Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  “Could have fooled me,” Storey said. “She’s spent more time staring at that GPS tracker app on her phone, watching where you are, than my daughter back home spends on Instagram.”

  “Listen,” said Johnson, pointedly ignoring Storey’s army banter, “I could at least do with some proof that Severinov’s been here. I’d like to nail the bastard for kidnapping, for starters. I don’t know what his plan is, but he talked about some sort of negotiations.”

  “We’ll have a quick look, but we need to get out of here as quickly as possible,” Storey said. “That chopper sitting out in the yard is a magnet for any Taliban with a grenade or an RPG.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” Haroon asked, pointing at Lvov’s body.

  “The guys at Camp Phoenix will come over and work it out with the Afghan army,” Storey said. “There’s a big operation going on right now against the Taliban, so it may be the morning before they get here. They’ll deal with the police as well.”

  Johnson raised his eyebrows. “That’s the normal routine, is it?” he asked.

  Storey shrugged. “We don’t have a normal routine. It’s the best we can do under the circumstances, like so much of our work.” He turned to Thollen. “Come on, we’ll do a quick search, but frankly, the place looks completely clean.” They headed down the corridor, stepping over Lvov’s body, toward the other rooms.

  Johnson looked around. He knew Storey was right. There was virtually nothing in the building apart from a few kitchen appliances, chairs, TV, blankets, and tables. There was food in the fridge and kitchen cupboards, but no papers, books, or personal belongings. The print hanging on the wall with the Stalin quote was gone.

  Johnson had to give Severinov credit: for a wealthy Russian oligarch, he seemed very disciplined when it came to operational security and processes. He obviously hadn’t forgotten his KGB background and training.

  While Storey and Thollen were searching the rooms, Johnson and Haroon walked over to Lvov’s body, which was still bleeding heavily from a bullet entry wound in his chest and a bigger exit one in his back. Johnson removed the cell phone from the Russian’s hand then went through his pockets, where he found a black leather wallet containing a wad of bills but no credit cards. There was no passport or other identification document.

  The phone was unlocked and had a number showing on the screen—perhaps Lvov had been about to call it when he had been shot, Johnson surmised. He flicked through the phone’s contents. The number on display was the only one saved, an Afghan cell phone to which two calls had been made, and there were no messages. A burner. He pocketed it anyway; presumably the number stored was Severinov’s.

  Storey came back down the corridor. “The only thing we found is this,” he said, holding up a plastic bag, which he put on the kitchen table. From it he removed two phones, two SIM cards, a Beretta and an H&K pistol, and two leather wallets, one black, one brown. They were Johnson’s and Haroon’s belongings.

  “Thanks,” Johnson said, as he and Haroon picked up their phones, pistols, and wallets. “That’s saved us a lot of trouble.”

  “Other than that, there’s nothing,” Storey said. “Come on, let’s move.” He led the way out the door, followed by Johnson, Haroon, and Thollen.

  From his basement room, Johnson had heard the helicopter outside but had assumed it was just another military chopper on a routine patrol. He was surprised when he had suddenly been liberated, and now, looking at the Black Hawk in the yard, was even more astonished at the precision with which the pilot had positioned the aircraft in such a tight landing area. There were no more than ten yards of space on each side between the walls enclosing the compound and the whirling rotor blades.

  As they walked toward the chopper, Johnson saw Jayne jump out of the large rear door and come running over toward them, gesturing toward a block of apartments that stood nearby.

  Rather than greeting Johnson with relief at seeing him safe, as he had been expecting, she instead shouted, “There was a guy up on the roof of that building with what looked like some kind of gun or missile launcher!” She pointed at the apartments. “I spotted him while you were entering the building. I thought at first it was an RPG, but he was some distance away. Can’t be sure.”

  “Is he still there?” Storey asked.

  “I saw him move, don’t know where to. Your guy has been covering the roof since I saw him,” Jayne said, indicating toward the door of the helicopter, where a soldier stood with his rifle trained on the building.

  Storey studied the roof carefully. “I can’t see anybody up there now,” he said, glancing at Jayne with a slightly skeptical look in his eye. “Must have gone, whoever they were. We’ll keep a close eye when we take off, though, just in case. Thollen can give us some cover.”

  Monday, June 3, 2013

  Moscow

  “Dermo. Take everything on him and get out. Now, Vasily,” Severinov said. “Just check around first that there’s nothing that can be linked to me.”

  “What? Just leave him?” Vasily asked. “He’s lying in a pool of blood.”

  “Yes. Leave him where he is and go. Someone will find him eventually.”

  This was a disaster, Severinov thought to himself. Johnson and Haroon gone and Lvov shot dead in the safe house.

  Severinov heard Vasily swear on the other end of the line from Kabul and decided to ram the message home, just in case. “If I find that you’ve done anything other than what I’ve just instructed, you’ll go straight in the Kabul River next time I’m in town.”

  “Okay, boss, understood.”

  “And find another safe house. We can’t go back to that one. You know what to do. Just make sure there’s enough ground space for a chopper.”

  “Yes, sure,” Vasily said. “I’ll get something arranged as soon as I can.”

