Eleven Days of Hell

by Yvonne Bornstein

  ‘Do you know anything about the whereabouts of my husband?’ I asked.

  He began by saying, ‘I’m sorry’—which made my heart jump into my throat—’but I don’t. But I’ve been told things are happening.’

  After the call, Andrei left me in the company of a creepy, non-English-speaking cop, who stared at me, saying not a word. With nothing to do—ironically, much like my idle hours at the dacha—I sat myself next to a window that now overlooked Moscow and stared out as the dark night melted into the bright light of morning. The day was breathing life into the city. Traffic bustled, and people hurried in and out of buildings.

  Somewhere out there, possibly within the distance I could see, maybe Danny was being rescued. Would he walk through the door any minute? Or would someone come in to tell me something else, something terrible?

  Maybe I was free—maybe. But I still felt trapped. Waiting was still the hardest part, and it had not become any easier.

  HALF-WAY HOME

  Ian and Wendy Rayman were getting worried. It had been two hours since the 6pm zero hour, when Ian was to make contact with Danny again, yet the phone had not rung once. Sitting at the kitchen table with them, earpieces in place, Gerry Ingrisano, Joe McShane, and Tom Cottone were ready to monitor and hopefully trace the call. The main phone line was split into a second line that hooked up to the IVG connection in the guardhouse at the US Embassy in Moscow. Periodically, Ian called the numbers Danny had left previously, to 25 Chekhova Street and the apartment tracked down by Colonel Rushailo. No dice. No messages from Danny came to Ian’s answering service or to the clinic. Hopes of a big breakthrough turned to a numb ennui and a growing dread that something terrible had befallen the Weinstocks.

  Dimitry Afanasiev, in his Philadelphia apartment, was itching to pass along some information to the MVD switchboard, but Wendy had the same status report every half-hour or so: ‘Nothing yet.’

  Jim Pelphrey, alone in the embassy guardhouse, waited for Rushailo’s men to show up at the gate and was becoming a little steamed. The Russians had made him jump through rings and had received unprecedented access to American intelligence—and now they took their sweet time? Then again, there was no call for them to listen to. Maybe it wasn’t coincidental that they weren’t here, Pelphrey ruminated. They must be getting information elsewhere.

  He was half right. Rushailo, of course, had been getting information from another source. However, on this night, Dimitry Afanasiev was in the dark, too. The simple fact was that Rushailo had all the information he needed. The gypsy gang was under surveillance; his men had identified the gang’s boss and an ex-KGB agent known to have been working in the underworld.

  At 3am, Pelphrey received the word he was expecting: The SWAT unit had followed and then pounced on its prey at the dacha in Noginsk. The raid that freed Yvonne netted five mobsters, including the two biggest fish, Oleg and Robert. However, Rushailo cursed the bad luck that again bedeviled him when Danny was not at the house.

  Only rescuing both Weinstocks would suffice; there could be no victory and no glory for Rushailo if one lived and one died. ‘Keep the heat on,’ he ordered all his other units in the field. ‘Bring Mrs Weinstock to the Ministry of Interior,’ he directed. ‘Make her feel comfortable, but get whatever information about the band of kidnappers you can.’

  By now, Rushailo knew full well that, with the gang on the run, there would be no phone call between Danny Weinstock and the American doctor, and thus no time to waste at the embassy. He had to find whoever was holding Danny. It could only be Miasnikov. He put the word out. Find him!

  At 4:45pm in Moscow, 8:45pm in Wayne, the MVD telexed the FBI office in Newark that Yvonne had been rescued. At the same time, someone at the Ministry of Interior placed a call to Dimitry Afanasiev and tipped him off to the successful raid. He let out a sigh of relief, but he too was not satisfied; he kept the phone line open to the MVD switchboard. Ian and Wendy, meanwhile, found out about Yvonne when Ingrisano received notification from his office. The Raymans hugged each other. Wendy laughed and cried at the same time. The night had not been a waste, after all.

  Ingrisano, though, wasn’t ready to do any celebrating. ‘We’re only halfway home,’ he said.

