by Greg Wilson
Without Langley behind him there was no way he would be able to come good on the promises he’d made to Nikolai Aven, but there was still the thread of a chance he may be able to pull the guy and his family out of the fire. If he could get Aven and his evidence back to the States they had to listen. Had to give him protection. Either that or they’d be watching the whole goddamned story on prime time TV. In fact, if it went that way, by the time the media auction was over, Aven would be able to afford his own private army.
His gray eyes travelled right to left and back again, evaluating, following the course of his thoughts. And what could they do to him, to Jack Hartman? His lips creased in a wry smile.
Nothing. That was the answer.
There was nothing they could do to him because it wouldn’t be him telling the story. If Aven thought it appropriate to mention him – mention how he’d taken his information to the CIA Moscow Chief, who had made a commitment to help him, then sold him out – all Hartman had to do was condemn himself and those who were pulling the strings by honoring the terms of his contract and saying nothing. When the reporters chased him down the street with their cameras and their questions – Mr Hartman, is it true you work for the CIA? Did Nikolai Aven come to you in Moscow for help? Is it true that you recently resigned, and if so, why? – he needed only to give the one damning answer: “No comment.”
He stared pensively into the Moscow night. It would work. He’d have to be careful. To keep his distance and not let anything slip that might embarrass the DDCI or the Director, but if he could do that, it would work.
In fact, if he could do that, the Company would end up winning. He could see it now. The Director sitting upright and aloof through the long, tense White House post-mortems that would follow the breaking story, eloquent without even speaking. If you had listened to us… if you had done what we suggested and advised… you wouldn’t be in this mess. And, what’s more, you know it.
Maybe – just maybe – the ensuing public outcry would be enough to trigger a policy re-think. Whatever the POLITICAL ISSUES, it was a fair call that the American public wasn’t going to be impressed to learn of their Government’s tacit support for the fraudulent and corrupt conduct of Russian politicians and businessmen. Maybe that might be sufficient embarrassment to cause the President and his advisers to take stock and change direction. To start them thinking about whether people like Malcolm Powell and his friends were assets, or liabilities.
So… Hartman drew a breath and finished his scotch. That was the way he was going to play it. Hardball.
Three lives into two suitcases. In the end Nikolai had been surprised at how easy it had been.
He zipped the bag and looked around, his eyes settling on the cell phone that lay where he’d left it, on the bedside table. Eleven thirty and Hartman still hadn’t called. Something was wrong. His focus narrowed, closing in on the small plastic bead that should have been glowing green, but wasn’t. How the Christ…
He sidestepped the bed and picked up the receiver, staring at its face.
“Shit!”
Natalia appeared in the doorway, clutching a bundle of Larisa’s clothes. She saw the expression on his face and froze.
“What? What is it?”
Nikolai chewed his lip. He flicked the handset open, stared at it, hit the power button and the green bead beeped to life. He closed his eyes and let out a groan, answering without looking up.
“It’s been turned off.” He dragged his free hand across his face, trying to work out how the hell it could have happened.” I came in. Put it down on the coffee table…”
Natalia’s gaze shifted to the black plastic rectangle locked in his fingers.
“Larisa…” She breathed their daughter’s name with a soft realization. Nikolai looked up and their eyes met. “she was playing with Boris and her dolls. She must have…” She stopped mid-sentence and began shaking her head. “I wasn’t watching.”
Nikolai exhaled a defeated sigh. “Neither was I.” For Natalia’s sake he forced a smile. “It’s not your fault. I should have checked.” He turned aside, casting his eyes around the room, searching for the leather jacket he’d been wearing when he’d met Hartman at the Rossiya. Found it thrown across the chair in the corner and reached it in three steps, digging into the side pocket, retrieving the scrap of Rossiya paper that carried the American’s number, reading it and thumbing the digits into the keypad. Natalia watched for a moment then stepped around him to the other side of the bed, pressing the bundle of clothes into the one still-open bag and zipping it shut. She looked up and saw the frown on her husband’s face.
