The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  ‘Okay, Denis. Agreed. I’ll meet you here at the conclusion of the conference in two days’ time. You are to hand over the thumb drive after which you will be flown to Israel where you will be granted Israeli citizenship. It’s a wonderful country and you’ll be able to live and work there without any of the difficulties you’ve been through at Los Alamos. Who knows, you may even meet someone you can share your life with. Israeli women are pretty special. Now, let me call you a taxi,’ she said, relieved she wouldn’t have to go through any more bedroom charades. That, she thought fleetingly, might be saved for the president’s dacha on the Black Sea.

  Once Bartók had left, Rabinovich logged in to her encrypted laptop and typed out a report for her Israeli handler. He was located in the heavily guarded Israeli embassy in Rue Rabelais, not far from the Élysée Palace, the eighteenth-century official home of the president of France. Rabinovich had no doubt that escaping from the Mossad’s tight surveillance and getting out of Paris would be fraught with danger.

  The Hôtel de Vendôme conference room was packed. Located 200 metres from the Ritz, on the corner of Rue St Honoré and Place Vendôme, the eighteenth-century hotel provided an elegant and stylish venue for the conference entitled:

  How Nuclear Physics May Assist WITH Climate Change

  The conference had attracted some of the finest nuclear physicists from around the world and the great universities were all represented – the Sorbonne, Oxford and Cambridge, Boston’s Harvard and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, China’s Peking University – the list was long and distinguished and over a hundred world-class institutions of learning had sent their representatives. The chairman, Emeritus Professor Mark Dowling from the Australian National University, began proceedings with a short welcome before introducing General Dragunov.

  ‘It now gives me great pleasure to introduce our keynote speaker, General Danilo Dragunov. As many of you know, General Dragunov is the head of Russia’s nuclear programs, both civilian and military, and like many of us here today, the general has been a passionate advocate of educating people on the perils of climate change, and an advocate for the non-military use of nuclear power.’

  Bartók listened intently to what the Russian general had to say, nodding in agreement as Dragunov urged governments to harness nuclear power for peaceful purposes and to take more action to combat the wild weather patterns battering the planet. Neither Bartók nor Dragunov were aware, but there was a deliberate strategy behind Petrov allowing the General to attend. In order to gain leverage against the crippling sanctions imposed by the West, Petrov wanted the world to see a softer side of Russia.

  ‘Not only is the North-West Passage consistently ice free for the first time in history,’ said Dragunov, ‘but at the other end of the globe in Antarctica, massive chunks of ice the size of Manhattan are also breaking into the sea. One of the most visible effects of climate change is a rise in sea levels, and at the rate the ice shelfs and glaciers are now melting, we will see coastal communities disappear and cities like Miami, New York, New Orleans and Venice and hundreds of others around the globe will flood more often. But there is an even more serious side to this than rising sea levels. Seventy-five per cent of the world’s fresh water is stored in glaciers, and when billions of tons of ice melt, it changes the salinity of the sea, which weakens the major currents like the Gulf Stream and the Humboldt, and that change effects events like El Niño. El Niño, as you are all aware, is a climate cycle that occurs in the Pacific when warm water from the west shifts to the east. The oceans cover seventy-one per cent of the planet and unlike the atmosphere, they’re channelled by land masses. They carry enormous quantities of heat, and when ocean heat shifts more dramatically as a result of climate change and currents, it results in catastrophic wildfires, droughts and floods. Unless we do something, this is going to get far worse.’

  Dragunov paused and looked around. In this room, he was preaching to the converted. ‘For the climate deniers, and those on social media who deride climate change as “crap”,’ he continued with a wry smile, ‘we’re probably not going to change their view. For those who allow the planet is warming but still think we scientists are wrong, and that humans are not contributing, I would say don’t bother with the complex science, just apply a little non-scientific logic. In 1946, the world’s population was 2 billion, and it took over 50 000 years to get there. In the blink of an eye, 70 years later, we’ve nearly quadrupled it to 7.5 billion. Just imagine the exhaust belching from a billion extra cars, several billion more buses, trucks and motorcycles. And to that catastrophe we can add a massive increase in the consumption of oil, gas and coal for coal-fired power stations. And all of that human activity has had no effect? Logic says otherwise because each year, that consumption spews over 24 billion tonnes of CO2 into the atmosphere.’ The room burst into applause, and Bartók was an enthusiastic contributor. He made a beeline for the general at the first break, and he patiently waited until the general was free.

