He ducked into another corridor and then another. Cries of alarm and the sound of many feet told him there was more than one pursuer.
Mihailo took a darkened flight of stairs to the basement, tripping over piles of debris, bumping into walls. His life was measured by the length of his stride, his laboring lungs, and the beat of his heart against his ribs. Bare pipes and metal mesh reinforcement crawled along the walls. He found another stairway that took him up to an abandoned foundry with mountains of rubble and iron sheets on the floor. Wind howled through breaches in the walls and roof.
A soldier appeared with his machine-pistol at the ready. Mihailo dove to the floor behind a brick wall covered in chipped whitewash and squirmed behind a large, metal plate. A burst of automatic fire tore the air above him as he pressed his body into the rock dust on the floor. Blood ran down his face from contact with the bricks.
He was a normal man, not a soldier. He was a child, a kindergarten adventurer pretending to be an intelligence operative. He could never in his life have imagined what it was like to be shot at.
An instinctive, animal-like desire to live, overcame him. He could see the figure of the soldier through a narrow space between the metal sheet and brick wall. Not a man, but a figure, rushing toward him, death in camouflage, an occupier prepared to kill him just as he'd killed many others. Biting his lip, Mihailo pressed against the cold wall and tried to move the metal sheet. Its sharp surface cut his fingers, but it moved. The Russian soldier turned toward the sound, but too late. Mihailo was already on his feet with pistol aimed, and he pulled the trigger.
A high, sharp cry followed the shot, echoed off the ruined walls and died. His feet leaden, Mihailo approached the body. He was shaking and encompassed by alternating waves of hot and cold. The room around him dimmed, and he prayed for strength. The enemy in camouflage lay at his feet, a thoroughly dead "little green man." Mihailo picked up the machine-pistol and ran to a breach in the wall.
Finally and unredeemably, the war had caught up with him in all its relentless, bloody essence - with a single shot, his first kill, his first real battle.
He made it to the street and passed through some bushes and a hole in the factory fence.
The fake ID was still in his pocket. It would take some time for his pursuers to pass his name to the road blocks, and Mihailo hoped he could get as far as the recently liberated village of Kramatorsk and from there travel safely to Kharkov.
Chapter 19
Yekatarinburg, Russia
The capital of the Urals greeted Olga with a golden autumn, sunny, full of color, and a clear, bottomless blue sky, gentle and charming. She was met at the train station by a woman of around thirty, a tall, attractive blonde, tastefully dressed in a well-cut cream dress. She displayed a Hollywood smile, the epitome of perfection right off the pages of a fashion magazine. The smile seemed genuine, warm – or Olga simply wanted it to be so.
"Greetings. I'm Nastya," said the vision. "How was the trip?"
"It was wonderful."
"What would you prefer? Shall we go to the apartment immediately, or if you're not too tired, I can show you the center of town."
"I'm not a bit tired," exclaimed Olga. At that moment she could walk through the entire, unfamiliar city if it were necessary. This adventure was so incredibly surreal to her.
"Good. Let's go." Nastya beamed and headed to her parked car.
Olga liked the city center. Of course, Yekatarinburg lacked the scale and majesty of Moscow with its broad thoroughfares, ancient, winding streets and splendid cathedrals. But it was clearly a successful metropolis. The carefully restored old buildings in the center made for attractive architectural variety. Sunlight reflected from the glass expanse of shopping centers and the Visotskiy Tower skyscraper.
The Vayner pedestrian street reminded her of Moscow's Arbat, and the cobblestoned main square, named in honor of the 1905 Revolution was graced by a familiar statue of Lenin with his arm outstretched.
The river walk was just beyond the square, where the Iset River was channeled into a straight canal, bordered by pleasant walkways and parks. There was a small dam over which passed the inevitably named Lenin Prospect.
Nastya was a good tour guide. "A long time ago, there was a factory here, and that was the beginning of our city. This is the oldest part." She pointed to a 19th Century structure with elegant, miniature columns, gothic arches and delicate stucco decoration on windows and cornices, the home of a famous native. Beyond this was the Governor's residence.
Upon closer examination, the river was incredibly polluted, but when the sky reflected from its surface it appeared a crystalline blue. There were more 19th Century estates along the opposite bank, and just beyond were newer buildings, including the local White House with the Russian flag waving above.
They walked along the embankment toward a tall, white cathedral with golden cupolas.
"That's the Temple of the Blood. It was built on the spot where Nikolas II and his family were executed," explained Nastya. "And a little farther is the Resurrection Church."
Without warning, Nastya interrupted her narrative to say, "By the way, I'm not giving you this tour just for fun. Over the next two weeks you must become intimately familiar with the city – all the main streets, public transport, traffic, attractions. Success will depend on it."
Olga was surprised by Nastya's suddenly serious, businesslike tone in contrast to her former chumminess. It was time to remember why she was here.
"Do you drive?" asked Nastya.
"I took lessons last year, but I've not had much experience."
"You will," Nasya assured her. "Well, shall we go home?" She was smiling again.
