Alexandre had secured the meeting with Vlad for a maximum of thirty minutes, though he’d mentioned the guards would likely allow more time if asked.
A guard waved the guests into a room the size of a two-car garage at the far end of the hall. The furnishings were sparse: two tables, each with two benches, a metal ashtray at the center of each table, a large garbage can in the corner and two bulbs on a five-foot cord dangling from the filthy concrete ceiling. The resident rats were probably there too, in the numerous large cracks and holes in the walls.
“They will bring him here any minute now,” Alexandre whispered to Jonathan, after the guard had said a few words to him and left the room. He and Jonathan took a seat on the same side of the table closest to the door.
“Are we free to speak here?” Jonathan asked, pointing at the ceiling, “or can they listen?”
Alexandre snickered. “This prison is lucky to have electricity. I don’t think there are any listening devices here.” Alexandre then scratched his forehead and leaned into his colleague, adding, “Now, let’s be careful. Inmates here have AIDS, hepatitis, tuberculosis and other diseases. It’s a very sick place.”
“I promise not to kiss him,” Jonathan said mockingly.
“Maybe he will use his tongue on you! We may be his first visitors in months.”
“You’ve got the humor of a Southerner,” said Jonathan. “Just not the mullet or bad teeth to go with it.”
“What is a mullet?” asked Alexandre.
Jonathan grinned. “A bad haircut.”
The door opened and a handcuffed prisoner, dressed in a gray one-piece outfit resembling mechanic’s overalls, was escorted into the room by the same guard that had led the lawyers to the place. Vlad was a skinny guy with brown hair, brown eyes and a pale, freckled face that made him seem younger than his forty-three years. But he also had an eerie poise.
Alexandre stood up first and greeted him in Russian and then introduced Jonathan by name only. They exchanged polite nods. Alexandre had told Jonathan that he would first make Vlad think they were investigators, not attorneys, so that he would be more intimidated and thus more cooperative.
The guard unlocked the prisoner’s right handcuff and secured it to a metal brace that extended a couple inches from under the tabletop. The guard then took one last glance at the three men, uttered a few words at Alexandre and headed out. The loud thud of a deadbolt jarred the silence in the room.
Alexandre wasted no time. He spoke fast, his tone and gestures indicating he was explaining what Jonathan was after.
The prisoner gazed dispassionately at Alexandre and then at Jonathan. Vlad’s disinterest could be translated into any language.
Alexandre talked a storm, but Vlad returned only a vacant stare.
Jonathan took out his pocket notepad, his thoughts gathering the right order of questions to ask.
The freckled man cocked his head back, stared coolly into Jonathan’s eyes and said in fluent English, “So, an American who wants to speak with me.”
Jonathan and Alexandre glanced at each other with the same look of astonishment.
“Yes, I speak English,” Vlad said. “Does that surprise you? You must either be retarded or you work for Canadian intelligence not to know this.”
“Unlike you, we’re not stupid enough to be locked up,” Alexandre retorted feistily in English.
“Why are you here, and what will I get if I cooperate?” Vlad asked. “As you can see, this place is not fit for an animal, let alone a human.”
“How about a cigarette for now,” Jonathan said, nodding at Alexandre to hand him one. “And maybe you’ll get more if we find your information useful.”
Alexandre cut in, “You’re charged with embezzlement and assault on an arresting officer. I think you can use all the help you can get.”
“Fabrications!” Vlad barked back. “I didn’t do anything.”
Alexandre glanced at Jonathan and said, “They all say this—I bet in your country, too.”
“You’re right.”
“These are serious charges,” said Alexandre, his voice hardening as he peered at Vlad. “And even your lawyer has given up on you. Why should we think you will be any more cooperative with us, if we decide to help?”
Vlad’s eyes lit up in rage. “My lawyer dropped me because I didn’t pay him, and I didn’t pay him because he was useless. Lawyers are nothing but worthless whores. Worthless! I’ve been in this place over nine months without trial, no hearing, no idea about my status. I’m told I have the right to make one phone call every three months, but there are no telephones. To contact my shit lawyer, I had to get permission to send a telegram, and then, one month later, he contacts me with a letter. He then visited me here once, for five minutes! Lawyers are the scum of the earth, I tell you.”
