Surface to Air

by Gérard de Villiers

  Suddenly Amritzar realized how desirable his wife was. He stood up and took her in his arms. She relaxed, and pressed her crotch against his.

  “Hold on a moment,” he said. “I have to change our plane tickets. I hope we can get a flight.”

  He phoned the hotel concierge and asked him to make them reservations on the first flight to Moscow tomorrow. When he hung up, he saw Benazir gazing lovingly at him.

  They were already on the bed and in each other’s arms when the telephone rang: they were booked on an Aeroflot flight the next day at noon.

  Amritzar immediately sent an email to Mahmud:

  “I will be at the Hotel Belgrade on Smolenskaya Street tomorrow.”

  When he got back into bed and Benazir started stroking his chest, Amritzar had the feeling that Allah was kissing his soul.

  While her husband was on the phone, the young woman had quietly slipped off her panties, and Amritzar penetrated her almost immediately. He made love to her with even more passion than usual, while trying to ignore an unpleasant little thought: that becoming a shahid often involved a one-way ticket to paradise.

  —

  Despite the sun, dense fog lingered over the airport at Schwechat, east of Vienna. Malko parked his Jaguar in the garage and walked into the terminal. Thanks to Elko Krisantem’s diligent surveillance, he knew that the Amritzars had a reservation on an Aeroflot flight at twelve.

  Two hours earlier, the old Turk had watched the couple load their luggage in a taxi for the airport. He waited a few moments, then ran into the hotel, holding a package.

  “Is Herr Amritzar still here?” he cried. “I have a delivery for him.”

  “I’m afraid he just left,” said the desk clerk with an apologetic smile. “He’s taking a noon flight for Moscow. I made the reservation myself.”

  Krisantem was already out the door. He took a moment to phone Malko at Liezen Castle, then headed for the airport.

  By the time Malko entered the terminal, the Turk was behind a column near the Aeroflot ticket counter, discreetly taking pictures of Amritzar and his wife as they stood in line.

  This was the first time Malko got to see the couple in the flesh. The woman in her head scarf was very pretty, he noticed. Bundled in a blue parka, Amritzar looked like what he was, an ordinary businessman.

  Malko had encountered plenty of terrorists in his life, and he didn’t sense that Amritzar was a veteran of the clandestine life. As the CIA suspected, he might have bad intentions, but he felt like a naïf.

  Malko and Krisantem hovered nearby for half an hour, until the couple headed for the boarding gate.

  “Did you notice anything special, Elko?” asked Malko. “Did he meet anyone?”

  “No, they just went shopping. He visited a carpet dealer twice, but that’s it. I don’t know if they got any calls, of course, but no visitors.”

  “I think we’ve wasted our time. Since I’m in Vienna, I’ll take the pictures and my report to the embassy and tell them we’ve drawn a blank.”

  That way, at least he would be finished with this boring chore.

  —

  The Jaguar in the embassy courtyard drew admiring glances, as did Malko’s photos of the Amritzars spread out on Jim Woolsey’s desk.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said the station chief. “Langley makes some odd requests sometimes. Your surveillance confirms what we already thought, that the FBI is creating a terrorist out of whole cloth.”

  “They have to justify their existence somehow,” said Malko. “And Amritzar certainly does hate the United States.”

  “Well, he has his reasons. If a missile wiped out your family, you’d react the same way.”

  “Probably,” said Malko. “Okay, I’m heading back to Liezen now.”

  “Please give my regards to Alexandra,” said Woolsey, in a tone of admiration. “You’re lucky to know such a beautiful woman.”

  —

  No sign indicated the entrance to Military Hospital Number 7, which was used for funerals. It was located down a little side street in the Lefortovo neighborhood.

  When he arrived, Alexei Somov bought a bouquet of red carnations from the florist’s cart in the courtyard. Some fifty people were there, stamping their feet in the cold. He spotted the tall figure of Anatoly Razgonov near the entrance. The general was wearing a gray leather coat that reached his ankles, and a gray hat that just barely covered his bald head.

