“What do you mean?”
“Most Internet users are unaware of how much personal data they willingly give away on the web. Contact information and photos from social networks, friend lists, online shopping preferences, filled forms, geo-tags, even browsing history. I could go on, it’s virtually every unencrypted activity. All of this information is collected by various marketing aggregators. Legally, of course. So read the fine print and be careful the next time you tick a box marked Yes, I agree.”
“Jesus. I’ll become paranoid.”
“Reasonable caution never hurts.”
“And what do they do with this data?”
“Sell it to other companies, including those that send you spam.”
“But you didn’t buy this folder, did you?”
“I could have, but no,” Netto grinned. “My old college mate runs a data-mining firm. Owed me.”
“It's still amazing that you could get so much from so little.”
“The starting point was finding a link between Nina Lanskaya and a Michelle in France in order to establish her identity. Thankfully, you provided enough information on Nina, although she proved to be more security-savvy online than the average user.”
“Yes, she’d have to be, in line with her job.” Sokolov still saw no necessity in revealing that Nina had worked for the FSB or that she had been killed.
“Okay, anyway, she was probably wary of using her main email, so she must have contacted Michelle from a secondary account. Michelle then sent her a friend request to that address via an instant messaging service. Nina declined but it was enough to flag the connection in the database. From there it was easy to pull everything the web had on Michelle. Pretty straightforward. But, to dispel any doubts, Nina and Michelle met in Paris two weeks ago. Their phones registered wireless IPs and geo-location data that matched to within a hundred meters. Well, that’s it, the rest is in the file.”
“Great, thanks. Can you run a search for another name? Timofei Chagin.”
“Hey, Gene, the guy owed me only one favor!”
“It’s an order.”
“All right, boss. Will do.”
Netto lived only a block away, so he got out of the Q5 and walked back home. Sokolov remained alone, holding the manila folder like a prized possession.
Michelle Valery. His second cousin. His only kin beyond Constantine.
He opened the file.
Her home address in Paris, email and phone numbers. Her age, twenty-six, her body measurements and clothes size, the latter taken from a the online store of a fashion retailer. She was a linguist, with a background at the Sorbonne, where she had moved from her hometown, New York City, USA. Fluent in English, French and Russian. Lara Fabian fan. Favorite food, favorite movies, favorite sports… The blogs she read and commented on…
It suddenly felt like voyeurism. Sokolov wondered how many people around the world were stalked on the web daily. As he kept reading the printouts, the information within grew more complex, such as semantic and behavioral profiles based on search strings and status updates.
Finally, he found her photos. Blonde, sporty, of average height but with perfect proportions, casually dressed. Michelle’s features struck him the most. She possessed a familiar beauty tracing back to the lush steppe. A heart-shaped face with defined, Slavic cheekbones, smooth lines and straight nose and lips. And the same intense, azure-blue eyes as his own. She could really pass for his sister. One look was enough to convince Eugene. She belonged to the Sokolov lineage.
He drove back to Presnya and entered a public park. A Lenin monument greeted him with a vicious stare. Sokolov walked down an alley flanking a small pond and spotted Constantine sitting on a bench. Decades ago they had enjoyed the place as if it had been their own garden. Now, when they shared their old apartment again, they had found that the once-blossoming park had ended up barren and deserted. Autumn had rendered the ground flowerless and the trees skeletal.
Sokolov sat next to his brother and handed him the folder.
“Have a look.”
Constantine thumbed through the pages. As he examined the photos, his face darkened.
“Nina was right, whatever proof she found. Michelle is most likely our cousin. Have you ever seen any pictures of our grandmother in her twenties?”
“Dad’s mother? No.”
“Michelle is her lookalike. Almost a spitting image.” Constantine rubbed his chin pensively. “Michelle should know what Nina was about to tell me.”
“They met.”
“Her life could be under threat. Yet we can’t risk contacting her beforehand. It must be vis-à-vis. But she’s in Paris.”
“They’ll be onto you instantly. You can’t go,” Eugene said. “But I can.”