Jonathan gazed calmly at Vlad and said, “We are lawyers.”
Vlad raised his chin, his eyes round with surprise. “Oh.”
Alexandre handed Vlad a cigarette and then lit it for him.
“In March of 1989,” Jonathan began, “General Yakovlev flew to Sweden. What can you tell me about that?”
“I didn’t know,” Vlad replied.
“Can you tell us anything Yakovlev did during that time period?”
Vlad looked up for a moment and seemed in deep thought. And whatever his thoughts, his face and neck began to sweat in the cold room. Vlad peered around the room, his eyes momentarily scanning the wall behind Jonathan. Then, he sat back and smiled. “I know what you’re after. It’s all about the farm, isn’t it?”
“Farm?” Jonathan asked.
Vlad’s smirk evaporated and a look of distrust stretched across his face. “You’re nothing but spies. I know where you are going with these questions.”
Jonathan didn’t want Vlad to get the wrong idea. “We have nothing to do with the government. I am working on a legal case in the United States, and I will tell no one what we discuss today.” Jonathan didn’t want to mention anything about Matt, as it would complicate things. A legal case was far more abstract than a missing person. Besides, he hadn’t yet told Alexandre.
“Why should I believe you?”
I could beat the crap out of you until you do, Jonathan thought, wanting the man to get rid of his attitude and start talking. But now he saw fear in Vlad’s eyes.
Alexandre jumped in. “I could speed up your hearing if you help my friend. I have good connections.”
Vlad was silent. He took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled protractedly. “I suppose I have nothing to lose. Can I count on your word?” he asked, staring at the American. “Because what I know could have me killed in a second.”
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “He will help you. I assure you.”
Vlad took a deep breath. “In March that year, I was promised something extraordinary,” he said, shaking his head. “And Yakovlev let me down.”
“What are you saying?” asked Alexandre.
Vlad tapped his cigarette over the ashtray and then brought it back to his lips for another long drag. “I don’t remember the exact date in March, but Yakovlev had called me to his office, a few buildings away from where I was training new recruits. When I arrived, a woman was there. I instantly didn’t like her. She looked both dangerous and beautiful, with hypnotic, snake-like eyes that told me she could seduce me and kill me all at the same moment. She asked me questions about my qualifications, my family, my background, as if I were under interrogation. And she didn’t like the fact that I was Ukrainian by origin. The bitch.”
“Who was she?” Jonathan asked.
“Someone who needed to get fucked.”
“What was her name?”
“Not sure, but I may have heard Yakovlev call her Marina, but he never introduced her to me by name. He only said she was an official from the Ministry, without telling me which one. Yakovlev and the woman told me to take supplies to an airstrip. He also asked if I was willing to travel to the West with him for a while. I was tempte
d to say I would never return, but, of course, I pretended to be only mildly interested. I hoped, however, that it was a genuine offer. That I would be able to get the hell out of this country. He didn’t give me much to go on, but he said that if I helped him deliver some equipment, he and I would be paid well for it and would be allowed to travel to Austria and other parts of Europe and that the operation was approved by the KGB.” Vlad leaned back and rubbed his fingers over his greasy scalp. “Now, before I say anything more, what can you do to help me?”
“I’ll pay to defend you,” Jonathan proposed.
Vlad glanced at Alexandre, probably waiting for confirmation. But Alexandre apparently had another card to play. He took out his cell phone and placed it in the middle of the table. “I’ll let you use this when you’re done speaking. You don’t have much time.”
Vlad gazed at the phone as one might a life raft on a sinking ship. Jonathan could feel Vlad’s struggle.
“Da, da,” said the inmate. “I didn’t have a clue about what Yakovlev and that woman had planned. But the next morning, I was told to wait at a football field near the Academy’s sports center. A helicopter landed and picked me up. It was an uncomfortable three-hour flight on the aircraft’s hard metal floor. The pilots dropped me off in a wheat field and told me to wait for a ride at the nearby road. I waited a long time, until finally my contact pulled up in a military vehicle. We traveled for over an hour, arriving at dusk at a vast farm complex. It was a strange place.”