“Engaged.” He cleared the call and tried again. Stared at Natalia and shook his head.
The Embassy driver pulled the black Buick into the tiny parking lot, wedging it into the end slot, beside a rust-bored Lada. Hartman nodded to him.
“An hour. No more.”
He levered the door and climbed out, feeling the chill river air biting through his lightweight jacket. His eyes swept across the car park, past the building, settling on the huge, dark shadow that loomed from the opposite bank of the Moskva, a kilometer or so to the north: the new Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, rising like a phoenix from the site where Stalin had once planned to construct his massive Palace of the Soviets. It was to have been a showplace. The tallest building in the world, capped, for good measure, by a massive one hundred meter high statue of Lenin. How the mighty had fallen, Hartman reflected. In the end it had been just another communist dream that had come to nothing.
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and started across the car park.
Hartman closed the door behind him and scanned the nearly empty room. To his right, behind what passed for a bar, a gaunt, silver-haired man with sharp features polished a glass on his apron. They exchanged faint nods and Hartman’s gaze wandered on, settling on a figure seated alone at a table by the window. Their eyes met, recognition exchanged, and Hartman started forward.
As he approached Vari Vlasenko kicked back the chair opposite. Hartman slipped into it and drew it to the table. Vari’s eyes held his as he reached forward and pushed the uncapped bottle across the rough, varnish-bathed timber. Hartman looked at the bottle a moment and shook his head.
“No thanks.”
Vari shrugged. Drew it back again and topped up his own glass.
“So…” he took a sip of liquor.” You want to tell me what this is about?”
Hartman nodded slowly. His eyes drifted to the half-empty plate of cold khachapuri – cheese-filled breads – at Vari’s elbow. How long was it since he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember. He looked up.
“Head office knocked back the application.” He held Vari’s gaze. “Political issues.”
Vari studied him for a long moment.
“You’ve told Niko?”
Hartman drew a breath. “Can’t reach him. His cell’s turned off and I can’t take the risk of calling on his house line.”
The Russian watched him, saying nothing. Hartman’s steel-colored eyes zeroed in tight, matching his tone.
“I’m not prepared to accept their answer.”
Vari’s eyebrows lifted, compressing his forehead into a band of furrows. He glanced aside, peering out the window at the rippling black surface of the river. “You must believe it’s time for a change of career.” He looked back and caught Hartman’s dull smile.
“Maybe I do.” He paused. “Aven is depending on me. I’m not going to let him down. If I can get him out of here and back to the States they’re going to have to pick him up. Either that or I’ll arrange for him to go public with everything.” He paused again, giving Vari time to consider the supposition. “But I can’t do it within my system. That’s why I need help.”
Vari blinked slowly, his response non-committal. “How?”
Hartman edged his chair in closer to the table.
“I’m supposed to meet him at his apartment at five a.m. I check the tapes, make sure everything is as re
presented and, if it is, I call in a car and move them out right away. The three of them.”
Vari lifted his glass to his lips. “And all that performance about St Petersburg and Novgorod… going out through Finland?”
Hartman didn’t flinch. “A blind.”
Vari tipped his head. “I thought so.” He took a drink. “And you told him to tell me that story. Why was that? Because you didn’t believe you could trust me.”
Hartman remained silent.
A smile creased Vari’s features. “But now you do.”
Hartman’s eyes fell to the table, then lifted.
“So…” Vari Vlasenko took a deep breath. “As a matter of interest, how were you going to do it?”
They regarded one another for a long moment before Hartman spoke.
“Straight back to the Embassy compound. Mid-morning I start firing out black glass sedans in different directions. M10 to St Petersburg; M9 to Riga; Ml to Minsk in Belarus. The one with Aven and his family takes the M20 to Kiev. I have a Beechcraft charter on standby at Borispol Airport. It takes them to Bucharest in Romania and my guys pick them up there and process them on through Rome and back to the States.”
