The Sinking of the Estonia: The CIA Knew

By Hugh Hammond

The book is about the 1994 sinking of the car ferry Estonia and the Russian mafia. While this is a work of fiction, the Estonia sinking actually happened. The characters in the book are fictitious. The author suggests a reason the sinking occurred, which is contrary to the official investigation. The thriller takes place in Estonia and the United Arab Emirates, with the main character a young CIA employee working out of the US Embassy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635684056

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The Sinking of the Estonia:

The CIA Knew

Hugh Hammond

Copyright © 2017 Hugh Hammond

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63568-404-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63568-405-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

I strolled into the Hell Hunt bar in a converted mill building in Old Town Tallinn. With flagstone floors and stone walls, it resembled a medieval castle. The Taku beer signs placed on the worn stone walls belied its true use. Gimme a Taku Original, I said in broken Estonian. It was difficult not to notice a well-endowed Estonian girl at the end of the bar, who was flirting with a British sailor.

Suddenly, I heard a low but powerful sound from outside. It echoed over the loud conversations in Estonian and Finnish. The sinister sound was followed immediately by the sound of breaking glass. I almost fell to the floor with the crowd trying to get outside. The entire bar emptied. Across the street, lights from apartments came on slowly. Residents of the brownstones apartments opened windows and peered outside. The chill wind blew relentlessly off the Baltic Sea as the people crowded around the ill-fated Lada.

The victim sat lifeless in the fifteen-year-old car; a pool of blood soaked the seat and slowly seeped into the worn carpet. The bomb had been so small that all the car’s windows were intact, with the exception of the back window, which had been blown out by the blast. While the lower part of his body was mangled and bloody, the victim’s face appeared calm and serene. It looked as if he could open the back door and walk into the Hell Hunt and order a drink. I saw a neatly folded Baltic Chronicle in the passenger seat with drops of blood spattered across the headlines.

A short Russian babushka (grandmother) wearing a heavy blue coat and slippers recognized the victim and screamed. "Oh no! Those animals! That’s my neighbor Hans Kasper. He writes for the Baltic Chronicle. It was just a matter of time until the Russian mafia killed him."

In typical mafia fashion, he had been assassinated as a warning to all reporters of the dangers of reporters exposing them. This was not unlike the lynching of blacks in the southern United States in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. While the Klansmen liked to strut their stuff and flex their muscles with the lynching of a black person, the mafia preferred to use bombs as attention-getters.

Kasper recently ran a six-week-long exposé of the mafia. He reported on the power and diversity of the mafia businesses and the mafia turf wars between rival gangs, which controlled extortion and prostitution. He described mafia-owned kiosks that were bombed to enforce the area that the mafia wanted to control. No doubt Kasper was aware of the danger of reporting on the mafia. Numerous reporters had been murdered in neighboring Russia for similar stories. I was always amazed at the depth and control of the mafia. They had contacts within the police departments, as well as control of many politicians and businesses. Kasper reported on all these things, but he concentrated on prostitution. I wondered why. He could have concentrated on the extortion of small businesses or the numbers racket or weapons sales. At the CIA, we were painfully aware of the size and depth of the mafia prostitution business, but we were not actively interested in crimes that did not overtly threaten the United States.

Kasper’s stories included gut-wrenching interviews with nameless prostitutes describing how they became hookers. These stories included details of how some of the young women were forced into prostitution to pay off family debts. One prostitute he interviewed explained how she wanted to return to her home village in the Ukraine. However, when she called her family, she learned that the mafia had threatened to beat her father and burn the family home if she stopped working as a prostitute.

Fifteen minutes after the explosion, police cars appeared. There were two cops, one to read and one to write; I chuckled to myself. The Tallinn Police had such a low level of credibility that everyone in the CIA made jokes about them. The policemen set up wooden barricades with faded red-and-black paint and called in information to headquarters. It reminded me of the classic movie Casablanca, when the French inspector said, Round up the usual suspects.