  They were there for the funeral of a GRU officer named Anatoly Shlykov. A superb intelligence analyst, Shlykov had revolutionized Russian military doctrine by pointing out the general staff’s strategic errors, and had been awarded the Order of the Red Star. He had been one of the most astute students of the USSR’s enemies.

  The crowd began to move as people lined up to pass by the coffin, and Somov slipped behind Razgonov. While waiting to enter the crypt, the two men exchanged a complicit smile. Somov had come to the ceremony knowing that his kricha was sure to be there.

  It allowed him to meet with Razgonov discreetly without going to the Aquarium, where his visit would be registered. This was important, because the operation he had in mind was blacker than black. It had to be executed in complete secrecy, unconnected to an official agency like the GRU.

  He was sure that Razgonov would appreciate his discretion.

  Standing one behind the other, the two men made their way into the room next door. It was very cold and smelled of incense. An honor guard of four uniformed GRU soldiers in shapkas stood like wax statues by the coffin, their eyes vacant. As was traditional, the top of the coffin was open, and family members gathered around: a somber-looking man and a blond woman—Shlykov’s widow—her head covered with a black mantilla and her eyes red from weeping.

  Flagstaffs displayed the standards of the regiments in which the dead officer had served. There was neither music nor religious symbols.

  Somov laid his carnations on the coffin and mixed with the crowd.

  General Razgonov went to stand next to the coffin and, as a respectful hush fell, began his tribute to the dead man.

  “Tovarich offizier…”

  Everyone present had been cast in the same Soviet mold, and speech habits die hard.

  As soldiers carried armfuls of carnations to the hearse that would take Shlykov to the cemetery, Somov and Razgonov slipped away.

  Somov caught up with the general and quietly asked:

  “Do you have time for lunch?”

  When Razgonov hesitated, Somov pressed him:

  “I have something interesting I’d like to discuss with you.”

  The two had known each other since the days when Razgonov was the head of military intelligence in the North Caucasus region, which included Chechnya, Ingushetia, and Dagestan. At the time, Somov commanded a special FSB unit whose task was to set local Caucasian groups against one another. Its methods were often questionable, but they were effective.

  It was also in charge of targeted killings. When Somov’s men kidnapped a boivik, he would disappear forever, thanks to the “pulverization” method he’d perfected. The prisoner was tied to an artillery shell that was then exploded, leaving no trace. When they were feeling humane, the soldiers first shot the victim in the back of the head.

  For his black operations, Somov got the weapons he needed from Razgonov, who was still a colonel then.

  Over time, the two men became friends and eventually started selling weapons to customers who had no right to have them, at astronomical prices. In the Caucasus, everybody had money. The only trick was to avoid counterfeit currency.

  When they returned to Moscow, they continued their operation, which benefited both Somov and the GRU.

  Somov now anxiously awaited the answer to his invitation.

  “All right, but it’ll have to be quick,” said Razgonov. “I have a two o’clock meeting. There’s a little Azeri restaurant near the Lefortovo prison. We’ll take my car.”

  —

  The two men were finishing a delicious
kebab lunch. The restaurant’s customers were locals, and nobody would ever imagine that one of the most powerful men in Russia was sitting in a booth in the back.

  “So what did you want to tell me?” asked Razgonov, sipping his tea.

  “You know that business of the Americans who want to borrow an Igla-S from us, right?”

  Razgonov frowned.

  “How do you know about that?”

  Somov smiled.

  “I was very well trained, tovarich general.”

  “Why does it interest you?”

  “Igla-S are very hard to get,” said Somov. “And I know people who are prepared to pay ten times the list price for one.”

  “What people?”

  “Nobody you’d want to see socially: the Wahla Arsaiev group.”

  “You’re crazy, Alexei Ivanovich!” snapped Razgonov, shaking his head. “We can’t do that. Those people are enemies of Russia.”

  Somov smiled slightly.

