Severinov nodded. “I think they will head for the Finnish or Latvian borders. It’s got to be one of those.”
As he spoke, the police officer with whom Pugachov had been talking strode through the archway toward them.
“We have picked them up,” the officer said to Pugachov. “They went up the Western High-Speed Diameter, heading north. Cameras at one of the tollbooths recorded the license plate. Another camera then caught them turning north onto the M10. We’re alerting patrol cars in the areas they’re heading toward.”
“Good work,” Pugachov said as he turned to Severinov.
But Severinov was already climbing into the Mercedes.
“It is the Finnish border, then. I was right. Let’s get moving,” Severinov said. “I’m thinking we should take Vasily with us—he is the best when things get messy.”
Pugachov shook his head. “If we go back and fetch him now, that will cost us three quarters of an hour. It could be critical.”
Severinov pursed his lips. “Sure. Let’s just go. We can’t afford for them to get out of Russia.”
Part Three
Chapter Thirty
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Saimaa Canal
The Saimaa Canal is a key commercial waterway that links the Russian segment of the Gulf of Finland, at the eastern end of the Baltic Sea, with Lake Saimaa and a massive network of inland canals and lakes that spreads out across the southeast and south-central part of Finland.
The canal stretches for almost twenty-seven miles between the cities of Lappeenranta, in Finland, and Vyborg, in Russia. When construction was completed in 1856, it was entirely within the Grand Duchy of Finland, as it was known then. But the Moscow Peace Treaty of 1940 saw the territory that included the southern part of the canal and Vyborg given to the Soviet Union.
Since 1963, Finland has leased the Russian portion of the canal and controls its operations and staff, although each country has separate customs and passport control checkpoints. These are at Brusnitchnoe lock at the Russian end and Nuijamaa, on Lake Nuijamaanjärvi, at the Finnish end.
It is possible for ships of up to 271 feet long and 41 feet wide to use the canal. This means that large commercial ships with cargoes of more than 1,400 tons can navigate the waterway.
The ship moored at Brusnitchnoe, the Sanets, was one such vessel.
“We drop the bikes in the trees,” Katya said as she dismounted about two hundred yards short of the lock. “Then we walk through the trees. It is less obtrusive and means the customs officers will not see us.”
She paused and tapped a text message on her phone. “I am sending a quick message to the ship’s owner. He is on board and will meet us.”
Katya then wheeled her bike about forty yards into the undergrowth and pushed it behind some evergreen bushes on the edge of a small clearing amid the pine trees, out of sight of anyone passing along the lane. Johnson followed and did likewise.
They made their way on foot through the trees until they came to a narrow dirt path that emerged behind a hut at the quayside. Without pausing, Katya strode along the quay.
Johnson stood still for a few seconds and gazed at the ship, which was painted a dark blue at the top. It had two large red-and-white engine funnels at the stern and a white double-story deckhouse at the bow with a radar scanner, communications aerials, foghorn, and other equipment all mounted on the roof.
On the main deck, between the deckhouse and the funnels, were what Johnson estimated to be thousands of pine tree trunks stacked horizontally. They were piled at least twenty-five high, up to the same level as the roof of the deckhouse, and nine end to end. A series of vertical poles spaced at intervals along each side of the ship prevented the timber from rolling off into the water.
The boat appeared to be fully laden, with only a narrow band of the red-painted ship’s bottom visible above the waterline. Streaks of orange rust ran down the side of the hull.
Johnson glanced back down the lake that stretched south behind the ship toward Vyborg. Another ship was approaching that looked similar to the one they were about to board and was also laden with timber. There were three other smaller vessels—two luxury yachts and a rusty old barge—waiting to use the lock.
He studied Katya for a few seconds. She was confident, but he hoped she knew what she was doing and that this was going to work. He badly needed the information she was keeping from him—her father’s ex-Stasi contact—and he badly needed to get out of Russia intact. Boarding a ship from which exit options were limited felt risky.
But Katya walked without hesitation straight up the first of two narrow gangways that led up to the deck at the bow of the ship, next to the deckhouse. Johnson followed behind.
At the top of the gangway was a broad-shouldered man with an unkempt iron-gray beard and hair, leaning his barrel-like physique against the gunwale. He was wearing a thick jacket with a logo on the breast that read Saimaa-Baltic Shipping, and Johnson couldn’t help noticing his hairy, weatherworn hands, which were probably the largest he had ever seen.
Next to him was a much younger, slightly taller, and equally heavily muscled man with a shaved head, also wearing an identical jacket with the shipping company’s logo. The older man stood up straight as they approached and glanced to his left and right, as if checking for something.
“Katya, come this way,” the older man said in a low-pitched voice. “You got here just in time. We have been waiting for more than an hour, and I was about to give the order to leave.”
He glanced at Johnson but made no attempt to introduce himself or welcome them, then turned and walked toward the deckhouse, his younger colleague close behind.
Two uniformed security guards, both carrying pistols in holsters, stood on deck, one on the port side of the deckhouse, the other on the starboard. A number of other crew members were busy carrying out various tasks on deck.
