Just as Jonathan was about to cross the walkway, the loud sounds of laughter suddenly jarred the quiet surroundings. He kneeled down and turned off his flashlight. He heard male voices coming from one end of the subway line, but he couldn’t see anything except the tracks directly below him. The voices and footsteps grew louder. He then saw them, two uniformed men holding assault rifles. They casually strolled under his tunnel and stopped. One guard suddenly looked up.
Shit, Jonathan thought, and almost said it out loud. He quickly jolted back. Luckily for him, the guard had not flashed his light up until a second later. Jonathan squatted motionless, his heart beating rapidly, a few inches away from the beam that pierced the floor and illuminated the ceiling of his tunnel. Then, one guard spoke to the other, but he didn’t sound alarmed. And when Jonathan heard one of them laugh again, he knew he was safe for the moment.
Jonathan sighed. He waited until the guards had walked away, their voices now faint, before he slowly and quietly crossed the twenty-foot-long metal floor and continued through the tunnel. He then rubbed his arms and hands to warm himself.
With his flashlight back on, he walked at a fast pace until he reached a fork in the tunnel. He turned right, as Alexandre had instructed. And then he counted the large wooden doors that appeared on his left. It’s the fourth one, Jonathan told himself, recalling what Alexandre had said. He examined the surface of the door with his flashlight and then knocked three times, also as Alexandre had told him.
A noisy clanking of keys resonated from behind the door, and then the lock snapped loudly. The door creaked as if it hadn’t been opened in years, and immediately a flashlight beamed onto Jonathan’s face.
“Are you Mr. Brooks?” whispered a man with a Russian accent. He seemed agitated.
“Yes,” Jonathan replied. “You are Nikolai?”
The man lowered his flashlight and nodded. “Please, please,” he then said, motioning for Jonathan to come in. Nikolai quickly shut the door behind Jonathan and locked it.
Jonathan gazed around the small, stone-walled room, which was illuminated only by a gas lantern atop a pile of wooden crates at the far end of the room, next to another door. Except for the half-dozen crates, the room was empty.
“Are we safe here?” asked Jonathan.
“It is an abandoned cellar from the late 19th Century,” Nikolai answered. “I don’t think anyone has taken the time to see if it still exists. We are safe, unless you were followed.” His breath reeked of alcohol, but it didn’t seem to impair his English.
“I’m sure I was not followed.”
“Horosho, horosho,” Nikolai said, sounding relieved. He sat on one of the crates and pointed to the one next to him. “Sit, please.”
Nikolai pulled two documents out of the top of the stack of papers, the first paper clipped, the other stapled. He rested the papers on his lap, licked his index finger and flipped past the first few pages.
He seemed excited, or perhaps nervous, or both.
Jonathan kneeled down and opened his notebook over his lap, his pen ready take down any information of value.
Pulling his wide-framed reading glasses away for a second, Nikolai wiped the sweat from under his eyes and quickly jostled the paper below Jonathan’s nose. “Very difficult, but I find helpful information about Yakovlev.”
“Good.” Jonathan took a deep breath.
“I am sure it is your Yakovlev,” he said and then began reading the text, translating slowly. “‘Item Six: Concerning attempts by United States intelligence services to acquire Soviet weapons.’ It is a handwritten transcript of the working notes at a meeting of the Politburo.”
Jonathan nodded impatiently. “What is the date?”
“Twenty-two October, 1986, and all the big men were present, it seems,” he said, his eyes wide open, as he spat out some of the names, “It looks like Gorbachev, Gromyko, Zaikov, Ligachev, Ryzhkov, Shevardnadze, Dobrynin—the full house! But it looks like each minister has a number, so I’m not sure who was saying what.”
He then began a verbatim translation, starting with one of the ministers:
NUMBER 7: We need to exchange opinions concerning measures in connection with the hostile action by the USA administration intelligence services. As stated earlier, the events after Reykjavik shows that they are doing everything to inflame the atmosphere, covertly and publicly. As I understand it, they are aggressively pursuing our biological weapons capabilities, and one of our trusted groups has uncovered a potential danger to us. We have learned that one of their agencies is attempting to acquire some of our special weapons.