After the breakup of the Soviet Union in 1991, just three years ago, many former KGB agents began quietly working for the mafia, using their clandestine skills to extort business owners, to recruit and retain prostitutes, and to steal weapons from former Soviet countries. There was no question in my mind that it was a very unsettling time in Eastern Europe, but it was also very exciting. I thought about the postcards I bought yesterday in a small shop, leftovers from the Soviet days. The owner used a black marker to hide the hammer and sickle logo of the former Soviet Union so they could still be sold. Ha! Capitalism is pulling Estonia up by its toenails.

I couldn’t sleep well after the car bombing of the journalist, but somehow I woke up without the alarm. I smiled at the emotionless tall marine guard as I walked into the embassy at 7:30 a.m. I’d been with the agency in Estonia for about a year now. My annual review was coming up. The Tallinn station was one of the smallest in the CIA and was in one wing of the US Embassy complex.

I spent an uneventful morning at my desk, shuffling through dozens of boring reports. Then a hand-delivered report from the Tallinn Police and Interpol arrived. It was a report on last night’s bombing. Their technicians reported the bomb was small, probably no larger than a pack of cigarettes, and it was placed under the dash with the force of the blast aimed at the victim’s lower torso. The report and diagrams went on to indicate the placement of the bomb, and the carefully calculated size of the charge was the work of a very skilled professional assassin.

Kairi

My flat on Gonsiori Street was tolerable but, by American standards, wasn’t much of a place. After dinner, I returned to the office and worked for a few more hours, went home for a quick shower, and arrived at the Tiru around nine. My girlfriend, Kairi, was in the lounge when I arrived. Wearing a sexy red dress, she was perched on the piano, singing, I Want to Hold Your Hand. She sang with a pronounced Estonian accent, and I smiled to myself. I was looking forward to helping her improve her pronunciation. The bar was getting noisy as I ordered a Taku Original from the bartender and settled back in the comfortable stool. Most of the patrons in the bar were short, stocky tourists from Finland.

I didn’t notice Wade Trenton approaching me from the rear. The next thing I knew, he had me in a full Nelson wrestling hold and roughly pulled me off the bar stool, as unknowing patrons gasped and the bartender started to call for security. Aye, aye, ayeola [no, no]! I yelled in Estonian. It’s OK. He’s a friend.

The bartender half smiled and hung up the phone.

Wade and I moved to a small table in a dark corner of the room. Looks like you have a new friend, he said, eyeing Kairi. I thought you were head over heels for Valentina, the little Russian babe, he said in a teasing tone.

Valentina was a Russian Estonian and ran an English language training school for Russians who wanted to learn English. She was fluent in Russian, Estonian, English, French, German, and Finnish; her father was a professor at the University of Moscow. She was incredibly good-looking and smart. We met when she came to the embassy with a native Russian to discuss a visa application for him when I was substituting for the embassy’s Russian translator. We hit it off immediately, and a close relationship ensued. The problem came about when I learned that she was a former KGB agent assigned to Tallinn. Since a relationship like this was a no-no for any employee of the embassy or CIA, I let the little romance drop.

What a prick you are, I said.

Wade smiled. Just thought I’d stop by and check out your latest gal pal. I hate to see you end the hot love story with Valentina. Wade motioned for another round as a tipsy corpulent Finnish tourist bumped our table on his way to the restroom.

I spotted Kairi weaving her way through the crowd toward us. Admiring patrons wanted to praise her singing and stopped her. She was gracious but curt with the people as her eyes wandered toward us. Just before she reached our table, a tall, thin Estonian DJ came on stage to play music during Kairi’s break. A popular Estonian song erupted from the sound system, and immediately, it was easy to tell there were mainly foreign tourists in the lounge. The small cadre of Estonians began to nod their heads and sing along while most of the other patrons ignored the song.

Kairi planted a big wet kiss on my cheek, while she pushed me down into the chair. She reached across my waist and gently hugged me. Wade, who was just as much a big brother as a boss, said, Hmmm, and how are you tonight, Kairi?

Warm and cuddly, she blurted out, mispronouncing cuddly.

Wade offered her a Marlboro Light and kissed her on the neck.

In a moment she waved good-bye, stubbed out her cigarette, and walked back to the stage.

She’s quite a gal, Wade said.