  In Moscow, Wayne, and Philadelphia, they all hunkered back down, thinking the same thing.

  Where was Danny?

  ‘YOU ARE SAFE NOW’

  The lights had only been off for about an hour when, just after 4am, the phone in Boris’s flat—in working order, after all—rang. Boris stumbled into the living room and picked up. He could barely believe what he heard and called out for Grigory to wake up and come out of the bedroom he was sharing with Danny. A heavy-lidded Miasnikov took the phone, whereupon he was told Yvonne had been taken from the dacha by the police and that Oleg, Robert, and three others were under arrest. Kuzin had vanished, his whereabouts unknown.

  Miasnikov was shaken, but he tried not to panic. It was he who had to make the decisions about what to do with Danny. He had two options: He could hang tough and try to somehow keep the ransom demand alive, or he could turn away from the plot and try to save his own hide. He chose the latter.

  It was the smart move; Grigory was nothing if not smart. He had been told that the cops had cars looking for him all over the city. They were surely on to him, proving the wisdom of Oleg and Robert in bringing him back into their web as a visible and putative ‘business partner’ of the Weinstocks—who could now claim he had been victimised along with them by their unscrupulous business enemies.

  To make this ruse work, of course, would require the cooperation and corroboration of Yvonne and Danny, who would have to be persuaded not to rat him out.

  Danny could judge by the commotion in the living room that something was up, something that might bode well—or very bad—for him. An agitated Boris walked into the bedroom and angrily ordered him to come into the kitchen with him and Grigory. There, Boris manically paced the floor and began shouting menacingly at Danny. He looked close to snapping, and with all the sharp knives on the counter, Danny wondered if Boris would grab one and come at him. Grigory, however, calmed him down and took him aside for a quiet discussion.

  There was no doubt that Miasnikov was in charge and that he could make the gruff, toad-like Mob foot soldier do whatever he wanted. The contrast between the two was a microcosm of the divergent methods that made the alliance of Miasnikov and the provincial gangsters a rocky one, and it recalled the Weinstocks’ great, if faint, hope that it could ultimately rupture the plot.

  Danny didn’t know if it was playing out that way; too much was still unclear about what was happening. After more discussion between Miasnikov and Boris, the latter had a stunning pronouncement.

  ‘Something has gone wrong,’ he said, with Grigory translating the words he had all but put in Boris’s mouth.

  Then, the kicker: ‘You are about to be released.’

  Danny damn near fell over. Had he heard right? He was about to be set free? Just like that? Did that mean Yvonne was also free? What about the fax to Mikhail Rud? What about the money? What about Vladivostok?

  Without knowing the full story behind the astonishing edict, he knew it could not have come from Oleg or Robert, much less Boris—not with the Russian Mob’s code of ‘honour,’ known as the Vorovsky Zukon—about seeing a job through, one way or another. No, it could only have come from an interloper, and not incidentally someone who could hold sway over Rud. That was Miasnikov. He did have snake-charmer skills, didn’t he?

  Indeed, this is exactly what Miasnikov had up his sleeve. He would explain to Rud that, once Yvonne had been rescued, the plot had to be aborted. They would have to cut their losses from the fertiliser group—for now, anyway.

  In truth, Miasnikov had other, more personal considerations. With his unbridled vanity and pretensions of upper-crust ‘legitimacy,’ he couldn’t bear the thought of being captured and jailed like a common criminal. His entire reputation as a businessman was at stake; the only way
to salvage it was to withdraw as gracefully as he could from this disastrous, ill-conceived ‘venture.’

  To achieve this, he had one last threat to make—identical to the one he had made to poor Richard Markson on the first day of the misadventure.

  ‘If anything happens to any of us,’ he made clear to Danny in the kitchen—though he surely meant ‘me’ and not ‘us’—’you will be killed. Do not think that you or your family are safe in Australia, or anywhere else in the world.’

  Danny took the threat seriously. If it was the price for his freedom and his family’s safety, it was a small one.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. He would not divulge that he and Yvonne had been kidnapped or beaten. He and Yvonne would hide the bruises on their bodies until they healed.

