Misled

by Anderson Harp

  Ridges stood against the wall, seemingly in shock, as if he’d only now realized that they had crossed the line and there was no turning back.

  Will beckoned him with another hand signal: Are you ready?

  Ridges didn’t seem to understand, but he got it when Will signaled more obviously to come toward him. Ridges first looked back, around the corner of the cabin toward the sentry post, then turned to Will, nodding.

  “Put this on,” Will whispered, giving him the other Tyvek coveralls.

  Ridges stumbled as he tried to stand on one leg, but finally he got the suit on.

  “Follow me,” Will whispered in his ear.

  When Ridges nodded, Will pointed to his own lips, making the universal signal to be as silent as possible.

  The two stepped carefully in single file through the drifts and toward the lake, opposite of the direction in which Will had come earlier. They reached the shoreline, then went out onto the ice, continuing to head away from the dock. Once they reached the dock of another cabin, he signaled his follower to climb up onto the dock. They walked the dock in the dark and, when near the end in the lake, climbed back down on the ice and headed back in the direction of the cabin where the Lada was parked. The maneuver was designed to buy them at least as much time as it cost. The searchers would follow the tracks, spreading out as they moved along, and then would have to double back to where the Lada had been stowed.

  At the car, Will quietly opened the door to the passenger side. Ridges started to climb in, but then stopped.

  “You’re hurt.” Ridges whispered the words.

  Will’s Tyvek was stained with blood at his forearm.

  “We’ll take care of that later.”

  Will moved the Lada back down the road with its lights out. The snow illuminated the road well enough for him to see in the night. The absence of trees along its path gave him some guidance.

  As they pulled out onto the main road, Will turned on the Lada’s headlights. He pulled out onto the main road and headed back toward Moscow. On the main road, three military vehicles rushed past on the other side of the highway. They were outfitted with blue lights and sirens operating at full blast.

  “Well, they know.” Ridges still spoke quietly, as if the risk remained that they would be overheard.

  Will didn’t say anything. He had a direction in mind.

  The snowstorm suddenly cleared. A moonlit sky quickly became cloudless. Will pulled the Lada into a parking lot near a BP gas station.

  “Can you get into the net?”

  “Of course.” For the first time, Ridges smiled. He opened his backpack and pulled out a small computer. In a matter of a minute, he was on the Moscow net.

  “They’ll be on top of us with a drone soon.” Will looked up in the clear sky. “Probably a Dozor eighty five.” Russia had been slow in adapting to the drone world, but it was catching up fast. The Dozor 85 was one of the newer models the FSB used for surveillance and border patrol. Kronshtadt, its manufacturer, produced a drone that could fly over Moscow at 20,000 feet or more and produce detailed video of a car’s license plate.

  “Yeah, that’s what the FSB uses in the Moscow district.” Ridges looked up from his laptop. “I did some research after you told me about Tippenhauer.”

  Tippenhauer was a study that had been released to the public by some overenthusiastic Swiss scientists who had diagrammed how to misdirect drones.

  “Can you use it?” Will asked.

  “Yeah.” Ridges started to work on the problem. His computer showed only Cyrillic script. A couple of minutes later, he said, “You were right. FSB has security drones on patrol all over the city.”

  “Does Tippenhauer work with GLONASS?”

  GLONASS was the Russian version of the United States’s Global Positioning Satellite network. The Swiss scientists’ paper had included instructions on how to do a spoofing attack using GPS systems.

  “No.” Ridges continued to type. “GLONASS is unreliable, but has cryptic access since it is military.”

  “Okay….”

  “What I just did was better.” Ridges looked up from his Alienware laptop with a smile.

  “We need some time.” Will pulled the Lada back onto the highway, heading to the north and west.

  “I hacked the FSB computers.” Ridges continued to type. “I set it up so they’ll believe that we used Tippenhauer to spoof the drone.”

  Dr. Tippenhauer’s paper was the guide to how to misdirect a drone. It would send a signal to the drone that deceived its GPS receiver into thinking it was far from where it actually was. Both the world of terrorism and the FSB were very familiar with Tippenhauer. Here, however, Ridges sent signals that convinced the drone operators into believing that the drone was wrong when it was actually right. The FSB operations center would be sending out instructions for the Dozor 85 to do a circle surveillance of the roads around the cabin. But when it seemed to not follow the commands, they would ignore the aircraft even as it flew directly over the gas station.

  “You need to ditch the laptop.”

  “I know.”

  Although the laptop was made by Dell in the US, the risk was too high that the laptop had been doctored by Ridges’s Russian hosts to serve as locator beacon.

  “Pull up here next to the truck.” Ridges pointed to a grime-covered delivery truck getting refueled at a pump. It was in a dark area of the station, out of sight of any cameras.

  Will stopped the Lada near the back of the truck. Ridges got out, opened the cargo door, slipped the laptop in, and closed it back up. The transfer was like a mailman making a postal delivery to a mailbox. If the Russians were following the computer, it would take them well north of the city.

  “I have this”—Ridges held up a flash drive as he slid back into the car—“from my DIA days.”

