The Russian Defector

by Ethan Jones

  Carrie walked toward the bedroom.

  “You’ve got a new AK?”

  She didn’t answer, even though Justin was sure she heard him. He shrugged and tried to stand up. It proved to be more difficult than he had expected, so he leaned on the side of the couch for balance. He felt slightly dizzy, the room spinning like he was on the deck of a boat. He bit his lip and took small unsteady steps toward the kitchen.

  When Carrie returned, she showed him a brand new rifle. “AK-308 that can fire 7.62x51mm rounds.”

  Justin arched his eyebrows. “NATO rounds? Wow.”

  “Yes. The Russians hope this will be a big hit, especially in the West and all the countries that already use alliance-standard ammo.”

  Justin slid his hands over the smooth, steel surface of the weapon. He removed the banana-shaped magazine, then the round in the chamber, and cocked the weapon. He aimed it at the window, while his finger rested on the trigger guard. Then he tapped the trigger. The rifle made a hollow click.

  Carrie smiled. “Don’t you love it?”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Ihor. He knows a guy who knows a guy…”

  “How many of these are the Russians making?”

  “As many as they can sell.”

  Justin nodded. Mikhail Kalashnikov, the father of the notorious and ubiquitous Russian rifle, was born over a hundred years ago, on November 10, 1919. His invention of the world-renowned Avtomat Kalashnikova model 1947, or AK-47, because of the year, entered mass production in the Izhevsk Mechanical Plant in 1949. The rifle soon became the staple for almost every armed conflict since World War II, because it was cheap to make, easy to use, and virtually indestructible.

  The Izhevsk plant alone had manufactured over 100 million rifles and its variants. Counterfeits and replicas were pumped out by countries from Albania to Iran to Venezuela, so the actual number was impossible to determine. The AK fired the 7.62x39mm round, which made the weapon difficult to use against enemies firing a different type of cartridge. That became a serious problem, especially in situations where ammunition was low, which always seemed to be the case for Justin and Carrie.

  “Feels heavier.” Justin looked through the rifle’s dioptric sight.

  “And it’s a bit longer. It’s based on the AK-12.” She pointed at the retractable stock.

  “Where’s mine?” Justin asked.

  “I thought that would be the first question out of your mouth.” Carrie smiled. “That’s yours.”

  Justin returned the smile. “Thanks.” He loaded the weapon, then flicked on the safety lever. He put it on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee machine. “Why don’t I make a pot of coffee, update our boss, and then we go over those reports?”

  “Aren’t you going to get some sleep?”

  “Too buzzed. Maybe in a couple of hours.”

  “All right. Let’s see where the missile is and how we can get to it…”

  Chapter Twenty-f ive

  CIS Safehouse

  Donetsk, Ukraine

  Moretti begrudgingly agreed with Justin’s and Carrie’s assessment that Sokolov had deceived them. He wasn’t a defector, but was trying to become a double agent. Unfortunately, his trickery had gone unnoticed for this long.

  Justin felt vindicated by his boss’s admission, albeit too late. The CIS operative understood Moretti’s position: He needed to make a well-informed decision, because it meant the difference between the Russian ending up in a safehouse or jail. Pride also played an important role in the boss’s delayed response. Justin had seen this over and over again. The higher one climbed the corporate ladder of responsibility and authority, the slower their reactions to threats or escalating situations.

  Moretti decided not to inform Sokolov about Justin’s findings amidst concerns that somehow Sokolov could find a way to transmit that message to his Russian colleagues. In their line of work, nothing was considered impossible, especially for a cornered operative.

  Justin agreed. He had experienced a situation where a detainee had overexerted and overstressed himself to the extreme. He had suffered a heart attack, and had made an unsuccessful escape attempt while recovering at the hospital.