  His tour of Wonderland, though, was not yet over. Miasnikov, knowing how close the police were, had to turn his role in the plot on its head. He had to be with Danny when he was rescued, in the guise of a friend, an ally, even a protector. Two hours later, at around 6am, with Grigory having sold Boris on the viability of his plan, the three men put on their overcoats and left the apartment. A bit self-consciously, they walked out onto the busy street on a bitterly cold but brilliant, sunny morning. Grigory told Danny to continue walking with him and Boris down the block.

  For about ten minutes, the troika—in the face of the massive police dragnet—casually and anonymously strode through crowds of people headed to work. When no cops or squad cars emerged, Grigory ordered Boris to flag down a passing car to stop—a common sight in Moscow, where accommodating drivers make extra money by ferrying pedestrians around town. An old blue Volga stopped, Boris gave the driver some money, and Grigory and Danny got in as Boris went his separate way.

  The destination was central Moscow: 25 Chekhova Street, which Grigory assumed was the highest-visibility target of all for the police. Just before they arrived there, Miasnikov changed his mind and directed the driver to the Hotel Leningrad, where he and his young wife lived in a suite. During the ride, the two passengers—who were still officially business partners—spoke civilly, with Grigory trying hard to make shoptalk with business matters such as the joint ventures as well as a potential deal to build a resort on the Black Sea about which he and Danny had discussed in the past.

  What gall! Danny thought. This man had used his position in our business to pull off his vicious betrayal. Because of him, Yvonne and I were almost killed. And now here he was, pretending that nothing had happened? Does he really think we’ll just forget what he did?

  The car pulled up outside the Leningrad, an elegant, old-world hotel that Miasnikov obviously considered the kind of lodging suited to his cultivated tastes. Never one to keep a low profile—and maybe especially so now, wanting to be noticed with his esteemed Australian business partner—he politely asked Danny to come to his room to meet his wife, upon which he went through the revolving doors with a flourish and flounced through the lobby to the elevator.

  He and Danny rode the lift to the fifth floor then ambled down the opulent hallway to a corner suite. Grigory turned the key in the door. Stopping Danny a few steps inside, he said, ‘Wait here while I see my wife. She doesn’t know where I’ve been for the last two days. She’ll be very worried.’

  Danny smirked at Grigory’s self-absorbed arrogance. She’ll be worried! The poor thing. What about Yvonne and me? We have no idea where the hell the other is!

  Miasnikov walked down a long corridor. Minutes later, he reappeared with his girl-bride, whom he called Elena. Wearing stretch black pants and a T-shirt, she looked like she could have been his daughter, a fresh-faced and gawky girl. Grigory had confided in the car that he’d only married her because her parents were going to give them a snazzy apartment that they owned. In Danny’s mind, Miasnikov may not have been a pederast, but he definitely was a cad.

  Speaking in passable English, Elena offered Danny—what else?—tea. But he was sick of tea. In fact, he was sick of this runaround. Why did he have to follow Grigory around? If he was free, he wanted out—now.

  ‘I need to call the Australian Embassy,’ he told Miasnikov.

  ‘I will call them myself,’ Grigory said, ‘but it’s too early. There’ll be no answer.’

  In the meantime, he told Danny to take a seat in the living room, and in short order, Elena brought out cups of tea and plates with slices of chocolate cake. Danny wasn’t much interested in this odd version of a breakfast. He wanted to know why Grigory had told him he was about to be released, yet wasn’t.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just sit. Eat. You’ll see.’

  He looked supremely unworried, leading Danny to wonder if this was all a big con, a game—a trap. Just as Grigory had said, it took fifteen minutes before the answer indeed became evident.

  First, there was the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway outside. Then came a banging on the door and shouts of, ‘Open! Open!’

  Grigory rose and walked to the door. He turned the knob, not bothering to ask who was out there.

  The door swung open, and men in leather jackets, automatic weapons drawn, rushed in.

  Elena screamed and began to run down the corridor, but was ordered to freeze. She stood affixed, still as a statue.