Vari allowed a smile of approval. “And Ivankov’s people wouldn’t have known which way he was going.”
Hartman gave a shrug. “They had a one in four chance. They might have got lucky but our odds were good. Anyway, it wouldn’t have mattered. Aven and his family would have been papered up as diplomats and I had the Ukrainian SBU on standby for security support once they reached the border.”
The Russian nodded slowly. “How much of that plumbing could you still use?”
Hartman exhaled. “I could hold the charter… cancel it and reinstate it privately. I’ve got people in Turkey who owe me favors. I can get someone up to Bucharest to take care of them then pull them out on my personal account through Istanbul.” He watched as Vari ran his appraisal.
“So you need a car, a driver and passports. And you need it all arranged within … ” he glanced at his watch, “four and a half hours?”
“Can you do it?” Hartman’s question was unapologetically blunt.
Vari studied him for a beat then nodded slowly. “I could do it, you know that. But I have two questions.”
Hartman watched him. “And those are?”
Vari looked down, toying with his glass. “Given what you led me to believe you were trying to achieve, it seems strange that your superiors are not running with this.”
Hartman shook his head. “That wasn’t a question.”
The Russian’s eyes flicked up sharply. “I’m getting to the question.” He leaned closer. “How much did you tell your people about your exit plan for Nikolai?”
Hartman had been playing distractedly with the bottle of scotch, turning it back and forth between his fingers. His hand came to rest.
“Too much,” he answered impassively.
Vari’s gaze fell back to his glass. “I see.”
Hartman let a moment pass. “And the second question?”
The Russian’s eyes flicked up.” You know the second question.”
Hartman met them without flinching. “Where does this leave you? It’s a hard game, Vari, you know that. You’ve been playing it a long time. When I made our arrangements I made them in good faith. I didn’t count on this happening. Whether the Company keeps you on after I’m gone is going to be up to whoever takes my place.”
Vari’s lips bent in a humorless smile. He turned aside, his eyes following the dark shadow of a barge sliding by on the river. His heavy torso rocked slowly as he spoke.
“Like you say, I know the game.” He hooked a glance back to Hartman. “Niko is my partner. I’m on your payroll. You do this and how long do you think it’s going to be before your people work out I was involved? They’ll never touch me again, you know that. They might be dumb, but they’re not completely stupid.” The other man’s silence was the only confirmation he needed. His eyes trailed back to the river. “Neither are mine.”
Hartman pondered the final words.
“That’s something you must have thought about before you sent Aven across to me.”
Vari spun back, his eyes flashing.
“Of course I thought about it! This morning I had a way out. If my rowboat started sinking I had you to throw me a line, but now what? Now you’ve jumped off the fucking wharf yourself!”
Hartman couldn’t think of a credible response. Instead he let it go. Hooked back to the point. “Just tell me. Are you going to help or not? Yes or no, it’s that simple.”
Vari swung aside again, peering into the darkness, shaking his head.
“You know as well as I do, nothing in Russia is that simple. Every decision has its consequences. The question is whether you survive them.”
The barge had moved on, leaving a trail of fractured reflections from the lights of the Embankment rippling in its wake. Hartman watched as the Russian stared into the shimmering black surface of the river until the broken scales of light settled back into pattern and place. Finally Vari drew a breath and turned back again, his dark eyes locking fast on Hartman’s.
“But then you know I am a survivor, don’t you? You are counting on the fact that even with all the risks I will put my balls on the line for you and Nikolai and still manage to survive as well, because you think you know me. You think that’s the kind of person I am.”
The call came at one fifteen.
There had been no point trying to sleep. They were together on the living room couch, Nikolai propped in the corner, Natalia half leaning, half lying against him, an arm wrapped around his waist, the other pressed against his chest. When she heard the shrill beep she bounced upright in a single movement and came to rest staring at him as he swung the receiver to his ear.