  Moretti also reconfirmed his support for the Ukrainian operation. Regardless of Sokolov’s deception, the missile’s presence in the hands of Russian-backed separatists had been confirmed through separate, independent sources. Besides the NSA, a new report had arrived from MI6 assets on the ground, which placed the Yars missile at the Lugapol military base. The team was expecting the final corroboration from Ava’s team, but Moretti’s orders were for the teams to move forward, with or without it.

  Clear as to their purpose, Justin and Carrie turned their attention to the safest infiltration route. They aroused Ihor from a deep sleep, and he dragged his tired bones resentfully to the safehouse. He had already made a few phone calls, and one of his trusted former brothers-in-arms had agreed to smuggle them across the front line.

  “How well do you know this guy?” Justin asked.

  Ihor returned a look of disgust, as if Justin had insulted the Ukrainian’s family. “I trust him with my life. I’ll be in the same truck, just like you.”

  “But he’s getting paid to take us over the border. What if he’s offered a better deal by—”

  Ihor cut him off. “This isn’t just about money. Of course, he’s risking his life for us, and he needs to eat and feed his family. He’s an invalid.”

  Justin nodded.

  Ihor had explained how his friend had lost his leg. He had volunteered with the Ukrainian Army, which in the early days of the conflict was disorganized and overwhelmed by the sudden clashes with well-trained, well-equipped rebels. The friend had served with the 8th Battalion of the Ukrainian Volunteer Army, until he had lost his leg in a grenade explosion. The man had turned to the trade of smuggling alcohol, weapons, humans, and everything of value across the shifting front lines.

  Justin said, “I get it. I don’t mean to offend you or your friend. It’s just… after what happened two hours ago, I’m still edgy.”

  Ihor said, “I understand, but keep in mind that those were Russians. We can’t trust them. Ever.”

  Justin nodded again. “So, tell me about the fuel truck.”

  “How about I show you?” Ihor pulled out his phone, then entered his pass code. “Here, look.” He leaned closer to the kitchen table and placed the phone in the space between the two of them. Justin was sitting across from him, while Carrie was to Justin’s right. “See, this is a Chinese fuel truck, 5,000 liters capacity.”

  Justin looked at the image of an old, battered red truck, with rust along the sides, especially in the area close to the cab. “So, humans are hidden inside the oil tank?”

  Ihor shook his head. “No, that would be cruel. Look here,” he pointed at the screen, “you can’t really see, but my friend has re-soldered the tank. It’s supposed to look like he fixed a crack, but what he did was actually add a small compartment.” Ihor slid his finger along the side of the truck. “It’s right behind this cabinet that has the electrical connection panel, the fuel dispensing equipment, suction lines and hoses. The compartment is large enough for two people, if they stand tight against each other.”

  Justin’s eyes didn’t hide his surprise. “Ingenious.”

  “Very.” Ihor nodded.

  “How safe is it?” Carrie asked.

  Ihor shrugged. “I haven’t tried it, but my friend has transported at least a dozen people in this way. It’s a tight space, dirty and smelly, but it works.”

  “How do you get in?”

  “From the cabinet. Once you’re in, we’ll re-install the panel. No one will notice anything.”

  “Is that the only entrance and exit?”

  “Yes, once you’re in, you can’t get out until the panel is removed.”

  “So what do you do if there’s any problem?” Justin asked.

  “Why would there be any problem ?”

  “Assu
me there is.”

  Ihor shrugged again. “Not much. The other option is live animals. But my buddy hasn’t confirmed anything. That needs more preparations, plus it’s riskier.”

  Justin looked at Carrie. “How did you get in the last time?”

  “As a reporter, with three other real journalists. But that’s not going to work this time, considering all our gear.”

  “How are the Russians getting in?” Ihor asked.

  “Not sure. I still have to talk to Ava about it. But they’re Russians and ex-special forces. They can easily pretend they’re assisting the rebels.”

  “Don’t tell them about the fuel truck. That will cause problems.”

  Justin nodded. “I’ll delay as much as I can, but I’ve got to tell her. Despite our differences, we’re still working together, on the same operation.”

