“I’ll have to explain this to Gocha,” Julia said, and ran back to the bathroom.
When she came out again, she had dressed and freshened her makeup. She gave Malko a smile both sweet and sarcastic.
“Do you still need me?” she asked.
“Do you really have a phone number for Alexei Somov?”
“Yes. Want me to call him?”
He barely hesitated.
“Yes, I do.”
“To tell him what?”
“That you found his number and wanted to get in touch.”
“He’s going to be all over me, you realize.”
“You’re big enough not to let him do that.”
“You don’t know him. In Dagestan a woman once slapped him in public for getting grabby with her. She was never seen again. Word was, he’d kicked her to death.”
She paused.
“Okay then, leave me alone now. I’m going to phone him.”
—
A good twenty minutes had passed since Julia had stepped into the sitting room to make the call. To while away the time, Malko watched CNN.
At last the young woman reappeared wearing an odd smile, and came to sit next to him.
“Alexei remembers me very well,” she announced. “He also knows what happened to Magomed. He seemed very touched that I should call him and immediately suggested joining him on a trip to Makhachkala in two days.”
Then she added:
“If I go with him, I bet he tries to jump me before we even reach Volgograd.”
“That’s not exactly what I’m after,” Malko protested.
“Well, you can tell me what you want me to do, but the guy’s a real Cossack, always horny. When he was stationed at the North Caucasus counterterrorism center, all the tribal chiefs used to invite him to their parties, at least the ones who weren’t Salafists.
“At those parties they’d have young girls, virgins, dance on the tables. The girls would be given to the honored guests. Alexei wasn’t the only man to accept.”
Taken aback, Malko said:
“I thought Dagestan was a Muslim country, and very conservative.”
“That’s right, and the true Muslims were horrified,” said Julia. “But it didn’t bother some of the tribal chiefs.”
The ones who weren’t so close to Allah.
“Alexei has guts, too,” Julia continued. “I remember I was at Makhachkala when a group of Wahla Arsaiev’s followers hijacked a Dagestan Airlines Tu-134 and threatened to kill the passengers. Alexei went aboard the plane alone, to negotiate with their leader.”
“Was it Arsaiev?”
“No, one of his lieutenants, a guy whose name I can’t remember. It started with ‘K.’ Anyway, Alexei persuaded the hijackers to release the old people so they could do the namaz Friday prayer, then a baby, then the women.
“Finally, he shot the guy in the stomach and retook the plane. President Astanov congratulated him and gave him a medal.”
“Was the terrorist killed?”
“I don’t know.” Julia paused again. “All right, I’m going back to my place to change my clothes. You can tell me what you want me to do about Alexei.”
She left without kissing him.
Malko was thoughtful. There was something in Julia’s story that intrigued him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
—
Tom Polgar looked at Malko in surprise.
“A skyjacking in Dagestan in 2003? Yeah, we must have something on that. I’ll call the CIC. They have all the terrorism reports in Russia.”
Twenty minutes later, a pimply young man in shirtsleeves came into the station chief’s office with a stack of files.
“Here is what I have for 2003,” he said.
He gave Polgar some press clippings and an unclassified report that the FSB had shared with the CIA. It detailed the circumstances and reasons for the Dagestan Airlines hijacking—the plan was to free some Dagestani political prisoners. Colonel Alexei Somov had indeed resolved the problem single-handedly, shooting the terrorist.
FSB doctors were able to treat him, and he recovered. Moved by the sincerity of his faith, Somov arranged to have the man join the Yug, a special FSB unit in the Caucasus. There wasn’t much risk in that, because the Dagestanis hated the Chechens almost as much as the Russians.
Malko noted the terrorist’s name at the bottom of the FSB report: it was Arzo Khadjiev.
He closed the file and turned to Polgar.
“We’ve just taken a giant step,” he said. “I think I know who is behind the theft of the missiles.”
CHAPTER
24
“The FSB is pretty sure Khadjiev killed Amritzar, though they don’t know the circumstances,” Malko continued. “We know he was also planning to kill me, so he’s connected to the Igla-S affair. This is the same Khadjiev who hijacked the Dagestan Airlines plane and negotiated with Somov.”
“Who shot him in the stomach,” Polgar pointed out.
“People in the Caucasus are forever shooting or blowing each other up, Tom. The survivors work things out afterward. That seems to have been the case here. Somov was used to dealing with terrorists, remember. In the GRU, he was in counterterrorism. We know that the two men got close after the Tupolev hijacking, since Somov arranged to have Khadjiev taken into the Yug group. What happened after that is anyone’s guess.”
The CIA station chief didn’t seem persuaded.
“Somov still has connections in the GRU,” he said, “and especially with their number three man, General Razgonov. Those GRU guys are hard-core nationalists, and they’re fiercely protective of Russian interests. I can’t see an agency like that selling missiles to terrorists.”
“That’s true,” said Malko, “and it makes me think we’re missing a piece of the puzzle. But a lot of what we do know points to Somov.
