by Rik Stone
“Out of practice,” Grigory whispered then slipped the gun back into his jacket and pulled Ferapont upright. The captain was unbalanced and moaning as Grigory pushed and tipped him over the rail and out to sea. He went to the dining room, brought the brandy out on deck, and emptied it over the side before putting it back where he’d found it.
The following day, the ship’s German captain made a man-overboard report and wasn’t pleased at having lost a passenger. “That’s the trouble with you Ruskies,” he complained. “You never know when to stop drinking. There was blood on the handrail; probably fell and knocked his head as he went over.” He shrugged. “No, you never know when you’ve had enough. Now I have all sorts of reports to make and I’ll have to answer to my board.”
Grigory answered with a shrug.
He sneaked off the ship in Hamburg, picked up the pre-booked tickets for himself and Ferapont at the airport, and flew to East Berlin. Up to now he was on plan, but he was still on the Soviet side of the city and resuming his military rank, he commandeered a military office near the Berlin Wall and dialed a number he had in his notebook. “I need to speak to a diplomat with experience in negotiating East Berlin exchanges,” he said in German to whomever it was picked up the phone in the US Embassy.
A five-minute delay had Grigory walking as far as the twisted cable on the handset allowed and then, “How can I help you?” a man asked.
“No, this is really more about how I can help you. I am General Grigory Irishka and I want to discuss the exchange of a recently captured American spy, but be aware, this transaction is only semi-official, so it will be necessary to keep the operation under wraps.”
A Soviet detail took him to the Friedrichstraße (Checkpoint Charlie) where he was met by US officials. The wall was protected by machine gun nests, watch towers, razor wire, attack dogs, trip-wire explosive, and goodness knows what else, but he had walked through as if alone in a field of daisies.
“General Irishka, this is indeed a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you,” the diplomat greeted Grigory, as he climbed into the back of a black limo in the Western-controlled side of the city. “While I’m always interested in the return of our citizens, I’m intrigued as to what it is you expect in return.”
“All in good time. Getting your spy back is merely a gesture of good faith. But before I do anything else, I want time to myself. I would like to have a leisurely evening in one of your best hotels, eat and drink the finest, enjoy the freedom of the city, and forget about politics. Tomorrow we talk and, believe me, you will not be disappointed.”
The official opened a tab in what he said was the best hotel in West Berlin. Grigory had his fill and retired early to bed. At three in the morning, he slipped out through the back way of the hotel and used one of his many identities to pass through Dreilinden (Checkpoint Bravo). Once in German jurisdiction, he boarded a train to Dresden. From Dresden he hired a Hertz rental and took a couple of days to drive to Maastricht in Belgium. Forever changing identity along the way, he spent a week zigzagging north and south. When he was satisfied that all signs of his existence had dissolved in his wake, he took a flight from Antwerp to Paris. Tedious, but the tactics would slow the pursuit. Petrichova would track him to East Berlin easily enough, but after sneaking from the hotel when under the protection of the US, he would come to a dead end.
Chapter 39
In a suite in the Paris Marriot Hotel on Champs-Élysées, Grigory straightened the knot of his powder blue, silk tie and stood back from the full-length tilt mirror. He fastened the middle button on his jacket, wiped a sprinkling of dandruff from his shoulders and tucked a too-long tuft of gray hair behind his ear. The clothes were new, expensive, but the image was crushing. He pulled up to full height, and squared his shoulders. For so long, the proud soldier had stared back, a man of influence, a decorated hero of the Soviet states. Now, he could only see a fugitive on the wrong side of middle age. He winced. His face had gone too, sagging jowls, eyes puckered, lines that belonged on an older man. He lowered his gaze and shook his head negatively. Be strong, he told himself, but his eyes had stopped at that paunch and he sighed again; that’s not age, just too much easy living … fuck!