He took out his phone, a rugged Sonim handset. Designed to operate even in hazardous environments, it was the world’s toughest phone, ideal for EMERCOM missions. After the conversation with Netto, he now considered the Sonim’s lack of smartphone functions to be an extra advantage. He pressed a speed-dial key and rang up Minister Klimov’s EMERCOM office.
“It’s Sokolov. I need a plane.”
14
ANCHORED OFF THE COAST of Saint-Tropez, the Zeta looked more like a futuristic spaceship than a yacht. At 329 feet long she had cost over $350 million to build. Dazzling white, the Zeta caught the eye with her streamlined curves. From her domed, leaf-shaped superstructure, to the rounded axe bow, the Zeta was an esthetic marvel.
Aft, on the open-air sun deck, a brunette was lounging by the pool. Long-legged and curvaceous, clad in a diamond-studded bikini, she had the look of a supermodel. Next to her in a bubbling jacuzzi, a sensuous, bronze-skinned redhead was sipping a Dom Perignon mimosa. The two young women were among the world’s most highly-paid prostitutes.
Finishing his workout in the swimming pool was Robertas Dedura, the owner of the mega-yacht and the girls. He performed each stroke and kick methodically, his body pumping like a machine. His one-mile swim completed, Dedura climbed out, rippling with energy. His cropped raven-black hair gleamed in the sun. Water dripped off his robust body onto the teak decking. He carried a muscular frame, a shade under six feet tall, his biceps and abs prominent. Aged forty-five, he remained a fitness nut, an almost ideal sculpture, marred by a patch of scar tissue running down his back from neck to waist. He had survived severe burn wounds following a crash in his Bugatti on the road to Monte Carlo. Cosmetic surgery had repaired most of the damage apart from the discolored blemish. His face, pockmarked, though unharmed in the fire, had chiseled features.
Daryl Booth, the Zeta’s chief of security, approached Dedura, carrying a satellite phone. Bald, bearded and built like a tank, he was a former SAS commander with two tours of Afghanistan under his belt.
“Connection established, sir.” Booth handed Dedura the phone.
“Saveliy Ignatievich?”
“Yes, Robert. I’m listening.”
The way in which Frolov shortened his first name annoyed Dedura greatly.
“How are things in Moscow?”
“If you don’t mean the weather, things are fine.”
“I gather you encountered some complications.”
“Solved by my man.”
“Not all of it. A few loose ends remain.”
“That is not something you should worry about, Robert. Everything is under control.”
“I don’t want any more surprises,” Dedura said.
“There won’t be any, trust me. The only unpredictable factor that could compromise the plan has been eliminated. The rest are now severed from each other and scattered. They’re out of the equation. If we try to shake them, it will do more harm than good. Let it all settle down. The plan is entering its most sensitive phase. Not the best idea to go on a spree. Even I can’t afford to attract undue attention on my side of things. All because of your fears.”
Robertas Dedura smirked.
“I fear no one. But we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you�
�d disposed of those brothers earlier.”
“I couldn’t,” Frolov said. “I needed them for a mission that doesn’t concern you. They’ve been deterred well enough now. Like I said, keep low.”
“You may be right. It’s about time I returned to my country for a change.”
“That’s funny, you never struck me as a patriot.”
“When I say Russia is my country, it means that I own it.”
“Very well, Robert. Just never forget who let you have all your money.”
“Never forget who let you have yours.”
Dedura killed the connection.
“Contact Rezler in Paris,” he instructed Booth. “Tell him to seek out this Michelle woman—and sort her out.”
PART II
1
A VAN SPED OVER the floodlit tarmac of Domodedovo, the busiest airport in Russia, and stopped before a Yakovlev Yak-42D airplane parked on the apron. It was a mid-range jet, operated by EMERCOM for special charters. Its gleaming white body bore the Ministry’s traditional markings: orange and blue along the middle of the airframe, and the eight-pointed star emblem on the T-tail.
Sokolov got out of the van, carrying no luggage, and boarded the plane. The turbofan engines whined noisily.