NUMBER 3: Is it the CIA?
NUMBER 4: I have been told no, but no one is sure. What is most dangerous is that they are trying to take possession of the weapons, not merely the plans, drawings and other information. They are using several agents in our military and at Biopreparat laboratories, in an operation they have codenamed “Tranquility.”
NUMBER 3: Yes, Comrades, another example that they are acting like bandits from the big road.
NUMBER 7: Can we shut their operation down? And should we make it public?
NUMBER 1: We cannot allow a public response in this case. In this extremely complex situation, we need to be clever and not simply reach for propaganda points. This problem risks damaging our credibility and our positions on disarmament.
NUMBER 6: Perhaps we can do something else. As I already reported to the Politburo, we discovered many eavesdropping devices in our offices in the USA. This fact should be made public in order to expose American espionage, and a press conference should be called with a demonstration of American espionage’s eavesdropping devices. This may make them nervous and stop their latest operation.
NUMBER 7: That will not stop them. They seem committed to stealing our most sensitive weapons.
NUMBER 2: But we must stop them. We have weapons that are more advanced than theirs, thanks to our two newest laboratories.
NUMBER 8: I agree, but let us find a better way, a way to turn their plan against them, without damaging us.
NUMBER 4: There is a group already working on this.
NUMBER 6: What is this group?
NUMBER 4: People at Yasenevo, mostly T and RT Departments, with assistance from the Institute of Applied Molecular Biology, as well as KGB Major-General Yakovlev at the Air Force Academy. Apparently, he is one that is being targeted by the Americans, no doubt because of his access to special weapons facilities and experts.
NUMBER 8: I have heard of Comrade Yakovlev Ivanovich. Are we sure he is a trustworthy person to pose as a double-agent?
NUMBER 4: Yes, the group is under the tight control of Comrade Rulyova. I suggest giving her even more room to be creative.
NUMBER 6: Do you mean Mariya Rulyova, of the Line Five operations last year?
NUMBER 4: Yes, a brilliant, shrewd mind.
NUMBER 2: Well, I must caution using her in this effort. May I remind the Politburo who this woman is related to.
NUMBER 6: Yes, we know.
NUMBER 2: So any misstep would be highly embarrassing? The Americans would rejoice at such negative publicity.
NUMBER 8: I am sure Mariya will do a fine job.
NUMBER 1: We should have this group work as quickly as possible.
Members of the Politburo: We agree.
“Is this real?” Jonathan asked as he scanned the Cyrillic text of the paper.
Nikolai returned a look that could well have been a slap. “Of course. I don’t collect fake documents.”
“Sorry,” Jonathan said, shrugging his shoulders.
Jonathan immediately wondered if Vlad’s recollection of the woman named Marina was in fact this woman, Mariya. Vlad had not been completely certain of her name, he recalled.
He glanced at the document once more and asked, “Who are the people at Yasenevo?”
“Yasenevo is the name of the area. It is where the SVR is located.”
“SVR?” Jonathan asked.
“Sluzhba Vneshn
ey Razvedki, our external reconnaissance services. It is like your CIA.”
“I thought that was the role of the KGB.”
“It is the same in your country. You have many intelligence departments and groups, and sometimes they work together, but more often not. I think in this case the SVR was handling the operation. And Mariya is most definitely SVR. I have heard of her.”
Jonathan was both intrigued and worried.
Nikolai turned to another document, flipped the cover page over and pointed to one line, half-way down the page. “This is a dispatch to SVR headquarters from the Ministry of Health, sent on March 22, 1989.”
Jonathan looked into Nikolai’s eyes, waiting for him to translate the note.
“It’s not clear who sent it, but it was for Major-General Yakovlev,” he said, looking up with a cracked grin. “It says ‘We must quarantine Patient No. 12 far from Moscow. Arrange for transport to Ministry clinic No. 211 until such time as we establish protocol. Authorization was never given for you to accompany specialists to Gotland, and we need debriefing on retrieval operation. Please report to Deputy Director.’”
