“General Yakovlev waved for everyone to follow him to his black Volga sedan, parked a short distance away,” explained Vlad. “Although the pilots probably had never seen one before, and would mistake it for an ordinary car, it was one of our military’s prized perks, with tinted glass, leather seats, a car phone and privacy curtains in the rear compartment. And I tell you, that loser Yakovlev didn’t deserve it.”
“Tell us the important information,” Alexandre said, sounding frustrated.
Vlad casually saluted with his cigarette between his fingers. “Okay, okay. As we walked toward the car, I spotted a hand pulling the curtain back for a second and then quickly closing it. I hoped the Americans behind me had not noticed, but the major had. He asked who was in the car. I told him it was the general’s assistant and that she was probably on the car phone. That wasn’t true, of course. As I told you a moment ago, I didn’t know that bitch’s exact title, but she was trouble. I had avoided her all evening, and it was just as well she stayed in the car.”
Alexandre too lighted a cigarette, filling the air over the table with smoke.
“The four of us huddled over a map stretched across the hood of the car,” Vlad said. “I held a flashlight above the general’s shoulder as the Americans were informed of the new flight plan. We explained that after takeoff they would have to fly a heading of two-one-zero toward Belyy and not northwest as previously planned. They would then head to Lake Dvin’ye, then turn toward the Sivera Lakes and onto the Daugava River. The path would take them past Viesite and Bauska and then to the Baltic. I told them that they had to fly low—no higher than two hundred meters, or six hundred feet—to avoid the radars. Unfortunately, my drunk general kept burping and the odor of booze glided past me, toward the Americans. I could only imagine what they were thinking. How on earth could they be comfortable with this drunkard’s low altitude flight plan designed to dodge our surface-to-air missiles across hundreds of miles of hostile territory? And then Yakovlev babbled even more nonsense, saying radar operators in that part of the country had little to do except stare at their consoles, drink, and fuck whatever moves—even deer. I translated, but I left out the animal reference to preserve some self-respect for myself and my military.”
“Tell us more about the pilots,” asked Jonathan.
“I told you, they were arrogant, especially the major. When I pointed out a mobile radar site on the map, he cut me off, explaining that he knew exactly what were the capabilities of the P-15M Squat Eye radar at that site. I remember him saying, ‘I know your backyard as if it were mine,’ and that he had flown into Soviet airspace many times and that our radar operators were narcoleptics! Yes, he was a real cowboy, that pilot. Full of machismo. He paraded a cockiness I had seen all too often in our military, at the Academy. And many of those confident faces never returned from their tours in Afghanistan.”
“Did the pilots speak any Russian?”
“No.”
Jonathan checked his watch and realized time was fast running out. “Hurry, tell us more.”
“The pilots pulled out a thick envelope and tossed it on the hood. It contained our airline tickets, forged passports and some cash—dollars and Swiss francs. There was also a bank deposit confirmation made to a numbered account in Luxembourg—I assume in the general’s name. I counted the notes, about seven thousand dollars, and several thousand francs. I had never held so much cash in my life, and I was promised a cut of what had been deposited in the bank, as well. It was mesmerizing. So much so that my anger at General Yakovlev, at the system, at everything that had tormented my adult life quickly vanished. I tell you, it turned that dreary night into a carnival. I began to imagine what I could do with it. I saw refrigerators, cartons of American cigarettes, a Madonna concert, a Cadillac—no, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Mercedes. All I needed was a place to spend the money, a place as far away as possible from the Soviet prison-state I craved to escape. The major gave us the name of our contact in Vienna. He was to meet us at the airport, after our transit through Budapest, where our counterfeit Yugoslavian passports would make travel easier. From Austria, we would then be separated for our own safety. That was music to my ears. Separation from the old bastard.