Yeah, she’s actually a twenty-six-year old Estonian divorcee with a five-year-old daughter. She got her divorce about three years ago when the Soviet Union was falling apart, I said, leaning over the table so he could hear me.

What does her ex-hubby do? Wade asked.

He’s a candy salesman for Nestlé and travels Eastern Europe, mostly by train. Apparently, the marriage broke up because he was constantly worried she was stepping out. He kept calling her all the time when he was traveling.

Do you blame the son of a gun? Wade said, burping as he sipped his Taku beer.

Wade’s cell phone vibrated on the table. He snatched it up and stepped outside on the patio, looking west toward Old Town. A bored voice from the control center of the CIA said, There’s been a violent Russian mafia-style killing at the train station. We’re meeting an Estonian paramilitary and a Tallinn Police detective. Leave your beer and wave good-bye to Kairi, and get your mind out of your skivvies. We’ve got some work to do.

The Estonian paramilitary, accompanied by a Tallinn Police detective, pulled up in a painted-over former Soviet jeep. The paramilitary looked about nineteen and wore an ill-fitting blue uniform. He looked like a kid you would see behind the counter at McDonald’s. Estonian males either are drafted into the tiny army or can serve in the paramilitary, which is normally assigned to guard certain areas. The detective, speaking fairly good English, leaned out the window and said they thought it was a mafia member killed at the train station. He smiled as he watched us struggle to get into the backseat of the old jeep.

It was a short ride to the train station, where the police had delayed the departure of the ninety-car overnight train to St. Petersburg. Some passengers were still on the train, but many were out, milling around the drab old station, speaking quietly, but very excitedly. Estonian police bunched up around the compartment about halfway to the back of the train. The detective led us through the rubbernecking crowd, speaking quietly but firmly in Estonian and Russian. The individual compartments on the old Soviet-built trains reminded me of camping trailers with faded vinyl bench seats above and below. In theory, they could sleep four adults. The detective led us through the cars now half full of passengers, mainly Russians with a sprinkling of Western European tourists.

A weary Tallinn policeman guarded the entrance to the sleeper car. The Estonian detective spoke rapidly to the cop at the door while flashes from cameras went off. Police opened all luggage in the sleeping compartments. The detective on the scene explained that the killing had happened just before the train was to depart. Many passengers fled as soon as they heard the shots.

Wade slid open the door to the compartment. The body was partly on the floor and partly on the worn vinyl seat. His head was grotesquely twisted from multiple shots. I counted fourteen holes in the walls and floor of the car.

We found seventeen shell casings, said the policeman.

The killer apparently used an automatic weapon, Wade said softly. See how he blew away a lot of the victim’s head? What a mess.

The entire top of his head was missing, and there was blood and brain all over the compartment. Both of his eyes were blown out, and his left ear was hanging by his earlobe. His brown leather jacket was so bloodstained that it was barely recognizable as brown. Wade finished diagramming the scene on a clipboard when my stomach started to turn.

I started coughing and spitting. Despite my Marine Corps combat experience, sometimes I still had trouble.

Agent Shelton, get a grip on yourself and go outside, Wade barked out in a firm in-command voice.

I was still coughing and gagging when I stepped out on the platform with the Estonian paramilitary. A few yards down the track, I doubled over and vomited between the platform and the railcar. Passengers inside the car smiled when they saw me bend over. In a few minutes, I returned to the railcar where Wade was asking questions and making suggestions to the detectives. He was emotionless and could have been a manager conducting an inventory at a retail store.

We found the Estonian passport and visa to Russia on the body, said the Estonian detective, speaking slowly in Estonian. Then, he repeated it in English. He held it up, wearing a bloody white latex glove.

Keep up the English, Wade said, but I got it in Estonian.

It looks fake, the cop said. We’ll have to check it out. He placed both in a clear plastic bag.

Kaloshnakov? asked Wade.

Yes. No doubt, the soft-spoken detective said, pointing at the brass shells in the plastic bags they collected. They probably used one of the models with a folding stock. Also, we think they used a silencer, since no one outside the train heard anything.

On the bloody floor of the car, the police marked the placement of the shells with small circles drawn with chalk. The people in the next compartment heard the metallic sound of the rounds going into the walls but no gunfire."

