Overall, it represented less fuel than he had estimated, given the presence of two Dragon Cows in the refuel task force. It did give him a good idea of what might be headed through the refueling station en route to some nasty business. If he had to guess, he’d say some variation of the Sikorsky H-60 frame. The army and navy versions of the venerable airframe sported a two hundred gallon fuel tank, giving them roughly a 350 mile round trip fully loaded. The smaller fuel bladders made sense when considering the smaller H-60 tanks. Average tank size for the H-53 frame measured over 1300 gallons. The refueling station in its current configuration could easily support a round trip for up to four UH-60 Blackhawks. That was his bet, but unfortunately, he would never know. His team would be long gone when the helicopter strike force came through.
Chapter 30
9:48 AM
Dzerzhinsky City District
Novosibirsk, Russian Federation
Katie Reynolds felt less secure the further they travelled from the center of Novosibirsk. She had no weapons and no backup, which was compounded by the fact that she had lost track of any recognizable landmarks. She knew they had started off in an easterly direction based on her knowledge of the city streets within central Novosibirsk, but as they drove deeper into the outskirts of the bleak city, she couldn’t be sure they were still headed east. An overcast sky kept her from making the most basic calculations.
As city streets transformed into a rundown business-residential district, most vestiges of her personal safety net, real or perceived, slipped away. Trust was all that remained. Trust in operatives she barely knew, and reliance on mafiya thugs who would cut a businessman’s throat on the off chance that the Rolex he sported was real. At least she wasn’t squeezed between two bratva soldiers. She had her own seat, which gave her some confidence in the situation cooked up by Berg and Sanderson’s crew.
She had been instructed by Farrington to meet their Solntsevskaya contact in a modest café near her hotel, where she would be given further instructions. Farrington told her that she would likely be put into action tonight. The bratva had identified a unique opportunity that fit the overall mission profile, but the window was transient, requiring her to meet her new friends sooner than expected.
Viktor arrived promptly at 9:30, joining her at the small table with an espresso and a grim face. Without saying a word, he downed the small cup and stood, waiting impatiently for her to finish. She took a deep swig of her strong coffee and joined him for a short walk around the block. Minutes later she sat firmly pressed into the worn leather seat of a black vintage E30 class BMW, heading east out of the city. Fifteen minutes into the drive and nobody had said a word to her. She sat silently next to a murderous-looking man, whose emotionless face displayed a crisscross of several short scars. Deep blue tattoo work crept up his neck, peeking over the collar of his black leather jacket. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Hard men that chain-smoked shitty cigarettes and bathed in strong cologne. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car.
A few minutes later, after she had completely abandoned the idea of jumping out of the car into this completely unfamiliar and markedly rougher neighborhood, Viktor snubbed his cigarette into the car’s overflowing ashtray and turned to her.
“I need you to put this over your head,” he said, extending a hand between the front seats.
He gripped a thick black piece of cloth, which she assumed was some kind of hood or bag.
“I’ll cover my eyes,” she replied in Russian, meeting his serious glare.
The man next to her took another drag on his cigarette, not appearing to tense for action. She kept staring at him until he spoke again.
“It’s a security precaution. Standard procedure. Two minutes,” he said.
“I’m not putting a bag over my head,” she said.
“Then we’re not going any further,” he said, and the vehicle pulled over to the side of the road.
The BMW nestled under a thick tree next to a tall, rusted fence. The unmarked street resembled more of an alley, bordered by persistent, untrimmed bushes and trees that scraped the right side of the car at times. Half of the asphalt had crumbled, leaving wide, washed-out portions containing potholes that required the driver to constantly maneuver the vehicle from side to side. A weathered brick building with a corrugated tin roof sat across the street from the car, separated from the road by a six-foot, gated cinderblock wall. The residence stood next to a collapsed wooden structure that had fallen victim to fire long ago.