Not a man to suffer fools gladly, his face hardened. “Things aren’t about to improve just standing gawping,” he said, and tore away from self-pity. He then went to the window and observed the Champs-Élysées: la plus belle avenue du monde – some say the most beautiful avenue in the world. Again, his spirit dropped. If that tag was meant to inspire, it didn’t. But then what would after the journey he had endured? And all because of that bastard Petrichova.
A million times Grigory had questioned himself on how he’d fucked up … Why keep the Semtex activity under such close control? Why use the budget allotted to him from the ministry? And for that matter, why sign the paperwork off? The next in line could have done that. He hadn’t needed to use government funds; he could’ve gotten the Semtex from Russian mafia, paid for it from his vast personal fortune – greed, that’s what is was, greed. He shook the thoughts and stared out over the most famous of Paris’s avenues. The moon had hidden behind a pall of cloud but street lights shone silver on the boulevard where an earlier rain had left the sidewalks wet. His stomach growled, but he couldn’t eat, not yet, thoughts of recent days still haunted him.
What now? He had fortune enough stashed away to live fifty lifetimes in luxury, and he still had control of the scams that had nothing to do with the Semtex. In reality, everything was as it should have panned out in the long run … In the long run, yes, not now!
A fresh downpour blew in sideways, battering the hotel window. The silver sidewalks faded and his insides grumbled. But it can’t end here. It won’t end here … So, what are the facts? Simple, Petrichova was hunting him? Huntinghim? Anger spiked and resolve stepped forward. “Turn the tables,” he voiced. “Petrichova would never expect that.”
Yes, he would go after Petrichova – but how? That wasn’t so clear cut, but he had a campaign in mind and that lifted his spirit. He paced and his stomach rumbled in time with his footsteps. Stopping at the reflection in the tilt-mirror, he got a glimpse of his old self. He nipped lapels between thumbs and forefingers, smoothed down his jacket, and went to dinner.
Chapter 40
Russian Embassy Annex, Yenikapi, Istanbul, Turkey
Panic filled him without reason. He tried to run, but his feet were too heavy. Without rationale, concrete blocks appeared around his ankles and he could barely take their weight. He was drowning in exhaustion and needed to stop and rest, but he couldn’t! A lanky skeleton materialized from nowhere, unfolded a blade from a knife, and slashed the air between them. He had to run, he had to get away, but the gaze of deep-set, black eyes dulled by death pierced his soul; he couldn’t move. Decaying flesh hung from the chin and cheekbones of an all-but-empty skull, moisture dripped from the gaping mouth, and bared yellow teeth leered menacingly at him. A new panic claimed him and he flailed his arms in fright, but then something stirred afar. They turned their heads in unison to see a thickset midget approaching: a woman, naked and covered in slime. One leg trailed behind her as if detached from her body, but somehow she glided towards him without effort. The skeleton acknowledges her with a nod and then returns focus to him. The knife blade flashed. It missed but still he felt the pain. Dragging himself onward, his would-be killers floated easily by his side, taunted him, knew they could kill him at will. Suddenly, the skeleton and the midget closed in on him, shrouded him like a cloak. From within the new darkness, he saw the blade flash again. His side split and his ribs scorched with agonizing pain.
“No!” Mehmet screamed, as he sprung up into a sitting position, pain searing his side. Fear drenched him, he exhaled deeply, but the nightmare refused to relinquish its evil grip. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, taking the weight of his head in his hands, but as quickly jumped to his feet and crossed to the window. It was early morning, such t
hat the sun was yet to rise and the light was muted as in the opening of a day.
Two weeks Mehmet had spent in the embassy’s medical wing, but the past few days of it had worn him down. The treatment was complete, but they insisted he stay where he was until they’d finished with their many health checks. He understood the reasoning, but he was sure the nightmares persisted because there was nothing else for his mind to dwell on. Still under the influence of sleep, he tottered over to the washbasin. The tap creaked open and the pipes shuddered. He threw cold water into his face and then swilled it over the back of his neck. As he toweled his face, he studied himself in the mirror. The scar down his ribs was young and, although the stitches had been removed, the slightest of stretching felt like it was tearing apart; another reason his dreams caused physical pain, he supposed. Thoughts moved to the task that nearly finished him, but that was pointless, he knew; the survivors had disappeared without trace.