Apart from the three-man crew, he had the empty, 120-passenger Yakovlev all to himself, including the first-class cabin. After years of spartan conditions flying aboard transport and search-and-rescue aircraft, he found the leather seats and wooden veneer extremely opulent. Despite traveling alone, without his team or gear, clad in civilian clothes and surrounded by VIP comfort, he felt the same determination as on any EMERCOM mission. This was no ordinary flight, and no ordinary plane, reserved only for critical assignments. EMERCOM had last arranged such an urgent Europe-bound flight for the purpose of a spy swap in Vienna.
The Yak-42D taxied to the runway and took off. Buckled up, Sokolov reclined and looked through the window. Under the dark sky, city lights merged into a receding sea of yellow.
He closed his eyes and let his mind dissolve in the whine of the engines. His karate training provided a powerful tool―meditation.
He concentrated solely on the objective. His thoughts settled. Stress evaporated.
Michelle Valery. He saw her, the image projected in his brain more vivid and lifelike than the photos, as if she were standing before him. He would find her.
Then he visualized the burning wreckage on Theater Drive, channeling the flames of his anger into resolve.
By the time that the Yak-42D touched down at the Charles de Gaulle International Airport, Sokolov felt recharged physically and mentally.
For once, time worked in Sokolov’s favor. He adjusted his Breitling SuperOcean, setting the watch three hours back. Flying west, he’d arrived in Paris only an hour after departing Moscow.
On his way out down the aisle, Sokolov glanced into the cockpit.
“Have a safe return flight,” he told the captain and the first officer.
At the exit, the flight engineer wished him good luck.
Sokolov nodded. He’d rather have fortune on his side, if nothing else.
He was completely on his own now.
2
SOKOLOV OPERATED WITHIN LIMITED funds. He carried only a wad of cash, taken out of his own savings. It would last him early on, but against the journey’s unknown duration and difficulty, he could find the budget restricting. Already he counted off several bills as he rented a car at Hertz.
He opted to pay extra for a luxury SUV. Compared to a smaller, cheaper vehicle, the vermilion-bodied BMW X6 offered him more safety and security, as well as superb GPS navigation.
Sokolov entered Michelle’s address for directions and set the language to German. The measured female voice speaking in his near-native tongue made him feel like he was back in Germany, where he and Constantine had grown up at a Soviet Air Force base. His English and French were average at best, so this way he didn’t have to worry about getting confused or disoriented.
The drive was straightforward, leading him to the city’s eastern outskirts. Michelle Valery lived in a neighborhood in Seine-Saint-Denis, on the fringe of the 19th arrondissement. Bleak and dark, it differed from Sokolov’s idea of Paris, hardly an attraction for tourists. It was almost 11 p.m., the traffic light, the passers-by few. Compared to the hectic bustle of Moscow, the area’s stillness produced apprehension. Trees lined the main road.
“Avenue Lénine,” the BMW’s digitized voice said impartially.
Sokolov shuddered. Lenin Avenue. He had least expected to see the name in a Parisian suburb. He had brushed with death on another Lenin Avenue during the covert operation in Kazakhstan. The evil specter wouldn’t let go easily.
Sokolov turned to a narrow alley. The X6 proved almost too bulky to maneuver. He slowed down in the dimly-lit streets. Squat white buildings, roofs slanting, appeared run-down. Rust covered garage doors. Finally he reached an area that appeared less derelict. Michelle’s address was located amid a row of the three-storied townhouses adorned with grime and sporadic graffiti. He parked the X6 into a tight curbside space between two cheap French-made minicars and shut down the engine.
The position gave him an excellent view of the street and the townhouse. Isolated lampposts did little to dispel the night’s darkness but radiated enough glow onto the façades. Sokolov scanned the windows. Light shone from some, a few were dark or shielded by roller shutters. He did not know which one belonged to Michelle, and on which floor.
Up ahead, a group of young men loitered in the shadows. Sokolov counted five of them, dressed in urban clothes―hoodies or track jackets, baggy pants, sneakers. The X6 had attracted their attention. A couple of them split from the rest and started towards Sokolov’s flashy BMW. The others lingered near the entrance to Michelle’s townhouse.
