by Ward Larsen
The president of Russia, and all those who served him, would want it back.
Want it very badly indeed.
TWELVE
“You need to understand what you’re getting into,” Sorensen said. “Ludmilla Kravchuk isn’t a trained intelligence officer. She knows nothing about tradecraft, and probably little about communications security.”
“Sometimes that can be an advantage,” Slaton replied.
“And sometimes it can get you killed.”
“How exactly did she contact the Czech embassy?”
“She called their central switchboard.”
“Did she at least use a burner?”
“The Czechs captured the number, but that was all. Their ability to pathway connections in Syria is pretty limited.”
“And yours?”
“It took the NSA about thirty seconds to nail it down. Turns out, it wasn’t even a mobile number. She placed the call from a landline at a hair salon in the Al Salhiyeh district.”
“Okay, that’s not so bad. She walked in off the street for a haircut, then asked to use the phone while she waited her turn.”
“No, David, that’s what you would do. She’s a complete amateur.”
“Meaning?”
“She came right out and told our Czech contact she was staying in a room above the salon. Apparently, she was a regular there during her time at the Russian embassy.”
Slaton went silent.
“You see the problem,” Sorensen prodded. “This woman has put herself behind the eight ball, and she has no idea how to get out. I’ve counted at least a dozen faults in what she’s done so far. Most obvious is that the Syrians know full well that the Czechs serve as our proxy in Damascus. The Mukhabarat tries hard to monitor every call. We give the Czechs technology to counter it, but it’s a running game. We put in frequency-hopping software, Russia helps the Syrians hack into it. As things stand, I give it a fifty-fifty chance that the Muk has already collected Kravchuk. If so, they’ll be interrogating her at Sednaya.”
Slaton knew she was referring to the notorious military prison north of Damascus, a place where so many thousands of extrajudicial killings had occurred during the war that the regime had been forced to add a crematorium.
“I don’t think so,” he countered. “If the Syrians find her, they’ll hand her over to Petrov’s SVR thugs.”
“Maybe so.”
“Either way,” Slaton extrapolated, “if Kravchuk has been found, they’ll be keeping watch on the salon to see if anyone shows up to meet her.”
“True.”
He weighed it all. “But there’s another side to your odds. Our interpreter could be above that salon right now, sitting in a closet full of hair gel and bleach while she’s waiting to be rescued.”
“No way to tell.”
“Have you been watching the place?”
“We’re doing what we can. NRO satellites sweep over Damascus pretty regularly.” She was referring to the National Reconnaissance Office, lord and master of the country’s orbital assets. “We’ve identified the building, and I was able to get priority for a few overheads. I’ll show you those later, but as far as we can tell, everything looks normal at Chez Salma from two hundred miles up. The bad news is, we don’t have much in the way of eyes on the ground in Damascus. Our human networks were lousy before the war, and the regime has cracked down since then in the name of survival.”
“Sounds like I’d really be on my own.”
“That’s only going in. On the way out, you’ll have a civilian on your back.”
Slaton was losing count of the traps in the mission.
“If I could reach her, what’s the best egress?”
“I’d leave that up to you. Basically, you would have to make it to a border. Israel is nearby and they would help if we asked—especially given that you’re involved. Jordan is a possibility, and Lebanon’s not out of the question. You could make for the coastline, but you’d have to find a way to reach international waters. That’s risky given the new Russian naval base in Tartus.”
Slaton took a moment to consider it. Sorensen was leaving the planning up to him, which appealed in a way. Most spymasters were micromanagers. He was being given a clear objective and an open field in which to run. “So, you want me to go in, snatch a woman out of central Damascus, then make a run for the nearest border.”
“Something like that. If you can’t find Kravchuk and things go south, I can offer you one bailout option. Mind you, it’s a last-ditch maneuver, and only applies to you. We’ve developed a new extraction system for solo operators trapped behind hard borders.” Sorensen navigated to another image on her computer.
Slaton did a double take. What looked like a standard Reaper drone had been modified with an improbable addition.
“Is this a joke?” he asked.
“No, it’s very real. One of my snake-eaters came up with it—former Raider Battalion.”
“A Marine. Why am I not surprised.”
Sorensen offered a few more details, then hedged with, “It’s never been used live in the field, but we’ve tested it with some success.”
“Some success?”
“Look, if you don’t like it, no problem. The system has been deployed downrange, so I wanted you to be aware of every option.”
“Okay, consider me briefed. But as far as I’m concerned … you can send that one back to the ACME Corporation.”
She turned the screen away and met his gaze. “All right … that’s the basics. If you tell me you’re in, we can go deeper. What do you think?”
Slaton got up and walked to the kitchen window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out across a rolling hillside of olive trees basking in the southern spring. “Could you preposition some equipment by tomorrow?”
“Anything we have in theater.”
“Active support?”
