there? Or was Boris here for his own political reasons that posed risks to Canada? 

Okay, sir. Just one question at this stage. What resources can I use? In other words, what could I spend on this quest for my version of the truth? Typically, the answer would be, ‘as little as possible’ or ‘within budget’. This time, the deputy shook me.

Whatever you need, Major. You have an unlimited budget over the time you need. I think I can trust you to use this freedom wisely but, Dan, don’t stint. This is an important assignment so... Archambault let his last sentence hang in the suddenly dense air. I found it hard to take a breath. 

Yes, sir. I’ll be... uh... I stopped before I said something stupid. In fact, anything I could say would be stupid at this point.

You can get started right now. If you had anything on your plate, scrape it off. This is your only priority. Report when you can, Major. With that, Deputy Minister Archambault disconnected leaving me staring at my phone in wonderment. 

I chose not to ask Archambault about the key proviso in my instructions - that I couldn’t meet or even approach the subject of my probe. Perhaps I didn’t want him to be too specific. I might find room to bypass that provision. It wouldn’t be the first time I had disobeyed orders in a good cause.

CHAPTER SIX

I shook myself out of my daydream - the one that featured Allie’s sharp face dominated by a double row of brilliantly white, sharp teeth snapping at me - and rolled over on the dock to take a final look at the fantastic cottage across the bay. There was nothing to see there apart from the architecture and several shiny boats along its long dock.

I pushed myself up onto my knees but stopped. There was something happening after all. 

The back yard of Boris Luca Devin’s cottage home brimmed over with gear. It looked like a playground at a county fair. There was a large swimming pool with a diving board and a waterslide plus several hot tubs on a large deck surrounded by a black metal railing. I had seen aerial shots of the yard so I knew there was a big trampoline, a parade of Muskoka chairs in red and green, a barbecue setup that would fit well at a posh resort hotel, a myriad of umbrellas, tables with side chairs...

A wide path of flat stones led around the house into this recreational paradise and, on the path, I could see a trio walking from the side of the main structure. They left the path for the patio and mounted stairs to the deck. They settled into chairs drawn up around a long table in the middle of the porch. It was shaded by the jutting porch roof made mostly of tinted glass. I focused my monocular on the three people. 

There were two men and one woman. The larger of the men, was dressed in casual garb - jeans, a short-sleeved plaid shirt and sandals without socks. He was larger as in thicker. Still, he was a long way from being fat; he looked well-built but heavier than his companion who was elegantly slim. The larger guy was my quarry, Boris Devin. I had photos of him in the file bio. He had a mane of dirty blonde hair and I could see a week’s worth of whisker growth on his cheeks.

This monocular was a superb spyglass. It also clearly showed me the second man, dressed in a light grey suit and white shirt. He had shucked off his tie - if he had worn one at all - and the top shirt button was undone. Despite the heat of the day, he retained his jacket when he sat down.

The woman was also slim and well dressed. She wore a long, lightweight dress, more appropriate for the weather and the surroundings. It was white with a narrow trim of green around its bottom hem. Her hair was short and light coloured; it was either white or blonde. She looked cool and sat erect on the edge of her cane and cushion chair. 

As I assessed the threesome, another man walked onto the porch from a door into the house. The door was set into a wall of glass panels that could be slid to open an entire room to the outside. This young man, in dark trousers and white T, carried a large tray of drinks and sandwiches. He unloaded onto the table and, with the tray in hand, retreated into the house. 

Boris stood and sorted out the beverages. He set glasses in front of his two companions and distributed plates to each. The man in the suit reached out and took a sandwich for his plate but the woman sat still. As the men fueled up, I switched to my long lens and took a number of photos of the patio across the bay. I snapped individual shots of each of the three people. Boris Devin sat again. Except for his current whiskers and casual outfit, he looked like the photo in the file I had been provided and he was obviously the host for this small gathering at the cottage. 

The conversation around the table went on for about an hour. I thought it was short but not sweet, judging from the looks on the three faces. The man in the suit and the woman in the long dress were shoulder-to-shoulder when they walked away around the cottage after the meeting adjourned. Boris followed behind by several paces.

I didn’t have a photo that matched the man in the suit but I didn’t need a ‘before’ image. I had been at enough functions in Ottawa to recognize this guy. He was the Russian Ambassador to Canada, Alexander Andrei Melnikov, known widely by his nickname, Sasha.

The woman remained a mystery. She wouldn’t be for long, though. To me, this lady had a great deal of class, likely, money and possibly celebrity. I would do a little computer work and identify her quickly. 

CHAPTER SEVEN

I rented the small cottage behind me two weeks ago, telling the realtor I would take it for three months, the max length I could see my remit running. In truth, I didn’t expect to be here for more than a month. I couldn’t see how Devin would stay on a lake in northern Ontario when he had billions of dollars to spend and hundreds of places in which to enjoy life. His lake retreat was beautiful but, still, when you’ve boated, fished, partied, swam and sunned enough, wouldn’t you