“We’re on.” Hartman’s voice. He breathed a sigh of relief at the words. “There’ve been a few minor changes.”
Nikolai was instantly alert. “What changes?” Natalia looked at him.
Hartman overrode the question. “Nothing you need to worry about; I’ll explain when I get there. But I need you ready earlier. Four, not five.”
Nikolai looked at Natalia as he spoke. “All right. Four a.m. We’ll be ready.”
“Good.” Hartman answered. “One other thing,” he paused. “I still need to see the tapes first. You understand?”
Nikolai turned his head to the phone. “They’re here, don’t worry. The downstairs door to the building is kept locked. When you arrive ring the buzzer beside my name. I’ll come down for you.” He paused. “This is definite? You’re still coming?”
“I’ll be there,” Hartman answered. “You have my word.”
11
On the first ring Vitaly Kolbasov stirred and shifted a fraction, the hand that had been thrown back across his face stretching aside and travelling downwards until it came to rest on the slender thigh draped across his groin. His lips began to curl in a smile, then the low chirping tone came again and dragged him awake. He shook his head tightly against the pillow and turned to look at the bedside clock. The digital figures swam in a muted red blur for a moment then fell into focus.
Two fifteen.
By the time the third ring came he was wide awake and furious. The last thirty hours had been absolute shit. It had begun with the frantic damage control audit at ZAVOSET as he and Ivankov tried to determine what the hell was missing and what to do about it. After that he’d had to deal with Gilmanov. Not personally, of course, but he’d still had to arrange the details and then set up and manage the watch on Aven. It had been close to midnight by the time he’d finally arrived home and by then he’d been awake for over forty hours. He was desperate for sleep but he needed release even more, so he’d had the girls brought around to help uncork the pressure and they’d worked on him for an hour and a half before he’d finally zeroed out a little before two. Now, just fifteen minutes later, the world was screaming for him again.
He tossed bac
k the gray silk sheet, pushed the thigh away and rolled to his side, reaching across the second body, his fingers feeling the darkness for the telephone. He found it halfway through the fourth ring and pulled it back, hauling himself upright between the two still slumbering figures.
“Yes?” he snapped.
Marat Ivankov responded with sarcastic patience.
“I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Vitaly.”
Kolbasov rewound. “No. No. Not at all.” He shuffled back further against the headboard. The bodies either side of him were stirring now, coming slowly awake. He swung his pale legs sideways, across the younger of the two girls, bringing himself to his feet at the side of the bed. Without looking back he walked the phone across to the living room. “What is it, Marat? What can I do?” His tone was focused now. Kolbasov passed through the doorway and ran his free hand across to the light switch.
Ivankov’s voice was precise. “You recall the fallback arrangements we discussed yesterday? Stephasin and Aven?”
Kolbasov blinked, searching for the file in his brain. Fallback arrangements. Stephasin… Aven. He squeezed his eyes, trying to concentrate through the residual haze of the vodka and cocaine. He thought he heard Ivankov sigh softly in frustration, then it came to him. He had it.
“The fallback arrangements. Of course.”
Ivankov continued. “Listen carefully, Vitaly. We need to activate them, now. I want you to contact Stephasin immediately. Track him down wherever he is and tell him the FSB has a rogue agent and that it is essential that he acts right away. Tell him I have received information that Nikolai Aven has been trying to negotiate a deal with the Americans. That he has offered to defect and provide them with sensitive classified material, the disclosure of which would be seriously detrimental to the state’s interests. Do you have that, Vitaly?”
Kolbasov stared at the receiver. Aven trying to defect? What the hell was Ivankov talking about? He nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes, I have it.”
“Good. Now get to it, Vitaly. Tell Stephasin he has to act before five a.m. After that he may be too late. I’m at my home. Call me back when you’ve spoken to him. I’ll be waiting.”
