by Ian Miller
When they made the phone call, what they did not know was that the FSB was monitoring all phones that they were likely to use. Accordingly, they had the contact for the backup team. They heard the conversation, then when the men were approaching the car to go back to Ufa and then return to wherever they lived, they were arrested. The charges were far more serious than having a defective tyre, which, as it turned out, was not actually illegal anyway. The submachine guns were collected, and it was noted they were American made, and while the submachine guns themselves were illegal, the American origin was somewhat of a give-away.
In Ufa, Colonel Maslov was happy. He arranged for each person to be put in a separate cell, and he interviewed each one separately. As he told them, they had to choose from one of three futures. The first was execution, and if they refused to tell him anything of interest, that would follow, but there was no guarantee it would be either swift or pleasant. The second was imprisonment with the strict regime. That was theoretically survivable, and that would follow if they gave him information that he already knew. The third future was imprisonment, but in conditions that were as pleasant as would be found in the Russian system. That would be theirs if they gave him information that he did not know, and if they gave him the names of other American agents, the prison sentences would be drastically reduced. They could choose. On their second interview he would accept any information as unknown to him if he did not know it before these interviews. He promised to be honest about this, but of course they would have to trust him. By the third interview, if they were to tell him anything that someone had already told him, that would no longer qualify as unknown.
If they elected to hold out, since they were going to die anyway, they would be treated with various chemicals to see if they could be more forthcoming. Their only chance to ever return to a normal life would be to talk, and the sooner they obliged, the better.
It was not long before the information started to flow.
* * *
Nothing further happened to the van. Burrowes' warning had finally got through. Unfortunately for the backup team, the FSB had their location from the telephone call, and very soon they knew the identity of one of them. This team had four members, and at the end of the following day, two had been arrested. The names of the others were known, but they seemed to have disappeared. Meanwhile, Maslov had FSB agents out to arrest anyone who had come into contact with the manganese issue.
* * *
Nadezhda Sobchak had spent the day and evening at Solnechnyy, and she was driving home when her second mobile gave a ring. Her heart jumped. This was a phone that was regularly prepaid from Leningrad, and was to be used only in emergency. She decided to pull over and look at it at the next place where she could leave the road. The first text was clear: the treatment for her cat Boots had been successful and she could pick up the cat from the veterinary clinic at six that evening. There was a second text: the kittens had a new home.
She did not own a cat called Boots and there were no kittens. That was a clear signal that she should leave the country. Since the call was not a local call, it was equally clear that if the FSB picked up the message, they would know it was a warning, and if the call came from the American Embassy, they would know she was a spy. She swore, but acknowledged there was nothing she could do about it now. Fortunately, she had a backup plan. The second text would be from her husband to let her know he was running, and had the children. Neither knew any details of the other's escape plans so that neither could betray the other if they were caught. Her husband had the children simply because he was home and she was out of town when the call came.
She had an alternative place, a shed outside a farm that the farmer had let out to her for an outrageous sum. She took the sim card and battery from the phone and threw all three out the window and into a drain, then she drove to the farm, praying that she would not be arrested first. Luck, and management were on her side. First, the text gave no clue as to who she was, and since she had answered it promptly they had not had time to track her location. The second text was more of a problem, and she had to hope her husband had sent it from somewhere other than their apartment.
She drove the car into the shed and locked the door, then put padding around the gaps, then after blocking off the window, she turned on the light. She covered the windows of the car with polythene sheet then took her supply of spray paint and converted it to a rather dull beige.
The fumes were awful, but she had to persist. When finished, she turned off the light and opened the door again. She took some canned rations, and went outside to eat. The one thing she had found was the Americans were good at supplying what she needed. The food was not exactly fine dining, but at least it was filling. Her next move was to dye her hair with the dye that had the colour that would match the passport she would use.
She went back inside, and as the fumes had died down, she shut the door, protected the cracks again, and turned the light back on. There was now a decision to make. How would she get out of Russia?
The easiest way was to fly, but from where? The closest international airport was Voronezh, but since she lived in that city, that would be the hardest to get through without being identified.
Her best chance if she wanted to fly, she thought, was to try Belgorod. There were international flights from there, and some to Sharm El Sheikh. That would probably attract the least attention. There were not a lot of flights, so she should check the timetable. There were other destinations, such as Turkey, but there would always be the question when exiting at the airport, why do you want to go there? The one big advantage of Sharm El Sheikh was that the obvious answer, sun and the beach, did not need an excuse.
The alternative was to try to walk across a border. There would be clear crossing points but it would take time to get to them, and she was aware that there had been a previous attempt at getting to Kharkiv from Belgorod, and that part of the border would be the most protected, assuming they were really looking for her. Perhaps the most telling point was that if she took the fuel from this shed and filled her tank, she had enough fuel to get to Belgorod, but she could not get much further without refuelling, and that could alert the FSB where she was going.