She figured the fire had destroyed the brick building’s roof, explaining the new tin roof. Measuring the cinderblock wall mentally, she calculated an easy jump and lift to get over in one swift movement. She could probably be over the wall before they could level their weapons for a shot. Glancing up and down the street, this appeared to be her only option if she was forced to fight her way out of here. What she would do once she landed on the other side was another story.
“They told me you wouldn’t be a problem,” Viktor said.
“And nobody said anything about putting a bag over my head.”
“Would you prefer to ride in the trunk?” he countered.
She slowly shook her head, sensing a shift from the seat next to her. The man rolled down his window and tossed the cigarette. She moved her hand slowly for the door handle, just in case the situation spiraled out of control.
“Then we have a problem,” he said, eyes drifting to her hand.
“Feel free to step out, Ms. Reynolds. Nobody will stop you, but I’m not kidding when I say that this car will not drive any further toward our destination unless you wear this hood…or ride in the trunk. Nobody else is in the trunk, right?” Viktor asked, addressing the driver.
They all started laughing, which caught her off guard. They had been deadly serious up until this point. The sudden shift heightened her tension.
“See? We’re not so bad. We make jokes, just like the Sopranos. Right?” Viktor said.
She eased her shoulders and caught herself smiling vaguely, unsure what to make of the sudden change in behavior.
“Look, Ms. Reynolds. If you can’t trust me for two minutes, we’ll have to hire a prostitute like I suggested and hope for the best. I don’t think Yuri will be happy with that scenario. We’ve come up with a solution to one of your group’s hurdles. You’re infinitely more qualified to pull this off than one of our drugged-up hookers. We need to get you some new clothes for the job. We have a wide selection at one of our warehouses,” he said.
Now she was intrigued. Farrington, aka “Yuri,” hadn’t provided any of the details for tonight’s mission. She didn’t like the implications for her role in whatever they had planned, but she’d play by their rules for now. She couldn’t possibly let them trust any aspect of the overall mission to a prostitute.
“I saw some nice clothing boutiques near the hotel. Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Don’t you think shopping in clothing boutiques might attract unwanted attention?”
Viktor had a point, though she wondered how careful they had been with her pickup. Shopping for designer clothes in a Novosibirsk boutique had to rank lower on the list of suspicious actions than getting in a car with three gangsters. It all came down to a little trust. She took the black hood from Viktor and placed it over her head, waiting for someone to start choking her. Nothing happened beyond the car lurching back onto the broken street, moving toward what she envisioned to be the bratva’s version of the Bat Cave.
Chapter 31
9:15 AM
Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) Headquarters
Yasanevo Suburb, Moscow, Russian Federation
Dmitry Ardankin hung up the phone and immediately dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct line. The secure telephone system prompted him for a passcode, which he entered. The passcode enabled his call to bypass Pushnoy’s secretary and ring directly at his desk, or whatever phone the director had designated to receive calls. Only a few of the For
eign Intelligence Service’s deputy directors had been given this number, and none of them abused it. Ardankin reserved the use of Pushnoy’s direct line for emergencies. He wasn’t sure if this qualified as an emergency—yet, but it was without a doubt headed in that direction.
He waited tensely as the phone rang, hoping that it would go to the director’s voicemail. He hated answering Pushnoy’s one-word questions, often fired in rapid succession like a machine gun.
“Speak quickly, Dmitry. I’m in the middle of something,” the director said as a greeting.
“One of General Sanderson’s operatives walked off a flight in Kiev on Tuesday and disappeared,” Ardankin said.
Several seconds passed in utter silence, which was unusual for the director. Just as Ardankin considered the possibility that their connection had been severed, Pushnoy spoke.
“Three days ago?” Pushnoy asked, his tone clearly implying that the time delay was unforgiveable.