  ‘General Dragunov, Doctor Denis Bartók from the National Laboratory at Los Alamos, I thoroughly enjoyed your address,’ Bartók said, extending a limp hand.

  ‘Why thank you, Denis. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Los Alamos, eh? Perhaps we should compare notes,’ Dragunov said with a laugh. If Bartók had more social awareness he might have noticed Dragunov’s laugh was hollow.

  ‘Which is why I’ve come to talk to you, General.’

  Bartók lowered his voice and Dragunov listened intently as the now rogue scientist indicated he had solved one of the world’s greatest energy quests.

  ‘You have proof of that?’ asked an incredulous Dragunov.

  Bartók nodded. ‘My problem is I’m being pursued by the Mossad, because the Israelis know I have proof and they want it. I was thinking of requesting asylum back in Russia, so I wondered if we could possibly find a time to discuss that?’

  Dragunov produced a card from his wallet. ‘That’s my address and phone number, come around immediately after the conference concludes today and we’ll see what can be done,’ he said.

  The general walked back inside deep in thought. If what Bartók claimed was true, snaring him for Petrov and mother Russia might restore his influence in the Kremlin. Provided he could keep the video from surfacing.

  Hamilton Dole, a dark-haired 27-year old, had joined the CIA from the Coast Guard where he’d served as a lieutenant. His slightly built number two and electronics whiz, Glenn Quayle, was just 24 and both were on their first field assignments out of the States. The apartment organised by the US Embassy was directly opposite Dragunov’s in Rue Lepic.

  ‘They got us in here pretty quick,’ Quayle observed after the concierge had departed. ‘Must have some pull, because it looks as if the owners have only just left.’ Indeed they had. It had cost the United States a considerable amount, but the residents had reluctantly agreed to be put up in the Mandarin Oriental on Rue St Honoré.

  ‘So how does this work?’ Dole asked, as he watched Quayle setting up his gear.

  ‘Every time you sit in a room and talk to someone, or play music,’ Quayle explained, ‘the sound waves cause the windows to vibrate. Only fractionally mind you, but this equipment is super sensitive – the best there is. This here,’ he said, indicating the first of two black metal boxes, ‘is what we call a laser transmitter. We transmit the laser beam onto the lounge window of whoever lives in that apartment and it will pick up those vibrations.’

  ‘Whoever,’ Dole grumbled. ‘Got that bit right. We weren’t told much, just a description of the occupant. Perhaps O’Connor might be able to throw a bit of light on this when he gets here.’

  ‘Yeah, the mushroom brigade,’ Quayle agreed. ‘Kept in the dark and fed on shit.’ He focused the laser beam on Dragunov’s window. ‘We aim it,’ he said, adjusting the red dot with the aid of the image on his laptop, ‘toward the top of the window and out of the way of any curtains. It’s only tiny, so it’s unlikely to be noticed. This second box here,’ he said
, ‘is the receiver. The laser beam is reflected back to the receiver which has circuitry – basically phototransistors – that will pick up the infrared laser light. It has an audio amplifier that converts the vibrations back into sound. All going well, we might as well be in the room with whoever’s getting up Langley’s nostrils.’

  Quayle made some adjustments and they settled down to wait.

  ‘That looks like our target going in the front door now,’ Dole observed, adjusting his powerful Zeiss binoculars. ‘Matches the description – tall guy with dark hair greying at the edges.’

  ‘Yeah – that’s him all right,’ said Quayle. ‘I just heard the door open.’

  ‘And here’s another guy,’ said Dole. ‘Nerdy-looking fellow, walking like he’s got a cracker up his ass. He hasn’t got a key . . . but he’s pressed number six, so I suspect he might be part of the equation as well. What time are we expecting O’Connor?’ Dole looked at his watch.

  As if to answer his question, Quayle’s encrypted iPhone beeped. It was a text from the American embassy in Avenue Gabriel:

  O’Connor landed and en route to your location.

  ‘There goes the door again. Put the headphones on,’ said Quayle, handing Dole the spare set. Quayle checked his aim and line of sight and switched on the recorder.