  Will nodded.

  “If anything happens to me and you can get it out of Russia, do it.” It seemed strange for Ridges to admit that the small black object held something more important than he himself was. “You’ll need a password, but I’m not ready to give that out yet.”

  “Good idea.” Will understood the hesitation. They hadn’t even known each other for more than twenty-four hours. He understood why Ridges would be hesitant to bet the farm on him.

  “We need to get to Leningradsky.” Will took Ridges’s wrist, turned it, and looked at his watch.

  He explained to Ridges that the train station on the north side of the city served as the region’s gateway for trains traveling to and from Finland.

  “Out of Russia on a train?” Ridges looked at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy?”

  “I will get you out of here.” Will left it at that. Much like his passenger, hesitant to entrust his password to Will, it made no sense for Will to tell everything to Ridges. Not yet. And it was more than a security precaution. The details of his plan might cause doubt or even errors on Ridges’s part. He just needed the young hacker to follow instructions.

  Ridges nodded, looking less smug and more like his previous, shell-shocked self again.

  Will patted him on the shoulder. “You can count on it.”

  * * * *

  Will parked the car on a side street several blocks away from Leningradsky. It was the oldest of the six major train stations in Moscow. Like Ridges, the FSB would be less likely to expect Will to choose a train for their escape, which was precisely why the railroad had played a key part in the many layers of Will’s plan.

  “You need to fix that arm.” Ridges reminded him of the wound.

  The guard’s blade had been sharp and, despite a glancing blow, easily cut through the Tyvek and clothes underneath. Pain was something that Will Parker had learned to distance himself from years ago. Adrenaline made it easy. When your world was on overload, pain took a backseat.

  “What’s in the glove compartment
?”

  Ridges opened it and started doing inventory.

  “Not much here. Cigarettes. Pictures of a couple.” He pulled out each item and put them on the dashboard.

  “They’re required to carry a first-aid kit.” Will knew that cars registered in Moscow had to carry certain equipment, including fire extinguishers and first aid. “Let me check the back. You can get out of the coveralls.”

  Ridges stepped out of the small SUV and pulled off the Tyvek. They were in a dark area, well beyond the likely view of any cameras. Ridges started to throw the coveralls in the back and stopped.

  “How about this?” He held up half a roll of what looked like duct tape. “Izolenta?” He described the Russian version of duct tape.

  The blue electric tape had the same qualities of duct tape, but half the size. Everything in Russia was apt to break at some point, so nearly every car or truck carried a roll.

  “That’ll do.” Will pulled off the Tyvek suit and his shirt. He wrapped the tape around the forearm laceration and put back on the parka he had shed earlier.

  “Do you have a cap?”

  “Just this.” Ridges pulled out a ski cap from his pocket.

  “Put it on, pull it down over your forehead, put your hands in your pockets, never look up, and never make eye contact unless you’re confronted. If that happens, look ’em directly in the eye.” Will was giving him a short lesson in tradecraft. He grabbed his heavy backpack and put the automatic pistol back in it, slung it over his parka, and headed toward the back end of the railroad yard. “I speak Russian well, so I’ll be the one to engage them if we pass a guard or cop.”

  Ridges, clearly still a student of the language, nodded.

  “Follow behind me, but close to my shoulder. When I point to a spot, you go there and stay. We need to separate occasionally and if we get separated, go to the men’s room and enter the third stall. I’ll come and get you.”

  They crossed the side street, moved up two blocks and then crossed over to the back end of the station. Will searched for an opening in the tracks and the two quickly moved onto a platform where others were waiting for a train.

  Will glanced in all directions, then whispered to Ridges: “Platform three.” He kept his hands in his parka and led the way with his head covered by a cap. The fur hood was pulled up close to his neck. He knew where the cameras were, but skillfully took a path that kept his back facing each one. Ridges followed him like a man following another through a minefield. When they got to platform three, Will stopped at a pole next to a wooden bench. An old woman, with a blue scarf over her head and a brown coat with a cheap fur collar, sat on the far end of the bench. She had a plastic bag on her lap almost overflowing with goods. The scarf had colorful flowers of green and yellow. And she wore black boots that seemed like something issued at a military post. The woman kept her face and nose pointed to the ground, clearly having no interest in engaging with others.

  Perfect.

  Will pointed to the bench.

  Ridges took a seat, near the end and next to the pole. He kept his head down, acting as if he’d finished his last bottle of vodka only a few minutes before.

  Will pointed a finger in the air as if to say, “I’ll be right back,” and crossed back into the station.

  The loud announcement echoed off the walls of the cavernous Leningradsky. A train was getting ready to depart. The military was out in force throughout the station. Will moved up to a ticket window with no line.

  He pulled up his hat just before stepping to the window.

  “Two to Helsinki.” He said the words in perfect Russian with a Moscow accent.

  “Which one?”

  “Tolstoy thirty-two A.”

  “You need to hurry up.” The agent made a point of looking at the clock.