“Limited once you cross into Syria. We can track you if you want, and you’ll have comm available. The entire mission is under my control. You can’t expect any material support or reinforcements, but I’ll honor any request that’s within my power. Reconnaissance, comm intercepts, an extraction team to meet you at the border. It will all be standing by. The only caveat is that nothing can tie us to the mission.”
“What about that drone you just showed me?”
“We fly Reapers and Predators all over the Middle East, including Syria. It would be more suspicious to not have aircraft overhead. For attribution of an extraction op—it’s a dead end.”
“Just like me,” he said.
“Just like you.”
Slaton was silent for a time. The deep shadow of a thick cloud swept over the hill. He turned back to Sorensen, and said, “All right then … let’s do it.”
THIRTEEN
“Nothing,” said a frustrated Inspector Hadad late the next morning. “The woman has vanished, I tell you.”
Vasiliev looked at him disbelievingly. “How can that be? She disappeared three days ago!”
Hadad inhaled deeply, trying to hold steady.
They were separated by his desk at district headquarters—once a refuge, but no more. The Russian had been stalking him incessantly, or so it seemed. Twice he’d encountered Vasiliev at the Four Seasons, four times here. The man had even been waiting when Hadad stepped out of his car last night on the curb in front of his house. That had crossed a line, and Hadad had sent the feckless Russian packing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have sympathy. Hadad had been dressed down himself by his colonel for not getting results. Poor Vasiliev, he was sure, was being hounded by no less than the president of Russia.
“There are no new leads,” he reiterated, his hands wringing the arms of his chair. “Our checkpoints are searching every vehicle leaving the city. I am convinced she’s still in Damascus. It can only be a matter of time.”
“What have you done since we last spoke?” Vasiliev asked.
“We interviewed the cab driver a second time—th
e one who picked her up at the Four Seasons. His story remains consistent. Kravchuk originally gave him an address across town, then changed her mind barely a kilometer away. From that point her trail went cold.”
“Were there no CCTV cameras where she was last seen?”
Hadad shook his head. “You must understand, for years our government has spent every penny on bullets and bombs. We’ve been fighting the rebels, ISIS, the Kurds. A state-of-the-art surveillance network in our fair city would make my job far easier. Unfortunately, it has never gotten past the planning stages.”
Vasiliev diverted to a map of Damascus on the wall. It was stuck with pins of various colors to represent possible sightings. None had proved useful.
“We are going to check the hotel again for leads,” Hadad continued. “I would still like to know what you were looking for.” His evidence team had arrived the first night to find Kravchuk’s room already turned over. The suite looked like a storm had blown through, every drawer pulled and emptied, the mattress sliced open. The closet doors had been ripped from their hinges.
“I told you,” Vasiliev insisted, “it wasn’t us.”
Hadad frowned. He’d seen hotel CCTV footage that suggested otherwise—proof enough that the Four Seasons had already sent the Russians a bill for the damage. He decided not to waste time arguing the point.
“Your president is still in Damascus?” he inquired.
“Yes. He was hoping to stay until this matter was resolved. Unfortunately, affairs of state can no longer be put on hold. Petrov will leave today. His plane is being prepared as we speak.”
This Hadad already knew—it was his business to know such things. He said with undisguised relief, “Then I wish you a happy journey home.”
“I’m afraid you won’t be rid of me so easily,” Vasiliev countered. “President Petrov has ordered me to remain behind. When the interpreter is found, I am to personally oversee her return to Moscow.”
* * *
A cautious Vasiliev entered the presidential suite twenty minutes later. He found Petrov on the balcony flicking through his daily briefing reports.
“The preparations for your departure are complete,” he announced.
Petrov lowered the papers and looked at him expectantly.
“I have just seen Inspector Hadad,” Vasiliev said. “He reports nothing new in his department’s search for Kravchuk. He does, however, believe she is still in the city.” Vasiliev thought he’d phrased it well, as much blame as possible deflected toward the Syrians.
The president looked at him as he might a stone that had been removed from a shoe. “I have one more meeting to conduct before we leave the hotel.” He explained how and where it would take place.
“The parking garage?” Vasiliev remarked.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, sir, it can certainly be done. The cars are in place. But I will have to adjust the perimeter.”
“Do what you must.”
“Who will you be meeting?” Vasiliev asked.
“A man you have seen once before, I think … this summer. He came to my room during our visit to Tashkent.”
Vasiliev remembered, if hazily.
Petrov continued, “Bring him to my car when everything is in place. You will find him waiting outside the hotel, near the south service entrance. He is wearing a tan jacket.”
“I will have to search him for weapons.”
“You should. But make it quick, and be sure to avoid the hotel’s cameras. This is a meeting I do not want documented.”
* * *
Security was intense as Petrov was marshaled down to the Four Seasons parking garage. The primary limousine, a big armored Mercedes, was wedged in a tight corner between concrete walls. No one other than Petrov’s personal detail had a view of the proceedings. This had come straight from the president, further emphasizing the nature of the meeting.