The words were providing the pieces of the puzzle Jonathan so desperately wanted to cement together. It made sense, he guessed, but was he supposed to hang his hat on Matt being this Patient No. 12?
“Does Patient No. 12 have a name?”
“No,” Nikolai said. “There are some more indirect references in some of these other documents, but those two papers are the best ones.”
“I need to know more about this Mariya woman.”
Nikolai suddenly looked annoyed. “I spent much time looking for Yakovlev materials; no one ever asked me for information on her.”
“I suppose,” Jonathan said calmly, although he wanted to grab the man’s head and shake it like one would a misbehaving pin ball machine. Doesn’t he understand that I need new leads? And Mariya was the one who managed the operation described in the Politburo transcript. She has to know.
Nikolai began digging through the pile of papers on his lap. He then pulled out a black and white photograph. “Here, here. This is Mariya.” He handed it to Jonathan, who then examined the image of a woman in uniform posing in front of two military men. “This is a few years ago.” Nikolai then chuckled. “But you won’t find her in a uniform now. I hear she is now completely...” He finished his sentence by motioning a nutty gesture with his hand. “Crazy lesbian sex parties. Heavy alcohol and drug use. She’s lost her head, I’ve heard.”
Jonathan gazed at the photograph a bit longer. “Where can I find her?”
“Apparently she’s got a permanent room at the Baltschug Kempinski Hotel.”
He and Nikolai then took a few more minutes to examine the remaining documents, but nothing new of interest came up.
Jonathan asked Nikolai to fetch more documents about Mariya Rulyova when suddenly he realized that he also owed a favor to Erland, the Swedish intelligence operative who had given him some useful information about the crash near Gotland. “I have one more request. I need anything you can find about a Swedish DC-3 that was shot down by the Soviet Air Force in 1952.”
Nikolai raised his brow. “You know, it takes time to find these documents. We are not in your country, where I am sure there are centralized computer systems to locate every document. Here, I do most of it by hand.”
“I understand.”
Nikolai tilted his head to the side and cracked an unexpected smile. “Well, I know about that incident because I helped to reclassify an updated report. The plane was shot down. Everyone knows that.”
“But where is the wreckage?”
Nikolai’s expression told Jonathan that he knew. “Apparently, it came down a few kilometers east of a small island off Sweden’s coast.”
“Gotland?”
“No, another one.” Nikolai scratched his head and frowned. “I think it was called Sandön. Yes, that’s it, Gotska Sandön, north of Gotland. If I remember correctly, one of our submarines spotted the wreckage in the late ’80s. It was little more than a hundred meters below sea level.”
“I would greatly appreciate if you could obtain more information on this.” Jonathan was amazed that this man could remember such detail. But then again, he thought, archivists are paid to scrutinize details. Jonathan then remembered what Alexandre had said: to give Nikolai a reason—a morally justifiable one. “It’s for the families of the pilots, you know. They want closure. After all these years...”
“I will see.”
Jonathan patted Nikolai on the shoulder and sat back and stretched his arms. In doing so, he suddenly caught sight of a snakelike object that seemed to twist itself forward under the wooden door. A camera? Jonathan grabbed the kerosene lamp and held it up high, lighting up the far end of the room. The object seemed to have a glassy tip.
“What is it?” Nikolai blurted and then he too turned his attention at the object.
“It’s a camera!” Jonathan’s heart began to race and his legs tensed up like concrete poles.
A loud thud shook the door. And again. The camera whipped back under the door.
“Dammit,” Jonathan barked, staring at Nikolai. “They’re trying to come in?”
“Who is it? What do you want?” Nikolai shouted, jumping to his feet. “This can’t be. No one knows about this place.”
“You’re obviously wrong.”
The door shook again from the force that was pounding on it from the other side.
“Where does this lead?” Jonathan asked turning to the room’s only other door, the one behind Nikolai. “Quickly.”
The thuds continued, but the door seemed to hold, its thick structure buying Jonathan and Nikolai a little time.