  Grigory, who made no attempt to move or resist, was immediately tackled and dropped to the floor by two men, his hands cuffed under him.

  Danny, just like Yvonne back at the dacha when men like these crashed in, waited to hear the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire that would blast him to pieces.

  Without knowing why, just on instinct, he sank to the floor in a corner of the room and hid his eyes, afraid to look up. Instead of gunfire, he heard a man’s voice, in English, saying, ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Daniel Weinstock,’ he replied.

  The man aimed his rifle away.

  ‘You are safe now,’ he said. ‘Your wife is safe as well. She is in our custody.’

  Now Danny raised his eyes. Grigory was standing, pressed against the opposite wall, his hands cuffed behind his back. Two cops had their guns on him. He was told not to say a word. Apparently knowing who he was, they had not asked him to identify himself and evidently had no reason to make conversation with him at all.

  If Miasnikov had planned to talk his way out of trouble, being smothered and muzzled like this wrecked the plan.

  Danny, with Grigory’s threats in mind, had no intention of incriminating him.

  Still, he was glad he wouldn’t have to back up anything Grigory would have to say that would be designed to absolve himself of guilt. So he said nothing.

  Helped to his feet by one of the cops, Danny threw his arms around the man’s shoulders and held on tightly, as if terrified to let go. He tried to fight tears but couldn’t, and his entire body began to heave as he sobbed uncontrollably, inconsolably. The cop let him hold onto him and weep.

  It was 8:45am, Friday, January 17, 1992.

  The eleven days of hell were over.

  19

  DAY ELEVEN:

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 16th

  AFTERNOON AND EVENING, MOSCOW

  At around 10am, Captain Andrei Zharov walked into his office in the annex of the Ministry of Interior looking pleased.

  ‘Mrs Weinstock,’ he said, ‘Your husband has been rescued at a hotel in Moscow. He’s safe. He’s being brought here.’

  The words nearly lifted me up from the chair and through the ceiling. I let out a yelp of joy and felt like jumping into his arms, but then, out of my control, I began to cry and buried my face in my hands. I can’t remember if I ever felt as much relief or if my emotions had ever turned as suddenly as this before.

  Only a few hours before, I had stood petrified on the staircase of that cursed dacha, ready to die, waiting to feel bullets going through me. The concept of hope didn’t exist anymore. And now, as if only by the will of God, the nightmare was over in the most farfetched way possible, with both Danny and me safe and sound and the kidnappers captu
red. No one will ever convince me there are no such things as miracles.

  About half an hour later, Andrei was back to tell me Danny had arrived in the building.

  ‘Can I see him?’ I asked.

  Oddly, he shook his head no.

  ‘Why? Why can’t I see him?’

  He looked very uncomfortable. Obviously, he didn’t want to upset or alarm me, but he was perturbed about something.

  ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’ I went on. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, he is fine. We are questioning him. We will be finished as soon as possible.’

  Questioning? That’s why I couldn’t see him? It didn’t make sense. Couldn’t they just question us together? Wouldn’t it be easier that way?

  Then it hit me: There must be a reason why they couldn’t have us corroborate the details of the kidnapping. The only reason I could think of was that Danny wasn’t telling them what I had written in my statement. Someone had gotten to him. I was sure it was creating a sticky wicket.

  ‘UNTHINKABLE’

  Indeed, the post-arrest time frame had its own tense moments. Yvonne and Danny and five of the conspirators—Grigory, Robert, Oleg, Kuzin and Orloff—were all in the building, telling their stories. However, Danny stunned the interrogators by maintaining he hadn’t been abducted at all; rather, he said he had merely been away on a ‘vacation’ at a resort on the Black Sea the past eleven days. He had been visiting ‘friends’ in Moscow, including Grigory, when the cops had stormed into the Leningrad Hotel.

  This obvious fable was causing massive problems that meant he would need to be kept separated from Yvonne, since their stories were diametrically opposed.

  The inspectors knew Yvonne had told it right.

  She had named names and explained the beatings and torture in pulsating detail, while Danny was evasive and fell back on the canard about the vacation.