“We know that he knows Khadjiev, who killed Amritzar and tried to kill me. Thanks to Amritzar’s cell phone, we also know that Khadjiev was in touch with Somov since early in the Igla-S affair. The stolen missiles were shipped from the storage basement where Amritzar’s body was found. And thanks to Julia Naryshkin, we know that Somov is going to Dagestan the day after tomorrow. That’s a lot of evidence.”
“I’ll grant you that,” said the station chief, “but the Russians know Somov too. So why haven’t they come to the same conclusion?”
“Because they’re missing the essential piece of evidence that proves the connection between Somov and Khadjiev: the call from Amritzar’s cell phone.”
Polgar still seemed dubious.
“I’m going to have a hard time selling this story to Washington,” he said wearily. “Meanwhile, Bruce Hathaway is feeling hopeless and the Russians plan to haul him before the attorney general tomorrow. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs showed our ambassador the door, saying this was a serious terrorism matter and they couldn’t get involved. They were nice enough to guarantee that Bruce would be treated well, probably put on suicide watch.”
“That’s understandable,” said Malko with a sarcastic smile. “You look after your hostages. Hathaway is valuable to them.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t imagine the Russians are going to send him to join Mikhail Khodorkovsky in Siberia, do you? They plan to trade him.”
“For who?”
“I have no idea, but they’ll tell us. You must have a few Russian spies up your sleeve, don’t you?”
Polgar was about to answer when his secretary appeared at the office door.
“Sir, you have Colonel Tretyakov on line two,” she said. “He says it’s very important.”
Polgar brightened as he hurried to the phone.
“I bet he’s going to say they’re releasing Bruce.”
But after listening for a moment, his face fell.
“He wants to see me right away. I’m going over there. Will you wait for me? I don’t think he’ll keep me long.”
—
Malko ha
d time to read a copy of Newsweek from cover to cover before Polgar returned, looking grim.
“So, do you have Bruce Hathaway tucked in your briefcase?”
The station chief gave him a sharp look.
“Don’t give me a hard time, Malko,” he snapped. “We’re still in trouble. Here, read this.”
He took out a document and handed it over. It was drafted in English on FSB letterhead stationery and signed by FSB chief Alexander Bortnikov. A rectangular stamp declared it Secret.
It was a summary of the FSB’s investigation of Arzo Khadjiev. It stated that after discovering Khadjiev’s Moscow hideout, FSB agents interviewed the neighbors and definitely established that the stolen Igla-S missiles had been stored there before being shipped to the Caucasus. This excluded any possibility of an attack against President Barack Obama’s plane.
The FSB director therefore requested that the American government have Air Force One fly to Moscow as originally scheduled. There was no longer any risk of attack, since according to their investigation, the missile was destined for Chechnya for use against Russian aircraft.
Malko put the document down, looking thoughtful.
“So what do you think?” asked the station chief.
“Given what we know, it’s plausible,” said Malko. “Except for the part about Chechnya. There hasn’t been any fighting there since Kadyrov came to power. So there must be another reason for sending the missiles to the Caucasus. Probably business. The Russians have long earned money selling weapons on the black market.”
“So the White House is supposed to take the Russians’ word for it, without the slightest proof?” Polgar asked sarcastically. “They haven’t arrested anybody, and they don’t even know where the missiles are. And to top it off, I’m expected to weigh in on this.”
“It’s tricky, of course,” said Malko. “But I think the Russians are right. Caucasian separatists have never attacked American interests. They target Russia and Russians.”
“There’s always a first time,” said Polgar.
“But this isn’t it. The guy who wanted to shoot down Air Force One was an American citizen, remember. And we still don’t know how he met the terrorists who killed him. If you don’t follow up on this note from the FSB, the Russians will conclude that you don’t believe them. And that’s not going to help matters.”
“We’re in shit up to our necks,” said the station chief. “I’m sending all this to Langley.”
“Do that,” said Malko. “Meanwhile, I still have a card to play. We’ll catch up later.”
—
Driving a Volkswagen with Russian plates—a loaner from the U.S. embassy—Malko went through the entrance to the housing project where Marina Pirogoska lived. He passed an open-air stand displaying cuts of meat on a sawhorse trestle, then a little repair shop. Several other booths stood along the road to the apartment buildings.
He stopped near Marina’s building and got out. He realized that he didn’t know the access code, but figured he could wait until somebody else went in. He only noticed the uniformed policeman in a shapka pacing in front of the building at the last minute.
When Malko approached, the cop turned and asked:
“Who are you going to see, gospodin?”
“Marina Pirogoska.”
“You can’t go up,” said the cop tonelessly. “She was killed last night. Are you one of her friends?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, go to 38 Petrovka Street. They’ll give you the details.”
He turned away and resumed pacing, looking bored.
Sadly, Malko got back in his VW.
His last lead had just evaporated. Who would benefit by killing Marina Pirogoska? Something told him that the murder was connected to the missile business. Marina knew something that she might have told him. But what?
He was sure she hadn’t deliberately lured him into a trap. Still, whoever had sent Khadjiev to the Kempinski to take him on a one-way trip knew she was supposed to send him a driver. So Marina must have known that person.
