Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

‘You have not come to tell me what we cannot do.’ Lagutov waved his hand with impatience.

  ‘Reverse tactics, sir. For the next exercise, instead of whipping up hostile rhetoric, you initiate a peace summit with the American President. Let us see how the world reacts should he refuse.’

  Lagutov tapped a folder on his desk. ‘The file says your father was a good party loyalist, the foreman at a steel factory in Magnitokorsk which collapsed when it was privatized.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Yumatov had not expected the President to have called for his file.

  ‘You went on to join the military and did well.’ Lagutov spun the folder round and beckoned Yumatov to his desk. ‘Is this correct? When you were recruited by Admiral Vitruk for the Diomede operation you were asked about your motivation. This is what you replied. Read it to me.’

  The interview with the commander of the Alaska incursion had been more an afternoon conversation on a long, uncomfortable plane journey when both men had spoken of their backgrounds and experiences. Yumatov stepped forward to the President’s desk, glanced quickly at two short paragraphs. ‘It is correct, sir.’

  ‘I asked you to read it.’ Lagutov’s tired expression was unexpectedly taking color.

  Yumatov picked up the single sheet of paper. ‘Admiral Vitruk asked Major Yumatov how his personal life influenced his vision of Russia’s future. Yumatov replied: “We were honest working people until the catastrophe of the 1990s. My father was a respected factory manager. My grandfather, too. When the factory was privatized my father was promised that every worker would be given shares by the new owners with guaranteed pensions, housing, and medical. That was a lie.”

  ‘Admiral Vitruk asked: “What exactly was the lie?” Yumatov replied: “First, we were told it would take time for the privatization to come through and we would have to live without wages. Then, a flashy young prick came along and offered to buy our shares. We needed the cash so we could eat. My father trusted him and sold the idea to his men. He stole our factory. Families became destitute, while this prick bought himself yachts, fancy suits, and fast cars.”’ Yumatov felt his mouth dry as he read it. He placed the sheet of paper back on the President’s desk.

  ‘Was it wise to speak so honestly?’ asked Lagutov.

  ‘Had I lied, he would have seen through me.’

  ‘And this “flashy young prick,” who was he?’

  Yumatov ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He needed moisture to make sure his voice didn’t sound parched. The President knew the answer, or he wouldn’t have asked. There was only one answer to give. ‘The flashy young prick, sir, was State Duma Chairman, Sergey Grizlov.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Lagutov’s expression remained unchanged. He took back the file, slid it to one side of his desk, and rested his chin in steepled fingers. ‘Russia is filled with such stories and their contradictions.’ He took a pen from a cradle and wrote a note on white Kremlin letterhead note paper. Without folding it or using an envelope, he gave it to Yumatov. It read: ‘Sergey, please work with Colonel Yumatov.’ There was a single line scrawl of a signature.

  ‘I will soon ask Grizlov to be my Foreign Minister,’ Lagutov said. ‘Take it to him. If Russia is to be modern and at ease with herself, it will take the charms of the man who ruined your family.’

  Yumatov suppressed a smile at the successful outcome. He could not have hoped for better and had misjudged Russia’s President as a lame duck. He was also convinced that Lagutov was far too clever to be allowed to live.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’ Yumatov turned to leave,

  ‘And when is the next military exercise?’ Lagutov asked as he was reaching the door.

  ‘December 15th to 23rd next year.’

  ‘Then I have plenty of time to think about your suggestion.’

  Yumatov was unsure how much Grizlov knew about him. The Foreign Minister turned in from the window. ‘If you’re not certain, Colonel, let me recap for both of us,’ Grizlov said. ‘The purpose of this initiative is to usher in a new era of trust between Russia and the West. A major obstacle has been a routine NATO military exercise on our borders that reeks of war. Our plan is for Russia to initiate a face-to-face meeting between Presidents Lagutov and Merrow during Dynamic Freedom. The Norwegians have agreed to host the summit, but nothing is to be shared with the Americans until the Kremlin issues an official invitation.’