  “You’re aware that three of our Mi-8 helicopters were brought down by Igla-S in Chechnya, right? They were sold by a colonel we both know, who needed money for his mistress.”

  “He deserved to be shot,” said the general angrily. “I’ve never betrayed the rodina, and I’m not about to start now.”

  “Neither have I,” said Somov smoothly. “I’m not suggesting betrayal, just putting some money in your coffers by piggybacking on the Americans’ plan, without any danger for Russia.

  “You can release a small number of Iglas on your own authority, and I have buyers for them. After that it gets trickier, but it’s safe. I still have a lot of rich friends in Dagestan.”

  Somov explained his scheme at length, but Razgonov remained dubious.

  “You realize that if this doesn’t work, I’d have to shoot myself,” he said. “After having you executed.”

  “I know, but it will work,” said Somov. “Think about it, and call me. We can have a drink at the Metropol. There are always pretty women there.”

  The general finished his tea and put on his long leather coat, leaving the four-thousand-ruble check for Somov to pay.

  Razgonov said good-bye without indicating that he would follow up on the scheme, but the arms merchant was pretty sure he would.

  —

  “Can we get together quickly?” asked Jim Woolsey.

  Malko was a little surprised. They’d just seen each other three days earlier.

  “Is it urgent?” he asked. “I wasn’t planning to come to Vienna.”

  “I can drive out,” said the station chief. “I’d be delighted to see Liezen Castle again.”

  “All right,” said Malko. “Come for tea this afternoon.”

  Which was just a manner of speaking, since neither man drank tea.

  When he’d hung up, Malko went to find Alexandra. She and Ilse the cook were planning a dinner for the end of the week.

  “We’re having a visitor,” Malko announced. “My friend Jim from the embassy.”

  Alexandra was wearing a black sweater and a pair of tight riding pants that were even more flattering than a skirt. The very picture of a sexy gentlewoman farmer.

  “Do you want me to change and drive him really crazy?” she asked with a smirk. “Last time, he kept leering at me. I thought he wanted to jump me.”

  “I sometimes feel like jumping you, too.”

  Alexandra gave him a challenging look.

  “You’re not the only one.”

  —

  Seated on a corner of the red-velvet sofa where Malko had often paid homage to Alexandra and various visiting girlfriends, Woolsey was finishing his coffee. Alexandra had gone to greet him, after changing her clothes. Woolsey had to struggle not to stare at her breasts, which were elegantly set off by a black Dior lace blouse.

  “So what’s going on?” asked Malko.

  “We don’t really know yet,” said the American, “but a couple of warning lights are flashing. Remember the people you spent time tailing, the Amritzar couple?”

  “I don’t have Alzheimer’s yet,” said Malko with a grin. “That was three days ago. What’s going on? Have they gone underground?”

  “No, they’re in Moscow, at the Hotel Belgrade.”

  “So what?”

  “The FSB has formally asked us what we knew about them. Whether they have any connection with international terrorism.”

  “Is it usual for them to approach the agency this way?”

  “It happens from time to time,” said the CIA station chief. “A matter of mutual courtesy. We do the same thing. Only there’s a hitch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Russians know perfectly well that Amritzar is being set up by the FBI and doesn’t have any connection with any al-Qaeda movements.”

  “Maybe they just want to make sure.”

  “Yeah, maybe….” Woolsey didn’t seem convinced.

  “So what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That the guy wasn’t in our database, that as far as we knew he had never been in touch with any of the groups we’re tracking.”

  “So what then?”

  “They thanked us.”

  “They’re careful.”

  “No, they’re vicious,” said Woolsey. “We’ve dealt with them long enough to know that. I’m wondering what they’re up to. They don’t do anything by accident.”

  “That may be true, but how can I help you?”

  “Langley would like you to go to Moscow. You know the Amritzar couple, and you’ve had a lot of experience with the Russians. We can’t ask the Moscow station to look into it. If there was ever a leak, the bureau people would be furious. Whereas if you show up as an observer on the lookout for dirty tricks, it would be different.”