He pulled on clean shorts and topped them with a pair of Levi jeans. The black T-shirt the embassy staff had given him was only a medium fit and he had a fight to get his head through the neck. Even with it on, it clung like an extra skin to his well-formed frame. Since getting back on his feet, he had worked out at the embassy, and had even gone out for a run as far as Topkapi Palace. And that was what he was about to do now.
He made the bed and tidied the room before going out into the third floor corridor. The cables on the elevator at the end of the passageway could be heard stretching and the ironwork of the cage groaned quietly. He took the swirling staircase, walking around the meshed lift shaft they encapsulated. One of the secretaries had come up from the ground floor and exited on the second floor. She had opened the crisscrossed doors as Mehmet covered her path. She smiled, clutched her paperwork tighter to her bosom, and used her free hand to pull the door closed again. The mesh clicked, the elevator responded to another call, and the cables churned back into action. She smiled again and Mehmet stopped to watch her walk off along the corridor, the stirring within making him realize he was back to full working order. Grinning to himself, he skipped down the rest of the stairway. In the foyer, he turned his lingering smile onto the female security officer there.
“Thank you,” he said, as she handed him a pass.
“Don’t be out too long.”
“No, Mamma,” he replied in Russian, but she was another blond beauty and ‘Mamma’ was just about the last thing he saw her as.
Outside, the sky was clear and the low-rising sun caused him to hood his eyes. The winter winds had weakened but there was still enough to cause the palm fronds to whisper on their stems as he limbered up before setting off on his run. This morning he would head for Topkapi Palace and on into Eminonu. He had no worries that he might be recognized. Apart from the length of time since he had been well known there, his beard had filled out and his too-long, jet black hair was in need of a trim.
He ran along the seafront until getting to the Sultanahmet District where the main mosques and churches filled the skyline. The promenade there was built up and most of the people he noticed were dressed for office work. He slowed to a walk. When he got to Topkapi Palace, he turned alongside the Golden Horn towards the Galata Bridge, but when a big American car pulled up outside a three storey office block on the city side of the coast road, he stopped to watch. A big man got out from the back of the car. There was something familiar about him. Suddenly, Mehmet felt his spine go rigid. Hassan! Adam’s bodyguard.
Hassan looked over his shoulder as he approached the office entrance and stared directly at Mehmet, holding his gaze for a moment, but then he turned away without showing signs of recognition.
Could this be true, Mehmet asked himself, or wishful thinking? The driver was still in the car; maybe he could get information from him. He crossed the blacktop and approached the vehicle from behind, then brushed dust from the badge on the rear fender, and read the name Torino. He came alongside and tapped the glass. The driver hadn’t noticed him creep up and swung around and away as if under attack. Mehmet laughed and held out his hands in surrender. The driver pulled his shoulders straight, eased himself upright as if he’d only just noticed him, and that was when Mehmet saw the yellowed bruising.
The driver wound the window down and Mehmet said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What? Oh no, I dropped something,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“The Torino is a nice car. Must drive well,” Mehmet said, and a boy’s car discussion kicked off for five minutes. Mehmet moved the conversation on. “I haven’t seen you around here. Has your boss got business in there?”
“Yes, his boss owns the building. We’ve been here every day for a few weeks now, but I think another couple of days will see the end of it, according to Mister Hassan anyway. And I for one won’t be sorry to see the back of them. Hassan doesn’t have a lot to say, but his boss is a bastard.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged and pointed a finger to his swollen face. “He’s too handy with his fists. I don’t know how many beatings I’ve had since they arrived.”