“Let’s go!” Nikolai quickly opened the door as Jonathan ran out of the room, holding the lamp ahead of him.
Suddenly, another loud thud crashed through the air. The wooden door swung open from the force. Before Jonathan could turn all the way round, Nikolai’s head split open, flesh splattering across the wall and over Jonathan’s shoulder.
Jonathan instantly darted down the dark corridor. He lost his grip on the lamp, and it shattered over the stone floor. He was now racing down a completely dark passageway. He’d left his flashlight back in the room. He heard yelling—possibly two or three men had stormed the room. Suddenly, a muffled series of pops echoed from far behind him, followed by the screeching bullets ricocheting off the tunnel walls.
He guessed that he’d been running about a hundred yards, and he wasn’t about to stop. Not now. Not with the heavy sounds of footsteps and bursting gunfire so close on his tail. He continued to run, his hands stretched out in front of him to help shield him should there be a sudden turn in the abyss.
A series of loud crackles echoed his way followed by the snapping sounds of bullets ricocheting off the stone walls somewhere behind him. Suddenly, a ripping pain burst through his right shoulder. Still running, he threw his left hand over his shoulder and felt a tear in his jacket. The needling pain tore through his arm.
I’ve been shot!
He ran as fast as he could, trying to ignore the pain and praying he would find a way out of this labyrinth.
Another shot rang out.
18
The tunnel was completely dark until suddenly, Jonathan spotted a faint light some distance away. He continued to run as fast as he could, but he needed to find a way out to street level. The sliver of light came through what looked like a ventilation outlet on the ceiling. He stopped momentarily. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He stood on his tiptoes and peeked through the opening, trying to gauge what was on the other side and deciding if he could crawl into it somehow. But it didn’t look good. There was nothing to see, only an amorphous light, which was barely able to give his human eye the most minimal view of the tunnel ahead of him. He took off running, hoping he’d find another exit somewhere else along the dark tunnel.
Rapid, gritty-sounding footsteps resonated loudly, and though he estimated his le
ad at about fifty yards, if he didn’t run like hell, he’d get his brains blown out like Nikolai. Panting wildly and nearly out of breath, he continued his race down the cobblestone tunnel, his thighs and calves burning, and the soles of his dress shoes barely able to keep any traction.
If I fall, I’m dead.
Another loud bang rang out behind him, followed by a crackle—the bullet again hit the stone walls. He kept running, his arms and shoulders brushing violently against the bulbous stones that made up each side of the tunnel. It was about four feet wide, but there was no telling how much further it went on—or if there were steps or a sharp turn anywhere ahead.
Jesus!
Jonathan’s right foot clipped a ledge, hurling him forward uncontrollably. His knees planted first.
Fuck!
His body rolled once, twice and a third time as he brought his arms around his head to protect himself in the final tumble of his cascading journey over the cold, wet stone floor.
Jonathan took a deep breath as spindles of pain shot up from his legs and arms, but he could still move them. He again heard footsteps. He held his breath, got back up and stretched his arms wide open to find the right direction and bolted.
The tunnel was now completely dark, and with every lunging step he risked another chance of wiping out. The alternative—a bullet or two in the head—was an entirely unacceptable choice. Another shot rang out, the bullet finding only a stone near Jonathan.
Even with the darkness surrounding him, he ran with all the speed he could muster, praying that he’d avoid another fall. But he knew he had to get out of there soon. He couldn’t see anything ahead of him.
He ran, rubbing his hand along the stone wall as he desperately sought to find a door or another passageway. Suddenly his wrist banged into a handle. He stopped and raced back to the door. He hastily twisted the latch and then attempted to shake it open.
Dammit!
He then stepped back a few feet and rammed the left side of his body into the door, the pain from his shoulder tearing across his back. When it didn’t budge, he realized how thick the wood was. Another gunshot rang out, the lead scraping the stone wall just inches above his head. He ducked and darted down the pitch-black path, his thoughts jumping to the realization that he might indeed die, right here in Moscow’s murky kingdom of Hades.
Tranquility Denied Page 22