The Sharm El Sheik option looked the best. It was the one recommended by the Americans, and they had provided her with an alias and a passport with the listed name Serovna Nadezhda Yegorovna. The idea was to keep the same initials, apart from the G, but they thought that Nadezhda Gennadievna might be too much of a give-away. The Nadezhda was kept because it was important to be able to respond properly to a friendly comment, and it was a fairly common name anyway. More importantly still, they had provided a computer that would take her to a site in Belgorod through which both tickets and a one-week hotel booking could be made and prepaid, and it was capable of perfectly printing the documents she needed. There was also an envelope with Egyptian currency and a credit card under the alias. Finally, she had a couple of large beach towels, a sun hat, a bikini, sunglasses, and a lot of sunscreen. These should be carried onto the aircraft, if for no other reason than to be seen at the border control in Belgorod.
Nothing was failsafe, but she decided to try the Belgorod exit. Her next step was to take off the number plates from her car and put on replacement ones from Belgorod. These had a number corresponding to a genuine car in Belgorod that matched the description of her repainted car. If she got away with this, someone could be the proud possessor of an additional car. Satisfied with what she had done, she decided to try to sleep. Tomorrow would be a big day.
The following morning, although she had had very little sleep she was up early, to have breakfast and a toilet stop at an outside toilet at the farm before anyone on the farm was up. The next task was to tie her hair back in a bun as was in the passport photo, and to put on the glasses. Her eyes were fine, but these had plain lenses and made her look quite different from her normal look. Then she loaded her car and headed out to the A144 before the sun was up. Driving he
re alternated between being boring and tense. Her strategy was to join a truck convoy that would start early and hope any roadblock would not bother the truckies. As it happened she was in luck. The Voronezh police had been told to set up a road check, but they had not got around to it yet. The first police vehicle was just pulling off the road when Nadezhda drove past.
She anxiously watched in her rear vision mirror. Would the police car give pursuit? He did not. Either he had not seen her, or had not bothered. He was not looking for a beige vehicle, and her model was very common. She drove on through the rolling countryside until finally she turned off onto the P189. Progress was good, but only two of the trucks followed her. They pulled off for a rest stop at Gubkin, and she wondered about this. In the end, she also stopped, purchased something to eat and drink, put the purchases in a bag, then made use of some rest rooms. She was just emerging from the rest room when she saw a police car pull up and two officers enter the cafeteria. She waited until she was sure they were not looking, then she strode purposefully to her car. Just then, the policemen came out and walked towards their car.
It was impossible to head directly towards Belgorod without going past them, and having started her car she had to do something. She felt strained, but she tried to look as normal as possible. She got back on the road and headed towards the nearby Stary Oskol. In her rear view mirror she saw the police car come her way. This was a problem she did not need. As the police car came closer, she saw there was no traffic coming the other way, and there was a left hand turn into what seemed like a small residential zone. She signalled clearly. Now was not the time to be apprehended for a driving offence.
She turned into Narodnaya Ulitsa and drove carefully onwards. Her heart nearly missed a beat as the police car also turned. She turned left onto Gastello, and continued to drive carefully within the speed limit. She then breathed a sigh of relief. The police car continued along Narodnaya. For some reason, it had business here.
Now what? If she turned and went back on the road to Belgorod, all would be well as long as the police car did not turn around, which it might do if it had got the directions wrong. On the other hand, if she parked, and the car came along, she would be just as suspicious. She decided to give it five minutes. If the police took exactly that long to do whatever they were doing, she was clear out of luck, but she could argue the people she went to see were out. She drove along Kooperativenaya Ulitsa until she saw a house where there were no clear signs of occupation, then she took its number. She stopped, and when she checked that nobody was looking, she refilled her tank from the cans in the boot. That should get her to Belgorod; if it did not, she had a little more. Then she headed back towards the highway to Belgorod.
After all, she had a car registered in Belgorod. She had come out for the day, and it was a waste of time.
And while she had time, she did not have an excess of it, as she had a flight to catch that evening. At least the P189 was two lanes each way, so driving was easy. The sun was just going down when she reached the interchange where the P185 turned off to the North of Belgorod, and this was also the route to the airport. When she took the second interchange, she breathed a slight sigh of relief. The easiest way to stop her would have been a roadblock, but there was still the airport.
She drove into the airport zone and sought the secure parking lot. She did not care a hoot who stole her car, but the secure parking lot would give her a receipt, and that receipt would be useful for persuading doubters that she intended to come back. She purchased a week of parking, then she left the key in the glove box and stepped out.
There was a possible shuttle to get her to the airport proper, but since it was important that she looked a bit ditzy when it was time to check in and emigrate, she wanted to run. She grabbed her large sunhat, grabbed her bags, and made as quick progress as she could. Her nerves rose when she offered her ticket. There was the inevitable request for her passport, and as she got that out of her bag, she made sure that her parking receipt was visible. The receptionist had no problem, and took her large bag.