“Then why stay with them?” Mehmet asked, furrowing his brow.
“Mannesh went off somewhere, so the beatings have stopped … and anyway, we all need money, and I get a lot of it after one of his bad moods. Although, this last time he cracked the ribs, too,” he said, patting a hand gently down his right side. “But as I said, they shouldn’t be here too much longer. I overheard Mister Hassan say they have business elsewhere.”
The driver looked at his watch. “You better go,” he said. “He will be out soon.”
“Hmph, oh yes, don’t want to end up looking like you,” Mehmet laughed, then patted the roof and left.
Chapter 41
Mehmet rushed through the embassy corridors to the communications room and signed off a form that got him an immediate patch through to General Michel Petrichova’s aide in Moscow. After a five-minute impatient wait, the general came on the line and Mehmet outlined what had happened.
“Go back to where you spotted him,” Michel told him. “Follow him and determine where he’s staying.” The line went quiet for a moment and then, “In fact, I think a woman might prove useful on this task. I would send Anna, but Hassan knows her. I have another female agent in Istanbul. I chose her myself from an intake of cadets when she was younger and I have been impressed with her thus far. She’s working on the Asian side of the city. We can’t lose him again, so you go back now. Do not get involved in any heroics before she joins you. I want this done properly. When you find out where he’s living, let us know and she’ll join you there.”
Mehmet almost asked for a name, but Michel got in first.
“Her name is Olga Glinka. For recognition, get security to show you her photographs. She already knows what you look like.”
Just how she knew this jumped to mind, but Mehmet let it pass. The conversation ended without anything more of importance being said and he hurried from the building, took an embassy moped, and set off along the waterfront on Kennedy Cadessi. He turned left, stayed on the Ataturk Boulevard as far as the bridge, and then took a right alongside the Golden Horn, only to come back onto the Kennedy coast road. The driver of the Torino had said Hassan wouldn’t be long in the office, so Mehmet thought his vigil might spill over to the next day, but the car and driver were still parked at the sidewalk. Mehmet put a cable lock on the moped, slipped into the shadows of the old city walls, and watched.
It was early evening by the time Hassan left the office and climbed into the back of the Torino. The car pulled into heavy traffic and Mehmet casually unlocked the bike; the Torino wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. After leaving the busy streets in their wake, they wound through to the Ankara Road in Eminonu, the car stopped in a small street lined with apartment buildings, and Hassan got out and went into one of them. When the driver pulled away, Mehmet found a telephone in a nearby café and called the embassy. The security officer there told him, “You
r contact isn’t far away, so you can meet her at the coffee shop in the grounds of the Hagia Sofia in the old town or I can send a courier to pick her up and bring her to you.”
“No, I’ll get her. I’m not far away from the church and I don’t think my target is going anywhere for the moment.”
He hung up, walked to the grounds of the Church of Sofia, and found Olga at a table tucked away in the trees there. The black and white photo that security had shown him was close to being an insult; this girl was a beauty.
“Olga?” he enquired, while posturing.
She smiled, stood from the table, nodded without speaking, and sat down again. She was also much younger than the photograph had suggested, around mid-twenties.
“Sit down. You’re making yourself look like the two Turks I’ve just sent packing,” she said, with total authority in her voice.
Mehmet felt his cheeks flush and he stumbled on his words. “Oh, er, yes. Hello, er, Olga. I’m Mehmet.”
“You don’t say,” she laughed, but his discomfort must have been clear as she was quick to put him at ease and chat about nothing much in particular. Her Turkish was less than perfect, but the inflection on her accent did nothing but add to her more obvious charms.
“General Petrichova tells me your looks are an asset that we should put to use. I don’t like the idea,” he said, “but–”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she smiled. “I’ve been groomed for this work since I was signed up. There isn’t much I haven’t done for the sake of State security.”
He smiled sympathetically, but Olga dismissed it with what looked like an irritated shake of the head and began going over the plan.
*