  “Good. Now, move. Quickly—the police are probably on the way there already. And get yourself over to Street Ten. You need to be keeping a watch for Javed there. That’s your priority now.”

  “Yes. Although it’s late now, and I’m concerned about the Taliban risk and—”

  “Just get on with it,” Severinov snapped. He had no time for Vasily’s lily-livered concerns right now. He ended the call and swore violently.

  Vasily had turned up at the safe house at half past ten in the evening on one of his routine checks and had immediately called Severinov after discovering what had happened.

  Who the hell could have done it?

  Severinov was as certain as he could be that nobody knew Johnson was in there. He was also certain that nobody could have traced the building back to him. He had initially doubted it was the American security forces, thinking they wouldn’t just leave a dead body in the building. But when Vasily had described how the door to the building had been professionally blown in, he had started to wonder.

  Either way, one thing was for sure: his plan to exchange Johnson for Andrei Fedorov had just gone out the window. That in itself was a major blow, given Putin’s instructions to find a solution to the Fedorov problem he was facing. There was no other option open to Severinov.

  But the other question was, how did this leave the bid for the oil and gas assets? Could he still continue? Severinov tried to think it through. In many ways, he didn’t have an option. Putin and Medvedev had given their instructions, and if he didn’t follow them through to the letter, he was screwed. So in that respect he had little, or even nothing, to lose by continuing.

  And if Johnson and the Pakistani Haroon went public with allegations of kidnapping, they surely had no proof. There were no links to him. He could just dismiss it as another American plot to derail a Russian bid. The media had heard that kind of thing all before.

  In any case, Johnson and Haroon somehow had to be responsible for the death of Lvov—there was little doubt about that. So raising their heads above the parapet would be a dangerous route to go down. The more Severinov thought about it, the more confident he was that he could ride this out.
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  Severinov also knew he needed to continue pursuing Javed. But Vasily had made no progress. So the best chance of achieving that was for him to get back to Kabul and to look for an opportunity as the bid process unfolded. What had happened was a setback, but he would continue.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tuesday, June 4, 2013

  Kabul

  Johnson awoke in his and Jayne’s villa at just after eight o’clock. He’d managed nine hours’ sleep, three more than he usually needed. The first thing he did was to reach for his phone and send a text message to Peter and Carrie, giving them a quick update and telling them he was safely back in Kabul after his trip. He omitted all details of his kidnap, incarceration, and rescue. They would find out once he got home—at least the sanitized version.

  After pressing send, he lay listening to the hum of the city outside and let his mind chew over the events of the previous couple of days in Wazrar and subsequently at the hands of Severinov.

  His prime focus was on how he was going to pull together a war crimes case against Severinov; he was well aware that if he succeeded, it would by default deliver a large slice of what his paymaster Rice wanted.

  The scraps of intelligence he had picked up left him with the clear conviction that he had to get to the root of the current conflict between Severinov and Javed. What exactly had gone on between them twenty-five years earlier?

  Achieving that depended on either meeting Javed and getting him to talk—and he was struggling with that—or on finding some documentary evidence. The latter also seemed unlikely.

  What to do? He reminded himself of a favorite saying often used by his old boss at the OSI, Mickey Ralph. Never die wondering, my friend.

  He would continue pursuing Javed, who was his number one option, but it seemed worth trying to trace the KHAD archivist whom Haroon had spoken about, Abdul Akbari.

  There had been no word from any of the three passport forgers they had seen the previous Friday. Haroon had received no calls, no emails, and no text messages. Johnson’s strong gut feeling was that none of them would voluntarily offer up what he needed. Maybe an encouragement other than just cash would be required.

  Johnson slid his legs out of bed and looked out the window. His driver, Omar, had piloted the Hilux back from Wazrar the previous night, and the vehicle now stood outside the villa.

  The thought of Omar gave him an idea.

  When Haroon turned up at the villa at just after ten o’clock, Johnson made him a coffee and sat him down with Jayne in the living room.

  “What do you think our chances are of getting whichever forger did the job to talk?” Johnson asked.

  Haroon shrugged. “They’re a sly bunch of men who you’re always going to struggle to pin down. Don’t know—maybe fifty-fifty.”

  “Well, how about we try to tilt the odds a little in our favor, then?” Johnson asked.

  “How?”

  “Coercion,” Johnson said. “Take Din Khan. I don’t know if you noticed, but just before he came to talk to you at the shop, he handed a customer a brown envelope and very quickly stuffed the cash for it into a drawer. Never gave a receipt. The customer left very quickly. I’m pretty sure Mr. Khan was doing some kind of under-the-counter deal.”

  “So what are you suggesting, Joe?” Jayne asked.

  “I’m thinking we try setting him up. A bit of old-fashioned blackmail.”

  “Wait a minute, Joe,” Haroon said. “You think one of us can go and set him up just a few days after we asked him for a favor? Is that a good idea?”

  “No, not one of us. I was thinking of using Omar. Din doesn’t know him. So what about if he goes in, says that he’s looking for someone to provide him with a passport, say a Canadian one, and does Din know anyone who might be able to help. Then we just see what happens. We can get Omar to record it on his phone. Then if he bites, we’ll have audio of him offering to do something illegal, and—if necessary—we threaten to shop him to the NDS, unless he gives us what we want.”