  Ihor cocked his head. “Differences? One of her team members tried to kill you…”

  “Right.” Justin sighed.

  He wasn’t about to repeat himself that Ava had saved his life, and that she was the one to have warned Justin about the traitor. “So, let’s assume this works, and Carrie and I get in without any issues. You and Petro and your friend are the smugglers.”

  “Yes, we’ll pay at the checkpoints, and they should let us go.”

  “What if they don’t?” Carrie asked.

  “They always do.” Ihor said. “And we’ll be there, to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  “Okay.” Justin looked at the detailed map of the region they had put to the side and brought it closer to him. “So, we go through here, turn there, and make our way to the base.” He ran his hand over a thin line that represented a narrow road meandering through the hillsides covered by thick forests. “But before we get there, we meet up with Ava, and get ready.”

  “Yes.” Carrie said. “Now, when it comes to the attack, here’s what I think: We launch a mortar attack, covering the entire grid square.” She found one of the aerial photos of the base. “Here, and here. The missile is most likely hidden in one of these two warehouses.”

  “How are we getting those mortars across the front line?” Ihor asked.

  “The Russians,” Justin said. “They can easily transport all sorts of equipment. We can also fit a couple of 60mm mortars in the compartment, can’t we?”

  “I doubt it.” Ihor shrugged. “It’s pretty tight in there.”

  “We’ve got to find a way. Maybe your friend can transport them openly or hide them in the cab.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” Ihor said in a halfhearted voice. “It might draw more attention.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Ihor said, “They might go in the contraband compartment, if my friend has nothing else planned for that space.”

  “Good idea,” Justin said.

  Carrie said, “Once they’re scurrying like rats, we open up with RPGs. A couple of snipers take care of mopping up the place. Then we swoop in, find the missile, and blow it up.”

  “Quite easy,” Ihor said with a snort.

  “As easy as we can make it.” Carrie shrugged.

  “It’s just the seven of us, eight if the Russians bring in a new person, which I doubt.” Justin said. “Can we find another one or two trusted men on the other side?”

  “I doubt it.” Ihor shook his head. “Not at such short notice, and not when they’ll hear what we’re planning. I don’t like to sound negative, but this is close to a suicide mission.”

  Justin didn’t say anything. Ihor’s statement wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Carrie shrugged. “We’ve been up against worse odds. We have the advantage of surprise.”

  “Do you really think the rebels don’t know we’re coming?” Ihor sat back.

  “They might suspect or even expect us,” Justin said. “But they don’t know when or how.”

  “What if they find out? Then it’s us against ten times as many fighters.”

  Justin pondered Ihor’s words. He was right. If the rebels somehow discovered the teams’ plans, their chances of survival dropped to almost nil. He thought about Ava and the traitor in her ranks. What if he somehow was able to communicate with the rebels and warn them about our intentions? What if there’s another mole in her team? He looked at Ihor and Carrie and gave them a reassuring nod. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. But if it does, we’ll find a way. We always do.”

  Chapter Twenty- six

  CIS Safehouse

  Donetsk, Ukraine

  Tiana couldn’t believe how her luck had turned in her favor. Kotov hadn’t blamed her for Dima’s mistake. He had acted like a fool, Kotov had said. He’d believed he could resolve the situation all by himself, by eliminating the team leader. Dima had paid dearly for his stupidity, and that would be the end of that story. At least, his foolishness hadn’t exposed the second man inside Ava’s team. If everything went according to plan, he would report about Ava’s movements and those of the rest of the joint team.

  The man had called just thirty minutes ago. As expected, Ava had grown suspicious of both her teammates, and was tightlipped about their plans. She had told them to be ready to leave in an hour, but didn’t give them the destination, or the route. She had left the safehouse, claiming she was going to secure the necessary weapons for their operation. When the man had asked, Ava had dodged a direct reply, saying something along the lines that it was going to be standard weaponry for their mission’s needs.