“After that, the pilots returned to their plane, and I drove the truck to the back of the aircraft. As I approached, the plane’s cargo door began to lower. I got out. The engines were still on, throwing up dirt that hit my face like needles. The plane’s cargo bay was huge and lit up like a stadium. I then saw four people march down the ramp dressed like aliens—baggy, white plastic protective suits with black rubber gloves and gas masks. The first two crewmen were black. They walked right past me as if I wasn’t even there. They held small electronic devices, pointing them at the truck and checking the readings every few seconds. One of them jumped onto the bed of the truck and examined the large wooden crates up close.
“What were in the crates?” Alexandre and Jonathan asked simultaneously.
“Yakovlev had never mentioned the contents. After seeing what the crew was wearing, I became worried. But I tried to think of a more favorable explanation. Just paranoid Americans, I tried to convince myself. Or blacks, they’re more afraid—that’s what we were taught in high school. But those men didn’t seem frightened, just businesslike, and I never believed that garbage anyway.
“Finally, I decided that I should rest on the fact that if anything were that dangerous, Yakovlev would have been the first to wear protective gear. Besides, he was an expert at it, just like me.”
“Expert at what?” Jonathan questioned.
“What, you don’t know already?”
“No.”
Vlad sighed. “Yakovlev was very knowledgeable with special weapons, chemical and biological weapons in particular. That’s why he had been in Afghanistan, although he never told me more details than that. And that’s why he was at the Academy—to handpick cadets for the special weapons groups around the country. And I was a special munitions tactical instructor for helicopter pilots. That’s why, when I saw the protective suits, I became concerned.”
“Were there such weapons in the cargo?”
“I don’t know. I gestured for the Americans to remove their masks, but they ignored me. The cargo is safe, I again told myself, probably because it was easier to think that way. As a Soviet officer, my instinct was to never question the questionable. It was a survival tool I wasn’t about to alter that night.”
“Can you tell us more about the crew?” Jonathan asked, again checking the time.
“Another crewman finally approached me,” Vlad said. “I brought with me the cargo manifest in a sealed envelope. General Yakovlev had forbidden me from opening it. Just as I handed it to the man, he replied in Russian. He said ‘Spasibo.’”
Alexandre leaned into Jonathan. “That means ‘thank you.’”
“I was surprised,” Vlad went on to say. “I asked if he spoke Russian, and he answered that he did and when he opened the envelope he asked me a few questions about the size and weight of the crates. He spoke nearly fluently. And then I asked him why he and his colleagues wore the protective gear, to which he simply said, ‘Shouldn’t you have one on?’ I was not amused, as you can imagine. The other crewmen unloaded the crates with a forklift. They positioned them in the center of the cargo bay and secured them all with multiple cables and a huge net. The crew then fastened the forklift to the floor and the ramp rose to its locked position. And that was it. The plane took off a few minutes later.”
“What about the general and that woman?”
“The bastard patted me on the back when I drove back to where he was. He was all excited to share the news with the bitch in his car. I remember him tapping on the glass, the curtain moving back and the tinted window rolling down just enough for us to meet the woman’s fierce look. The general told her the transfer of the crates went well, but her face stayed frigid. She was evil, all right. I never wanted to see her again.” Vlad shook his head. “And then...then...
” He took another drag of his cigarette.
“What?” Jonathan asked. “Tell us.”
“She shouted at the general something like ‘fine, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Drive me out of here!’ He was so nervous that he bumped into me as he jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut and took off.”
“Who was this woman who could turn a top general into a chauffeur?”
“A real bitch.”
Alexandre raised his chin. “What’s Marina’s full name?”
“I told you, I don’t know; I’m not even sure her name was Marina or Mariya or something similar,” Vlad said, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray and reaching his hand half way to the cell phone. “Can I make my calls now? Pozhaluysta.”
Alexandre glanced at Jonathan for approval, after which his American pal shook his head. “No, I want more information first.”
“Please, let me at least make one call,” Vlad asked, nearly begging. “Just one.”
Alexandre nodded and said something in Russian.
Vlad grabbed the cell phone and started dialing as fast as he could.
Jonathan sympathized with Vlad, a man cut off from the outside world for months, unable to get adequate help.