The older man opened a door into the deckhouse, stepped inside, and went through another door marked Bridge, then up a flight of steps.
When Johnson got to the top of the stairs, Katya and the older man were standing in a semicircular bridge area with windows that stretched around 180 degrees looking out over the bow of the ship. Next to them was a bank of navigational switches, controls, and monitor screens mounted on a long central console.
“This is Oleg Rudov,” Katya said. “He is the owner of the shipping company that owns this boat and four other similar vessels. He was a close friend of my father.”
Johnson stepped forward and shook Oleg’s hand. “Good to meet you. I understand you might be able to get us out of the country.”
“Yes, if you do exactly what I tell you,” Oleg said. He indicated toward his younger colleague. “This is Yaroslav. He is the captain of this ship. He is very good. I am just here for the ride on this trip.” He gave a faint smile.
Johnson shook Yaroslav’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you.” The Russian grunted in acknowledgment but said nothing.
“As you can see,” Oleg said, “this is a big ship, and there are places we can hide you. However, we need to be extremely careful before we leave Russian territory. I have a family to look after, and I own several ships and have a responsibility to my employees. Have I made myself understood?”
“I understand,” Johnson said.
“Good,” Oleg said. He pointed through a window at the rear of the bridge toward the other timber ship that Johnson had seen approaching earlier. “That is also one of my vessels, identical to this one,” he said. “We go through the canal first, and she will follow. We leave in twenty minutes. Come with me.”
He led Johnson and Katya back down the steps and at the bottom opened a door that led to a changing room, full of wet-weather gear, boots, lockers, and towels. In the corner, four scuba diving suits were hanging on pegs next to a rack containing oxygen tanks, masks, and flippers.
Oleg opened what looked like a tall locker, similar in size to a wardrobe, to reveal more waterproof clothing hanging o
n a horizontal rail. He swept the gear to one end of the rail, then bent down and pushed a collection of boots and shoes to one side. He reached up and removed a thin, flat piece of metal from the top of one of the lockers, then inserted it into what looked like a narrow crack between the wall and floor of the locker.
There was a faint click, and the entire floor of the locker dropped by two inches at one end. Johnson could now see that there were hinges at the other end and the whole floor doubled as a tightly fitting, flush hatch that could be lowered and opened. Oleg reached with his fingers beneath the hatch door at the open end, released some kind of catch, and then fully lowered the door to reveal a narrow set of steps no more than a foot wide leading down into a black hole. It seemed impossible to detect that the floor was a hatch there until Oleg released it.
“This is where you will hide,” Oleg said. “It is unlikely that you will be found here if the ship is searched, which is doubtful. He took out his phone, switched on its flashlight, and shone it down into the cavity.
“Come down and look,” Oleg said. He climbed down the steps backward and beckoned to Johnson and Katya to follow.
The cavity was no more than seven feet long and four feet wide. The ceiling was only four feet high, requiring them all to remain kneeling to avoid banging their heads. The floor was covered by soft rubber matting. Two rolled-up sleeping bags lay at one end, while at the other was a bucket, presumably for toilet purposes, together with two jugs of water, two cups, and a battery-powered lamp.
“This is built in the cavity between two bulkheads and would not be detectable from outside without a minutely detailed plan of the ship,” Oleg said.
Johnson surveyed the hiding place. “Do all your boats have these hiding places?” he asked.
“No, only three of them. I had them built in.” Oleg’s eyes narrowed a little, and he scrutinized Johnson for a couple of seconds.
Clearly this was not a one-off favor he was doing for Katya. If the grizzled ship owner was involved in regular trafficking or illegal transport of people across the border, then it was reassuring in some ways that he knew the ropes, but Johnson hoped that it didn’t also mean he was on some kind of FSB or police hit list. He knew that transporting asylum seekers from countries all over the Middle East and North Africa into the European Union, of which Finland was a member, was a big and often lucrative business.
“Are there any other hiding places?” Johnson asked Oleg. “If the ship is searched, it would be useful to know if there are any other options.”
Oleg hesitated. “Not really,” he said. “Although there is something. There is a space in the center of the cargo, between the timber logs.”
“Show me,” Johnson said.
Oleg nodded. He led the way out of the hiding place and back onto the main deck, then along the gangway between the timber cargo and the gunwale. Halfway along, he stopped and edged his way into a narrow gap that had been left between one pile of logs and the next, no more than sixteen inches wide and in some places less, because the ends of some logs were protruding into the gap. He sometimes had to move sideways—there was not always enough space to walk through the gap facing forward. Johnson and Katya followed while Yaroslav remained on the gangway and watched. After about four yards Oleg stopped and pointed downward.
Between the logs there was a frame made of steel beams bolted together to form a cube-shaped enclosure, no more than six feet long by three feet wide and three feet high. Sheets of steel were attached to the top and sides. Johnson could not help thinking it was like a child’s hiding place amid the logs, which rested on top of the frame and pressed up against both sides. Inside were a few coils of thick rope, a couple of large tins of paint that had been opened, and a few dirty brushes.