As Petrov slipped into the back seat, Vasiliev dismissed the two men in front. Without comment, the driver and team leader got out and positioned themselves a discreet distance away, their attention focused outward. Vasiliev thought back to Tashkent, recalling similarly shadowed arrangements. He’d been working for Petrov long enough to know the hierarchy of the man’s wishes. If there was any constant, it was his insistence on privacy in certain situations.
With Petrov secure, Vasiliev set out through the garage. He knew perfectly well the layout of the hotel, and had a good idea where the cameras were located. As he made his way toward the service entrance he encountered no one but his own men. No watchful Syrians with earpieces or uniformed local police. Best of all, no wandering hotel guests with smartphones. Everyone with a mobile phone these days is an aspiring videographer.
He had no trouble finding the man he was looking for. He stood with his hands in his pockets near a stairwell door. Calm but expectant. He did look familiar, Vasiliev thought, although he wouldn’t have made the connection to Tashkent had Petrov not mentioned it. The main difference now was a more-or-less trimmed beard above a black push-broom mustache. The more Vasiliev looked, the more he remembered. He saw nothing to alter his original impression that the man was not a physical threat—something good security chiefs could recognize on a glance. Average in height and build, with dark olive skin, the stranger had distinctly Middle Eastern features.
When Vasiliev came near, the man lifted his hands from his pockets and held them out for inspection. A thorough pat-down turned up nothing, and without a word spoken between them, Vasiliev nodded for his charge to follow. As they made their way through the garage, he noticed that the man walked with a faintly uneven gait.
The right rear door of the Mercedes was open when they arrived. An undeniable invitation. Vasiliev watched like a hawk as the man slid inside with the president of Russia. He saw perhaps a slight nod between the two, but no handshake followed. The door closed with the finality of a tomb.
FOURTEEN
“We were supposed to meet yesterday,” said the man next to Petrov in heavily accented Russian. “My schedule is very tight.”
The president of Russia nearly smiled. He knew his guest was not uneducated—indeed, he knew a great deal about him. Their last meeting had been conducted in English, which was fast becoming the lingua franca of the world. So why had he learned a bit of Russian? Was it for this moment? Because he believed it would help pave his path to destiny? There seemed no other reason. The cloistered meeting in Tashkent had been an extended affair, the genesis of a plan now six months in the making. But for him, Petrov thought, it has been a lifetime.
“There has been a complication,” Petrov said flatly, switching to English.
“Your wayward interpreter?”
Petrov allowed no trace of surprise. News of Kravchuk’s defection had been tamped down, but the man had contacts. More damningly, the Syrian government had more leaks than a Ukrainian fishing boat.
“Yes, she has disappeared.”
“How critical is it?”
“She was present during my entire conversation with the Iranian president.”
“The one you so carefully arranged?”
This time Petrov shot the man a hard look. “The problem will be contained.” He made no mention of the recording that might be in her possession. That would remain his problem. Or at least Vasiliev’s.
“It could complicate things,” the man said. “But more for you than for me.”
“I’m not so sure. It is possible that connections could be made to your work in the coming days. The transfer of the material, your travels.”
A thoughtful nod, then, “My precautions are sound. Nothing will be found except what I want to be found.”
“Let’s hope. In any event, I advise you to tread carefully.”
“Was there not another interpreter present—on the Iranian side?”
“There was, but she seems to have met an untimely end.”
The visitor raised an eyebrow.
“The Iranians took matters into th
eir own hands. Unfortunately, they were clumsy. We believe it’s what spooked our own woman.”
“For our purposes, it speaks well with regard to Rahmani. He has no idea where he is taking his country.”
“Perhaps.” Petrov looked blankly out the window. “Give me an update on your preparations.”
“I have been in Sudan all week. Nearly everything is in place for the demonstration.”
“Including the Iranian team?”
“They checked into the hotel in Khartoum yesterday. I told them to book through the weekend.”
“How many did they send?”
“Three. One specialist, one for security, and a confidant of Rahmani’s in command.”
“What have they been doing?” Petrov asked.
“Waiting patiently, I’m told.”
Petrov’s gaze narrowed inquisitively.
“I have an arrangement with a certain member of the hotel staff. She is keeping an eye on them, and also acquiring a few things from their room.”
The president of Russia smiled, having a good idea what he was referring to. It was rare he encountered someone whose ruthlessness rivaled his own.
The man next to him said, “I told them to rent a car. Yesterday I began sending instructions—a rendezvous far outside the city. It will put them out of the room and raise their visibility. They’ll be seen. My plan is to abort the first few delivery attempts. I’ll tell them I am exercising extreme caution.”
“They might think you are running scared.”
“I hope so—it will heighten their conviction. The timing of the events in Sudan must be convincing. On the third or fourth day, after the demonstration takes place, I will permit the transfer.”
“One canister?”