  Yumatov said nothing. Grizlov stepped further into the room. ‘As a sweetener, we offered naval intelligence to the Americans, a gesture of cooperation and goodwill, in security terms, relatively harmless. You arranged for the material to be delivered to the US Defense Intelligence Agency via the Norwegian Intelligence Service. It was not sent electronically because the size of the file could have alerted our intelligence services. The Americans chose the route across the border and hired the courier, a British freelance, Gerald Cooper. He was murdered outside of Murmansk. We don’t know by whom. You then tried to deliver the same data direct to the British Embassy using Vice-Admiral Artyom Semenov. He, too, was murdered. My question, again, Colonel: who are we up against? Our own government? Your colleagues in the military? The Americans who don’t want peace with Russia?’

  ‘I believe this is the work of a crime syndicate from the Far East based out of Vladivostok,’ said Yumatov.

  Grizlov raised his eyebrows. ‘Vladivostok is a long way from Murmansk.’

  ‘The syndicate represents the interests of China, Japan, and North and South Korea with the aim of spreading influence through Asia to Europe. Any alliance we make with the West will threaten its plans.’

  ‘And how did this syndicate know what we were doing?’

  ‘Through the Americans.’

  ‘The Americans? How?’

  ‘The syndicate uses the name Extreme Path or Gokudo, which is the old translation for the Japanese Yakuza. American gangsters are patriotic and cannot be seen to be supporting Chinese-led crime, because American crime goes deep into their defense and political establishment. Japan is an ally, so a US–Japanese crime alliance, in their minds, is acceptable. That is how Gokudo knew how to intercept both Cooper and Semenov.’

  Grizlov whistled through his teeth. ‘Can you fix it?’

  ‘I believe so, sir. It might be messy.’

  ‘Damned if I’ve worked this hard only to see my country become an Asian gangster state. Fix it, Colonel, and we’ll clean up the mess afterwards.’

  An hour later, Yumatov trod slowly through the Gorky Park snow, hands deep in pockets, head raised to feel the weather on his face. He walked toward the river, shrouded with blurring lights from the Kymsky Bridge. Slow-moving barges pushed through ice floes on the water.

  His account to Grizlov had been convincing and most of it accurate. Black-market Asian money was pouring into Russia but Yumatov had not revealed his own role in bringing in the Japanese Gokudo as his partners. Nor would he. Sergey Grizlov and others needed to be punished. They had lined their pockets by sucking up to the West and ruining the lives of hard-working Russians. Revenge would taste very sweet indeed. Grizlov’s people would know they could never fuck with the Russian people again. With upheaval inevitable there would be a run on the ruble and Yumatov needed Asian money to prop it up because the money around Moscow and St Petersburg was too entangled with Europe.

  On leaving Grizlov, Yumatov had called an urgent meeting with the Gokudo, who had suggested Gorky Park where, in this weather, it would be deathly cold, and they could talk unseen and undisturbed.

  Yumatov spotted his contact pacing up and down by two empty benches. He had expected a familiar face, but this was a slight, bespectacled kid with Asiatic features. Yumatov raised his hand in a wave. The young man took off a glove and held out his hand. ‘I am Ivan,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’

  Yumatov shook his hand and saw that the tip of the left-hand little finger was missing, a traditional punishment and act of loyalty toward a Gokudo member’s superior. Ivan’s face showed a nervousness as if the mission were out of
his league.

  ‘The shooting outside the British Embassy does not jeopardize our operation,’ said Yumatov.

  ‘We know about the shooting and that Vice-Admiral Semenov was carrying technical data that would destroy your plan.’

  ‘The data is secure.’

  ‘We also know you have Dr Walker.’

  Yumatov had called the meeting but his business partners were steps ahead of him. Ivan spoke precisely as if he were wired and his words scripted. ‘I am instructed to tell you that unless we see Semenov’s data, funds will be withdrawn, and our partnership will be shut down.’

  Yumatov bundled his black woolen scarf tighter around his neck and buttoned the collar of his military greatcoat. ‘I understand your concern.’

  ‘I am instructed to ask on what grounds you trusted Vice-Admiral Semenov,’ Ivan said. ‘Because of that mistake, we have these problems now.’

  ‘In any operation, a setback is rarely caused by one single mishap,’ answered Yumatov.