As they approached, Sokolov saw that one was an athletic blond in his twenties, of average height, forearms tattooed. His companion looked around the same age, a bit shorter, olive-skinned, of Arab or North African descent. They idled before the X6, eyeing the car and Sokolov. The Arab yelled something, which prompted the blond to chuckle. Then the Arab barked in rapid French, and Sokolov discerned a few choice obscenities directed at him. The youths laughed and high-fived. Sokolov ignored them.
He retrieved his Sonim phone and dialed Michelle’s home number, keeping an eye on the townhouse. After several unanswered rings, Sokolov noticed no motion inside any apartment, no lights flicked on, so he gave up.
The blond walked over to the driver’s side of the BMW and rapped his knuckles against the glass, motioning for Sokolov to roll down the window. Sokolov paid no heed. Any sort of reaction, even waving them away, would provoke a response. Sokolov had no time to waste on distractions.
The Arab taunted him with vulgar gestures.
Sokolov called Michelle’s mobile number, which was not reachable, forwarding to voicemail. He hung up and tried her landline once more. Again, no answer.
At this hour she was probably late returning home after a long day’s work and some coffee with her friends at a brasserie.
He did not allow himself to think that she was already dead.
Suddenly, a female silhouette appeared in the distance. As she walked down the street, Sokolov recognized her figure, dressed in a short white coat, a tight knee-length skirt, high-heeled boots and a scarf. Then, in a halo cast by street lights, he saw her face. It was her. Michelle Valery.
The group of three hoodlums blocked her path. A Black African seized her arm and pointed at her purse, saying something. His buddies wolf-whistled. Michelle tried to jerk her arm free, but the hold was firm.
The Arab turned away from Sokolov and produced a knife, the blade glinting.
They, too, had been waiting for her.
With a sharp motion, Sokolov swung the BMW’s door out. It hit the blond, who staggered. In the same instant, Sokolov hopped out of the car and landed a fierce punch which connected with the cheekbone. The blond toppled, sensele
ss.
Startled, the Arab faced Sokolov. Before he could lunge with his knife, Sokolov hurled the Sonim into his face. The phone struck the bridge of his nose. The Arab doubled over, clutching his face with his free hand, blood seeping onto the ground. Sokolov stepped forward and lashed out a kick to his chin, sending him crashing backwards. Swiftly, Sokolov locked the BMW, picked up the phone, kicked away the blade and crossed the street in quick strides.
Michelle broke free from the grasp of the bewildered African, stomping on his foot with her heel and dashed towards the front door of her house. As the African recovered his balance and reached out to grab her, Sokolov attacked from behind, leg sweeping the ground. He hooked the mugger’s ankle and scythed him down. Sokolov followed up with a kick to the ribs. The prone African shrieked. Michelle vanished through the doorway.
The last two hoods squared off against him, one holding a knife, the other armed with brass knuckles. Out of the corner of his eye, Sokolov detected a robust man getting out of a Mercedes parked nearby. Dressed in a velvet suit, his hair dyed silver, he pursued Michelle inside the house.
Sokolov made a move to follow but the knife-wielding hood thrust at him. Sokolov dodged and kicked, ramming his instep into the man's gut, then hammering his foot against his head.
The second hood threw a heavy, brass-knuckled punch that missed by an inch. Sokolov countered with an elbow across the jaw. Before the man hit the ground, Sokolov chased after Michelle’s assailant.
He ran up the stairs. On the second floor, the silver-haired thug had Michelle cornered next to her apartment entrance. He pinned her against the wall and clasped his hand over her mouth. Wide in terror, her azure-blue eyes filled with tears.
“Hey!” Sokolov bellowed, rushing up the last flight of stairs between them.
The thug, who was even taller than Sokolov, snapped out a gun but he had no time to level it. The impact of Sokolov’s punch knocked him sideways. Another strike slammed him into the wall. A viselike grip forced the gun to clatter to the floor and a knee smashed into his groin. Reeling, the thug fought back, but Sokolov took him out with a thundering fist into his face. The big velvet-clad man slumped, blood spilling from his lacerated brow and mouth.
The Collaborator Page 4