Doors were closing one after another.
Malko had just one last card to play. It was a dangerous, risky one, and it meant shooting the moon. If it failed, he was out of options. And he couldn’t play the card on his own.
Julia Naryshkin sounded surprised when he phoned.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“I want to see you. Where are you?”
“I’m at home, but I need some time to get dressed. How about in an hour?”
Just the length of time Malko needed to reach Peredelkino.
—
Julia was dressed for company: a tight sweater, long flowered dress, and high-heeled boots. She sat Malko down at a table set with tea things.
“I’m guessing you’re here for some specific reason. Am I right?”
“Yes. I’m going to make you a proposal, but you don’t have to accept.”
“It must be something dangerous,” said Julia, with a gleam of excitement in her eye.
“Not if everything works the way it’s supposed to.”
“Which it never does.”
After a moment’s silence, Malko continued.
“Here’s my plan,” he said. “I’d like you to call Alexei Somov and tell him that you’re willing to go to Dagestan with him, but you want to meet him here first.”
Julia gave him a hard look.
“So he can ravage me in my own home?”
“No, because I’ll be here, too.”
This time, her look was one of surprise.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want to talk to Somov. Offer him a deal.”
“Tell me more.”
“I suspect he’s been involved with terrorists in a really sleazy operation and is responsible for several murders. Also, I think he may have killed Marina Pirogoska.”
“Marina’s dead?”
“She was killed at her apartment last night.”
“Why do you suspect Somov?”
“Because I think Marina could have told me something that would cause him trouble.”
Julia lit a cigarette, then crossed her long legs.
“You realize that you’re asking me to do something that could put me at risk, don’t you? Alexei Somov is a powerful man, and in Russia you don’t fool around with the GRU.”
“Somov won’t be powerful for long, whether he comes to a meeting here or not. I have a piece of evidence against him that will send him to Lefortovo, at the very least. So he won’t be able to hurt you.”
The young woman took a thoughtful drag on her cigarette.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she said, though she sounded intrigued by the prospect. “We don’t have much time. He’s leaving for Dagestan any day now.”
“I’ll make sure you’re in no danger,” Malko assured her. “If the meeting doesn’t pan out, I’ll immediately give the FSB my information, and Somov will be neutralized within the hour.”
Malko looked at his watch and got up. He still had to convince Tom Polgar to sign off on his plan, which he’d hatched after learning of Marina’s death.
“I’ll call you back in a couple of hours,” he said. “You can give me your answer then.”
Julia stood up in turn, and then did something unexpected. Instead of walking Malko to the door, she came over and wrapped her arms around his neck. Looking straight into his eyes, she said:
“Now that you’ve got me all excited, I want you to fuck me,” she said. Pressed against him, her crotch was doing a silent little dance.
Gocha really doesn’t have much luck with women, thought Malko.
Tom Polgar could wait.
—
The CIA Moscow station chief listened to Malko’s proposal without interrupting. Finally he said:
“So what do we have?”
“We have a damning piece of evidence against Alexei Somov,” said Malko. “The record of the call made to him by Arzo Khadjiev. Th
e FSB considers Khadjiev a prime suspect in the missile operation, and guilty of several murders. If we tell them about the phone call, they’ll immediately arrest Somov. And they have ways of extracting information that we don’t.”
“That’s right, but what does it get us?”
“Nothing,” said Malko, “which is why I prefer my approach. Instead of alerting the FSB, I’ll tell Somov about our evidence against him.”
“So what?”
“He’ll realize we have him by the short hairs.”
“He’ll try to kill you.”
“I won’t give him the chance,” said Malko. “And I’ll offer him my proposal in exchange for telling us where the missiles are. That’s our main concern, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Somov’s the only person who can help retrieve them. After that, I have a little something in mind.”
The station chief listened carefully as Malko explained the rest of his plan. When he was done, Polgar said admiringly:
“As dirty tricks go, that one’s really dirty!”
“But if it works, Congress will give you a medal.”
“There are a lot of ifs.”
“When a general goes into battle, he’s very rarely sure of winning.”
A long silence followed, which the station chief eventually broke.
“It’s eight a.m. in Washington,” he said. “I’ll send a cable right away, and call you as soon as I get an answer.”
“Remember, this is a package deal,” said Malko. “It’s all or nothing.”
Leaving the embassy, Malko practically skipped down the street. Even though facing Alexei Somov alone was going to be like fighting a tiger bare-handed.
—
Rem Tolkachev reread the text he had written. Addressed to the CIA Moscow station chief, it was what, in diplomatic language, is called a “draft,” meaning it didn’t officially exist. The offer Tolkachev was making was straightforward, though framed by many considerations, each more dubious than the last.
What it came down to was this: if the Americans didn’t want to see Bruce Hathaway tried and convicted of espionage, an exchange “on humanitarian grounds” could be considered—the head of the Moscow FBI office for arms merchant Viktor Bout, who had been extradited from Thailand and was currently in prison in the United States.
Surface to Air Page 18