  ‘Come in, Denis. Can I offer you a drink?’

  Bartók shook his head. ‘No, thanks, at the moment I’ve got to keep my wits about me.’

  ‘So what’s this all about? Let’s start with the research. How have you done what so many of the rest of us haven’t been able to do?’

  In the apartment block next door, Odeh and Jarrah were recording it all. The desperate Dragunov had carried out a perfunctory check of his apartment, but he would have needed to tear it up to find the tiny devices.

  ‘Well,’ Bartók began, ‘the laboratory at Los Alamos, the construction of which I personally oversaw . . .’

  Dragunov held up his hand. ‘Denis, if the Mossad are on to you, we may not have much time here. Just give me the potted version.’

  Dragunov listened attentively, curbing his irritation and pulling Bartók up when he strayed too far into detail. ‘So why,’ Dragunov said finally, ‘did they not reward you with the Weapons Director appointment?’

  ‘Wanted someone else,’ Bartók said lamely. Dragunov nodded, reaching some of the same conclusions as Harris. Brilliant physicist, but couldn’t inspire or lead others to save himself.

  ‘So where does Cohen fit in?’

  Bartók had already decided not to reveal his suspicions as to Cohen’s true identity. That might only put him in danger when he got to Russia. ‘It’s a little embarrassing,’ Bartók began.

  ‘We haven’t got time for that either,’ Dragunov cut in irritably. ‘Just give me the facts.’

  Again, Dragunov listened while Bartók stumbled through an explanation of what Lisa Cohen had said she’d offered and the chance of a new life together.

  The classic honey trap, Dragunov thought when Bartók had finished. For a while he remained silent. Dragunov knew he was in deep trouble, not only with ISIS, but with Petrov as well, and his days were numbered, but a plan began to formulate. What if he asked for asylum in the United States, and delivered Bartók to them as a bargaining chip? The US would get their research and treasonous scientist back, and he’d get his freedom. To achieve that, he would have to hide Bartók in his dacha in St Petersburg where a superyacht, the Printsessa, was available for charter. It would be touch and go, but if he could convince the American embassy to take him, deal with ISIS, and then get out with Bartók and the ISIS video on the Printsessa, he might still have a chance of keeping his lifestyle, albeit in a different country.

  ‘Here’s what we do. Come in to the study where I can pull up a map.’

  ‘Fuck it! He’s gone into another room,’ Quayle swore.

  ‘Can we refocus?’ Dole asked.

  ‘I can try,’ Quayle said, adjusting the laser onto the other window.’ He shook his head. ‘His study must be at the back of the apartment. I’m not getting anything.’

  Oblivious to the CIA’s difficulty on the other side of Rue Lepic, or the ISIS cell next door who were still recording, Dragunov pulled up a map on his computer. ‘Cohen’s not expecting you to hand over the thumb drive until the day after tomorrow at the end of the conference, so we skip the last two days, and we leave tonight. I have some business to attend to when I get back, but you will be safe in my dacha in St Petersburg until I’ve organised your asylum, and for that, your skill as a nuclear physicist and the data on the thumb drive will seal the deal. Did Cohen give you a phone?’

  Bartók nodded. ‘It’s encrypted.’

  ‘Right – well, you can expect the Mossad will be tracking it, and they’ll be doing that from their station office in their embassy, so although they won’t know why, they’ll know you’ve been to Montmartre. Has La Clef got a back entrance?’

  Bartók nodded numbly. ‘It backs onto Rue de Montpensier.’

  ‘Good, because there’s every chance the Mossad will be watching the main entrance.’ Dragunov pulled up Bartók’s hotel on Google Maps. ‘Okay. Rue de Montpensier runs alongside the garden of the Palais Royal. You’re to go back to your hotel, fix the bill, wait until it’s dark, and leave the hotel by the back entrance. If possible, without the front desk seeing you.’ Dragunov swung his laptop around so Bartók could see the map. ‘If you follow Montpensier north for about 200 metres, it swings right and the first left will take you onto Rue des Petits Champs. Hail a cab and get it to drop you at Moulin Rouge. Wait for me near the pedestrian crossing – I’ll be in a black Mercedes. Finally – and this is critical – lock your Israeli iPhone in the room safe before you leave.’