“Natasha!” Vlad said, his voice suddenly sounding as if he was about to cry with joy. “Eto Vlad! Gdye moya sestra?”
All of a sudden, the loud noise of the door unlocking surprised them. The guard staggered in, his large set of keys dangling from his clenched fist, and immediately addressed Alexandre in an authoritative tone, after which Alexandre stood up and joined him at the door. All Jonathan knew was that they were arguing, with the guard’s voice twice as loud as the Russian lawyer’s. Things didn’t look good.
Alexandre turned to Jonathan with a resigned look. “The interview is over.”
“This is crap,” Jonathan said angrily, checking his watch and realizing the promised thirty minutes had not yet elapsed. “Why is he cutting it short?”
“He’s not telling me why.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes,” Alexandre answered, appearing exacerbated. “He simply said time’s up, and that’s it.”
“Can’t we have five more minutes?” Jonathan pleaded. “Or pay him off?”
“Too risky; I don’t know this officer.”
Jonathan needed every bit of self-restraint to avoid yelling at the guard, but Alexandre’s empty stare was enough to convince Jonathan that insisting was pointless. The guard escorted Vlad out as Jonathan looked on, frustrated.
* * *
Arbat was one of the hippest neighborhoods in Moscow. At least that’s what Alexandre had told Jonathan. Located in the west-central part of town, it was host to the parliament, foreign embassies, the elegant Ukraina Hotel, countless Russian government offices and a pedestrian street known for its cafés, bars and street-side entertainment.
“Look over there,” Alexandre said.
Jonathan gazed to his right. A woman was holding by a leash a dark animal that at first looked like a furry dog. “Jesus, is that a bear?” he asked as he walked closer. The small brown bear, probably only a few months old, was rolling over onto its back on the cobbled street surrounded by several tourists taking pictures.
“Yes, it’s a beautiful animal,” Alexandre answered as if it were perfectly normal to have one there. “They don’t have bears in your shopping areas?”
“Uh, no.”
Alexandre took Jonathan to lunch at one of the area’s trendy Italian restaurants. Interestingly, he’d told Jonathan it might not be around long. Apparently, three other Italian eateries had burned down since the summer, the result of a feud between local Italian mobsters and a new, more violent Russian mafia family.
They dined and talked as friends would, though Jonathan didn’t really know this Muscovite, this stranger, who had so far been quite hospitable. But Jonathan felt far more at ease to tell him about the Victory Lines litigation, about the fact that the U.S. Navy was hiding evidence and manipulating testimony. However, as tempted as he was to tell all, Jonathan was not yet comfortable to divulge anything else, whether about Matt, about Tantina’s wild claim or about his meetings with Erland in Sweden and the late Sammy Dupree. And he certainly didn’t want Alexandre to feel that his own life was in danger. So he chose not to tell him about Linda and the car chase that nearly had him killed. This was all better left unsaid for now.
Alexandre listened, but not once did he appear shocked by the twists in the court proceedings. Perhaps in Russia, the game is played that way all the time. Alexandre patted the American’s shoulder.
At that moment, Alexandre’s cell phone rang. He answered and then turned to Jonathan. “A fax has arrived for you at my office.”
Jonathan immediately realized what this could be. “Can we pick it up right now?” he asked.
15
The facsimile from home lay on the coffee table, on top of his city map, beside crumpled chocolate wrappers and an empty can of Baltika beer. The two-page fax from AGI Forensics had been sent to Gary, who then sent it on to Moscow. Jonathan had immediately called AGI for a verbal confirmation.
His hand shaking, Jonathan wiped the tears off his cheeks and rubbed his bristly jaw. He reclined further into his hotel room sofa, his eyes randomly surfing the surroundings. Nothing he’d ever experienced could have prepared him for how he felt. He glanced at the fax once more and shook his head. Suddenly his mind filled with the voices of Tantina and Linda and Gary and Judge Breaux. And then young Matt, and the jolting sounds of the twenty-one-gun salute at Matt’s funeral. The fluttering of feathers as Linda released two white doves into the air, accompanied by the bugler playing Taps. And the sound of his sobbing as the casket was lowered into the ground. And now those magnified memories were eclipsed by the truth: the body was not his brother’s. With an error probability of one in two billion, the test on the remains proved they were not those of his brother. He finally knew, though it gave him less comfort than he had hoped.