"Home" was a small, one-room apartment in a bedroom neighborhood where Olga would live for a month and a half. The outskirts of Yekaterinburg were identical to those in Moscow, the same gray slab, ten-story buildings, the same cozy, slightly overgrown courtyards with their squeaking swings, just like they were throughout Russia.
The apartment was furnished in old Soviet style. There was a stout, heavy table, an old-fashioned chest of drawers and shelves along one wall.
Waiting for them there a man of middle age with a severe air and a big, gray moustache that reminded her either of a walrus or Stalin. The very sight of him made Olga nervous. This man bore no resemblance to outgoing, charming Gleb Solntsev.
"Welcome to Yekaterinburg, Olga Vladimirovna." The mustachioed man spoke with the manner of someone accustomed to obedience as he invited her to be seated. Gleb never used her name and patronymic. "My name is Boris Ivanovich. I congratulate you on your first assignment abroad, and to the States, at that. Do you understand how hard you'll need to prepare for it?"
Olga nodded.
"You'll live here. It looks pretty cozy to me. Nastya will pick you up every morning around eight, so you'll have to be ready. You'll study a lot, well into the night, until you've mastered all the required skills, perfected them. So take it seriously. Are we agreed?"
"Agreed," she replied breathlessly as excitement mixed with panic grew within her, manifested by a lump rising in her throat. I won't be able to do this! It's all completely new to me.
"There's a lot to learn," continued Boris Ivanovich, "Surveillance, surveillance detection, working alone and as a team member, the use of special photographic devices, secret writing and encoding, maskirovka. Your life will depend on these skills, by the way."
Olga's head was spinning from a strange mixture of fear and exaltation. She curled her fingers in the cloth of the sofa, afraid of showing her feelings.
Things were not nearly so remarkable in practice as they seemed when she heard them for the first time. For two weeks she wandered the byways of Yekaterinburg, sometimes on foot, sometimes driving, but always under Nastya's watchful eyes. Finally, she began to recognize patterns, intersections, landmarks and how they related one to another. Yekaterinburg revealed her face to Olga, an unforgettable diagram of buildings and streets.
Next, she was instructed to follow randomly selected targets around the city and compose thick dossiers on their movements, contacts, and activities. She found this tedious and exhausting, and she wore out her shoes. She soon discovered that heels were not the best footwear for long days on the street. The "targets" were not in the least interesting, and following them everywhere was unbearable. The loneliness was oppressive, and there was no one to help her. Her time was no longer her own, and the absence of freedom was worse than anything else.
She was glued to the "targets" like a marionette on strings as she dutifully followed kept an eye on their backs in crowded shopping centers or carefully maintained her distance on deserted streets at night.
She was often tempted to slack off, and once she did become distracted. It happened in the park next to Resurrection Cathedral. A yellow carpet of fallen leaves and dried grass rustled under her feet as she pushed her way through the thin branches of maple and rowan trees. A duck pond lay in the middle of the park, and a weak breeze carried broad maple leaves to its uneven surface. The water reacted with small ripples and then quieted again to reflect the blurred outline of the trees.
When she lifted her eyes from the pond, she could find no trace of her target. Incredulous, she abandoned caution and cast about in all directions for a sign of him. There were people all around, but the one she wanted was nowhere to be seen. She imagined how she could explain her failure to Boris Ivanovich, the disappointment and sorrow with which Nastya would regard her, and she was ashamed. She would die if she were not successful.
It was at this instant that she realized how vitally important all of this was to her. There was nothing on earth other than this single training assignment.
I've got to find him. I've got to find him. She whispered to herself, still searching in every direction. On the other side of the pond she spotted an islet with a neat, white gazebo that was popular with tourists. A narrow wooden bridge connected it with the shore. Trying act naturally, Olga moved quickly thinking that the gazebo offered an unobstructed view of the area around the pond. She could use the zoom lens of her cellphone. Several people were already on the islet taking photos, and it would be easy to fit in with them.
It wasn't long before she spotted him sitting on a bench a short distance from the water engaged in a lively conversation with someone. Grinning triumphantly, Olga snapped some photos. She wasn't under instruction to do so, but photography from such a distance was perfectly secure.
She didn't let the target out of sight for the rest of the day.
When she prepared her report, she included print-outs of the photos.
"What's this?" Boris Nikolayevich puffed out his moustache.
"It's a photo of the person the target met at 17:15 hours in Kharitonovskiy Park. They were together until 17:32 hours, and then the target …"
He interrupted her. "I understand. It's dangerous to take pictures from near-by when during an operation."
"I know. That's why I took the photos from the islet. There were three other people there at the time with cameras, so there was nothing suspicious in my behavior. Besides, the target could not have spotted me from that distance."
"From the islet …" Boris Ivanovich repeated thoughtfully. "That was bold and opportunistic, of course, but … I gave no permission for you to get that far away from the target. You might have lost him."
"But I didn't lose him." She surprised herself with this retort.
"Humph." He could not conceal a certain satisfaction. "OK. You got lucky, and I won't argue, but I want no such independent action in the future. That's an order. I'm glad that you think for yourself and can be creative. That's important in our business, but even more important is discipline. Our rules can seem boring and meaningless, but they've saved a lot of peoples' lives. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." She replied, only somewhat chastened. "I understand."