“We keep bits of kit in there when we are working on deck when the ship is not loaded. But it can also be a refuge,” Oleg said.
Johnson nodded. “It is a good hiding place. We could use it, but the underfloor cavity is better concealed.” He led the way back to the deckhouse.
“How long does it take to get over the border?” Johnson asked. He unconsciously ran his fingers over the butt of the Heckler & Koch that was stuck into his belt beneath his jacket.
“It will take a few hours, maybe five or six.”
“And where are the danger points in terms of possible searches?” Johnson asked.
Oleg hesitated. “There are five locks on the Russian side, then another three on the Finnish side. They are necessary because the water level in Lake Saimaa is about seventy-five meters higher than it is here. Sometimes we have to wait our turn for the locks, and the canal can get busy. The five Russian locks are the danger points. We are stationary and we are susceptible.”
Johnson had been trying to remind himself that although they were close to the border now, there was actually still a long way to go. Oleg’s comments underlined his thoughts.
Oleg stroked his beard and eyed Johnson. “Look—I know everyone on this canal. I have been sailing it for many years. The people who operate the locks, the customs people, they are all my friends.” He rubbed his fingers and thumb together, as if wrinkling banknotes, in a gesture that Johnson knew to mean they were in his pocket.
But then Oleg added, “Despite that advantage, we have other things against us. When we are in the locks, we cannot turn, we cannot go back, we cannot move. If the higher authorities come, that is when we hope for the best.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Leningrad Oblast
The speedometer needle was touching 145 kilometers per hour—well above the limit—as Pugachov’s Mercedes hammered its way north up the Western High-Speed Diameter.
“We need to get someone to go through any CCTV footage available,” Severinov said. He was sitting in the front passenger seat poring over a large-scale map of the Leningrad oblast region while Pugachov hunched over the steering wheel, his forehead creased in concentration as he weaved in and out of the St. Petersburg commuter traffic.
“There won’t be much north of the Diameter,” Pugachov said. “It’s open country up there.”
The secure radio mounted on the dash emitted a loud squelch break. A few seconds later there was a crackle, and Fedot, the police chief, came on, his voice tense and clipped. “Leonid, we have four patrols at different spots along the M10. I am sending two up the 41K-84 toward Nuijamaa and the other two toward Vaalimaa. Do you agree?”
“Agreed,” Pugachov said.
“I think the Nuijamaa crossing is the priority,” Severinov said. “It’s closer. We must take that route. We will follow behind the patrols.”
“Understood,” squawked Fedot’s voice from the loudspeaker.
“And get your officers to check all the gas stations,” Severinov said. “They might have seen the Lada if it called in for fuel.”
“They already have that instruction,” said Fedot, his voice now showing more than a trace of irritation.
Pugachov veered right off the Diameter, and he accelerated again up the M10.
Severinov was now more confident that with police patrol cars monitoring the M10 and 41K-84, Fedot seemed to have the main routes to the border covered. The customs checkpoints were on full alert, and the net appeared to be closing on Johnson, despite his head start.
However, Severinov knew he couldn’t relax yet. He had underestimated Johnson before, to his cost, and he wasn’t about to do the same again.
Just over fifty minutes later, the Mercedes flew past Vyborg and reached the junction with the 41K-84, where Pugachov took the exit.
They had gone no more than a kilometer and a half along the highway when Severinov saw a BTK gas station and adjoining café on the left.
“Pull in there,” Severinov said. “We’ll check if they saw anything.”
Pugachov braked and parked outside the gas station shop. Severinov trotted into the shop, but the cashier, an elderly woman, claimed not to have seen any sign of a gray Lada in the pr
evious couple of hours, nor did the station have any CCTV cameras.
He hurried back to the Mercedes. “No luck,” Severinov said. “What if they have changed cars again somewhere?”
Pugachov shrugged. “I think two changes would be difficult. What is the likelihood of them having someone out here in the wilderness who could provide another car? I don’t see it. Neither do I see them stealing another car. Let’s keep going.”
He set off along the highway again. After a couple of kilometers, another gas station appeared, also on the left side of the road, this time carrying the green-and-red branding of Tatneft on the canopy that protected the gas pumps from the elements.
“We’ll try this one,” Severinov said.
“It’s not worth it,” Pugachov said. “I say we carry on. We’re wasting time.”
“No. Pull in,” Severinov insisted. “You come with me to the cashier. Maybe some FSB identification might help.”
Pugachov grumbled again but complied.
Severinov jumped out and walked to the cashier’s desk inside a white-painted café with chairs, tables, and standing umbrellas outside, Pugachov close behind him.
A wiry dark-skinned man with circular glasses looked up at the two men from behind the desk.
“Fuel?”
“No,” said Severinov. “We are trying to trace a car, a gray Lada Kalina, that we think passed through here perhaps two hours ago. There might have been a man and a woman in it. Can you help?”
Pugachov removed his FSB identity card from his jacket and laid it on the counter. The man studied it for a second, his eyebrows flicking upward; then he looked alternately at Severinov and Pugachov, a twitch crossing his face.
The Nazi's Son Page 19