Did anyone see anything? I asked, putting mints in my mouth.

Well, two passengers said they saw a middle-aged gray-haired male about medium height leaving the train just before departure time. They said that he was in a big hurry.

Did you notice the expensive clothing? he said, pointing at the high-priced coat and shirt on the victim, smiling sheepishly. By now, passengers nervously milled around outside on the platform, becoming impatient at the delay in departure. That’s not what you’d expect a typical train passenger to be wearing. Also, we weren’t surprised that the passengers didn’t have more information. There was nothing else in his suitcase, and he was only carrying 1,200 kroons, $125, the detective said, stepping out of the compartment, carefully avoiding the blood on the floor.

"OK, tannin [thanks], Wade said. We’ll be in touch. I look forward to reading your report when it’s ready."

Chapter 2

Wade

Wade Trenton chuckled as we left the combined CIA and diplomatic embassy briefing. Once a week, US Embassy and CIA staffs meet to review upcoming events and concerns. The embassy in Tallinn was not one of the larger embassies in the state department but, for employees, was considered an excellent post. Given the strategic location of Estonia, the westernmost former Soviet state, the US footprint in Estonia was critical for ongoing relationships with all countries in the former Soviet Union.

Wade normally had a wide grin on his face and a slight touch of what appeared to be an English accent. He was a balding midthirties six footer and was an English-as-a-second-language major at St. Michael’s College in Vermont. He was captain of the cross-country ski team and must have been a real lady’s man. He spoke Arabic, Spanish, Russian, and Estonian. Although Wade treated me like a younger brother, he was my senior and chief of the station. He had much more CIA experience. His parents were career embassy employees and served in Africa and the Middle East. We were both career CIA and hoped to eventually be promoted to a larger station.

I’m from Ottumwa, Iowa, and our only claim to fame is that Ottumwa was the home of Radar O’Riley, the corny character on the MASH TV series. Dad was a production worker at the John Deere factory, and Mom was an English teacher who also taught Spanish. Mom got me started on Spanish, and when we had a class trip to Mexico, I was hooked. I liked to go to the Mexican groceries near the Excel beef packing plant and practice Spanish. Nearly all the packing plant employees were Hispanic.

In my senior year of high school, we had a foreign exchange student from Russia, and by year end, Mom and I could speak a beginner’s level of Russian. We stayed in touch with him after he returned to Russia. One summer we visited, and I can remember going to the local museum in Yekaterinburg deep in the Ural Mountains. One of the most famous displays was CIA pilot Francis Gary Powers’s helmet and flight gear from the U-2 incident. Powers’s U-2 spy plane was shot down at high altitude by ground artillery. US intelligence didn’t think the Soviets had the radar-guided artillery capable of shooting down a plane at high altitude. At that time, I thought I’d be a teacher like Mom or an office worker. I never dreamed I’d be in the CIA.

Throughout junior high school, I was minimally motivated and earned grades just sufficient to get by, but by the end of the eleventh grade, I joined the debate club, and this inspired me. Soon, I discovered I was a natural and enjoyed the challenge. My debate team traveled throughout the Midwest and won a series of honors.

Following graduation from a small college in Iowa, where I had a partial debate scholarship, I enlisted in the marines. After Officer Candidate School, they sent me to the Foreign Language Institute in Monterey, California, where I upgraded my Russian and learned Arabic and Farsi. What a crash course it was. I served in the Gulf War in 1991, working in intelligence, mainly interrogating captured Iraqi prisoners. While being flown to a remote POW location in Northern Iraq, the chopper crashed. I received a Silver Star for giving first aid to the injured pilot while holding off attacking Iraqis.

Later, the marines assigned me to embassy duty in Damascus, Syria. I was in charge of the guard detail but also worked closely with intelligence agents in the CIA. After Damascus, I was stationed at the US Consulate in Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). Typically, I helped resolve sensitive diplomatic issues between US Navy sailors and Arab civilians. On one occasion, a member of the UAE royal family had a homosexual relationship with a naval officer. We had to very quickly and very quietly get the sailor reassigned to the United States.

Because of my service in the marines, I joined the CIA and was accepted probably because of my foreign