Ardankin chose his words carefully. The Federal Customs Service had reluctantly agreed to add “sanitized” profile photos to their computerized watch list, which was directly linked to Ukrainian Customs. These requests were normally relayed by the Federation Security Service’s counterintelligence branch, but Ardankin wanted to bypass the FSB in this case. He had spent the better part of an hour negotiating a truce with Arkady Baranov, director of the Center for Special Operations (CSN), which included assurances that the Foreign Intelligence Service had closed the case regarding the leak at CSN. He had been instructed not to share information regarding the discovery of a new American covert intelligence group, so it was in his best interest to contact Customs directly to add suspected members of this group to their database.
The downside to concealing the additions to the Customs database came in the form of resource priority. Since the profiles were sanitized, containing no information beyond known aliases and photographs, they would be entered as low priority in the system. The faces would not appear at Customs terminals or be shown to Customs agents at a shift briefing. Customs required information to elevate priority and allocate limited human resources. Ardankin’s hands were tied, since the information would raise eyebrows and result in an immediate phone call to the Customs Service’s FSB liaison, exposing his sidestep. The best they could expect was a possible match through automated facial recognition sweeps of passport and Customs checkpoint photos. Frankly, Ardankin was surprised they got a hit on one of the profiles at all.
“Bureaucracy at its worst, sir. Customs is 82% sure that Richard Farrington presented an Australian passport at Kiev Zhuliany International,” Ardankin said finally.
“And he disappeared?”
“His Australian cover hasn’t been used since the airport, sir.”
“Disturbing,” Pushnoy stated.
“How do you want me to proceed?”
“This stays internal. Activate and deploy everyone at your disposal and start working Kiev. Train stations, rental car agencies, buses…I want to know where he is headed.”
“Understood. We’ll start in Kiev and expand. I’ll contact Customs and have them implement search protocols based on his Australian cover. I doubt he is alone. We may get lucky,” Ardankin said.
“Don’t count on it. I want this man in custody before he can do any damage. Contact me directly regarding your progress. I have to go.”
The line went dead, leaving Ardankin with his mouth open, ready to respond. He’d call Customs anyway. It was always better to cast a wider net, especially when they had no idea what they were looking for. He’d narrow the search parameters to males between the ages of 20-50 entering Russia with an Australian passport within the past five days. The list might be extensive, but the FIS had the manpower to sort through the names looking for anomalies. They’d find something.
He checked his email for the file promised by Customs, finding that it had arrived during his terse conversation with his director. He opened the email attachment, which generated a full-screen Customs layout comparing two pictures of Richard Farrington. The leftmost photograph had been provided to Customs by Ardankin, showing Farrington in a U.S. Army uniform. He’d found this picture in one of the SVR’s routine archival snapshots of Pentagon personnel. Unlike the old days, when pictures like these were taken by spies with 35mm cameras, Farrington’s picture came directly from the Pentagon’s database.
The rightmost picture contained the slightly altered Richard Farrington. Clearly, the Americans hadn’t gone to extensive lengths to alter his appearance, which surprised him, given the fact that one of their operatives had recently disappeared in Munich. This General Sanderson, or whoever was pulling the strings, should have known that Herr Hubner would eventually break, exposing details that could compromise their program. Then again, maybe information within the group was compartmentalized. They’d never know, since Herr Hubner managed to end his interrogation early.
Ardankin sat back and stared at the two photos. There was no doubt it was the same person. His eyebrows had been artificially thickened, which was one of the easiest, but most effective ways to alter an appearance. His cheeks looked fuller, indicating the use of an oral implant. Another subtle, yet effective way to throw off facial recognition software. His natural blue eyes were hidden behind brown contact lenses. Changing eye color was a tactic used to fool humans, but had little effect on computer recognition algorithms. Farrington wasn’t taking the chance that his photo might have been distributed to customs checkpoints. Finally, his hair appeared darker and longer. A modest hairpiece that didn’t attract attention, but significantly differed from the close-cropped military haircut in his Pentagon photo.