  Ivan took off his spectacles and wiped them clean, only to find wind driving new snow onto them, melting and smearing with the warmth of the lens. ‘My task is to return with any response you might have.’

  Yumatov stepped so close that their breath clouds mixed. ‘I will deal with this issue. Our enemies will never see Semenov’s file. Nor will you until the operation is complete.’

  ‘That is not the answer we were hoping for.’ Ivan had given up with the spectacles, which he held tensely in his gloved hand.

  ‘Then, report back and we’ll meet again soon.’ Yumatov held out his hand. As Ivan’s arm came forward, Yumatov grabbed it. With lightning speed, he held the little finger, snapped it back inside the glove at the point it joined the hand, twisted it, and moved it back and forth. Ivan’s face creased. He sucked his lower lip and bit down with his upper teeth to counter the excruciating agony. ‘We have an agreement, and those who break their word and threaten Russia pay the price.’ Yumatov let the hand go. ‘Make sure your people have the funds your promised.’

  Yumatov walked away toward the grand colonnade entrance of the Gorky Park Museum. Four of his Zaslon men fell into step back and front of him, big, black-clad figures, openly carrying weapons for the Gokudo to see. Giving them Semenov’s data would be handing it to the Japanese, who would go straight to the Pentagon and NATO. But, then, if Gokudo knew about Semenov’s death and Carrie’s kidnap, they would know where she was now, which meant Semenov’s material was far from secure.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Carrie’s captors had let her keep her watch. She checked the time. 21:08. They had given her water, sparkling, a bottle of Narzan, a glass. She could have smashed it and used its jagged edges as a weapon. Except not with her two captors, identities hidden under black balaclavas. They were cool and self-assured. They gave her food, a packet of Lay’s white mushroom and sour cream crisps. When she finished, she lifted up both bound hands and wiped grease off her lips. She picked crumbs off her lap and flipped them onto the floor. She smoothed and folded the empty green crisps bag, making it smaller and smaller into a tiny square while her captors watched without reacting. Three times she asked for the bathroom. Three times she got no response.

  The van was parked up somewhere. Lights streaked through its blackened windows. Horns blared. Sirens. Occasionally, voices, a group walking close by. They were in a parking lot or a side street. Four times the side door had slid open. Snow swept in with freezing air. Carrie dug her bare feet into the van’s floor carpet. Stuff was handed in, food, a tablet, an envelope. Not a word was spoken.

  At 21:14, the door opened smoothly like a low-frequency drum roll, steel casters on a well-greased mechanism. A vehicle headlight glared, causing Carrie to squint. Two boxes were delivered. The door closed. The captor opposite drew a small knife from his belt and opened the first box. There was a phone inside with original packing, a Chinese Huawei Android. He did the same with the second, an Apple iPhone also in original packing. He turned them on and worked the keyboards to test them. He took out earphones, charger, and cables. He pulled two slim weather-proof zip bags from his pocket, put a phone with its accessories in each. He offered them to Carrie like a plate of food. She put them on her lap. The other captor, the one sitting next to her, sent a message from his phone.

  The van moved off. The captor opposite cut her wrist cuffs with his knife. His colleague reached over to the back and gave her her boots and socks, scarf and hat. She put them on, balancing in her seat, as the van turned and turned again.

  ‘So, is that it, guys?’ she said, drawing on reserves of confidence. ‘Is it party time?’

  There was no answer. The iPhone buzzed. A message in Russian. ‘Check into the hotel. Room paid for.’

  What hotel? What room? The van stopped in a side street with streaks of lamps and headlights through the tinted glass. The captor opposite opened the door. He whipped off his balaclava, stood up, and got out.

  She glanced at the other one. He nodded. Go. She checked her leg strength and balance, got out carefully and stiffened with the cold. The captor offered his hand to her elbow. She studied him, mid-twenties, short blond-brown hair, life in his eyes, a guy at the end of a shift about to go home.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Good luck,’ he replied in English. He handed her her uncle’s flash drive in a Ziploc transparent bag together with a small brown envelope. He got back into the van, pulled on his balaclava, and closed the door. The van drove off. The number plate was smeared with dirt and ice and unreadable. She faced a budget hotel, part of a chain all around Europe that she had used a few times.