“Where was it?” Jonathan asked.
“Somewhere near the border with Belarus. That’s all I know. The place looked like a farm, with tractors and barns and everything you would expect at a farm, but the only animals I saw were rabbits and squirrels, thousands of them in rows upon rows of cages. Most cages were stacked in covered sheds, but some were out in the open, covered only by canvas tarps. There were no horses, no cattle, no pigs, just those damn rodents. When I got out of the vehicle, I spotted that same wicked woman from the day before. She was there, arguing with two men in white lab coats. Yakovlev was there as well, but he was some distance away, smoking near his car. He ignored me completely. And when the witch saw me arrive, she walked to Yakovlev and they both got in the car.” Vlad then gestured for another cigarette, which Alexandre handed over, along with the lighter.
“Then what happened?” Jonathan asked.
“The men in lab coats signaled for me to join them in a large shed. Parked inside was a big army truck. One man—the fat one—introduced himself as Comrade Vadenko—I think that was his name. His skinny, mustached colleague was Comrade Karmachov, but he didn’t talk to me other than to tell me his name. They were either physicians or scientists and both were agitated, probably because of their earlier confrontation with that bitch. Vadenko gave me a map and instructed me to drive the truck to the designated coordinates and to be careful with the cargo—not to drive fast. By then, I saw Yakovlev’s car leave the property in a hurry.”
Jonathan took notes. “Please, don’t stop.”
“I made it to the airfield that night. I remember that cranky bastard Yakovlev complaining that the plane was late, his raspy voice echoing from behind the truck as he took a piss,” Vlad said, his face twisted with disgust. He then took another drag of his cigarette. “‘American pilots,’ he’d said, ‘they hate rules.’ I told him they were trying to delay the great victory of socialism. The bastard took my statement as if I meant it. How absurd.”
Vlad put out his cigarette and immediately reached into Alexandre’s pack for another one and lighted it.
“Yakovlev was old fashioned,” Vlad continued, “cursed with delusional patriotism gained through blood, sweat and shrapnel in the Cold War’s worst battlefields—Angola, Nicaragua, Chad, Afghanistan. You name it, he was there. But his warrior days were gone by the time I got to know him. Yakovlev became nothing more than a glorified pencil pusher at the Academy. He was an ethnic Russian wedded to the Communist Party apparatchik, so he possessed all the expected traits.”
“What do you mean?” Jonathan asked.
“Corrupt, shallow, drunk, rude, ruthless and fond of hookers,” Vlad replied. “Everything I despised.”
“I thought you were friends,” Alexandre said.
“No, he was my ticket to other things. He still wielded much power, so I had to kiss his ass. Thank goodness for the fall of the Soviet Union. That’s when I severed the ties. But back then, I tolerated him by thinking about the lighter side of it all. My humor is what kept me from killing the asshole. For whatever reason he turned me into his vassal, a truly miserable existence. And he always insulted my Ukrainian heritage. He hated all non-Russians: Jews, Armenians, Chechens, the whole lot.”
“What happened at the airfield?” asked Alexandre.
“I was nervous. I’d been at the abandoned airfield for over an hour; he’d gotten there much earlier. So much was at stake, most importantly my freedom. For once in my life, I had my hand on the future I wanted. If all were to go as planned, I’d be sipping Guinness in an Irish pub by the following week. Yeah, freedom. I remember him saying ‘Tovarisch, you will be a very happy man in a few days.’” Vlad’s shoulders drooped as he took another drag of his Marlboro. “As you can see, I’m not in Ireland.”
“What went wrong?” Alexandre asked, now sounding a little impatient.