  Tiana knew what was going on. She’d be acting in exactly the same way as Ava, if she were in her situation. In her own way, Tiana admired a respectable rival, and Ava had proven herself to be quite a challenge. Tiana loved a good challenge, since it drove her to perfection. It would be a shame to kill you, my dear , Tiana thought. But I’ll have to do it.

  Her boss had agreed with Tiana’s assessment that assigning a new member to Ava’s team would cause more problems than it would solve. If she decided to ask for reinforcements, which Kotov doubted she would, that was going to be okay. But he wasn’t going to take the first step. She’s going out to secure weapons and ammunitions for the team. What kind of weapons? What are their plans? Would she try to bring another team member on board?

  She had so many questions and very few answers. But she had a plan.

  Tiana ordered Elmir to prepare their Land Rover. They’d leave immediately, so they could be across the front line with plenty of time to reach the missile’s location. Tiana called her contact in Pokivka, informing them about a potential attack as early as the next hour. Everyone needed to be on high alert.

  Then she called the commander of Lugapol military base. She relayed to him the same information, about a potential attack by a small Ukrainian army platoon. At first, the commander laughed off the intelligence, claiming the Ukrainian scaredy-cats would never dare to venture that far inside the Donetsk People's Republic, not during the ceasefire and definitely not in such small numbers. Tiana grew frustrated, as she couldn’t exactly tell him everything she knew. But eventually, she was able to get through to him. The commander promised to double the guards and have everyone on and around the base be on high alert.

  As she finished the call, Tiana looked at Ava’s photo she had fastened to a corkboard on the apartment’s living room wall. She walked closer and glanced at the photo. Ava was dressed in a pair of winter military fatigues. Her defiant eyes looked straight at the camera. What is your plan? Tiana thought. Whatever it is, whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not going to work. I will make sure it’s not going to work.

  * * *

  The compartment was cramped, tiny, and dirty, slightly larger than a coffin. Justin’s back was flush against the smooth thin wall of the tanker, and his face was but an inch away from the coarse back surface of the electrical panel. He was standing straight up with his hands to the sides. Carrie was a step away from him, in the same position and situation.

  They had gone to the toilet before squeezing into the compartment. Ihor and his friend h
ad bolted the makeshift door and the panel, and the partition had sunk into almost complete darkness. Slices of light and barely enough air came from a series of pinholes punched discreetly near the top, right above their heads. The pinholes had been made to look like errors when an incompetent technician had installed the panel’s equipment and hooked up the connections.

  Justin could feel the back-and-forth sloshing of the gasoline in the half-filled tank. The engine rumble filled his ears. His body experienced every dip and rise of the pothole-ridden roads. His left leg had gone numb, and he had started to breathe with difficulty—the fuel fumes and the smell. At least, it wasn’t hot, unbearably hot, that is. And Carrie was next to him.

  “How are you doing?” he shouted over the engine’s noise.

  “I’m still here.” Her voice was upbeat and showed no signs of distress.

  Justin nodded. That was Carrie. Always keeping her chin up, taking the blows, but still standing.

  He reached with his left hand, groping in the dark for hers. He found it and squeezed it gently. “We’re going to do this,” he said in a firm voice.

  “Of course we are, Justin. How long has it been?”

  He shrugged. “Ten minutes since the last stop, maybe.”

  They had gone through the first checkpoint, which was manned by Ukrainian army volunteers. They knew Ihor and Petro, so they only stopped the truck to chat with them, but not to search. After they had driven for a couple of minutes, Petro had pulled to the side. Ihor had checked on Justin and Carrie, informing them it was going to be another thirty-five minutes. That is, if everything went according to plan.

  “So we have twenty-five more to go?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ihor was taking the back roads to avoid most of the checkpoints. But they were getting closer to the front line, and Justin and Carrie knew there was going to be at least one checkpoint where the truck would be searched from top to bottom. If they survived that one, the rest should be a breeze.