  “Is it really important?” asked Malko.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Woolsey was still smiling, but his eyes were cold.

  “No one will know why you’re there,” he continued. “Maybe we’ll just be treating you to a vacation.”

  Malko didn’t believe a word of it. When the CIA asked him to go someplace, it was never for a vacation. Behind the American’s bland reassurances, Malko could detect a whiff of death.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Alexander Bortnikov was struggling to contain his impatience. The FSB director was sitting in his armored Audi, which was stopped in traffic behind an equally armored black SUV carrying his bodyguards.

  It was only a fifteen-minute walk from FSB headquarters on Bolshaya Lubyanka to the Kremlin, but a man of Bortnikov’s importance didn’t walk. He had to be driven, and enter the Kremlin by the Borovitsky gate. That meant his car had to drive around Red Square, along Kremlevskaya Embankment, and up Borovitskaya Square. Only then could Bortnikov enter the holy of holies.

  Unfortunately, a collision between a semi and a VW Golf had created a huge traffic jam near the Kremlin’s red walls.

  If you have an accident in Russia, you can’t just exchange insurance information and go on your way. The politsiya has to write a report, even for a fender bender. And it takes the cops a long time to show up.

  The driver of Bortnikov’s Audi furiously sounded its special siren but was blocked by the mass of stopped cars.

  Finally, they got under way and raced toward the Borovitsky gate. Alerted, the cops on duty switched all the stoplights to green.

  The driver stopped in front of Korpus No. 14, and Bortnikov hurried inside to the elevator. It didn’t do to keep a man as powerful as Rem Stalievitch Tolkachev waiting.

  The old spymaster never called on people he wanted to see, except within the Kremlin itself.

  Bortnikov pressed the buzzer and Tolkachev’s office door immediately swung open. Seated behind his desk, the spymaster smilingly invited him to sit down.

  “Greetings, Alexander Vladimirovich,” he said. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  The squeaky voice put Bortnikov ill at ease, and the undisguised reproach made him feel like a little boy.

>   “You’re aware of the American request for an Igla-S, aren’t you?” Tolkachev continued.

  “I am. I forwarded it to you.”

  “We have decided to respond favorably.”

  Bortnikov displayed no reaction, well aware that “we” meant the president.

  “How would you like me to proceed?”

  “There are two parts to this affair,” said Tolkachev, scratching his neck. “The first consists of finding a working Igla-S for the Americans. The GRU will take care of that, so you don’t need to be involved. Colonel Tretyakov and his people will handle the details.

  “You, on the other hand, will deal with the most delicate part of the operation. We’ve decided to take this opportunity to charge one of the Moscow FBI agents with espionage.”

  Ah, back to the good old Soviet methods, thought Bortnikov. But then a doubt crossed his mind.

  “How can we do that, Rem Stalievitch?” he asked. “We’re the ones who are putting the missile at the Americans’ disposal. This isn’t a clandestine operation. No FSB agents have been approached.”

  “You don’t know the whole story,” said Tolkachev crisply. “The Americans have been lying to us. They claim to need the missile so they can charge an American citizen named Parviz Amritzar with terrorism. But we checked with the Central Intelligence Agency, and its Moscow representative Thomas Polgar says they know nothing about him. The CIA tracks terrorists very carefully; that’s their job. Yet they’ve never heard of this man and haven’t found anything linking him to terrorist organizations.

  “We know that the Americans haven’t learned all the Igla’s secrets. So we find it suspicious that they would request a live, functioning missile. In this kind of operation, you would use a dummy. But because of the 2003 agreement, we can’t turn down their request.”

  He fell silent.

  Bortnikov understood that Tolkachev was giving him the official version of the operation, but it seemed pretty far-fetched. If the Americans wanted to get an Igla-S, it wouldn’t be hard. There were plenty of them floating around Libya, and countries that needed money, like Greece, would be happy to sell one. But it wasn’t Bortnikov’s place to question state policy.