Nastya observed all of this, and when Boris Ivanovich was gone, she laughed out loud. "Don't take it to heart. It's best not to argue with Ivanich. He a vindictive sort, and your success depends on his final assessment. But I could tell he was satisfied. Your results were excellent, and this time you showed initiative and did more than was required."
"Like the good student who gets all 'A's' and double for good conduct?"
"And people like that are successful, believe me," Nastya was enthusiastic as she retrieved a bottle of wine from a drawer in the chest. "Let's drink to your future success. You'll conquer Washington."
The next day, Nastya began to instruct her in the use of technology. There were concealed cameras, long-range microphones and video systems, an unending variety of disguised gadgets and communications equipment.
"Is this stuff real?" Olga was entranced.
She no longer cared if she appeared naïve or laughable. Nastya was a friend, or at least Olga treated her like one, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.
She was introduced to the arcane terminology of espionage, coded phrases and ciphers, secret writing and dead drops. After a month she possessed practical, if rudimentary skills in all these areas.
Boris Ivanovich paid them another visit at the apartment. His manner was solemn. "So, Olga Vladimirovna, now we enter the final phase of your training. You will be working with a team. There will be no personal contact ahead of time between team members. You will each be given a code name and instructions to appear at a pre-determined rally point. From there, you'll use standard tradecraft to surveil a target. You will act as team leader and direct the operation.
"When the surveillance ends, team members will retire in different directions. Standard radios will be used for team communication. At the end of each exercise you will write up a full report that describes everything the team observed. You must be especially alert for any indications that the target is engaged in espionage. You might observe the target making a brush pass or unloading a dead drop. Do you understand?"
Olga nodded. She was certain that in this instance the target would be professionals from the FSB, as would the other "team members."
Boris Ivanovich continued, "This training has only a single goal. At the end of the month your task will be to predict with absolute certainty where and when the target will appear the following day, and what he will be doing. You will give your report to the other surveillance team members, but only you will have the responsibility for the prediction. You will be entirely responsible for the success or failure of the operation," he concluded with special emphasis on the words "entirely responsible."
This was an obvious challenge, and Olga applied herself to it enthusiastically. She'd gotten away with near failure in Kharitonovskiy Park, but that was minor league compared to this. She was to become a faceless figure, a genuine warrior on an invisible front.
She spotted Boris Ivanovich on the street several times during the exercise, and she developed a strong desire to please this strict and tedious man. She had to succeed; there could be no other outcome.
By the time she handed her report to Boris Ivanovich, she had memorized the target's pattern of behavior and movement, knew his favorite restaurants, when and where he walked his dog, his arrivals and departures from work. Despite her best efforts, she had spotted no sign of suspicious activity, and this worried her.
She waited breathlessly in the safehouse as Boris Ivanovich and Nastya studied her report. Their faces betrayed nothing. Finally, the former displayed a rare, wide smile.
"Olga Vladimirovna, tomorrow you'll return to Moscow, and we'll meet at an office in the Lubyanka." He handed her a slip of paper on which an office number was written and then left without another word.
She could barely contain herself and ran to embrace Nastya. "Nastya, I did it! Will you be going with me?"
"Where? Moscow or America?" she smiled. "I'm in Moscow a lot, but I live and work here. But America? We don't leave, Olga. Many colleagues and I cannot leave the country because we know a lot of secrets. So I'll wait for you to visit me h
ere sometime."
"I'll be back," promised Olga, "It'll all go fine with me, and sooner or later I'll come back. Just keep believing in me."
Nastya displayed her Hollywood smile.
Chapter 20
Belgorod, Russia – Kharkov, Ukraine
Compared to the rest of Russia, Vlad found Belgorod to be a rather pleasant city – well laid out, clean, with new buildings and swept streets, green parks and a variety of unusual statues of things like an old lady knitting or a happy family. It was as if the city were enveloped in a sort of pre-war bubble, and the noise of war that spread over the rest of Russia had not yet seeped into its quiet streets.
The train station was not especially noteworthy, but it was relatively new and absent the smell and filth characteristic of older stations, especially those along Russian rails.
Vlad's trip took eleven hours thanks to the innumerable stops and engine changes along the way. It was late into the evening by the time he arrived. He took a taxi to the address provided by Golovina. His contact lived in a new 12-story building. Unlike the older, Soviet style structures, it was spacious with clean entrances and a new children's' playground under the windows.
A tall, gangly fellow with an unruly mop of long hair and a cheerful expression opened the apartment door.
"I'm Dima," he said, "or you can call me Mitya, if you prefer. Want a beer? Don't worry, I have plenty. And I have a free sofa. You'll spend the night here while we figure out how to get you across to Kharkov tomorrow."
"And what does that depend on?" asked Vlad as he entered the large, one-room apartment in typical bachelor disarray.
"Depends on what you're up to," serenely replied Mitya.
"What does that mean?" Vlad was not prepared to share with this stranger the details of the case against Solntsev, not even if he was Golovina's best friend in the world. He couldn't condemn yet another innocent person to certain death.
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