Now the emigration zone. There were the inevitable questions. Why was she going? The beach, obviously. She dropped her bag "accidentally" and made sure once again the parking receipt was seen, and she showed the prepaid hotel chit. There was a call for boarding of her flight, so she looked worried. The official looked at her a little more closely, checked his computer, but nothing was wrong so he stamped her passport and wished her a happy vacation. She looked as if she was terrified of missing her flight as she darted off, and the official shook his head. They always let latecomers on. The fact was, though, that this was an easy act to do; she most certainly did not want to miss this flight.
Her nerves were on edge, even as she entered the aircraft. She was only too well aware that she could be hauled off at any time, and the aircraft could always be required to return, even when in flight, however she did breathe somewhat easier as the aircraft door was closed and the aircraft began taxiing across the runway. She felt even better when they were finally airborne.
When she disembarked, she could not resist breathing much easier, and she knew she was there. The air was so hot and dry. Her passport was quickly stamped with a one-week's visa, and concern returned. What would happen if she overstayed? What was she to do next?
The bus to the hotel seemed remarkably bumpy, but the hotel had air conditioning. She went to her room and flopped down on the bed. She was so close to being safe, but she was too tired to care.
The following morning, and after not very much sleep, she got up and went to breakfast. She finished that and returned to her room, to find an envelope on her bed. There was a simple message. Enjoy a week's holiday. Your next tickets will arrive by the end of the week. She was free. Then there was the question of her husband, and the two children. Would they make it? What would happen if they did not?
Chapter 36
"Look," Rhonda started. "I know you have no reason to –"
"Forget it," Burrowes interrupted. "If we're going to work together, let's forget what happened, at least until this is all over."
"Fireworks are reserved," Rhonda said with a sigh.
"The question is," Burrowes said, ignoring the jab, "What now?"
"Do you have any preferences?"
"Yes. I want to interview the woman who probably saw McKenzie's burglar."
"Any reason?"
"There aren't very many people who know about this torpedo," Burrowes explained, "and I have photos of each of the ones who I know might have known."
"It could have been a Russian agent," Rhonda warned.
"Yes, I know, and if it were, the plans are probably back in Moscow already, but it is equally possible that the theft was for money."
"How would they make money? This is not exactly marketable –"
"Not even to the Russians?
"I suppose, but why do you think it wasn't the Russians?"
"Honestly, I don't know it wasn't, but Svetlana didn't act as if she knew about it. I know that's not much, but then there's the second reason."
"Which is?"
"It's the only option we can chase that has a chance of recovering the documents. Basic strategy: the chances are not good, but it's the only choice that gives any chance of success, so I say we should take it."
"Fair enough. Let's get started."
* * *
The woman was quite voluble, but at first, not very helpful. However, she was convinced there was only one person involved. Burrowes showed her the photos, one by one, and she looked bored, then suddenly, she paused. "That could be him," she announced.
"Are you sure?" Rhonda asked.
"I said 'could'," came the crusty reply.
"Thank you," Burrowes said, and started to walk away.
"You don't want to ask her more?" a slightly irritated Rhonda asked as she caught up with him.
"She doesn't know any more. In fact she's not sure she knows that much," he countered, "but this gives us a li
ne of approach."
"And who is it?"
"Dennis."
"Who's Dennis?"
"That's becoming a more interesting question by the minute," Burrowes said. "He works, or worked, for Rutherford, and he's the guy you lot had me and Svetlana working for."
"So you think Rutherford's playing with the other side?"
"I have no idea. I thought Rutherford had a private financial war going on with Irving Goldfinch, but I suppose we cannot rule out something else."
"So, why don't we go around and ask him?"
"I agree entirely," Burrowes said, "although if he were working for the Russians on the side, I guess he's hardly likely to tell us."
It was a very strained silence as Rhonda drove them to where Burrowes had worked for Rutherford. As the approached the building, Burrowes noticed there were no cars parked there.
"Not a lot of work going on here," Rhonda noted as she parked closest to the door.
"No, and you've chosen the boss's allocated parking spot," he said.
"In the odd event he turns up, he can walk a few extra yards," Rhonda said with a shrug.
They got out, and Burrowes keyed in the numbers to open the door. They walked in, to find the lights were out. There was enough daylight that visibility was easy, but it was an indication that nobody was likely to return that day.
They walked to Svetlana's desk. The computer was asleep, but was left where she had seemingly been working prior to leaving for lunch. If she had returned, it was not to work. They searched her desk, but found nothing of note. They then searched Dennis' desk. There was paper everywhere. Dennis had obviously been doing research, but what on? The paper was largely covered with numbers.