“General Yakovlev and I were waiting for the American plane and it was more than fifty minutes late. Every second that passed meant that my chances at a new life were slipping away. I scanned the pitch-black sky, hoping—begging—for that damn thing to show up. But there was simply nothing but a cool breeze and the sound of crickets. Yakovlev was nervous too, perhaps because he knew the consequences of failure. ‘This mission is for the Motherland,’ he reminded me, as if I didn’t appreciate its importance. But motherland my ass. I didn’t know the nuts and bolts of Yakovlev’s plan, nor for that matter the real players involved, but I’d learned long ago not to believe a word out of the general’s mouth. He was doing it for himself, just as I was doing it for my own interests.”
Jonathan glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time left, so please get through the most important information. We can discuss other details at another meeting.”
“Americans,” Vlad said mockingly. “Always in a hurry. A stay in a Russian prison will make you a more patient man.”
Alexandre raised his head and looked annoyed.
“Fine, fine,” Vlad uttered. “You should have seen Yakovlev. He wore tall, polished black boots, flared breeches, and rows of overlapping medals on his inflated chest. His regalia looked more appropriate for a May Day parade down Red Square, only it wasn’t May and no one that night would give a damn what he looked like. I was tempted to tell him he looked like a clown. So, this dressed up pig and I stood by the truck, waiting for the damn plane. And then, then...” Vlad suddenly raised his hands excitedly. “I finally heard it. What a beautiful sound. A faint whine at first that soon turned into a growl as it approached, and then a loud roar echoed when it landed. The sounds of freedom. I was so happy, I almost hugged the bastard.”
Vlad took a long drag of his cigarette and let out a thick plume of smoke from between his lips as Jonathan quickly scanned his notes.
“The cargo aircraft’s dark silhouette slowly appeared,” Vlad continued, “its lights turned off except for the cockpit, which glowed red, probably from its instrument panel. I quickly walked to the truck. That’s when that bastard general told me to stay put. That was because he didn’t speak English. So, I stepped into the cab of the truck and signaled the pilots with a flick of the headlights.”
“Weren’t there other planes around?” asked Jonathan.
“Nah,” said Vlad. “Twenty years ago, it was crawling with MiG fighter jets, but by then those days were long gone. It was a perfect venue for this clandestine rendezvous.”
Vlad was now on his fourth cigarette since their meeting began.
“It was a C-130. The aircraft’s e
ngines idled noisily as a door on the port side popped open and two pilots stepped out. They headed at a fast pace toward us. I got out of the truck and signaled to them again, this time with my flashlight. The general asked me who they were with. If he hadn’t been drinking, he’d know. These pilots sported crew cuts and one-piece flight suits, but neither carried any insignia—not even name patches, unit badges or indication of rank. The taller of the duo stopped in front of me and saluted. ‘I’m Major Travis,’ he told me in a deep voice. And he introduced his colleague as Lieutenant Blake. Of course, I quickly translated for the general’s benefit and returned a salute, but I forced myself not to laugh. Major Travis was exactly like officers in those bootleg Hollywood movies. The swagger. The rolling R’s. The cocky, hawkish gaze. I had never before met an American, so I was delighted that the major appeared just as I had imagined. Yes, the great enemy of Mother Russia.” Vlad then raised his chin at Jonathan and added, “No offense.”
“None taken,” Jonathan replied. “Not all Americans are like that. Just like not all Russians are chain smokers or crooks.”
Vlad smirked. “Frankly, I was fascinated. I remember the major had a large, shiny wristwatch, flashier than anything I had ever seen. By then, General Yakovlev was about to lose his mind. He shouted that they had only fifteen minutes to turn the plane around and that the radars at Andreopol and Ostrov were on, meaning the flight plan had changed. As I translated the general’s words, I was also hoping to deflect attention off Yakovlev, who had nearly a liter of vodka in his blood. I was sure the Americans would know a drunken babble even if they didn’t understand Russian. But it was too late. The pilots stared at the general until all the English words had cleared my lips. Major Travis then asked me if my commander had been drinking, to which I responded ‘Yes, look at his chest—one medal for each bottle.’”
Jonathan and Alexandre joined Vlad in laughter, but the lawyers knew there wasn’t enough time for anecdotes. They needed more facts, faster, before the guards would bring their meeting to a close.
Tranquility Denied Page 17