The phone rang, and Jonathan crawled out of the plush sofa to answer it.
“How did you do it?” a man asked agitatedly, his English voice not immediately recognizable. “Tell me!”
Jonathan realized it was Alexandre’s. “Do what?”
“How did you bail him out?”
“Who?”
“Vlad!” Alexandre said, this time sounding angry.
“I don’t understand.”
“You mean...you didn’t arrange his bail?”
“No!”
“Der’mo! About an hour after we left the prison, someone paid one million rubles for his release.”
Jonathan quickly converted the currency. “That’s about eight thousand dollars, right?”
“Yes.”
“Who paid it?” Jonathan asked.
“The clerk told me a man speaking English came with a government lawyer and had a private meeting with one of the judges.”
“Did Vlad leave with them?”
“No, Vlad wasn’t there. He was released directly from the prison and the guard I know saw him walk to a nearby Metro station.”
“Where would he go?”
After a long pause, Alexandre replied, “I tracked down the woman—Natasha—he called using my cell phone. I think she’s his aunt, and I have her address. Perhaps he went there? But when he called her, he also asked her about his sister. Anyway, I don’t believe he has many places to choose from.”
Jonathan felt his heart pound rapidly in his chest. “Someone bailed him out to shut him up. He’s in danger. We must go there now if we want the rest of our answers. Where is it?”
“322 Vernadskogo Prospekt,” said Alexandre. “It’s in the Yugo-Zapadnaya district, southwest of town. I can pick you up in thirty minutes.”
“No, there’s no time,” Jonathan said. “This has all the signs of something bad, real bad.”
“Okay, then go. It will take you about twenty minutes to get there by taxi,” Alexandre sa
id. “Look for the name Natasha Davydov on the mailboxes. This will tell you which floor the apartment is on. I’ll join you as soon as I can. But don’t cause any trouble.”
“Perfect.”
* * *
Alexandre was exactly right about how long it would take to get to the place. The taxi stopped at the front of the apartment block—a dreary concrete structure some fifteen stories high that seemed to have been haphazardly erected in the snow. The building had an uncanny resemblance to the Fischer public housing complex back home. A heap of discarded furniture lay nearby, as did an overturned garbage cart.
The dimly lighted lobby reeked of urine, probably animal, but he couldn’t be sure. The concrete floor was littered with wrappers, plastic bags and empty vodka bottles, and the walls were covered with graffiti.
Jonathan scanned the row of mailboxes for the name Alexandre had given, remembering that in Cyrillic the letter N was an H, D’s looked like a hat and the letters A and T were the same as in English. He carefully read the name plates one after the other until the second to last one made him stop for a double-take.
“Jackpot!” he uttered excitedly, his finger tapping on the name. Next to it was written the number 10. The floor, he instantly deduced.
He exited the elevator and entered the narrow common area. There were four apartments, and one door was cracked open, which drew him to it. The name Davydov was etched onto a wooden plate above the doorbell.
He slowly pushed on the door and discreetly peeked in. The entry hall looked clean, with small framed pictures on the wall and an elegant rug over the hardwood floor. He leaned into the door a bit more and walked in but stopped in his tracks the moment he heard the faint sound of someone weeping.
I don’t have a weapon, Jonathan reminded himself. Don’t be too brave.
He moved stealthily into the apartment’s cloistered foyer. Creeping cautiously forward, he peered into the living room and saw an old woman, presumably Vlad’s aunt, seated on the couch, shaking, her mouth taped, her hands tied in front of her. She was crying, and her gaze was locked onto something or someone outside of Jonathan’s line of sight. He quickly took a step back so she wouldn’t spot him. Suddenly, he heard heavy footsteps from the direction in which the woman was staring.
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