  Will took the tickets, pulled down his cap, and gathered his hood close to his neck, then returned to Ridges and the old woman. He helped Ridges up, as if the man were beyond establishing his own equilibrium.

  “Come on, friend,” Will said loudly in Russian.

  They climbed onto the train just as the door was closing. Ridges followed him as Will went down the corridor until he reached the third car. They passed several guards; Will looked briefly but directly in the guards’ eyes, greeting them in Russian. The guards didn’t respond or stare back.

  Tradecraft again, Will thought. The face least likely to be remembered was the one that looked directly at you. It sent a subliminal message that you had nothing to hide.

  At the end of an empty corridor in the train, Will pulled Ridges into a bathroom. The toilet compartment had a large window of fixed glass with a small partition of glass at the top, through which one could let in some air. The window was frosted by both the tint of the glass and the buildup of ice and snow. A steel toilet and steel sink took up much of the room.

  “We wait,” Will whispered in English as he locked the door.

  Michael Ridges’s face expressed relief at the sound of Will’s voice. It seemed as if the young man missed the language as much as he surely missed his country and the girlfriend who had returned home nearly a month ago. The train gained speed as it cleared Moscow. A cold wind came through the cracked window, helping clear the stench of the toilet compartment.

  The door rattled once.

  “Shortly,” Will grumbled in Russia to the person trying the doorknob. It seemed the answer was accepted as the person seemingly moved on to another car.

  In less than an hour, the screech of brakes passed through the train as it began to slow. The two were jolted against the wall.

  “Tver,” Will whispered.

  “Tver?” Ridges seemed to know of it. “You do realize what it’s known for?”

  “Yes.” Will was keenly aware of the small town on the outskirts of the Moscow district. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 54

  The FSB Hideout

  “Will he live?” Lt. Col. Mikhailov stood over the couch in the dacha where the injured guard was lying, hands pressed to his head.

  “Yes, sir.” The head of the guard detail was holding the FSB soldier’s white fur cap, which had been retrieved from the backyard. “It looks like a concussion. His nose is broken.”

  “So, our stranger didn’t kill him.” Mikhailov studied the man and turned to the porch, thinking about the American operator. It would have been easy for a man of this skill level to have slain the guard. In fact, it was a risk not to. A scream or cry for help would have brought all of the guards with their AK-47s. And even after a successful escape, the injured guard might still remember some detail or important fact.

  I certainly would have killed him, thought Mikhailov. Until now, he had judged every move made by the American as one he would have chosen himself.

  “What did you see, Corporal?” Mikhailov actually knew the young enlisted man. He had served under him during a short combat tour in the Ukraine. The guard had handled combat with distinction and became an instructor in his unit for hand-to-hand combat.

  “A shape came out of the woods.” The guard tried to sit up. Clearly still dizzy, he lay back down. “He was taller than me.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “What of Ridges?”

  “He turned off his computer and said he was going to bed.” The guard looked up to his superior. His eyes were bloodshot and face red. It wasn’t from any drink. The blow to his throat had caused a welt.

  “Did you check on him?”

  “It was only a minute or two after he said that. I went outside for a second.”

  Mikhailov looked out through the open porch door. He saw the stain of yellow on the snow and realized why the guard had gone outside. He also noticed something else: a small drop of red had stained the spot where the snow had been churned up by the fight.

  “Your kn
ife?” He turned back to the corporal.

  “Yes, sir, I think I got him.”

  He handed the blade over to Mikhailov, who examined it in the light of the fire. It showed a streak of blood.

  “Where do the tracks go?” he called to the men in the back of the cabin.

  “They go out onto the lake.” The detail’s sergeant carried a radio, and the squawk of communications kept coming in over the air.

  “He’s gone, but let’s start here.” Mikhailov headed toward his car and radio.

  “This is Alfa Group commander.” He spoke to the operations center of the FSB, deep within the old KGB headquarters. “Is the Dozor up?”

  The sky had cleared and the drone should have been able to reach the cabin by now.

  “Sir, we have real-time coverage.”

  What are we looking for? he asked himself. The trail from here would be the start. His quarry had almost surely stolen a car. Since it was just after midnight, the theft would probably not be reported until daybreak.

  The guard sergeant came running to the car.

  “Sir, we followed the trail back to the east and to a closed cabin, where we found the tracks of a Lada.”

  “Good. It’s a start.”

  “We think it’s a four-wheel drive.”

  Mikhailov nodded. “He wouldn’t steal anything in this snowstorm that isn’t winter-ready.”

  The radio in the car buzzed with a transmission.

  “The drone is not responding to the location,” the duty officer at the operations center reported.

  Mikhailov stared out into the darkness; the temperature had already plummeted following the passing of the snowstorm.

  He can’t be that good.

  “Alert all the airports.” He paused for a moment. “And train stations.”

  Chapter 55

  Anchorage

  Darkness started to fall on Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage as the storm rolled in from the west. The Gulfstream was parked directly in front of the Ross Aviation operations center. Next to the jet, a Bell helicopter was tied down for what looked like the night. Its windows were already banked with snow.