  She was in central Moscow, with two new phones which would track her wherever she was. She opened the envelope. A new dark-green American passport. The owner, Dr Carrie Walker, with her photograph, her accurate date of birth, and a Russian visa and entry stamp with her arrival date today. The passport photo was not her current one, but it was her. Nor was it her passport number. But overall this was a good job. Taped to the back was her MasterCard, gray and plain, but the same sixteen-digit number, same three-digit CCV security code on the back.

  The hotel lobby was brightly lit. A Chinese couple sat on an orange bench sofa, looking at a map. A young European guy with a dirty red backpack stood at the reception counter. To the right of the main entrance was a restaurant.

  She walked through the revolving doors enveloped with warmth. The receptionist, young, long black hair, Asian-looking, smiled, and welcomed Carrie in English. Carrie reeled off the booking reference which came up straightaway. The receptionist hooked her hair behind her right ear, looked across the lobby, half lifted her hand to beckon a porter, and broke into a frown seeing no one there.

  She tore off a numbered luggage tag attached to Carrie’s booking document. ‘There’s stuff for you to pick up.’ She apologized to a couple who had arrived behind Carrie, then walked along the counter to a door that opened into a luggage room, shelves of backpacks and suitcases, tags hanging off handles and zippers. Carrie followed. The receptionist lifted out Carrie’s hand-carry case, the one she flew in with and had left at the Intercontinental on Tverskaya Street.

  ‘Someone dropped this off for you before I came on shift,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Oh yeah. Thanks.’ Carrie answered as if she were expecting it. She stared at the case, last neatly placed in the small hotel room wardrobe, now here. The receptionist said Carrie was in room 416, turn left at the top of the lift, to the end, a quiet room with a queen bed as requested on the booking. Carrie took the small cardboard envelope with two electronic keys, the room number hand-written at the bottom. Carrie moved toward the elevator. One of the phones rang. The iPhone.

  ‘Get out, Carrie. It’s dangerous. You’re not safe.’ An instruction and an explanation.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Go, Carrie. Go now.’ English. East coast American. Traces of a foreign accent. Carrie was in the middle of the lobby halfway to the elevator bank. She scanned
the outside. No black vans. No smeared number plates.

  ‘Tell me who you are, or I cut this call, throw both these phones away, and walk straight into the American embassy.’

  ‘You won’t make it, Carrie. You’ll end up like your uncle.’

  A jolt of panic. ‘Who are you?’ A low, tight barely audible whisper.

  ‘You do not recognize my voice?’

  She didn’t. Don’t plead. Don’t show fear. ‘Stop dicking around and—’

  ‘I am Colonel Ruslan Yumatov.’

  Carrie brought her hand up to her face in a jerk of a movement that prompted the receptionist to look across. She tried to remember the smarmy Russian officer from the Diomede, oblong head like a bad sculptor, blond hair neatly styled, tall cheekbones, narrow mouth, and smooth skin, like a model. She pulled her case to the edge of the counter. She tried to sound in control: ‘Is it you handing out phones, changing my hotel room, cooping me up in a van all these hours?’

  ‘Get out of that hotel, Carrie.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘Out of Russia.’

  ‘How?’ Her question pleaded a straight answer.

  ‘St Petersburg. Once there, a ferry ticket to Helsinki. I will arrange it and call you. The credit card I gave you is clean. Keep the phones.’

  Yes, now she remembered Ruslan Yumatov, smooth, merciless, showing her dead body after dead body on Little Diomedes.

  ‘I tried to help you before, Carrie. I couldn’t. Now I can. If either of us are to survive this, you need to trust me.’

  The line cut. The lobby bustled. People came in stamping feet, blowing on hands. The receptionist slid key packs across the counter. There was laughter and foreign languages.

  Carrie sat on the sofa next to a Chinese couple, huddled over a tourist map. A wet gust of sleet cut across the street outside. If Yumatov was setting her up, would she be safer here? If she walked out, would it be into another black van with smeared plates? Would she be greeted by a smiling, welcoming man who would shoot her dead like her uncle.