  “But you do not know that Din is the one who did the passport for Akbari, do you?”

  Johnson grinned. “No, I don’t know that. But I’m fairly certain that Ali Jadoon was telling the truth when he said his machinery was broken down and he couldn’t do the job for Akbari. It could have been Gul Shah, but I have a gut feeling Din might be the one. It’s just one of my hunches. If it turns out not to be him, then we’ll try the same trick on Jadoon. Listen, we’ve got to do something. Time’s running out, and we can’t just sit here on our hands vaguely hoping something’s going to happen.”

  The former ISI man nodded.

  Johnson called Omar’s cell phone and explained what he had in mind, then instructed him to come to the villa as soon as possible. Omar, exhausted after his journey back from Wazrar, was less than enthusiastic initially but agreed after Johnson promised him an extra four thousand afghanis.

  Before launching into his plan, Johnson first got Omar to drive him to Street Ten to do yet another check on Javed’s house. But the property was still clearly unoccupied, and there was a gathering of street litter that had blown up against the double vehicle entrance gates—plastic wrappers, bottles, old newspapers, and other detritus—suggesting nobody had come in or out recently. Nothing had changed. Where was the man staying? Johnson wondered. He was increasingly coming to the conclusion that Javed must have another base somewhere in the city, perhaps with one of his old mujahideen friends.

  An hour later, Omar, now fully briefed, set off on his mission, while Johnson settled down at the kitchen table with Jayne to try to work out a way forward and then give Rice an update on their progress.

  He opened his laptop and checked his emails. The top one was from Javed, replying to the email he had sent the previous Thursday. At last, Johnson thought, as he hurriedly clicked on it.

  Hello Joe, it was good to hear from you after such a long time. Interesting that you are back in Kabul. I would indeed like to meet you again at some stage. There is a lot to discuss. However, as you have no doubt discovered, I am managing the Afghan government’s sale of a stake in its oil and gas assets. I’m busy and it will be impossible to meet until the process is finished. I will get back in touch next week. There is much to talk about. With both Russians and Americans among the possible investors, we are in strange times. You might be extremely interested in the identities of some of the parties, but I can tell you much more when we meet.

  Best wishes

  Javed Hasrat

  “Shit,” Johnson said. He showed the email to Jayne. “Just had this from our friend Javed. What do you make of that?” Johnson asked.

  Jayne also read through it. “He’s dangling a carrot, but if he won’t meet up it’s hardly helpful.”

  “Not surprising he doesn’t want to meet if he’s trying to take out Severinov.”

  “Can’t argue with you about that.”

  “This is how I remember Javed,” Johnson said. “Always teasing with the promise of some big slice of crucial information—which then always seemed to be snatched from under my nose. Like that photograph of Watson with the Stingers.”

  “Yes,” Jayne said. “At school we used to have a name for girls who were like him—prick teasers, we used to call them.”

  Johnson laughed out loud. “An intelligence officer’s nightmare. I’ll ask him again for a meeting, but if he’s refusing, we’ll have to put a tail on him.”

  He began to tap out a reply.

  Tuesday, June 4, 2013

  Kabul

  There was silence for several seconds. Then came the low-pitched, inevitable tirade. “You bastard son of a mule,” Din Khan muttered, his black eyes glittering first at Johnson, then at Haroon, from beneath a ragged mess of eyebrows. “You’re trying to blackmail me?”

  “No,” Haroon said. “We’re not trying to blackmail you. We are blackmailing you.”

  Johnson had to fight hard not to smirk. He turned off the voice recorder app on his phone, on which he had just
played a copy of the recording made by Omar earlier that day.

  “Play it again,” Din said, planting his elbows on the shop countertop. “You can’t prove that’s me, you human cesspit.”

  Johnson wearily pressed the play button again, and the recording, faint but completely audible, began to run, with Omar’s voice coming first, speaking Pashto.

  “Mr. Khan?”

  “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?”

  “I understand that you might be able to help with travel arrangements overseas. Specifically passports and visas.”

  “It depends on your requirements.”

  “I need a Canadian passport and visa, but I’ve had huge problems with their embassy over the past two years. I desperately need to get to Toronto to—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you want it for. I don’t need a story.”

  “So it is something you could help with, then?”

  “Like I said, it depends. I would need you to go through my vetting process before I could discuss it much further. That could take a couple of days.”

  There came the sound of rustling and a slight thud, which Johnson knew was the point at which Omar had taken out an envelope full of afghanis and placed it on the counter.

  “Is there an express option at all? I’m in a real hurry.”

  There was the sound of more rustling, presumably as Din opened the envelope and counted the bills.

  “Write down on this form the personal details of the passport holder and fill in as much as you can. Date of birth, place of birth, all that. I will need photographs, of course. I can’t promise anything, though. It will depend on how the vetting goes. I don’t know you at all, so I’ll need some references. So put them on the form as well, and don’t lie. I’ll be checking all of it. There is a cost, of course.”

  “What are the prices?”

  There was a pause of several seconds.