  ‘The thin nerdy one with the cracker up his ass is leaving,’ Dole said, focusing his binoculars. ‘He’s hailed a cab.’

  ‘O’Connor will be here very shortly, so I guess we sit tight until then,’ said Quale.

  As soon as Bartók left, Dragunov picked up the phone and alerted the crew of his charter jet, still on the ground out at Le Bourget, that they needed to file a flight plan to St Petersburg, and then on to Moscow. He made coffee and considered his options for gaining asylum in the United States. It might be possible to lodge it with the American embassy in Moscow, although he knew he was under almost continual observation by the FSB. Suddenly he had another thought, and he picked up his phone again.

  ‘Kent Stanford.’

  ‘Kent – Danilo Dragunov, how are you?’ American Air Force Colonel Kent Stanford had been the US Air Force attaché in Moscow, and over the course of two years the pair had often bumped into each other on the diplomatic cocktail circuit and had got to know one another over dinners. Dragunov had no doubt his conversations with Stanford were duly reported back to Washington, but that was all part of the diplomatic game. Now Stanford, as sometimes happened, was once again on the diplomatic circuit, but this time with the American embassy in Paris.

  ‘General Danilo – how are you, sir? Where are you?’

  ‘That’s a long story, Kent, but I have a very big favour to ask. Are you at home yet?’ Dragunov wrote down the address before thanking Stanford profusely. It was too risky to send it by email and Dragunov sat down in the apartment’s small study and typed out his request for asylum.

  ‘The target’s leaving now as well,’ said Dole, once again adjusting the Zeiss. ‘He’s getting into a black Mercedes.’

  In the apartment next door, Odeh again concentrated on his keyboard and the codes to get into the ISIS portal on the Dark Web. Once in, he filed a detailed report on Dragunov’s conversation with Bartók.

  Seven thousand kilometres away, high in the Hindu Kush, General Waheeb noted the Paris cell report with interest and formulated his orders for his ISIS cells inside Sarov, and in St Petersburg.

  Bartók paid the cab outside the entrance to La Clef in Rue de Richelieu and disappeared inside as the sun was setting over the Seine. The Mossad age
nt assigned to watch Bartók’s hotel had not been there long, but he’d managed to find a park just up from the hotel entrance, where the narrow street widened sufficiently for other vehicles to pass. He picked up his encrypted phone and reported back to the Mossad station at the Israeli embassy. ‘He’s arrived and gone in to the hotel.’

  ‘We’ve got his iPhone tracked on our computers. Remain where you are, and alert us if he leaves again.’ The Mossad agent in the embassy hung up and dialled Rabinovich.

  ‘Cohen.’

  ‘Romain Dubois, Lisa. How are you?’

  ‘Fine – thank you.’

  ‘I’m just calling to let you know we’ve got Bartók under surveillance. As we understand it, he’s handing over the thumb drive at the conclusion of the conference the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Correct – the conference is in the Hôtel de Vendôme, which is just around the corner. Bartók said he’d deliver the thumb drive to me here.’

  ‘Okay – we’ll keep tracking him. We’ve got people stationed at Charles de Gaulle, just in case he gets cold feet. At the moment he’s back in his hotel near the Louvre. I’ll keep you posted. Enjoy your evening.’

  ‘You too – thanks for the update.’ Rabinovich put down her iPhone and smiled. Dubois really was charming.

  Bartók paid his bill and checked the back entrance of La Clef, just past the small gymnasium. He returned to his room and his hand shook as he swiped his room card against the lock. Forcing himself to remain calm, he locked his Israeli phone in the safe in his wardrobe, packed hurriedly and took the lift to the ground floor. The desk was busy, and he was convinced no one had noticed him heading toward the rear entrance. Like Rue de Richelieu, Rue de Montpensier behind the hotel was narrow, and he chose the sidewalk on the left, pulling his bag behind him. Pedestrian traffic was light, because apart from the odd café with bicycles and Vespas parked outside, the street was almost devoid of shops. Nervous, he checked behind him, but the sidewalk was empty. He reached Rue des Petits Champs and minutes later hailed a cab to Moulin Rouge. The patrons were starting to arrive for the dinner show, but no one took the slightest notice of him. Twenty minutes later, a big black Mercedes Maybach arrived. The chauffeur got out and took Bartók’s bag before opening the door.