Surface cosmetics. Nothing that would fool sophisticated software, but not a bad effort for an operative that didn’t want to undergo minor plastic surgery…or didn’t have time to. This last thought lingered, hanging over Ardankin like a death threat. He shook his head slowly, agonizing over his reaction to the thought. There was something there, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. He closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his mind, breathing deeply. A momentary meditation to eliminate the clutter. Less than five seconds later his eyes flashed open.
Richard Farrington hadn’t been concerned with defeating facial recognition software. He knew it would take days for the system to detect his entry, at which point he had already long abandoned the identity used to arrive in Kiev. Even after discovering his entry, it could take days or weeks to generate another lead. Best-case scenario, they’d find his next travel connection within a day or two. Add more time to prosecute leads at the end of that connection, assuming he was smart and didn’t travel directly to his final destination. Unless the American made a rookie mistake, it could take them a week to finally catch up with Farrington. He had to have known this. The American’s mission would take place within the next few days. Ardankin had no time to waste.
First, he’d activate all of their Ukrainian-based agents, augmenting the effort with additional agents from Poland, Belarus and Romania. If necessary, he could deploy more agents from Moscow, though he preferred to use Directorate S assets stationed in the field. The last thing he needed was an out-of-practice headquarters-based agent blowing his or her cover in Kiev and casting a light on the entire operation.
He opened one of the classified directories on his computer and searched for the number he needed, quickly finding it. Feliks Yeshevsky ran their Ukrainian operations, directing the efforts of five native Ukrainian field agents based out of Kiev. He’d proven extremely resourceful in tracking down Reznikov’s Stockholm address and had never failed to produce results in the past. Still, Ardankin hesitated.
Yeshevsky had a reputation for brutality that could turn into a liability during a systematic canvassing effort. His methods were better suited for a more targeted approach to acquiring intelligence. Ardankin considered the alternatives and decided that Yeshevsky represented their best hope of quickly rediscovering Farrington’s trail. He’d have to trust Yeshevsky’s judgment, whic
h was a better option than importing less capable agents into a foreign country and starting them from scratch. He dialed the Ukrainian number, apprehensive about where all of this was headed.
Chapter 32
4:27 PM
Vokzal-Gravny Railway Station
Novosibirsk, Russian Federation
Richard Farrington stepped off the train from Yekaterinburg and examined the station, noting the odd-colored building that dominated the skyline. He wasn’t interested in the color or unique architecture of Novosibirsk’s railway station. His entry into Russia had been risky, starting in Kiev, where he stepped off a connecting flight from Rome. Despite eighteen years of sovereign independence from the Russian Federation, the Ukraine maintained close ties to their former master. Too close, in Farrington’s opinion, but his other entry options put him at even greater risk.
Kiev gave him easy access to dozens of trains that conducted regular runs to cities throughout western Russia and drew little scrutiny from Border Control guards. At most, the train would stop at the border for a rapid examination of visas and passports. Often, the outbound Kiev trains had a section on the train reserved for Border Control officials, who would take care of this formality while en route to the first Russian station. The high volume of rail passengers between the two countries had led to streamlined procedures that worked to his advantage.
His only real concern was the possible interconnectivity between Ukrainian customs at the Kiev airport and Russian intelligence agencies. Karl Berg had warned Sanderson that the two nations’ intelligence services actively and regularly shared information. Given the low-intensity conflict smoldering over Reznikov’s abduction, Berg thought it was fair to assume that the Ukrainians had been asked to carefully screen for anomalies. Farrington’s cover wouldn’t draw any immediate attention.
He’d flown from Buenos Aires to Sidney, Australia, where he picked up a new passport and the visas needed to complete the rest of his journey as an Australian tourist. His Russian language skills were good, but might not hold up during a customs inquiry, and there was no sense taking the risk. Sanderson’s new program wasn’t designed to create deep-cover “illegal” operatives. He just needed to get into Russia, where he could employ his skills to temporarily melt away into the population.
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