by Ethan Jones
Maxim flinched. Her voice rang with a defiant tone, as if she was daring him to challenge Katin’s and the GRU’s supremacy. Maxim shook his head. That’s not what they told me at the meeting, and I won’t let anyone push me around. “I will do exactly that, Captain.”
“Wonderful, that’s why we picked you.”
Maxim grinned. “Again, I appreciate your confidence. Anything else I need to know before heading out?”
“What are your travel plans?”
“Leaving in four hours. Direct flight to Washington, landing at Dulles International Airport around 8:00 in the morning.”
“Perfect. Katin will meet you at the airport, and you’ll go straight to the safehouse. Now, Volkov and his associate have been detained.”
Her words caught Maxim by surprise. “When did that happen?”
“About three hours ago. There was a gunfight, and the police are investigating the shooting. Two team members suffered minor wounds, but they’re recovering well. We have a doctor there.”
Why didn’t she inform me about it? What else isn’t she telling me? Maxim shook his head. “Where are Volkov and the team now?”
“At a safehouse in Washington, waiting extraction.”
“Okay, I’ll leave as planned.”
“That’s all then—unless you have any questions?”
“No, it’s all clear.”
“Good. We’re counting on you to do this right.”
“I will, I certainly will.”
“Good luck.”
“Thank you. Have a good evening.”
Captain Kasparova ended the call, and Maxim gazed at the phone for a long time. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t told him everything. Why is she keeping me in the dark, if this is a joint op? Doesn’t she want me to succeed and bring Volkov back to Russia alive? But if the GRU wants him dead, they could have killed him during the op, couldn’t they? He shrugged and dialed Sasha’s number. Once he gets me something about Volkov’s background, things might become clearer…
Chapter Six
Outside Dulles International Airport
Virginia, United States of America
Maxim raised his hand to shelter his eyes from the bright sun that hit him as soon as he stepped out of the airport’s sliding doors. He thought Feliks would be waiting for him with the rest of the people crowded just outside the arrivals door. But, as he was walking toward the Customs and Immigration area, he received a short text message from Feliks: Meet me outside Arrival Door 7. Silver Land Rover. Maxim shrugged. The location didn’t matter to him.
He had gone through customs without too much trouble. The sleepy-eyed clerk behind the counter almost jumped to attention when he saw Maxim’s maroon-colored Russian passport. He seemed to be surprised, although over half of the passengers were Russian citizens. After all, the Aeroflot SU 104 flight came non-stop from Moscow. Maxim did his best to respond calmly and without any sign of irritation to the dumb questions the clerk was firing at him. It had been proven time after time that the screening at this point was completely useless. Unless the wannabe terrorist was such a total moron as to reveal himself, the entire process was a waste of time. People like Maxim had been superbly trained to know, anticipate, and respond to all questions and probing by customs and immigration clerks.
After his passport was handed back, Maxim retrieved his luggage—a large traveler’s backpack with four days’ change of clothes, toiletries, and other personal belongings to give the impression he was, indeed, coming to the United States for a short vacation—and made his way to the meeting point with his GRU partner. He walked down the long hall paying no particular attention to anyone, but observing and registering everything. The nearest exit, the closest security guard, who might be a real threat or a potential ally. He didn’t expect the FBI or any other law enforcement agency to be following him, at least not so soon after his arrival. He had never been in the country, and there was nothing suspicious about him.
Or at least so he thought.
He saw Feliks’s Land Rover through the glass windows. He had parked near a series of four modular concrete barriers set along the sidewalk to stop any vehicle from attempting to drive into the airport through the doors. They also call them Jersey barriers. How far is New Jersey from here? He tried some mental calculations, but couldn’t remember the exact distance. Maxim was familiar with most things American, the pop culture, the idioms, and the society, both from the cultural impact of movies, media, and the Internet, but also because of his studies during the FSB training. America was Russia’s archenemy. Most citizens of both countries might believe that the Cold War was over, and they might be right, at least in part. But Maxim knew better. A new Cold War was brewing, and, if anything went wrong, the new war would turn out to be much more horrible than the old one.
As soon as he stepped through the doors, Feliks started the SUV. Maxim blinked because of the sunrays. The air was cold, but thick with smoke from vehicles parked around them and a few people smoking while waiting to be picked up. He hurried his pace and slipped into the front seat. “Good morning.” He offered his hand to Feliks. “I’m Maxim.”
“Feliks. Good to meet you.” He had a vise-like grip of a handshake. “How was the flight?”
“Long. Boring. We were delayed when leaving, delayed when arriving.”
Feliks rubbed his goatee beard, then ran his hand through his black wavy hair. He put on his square-shaped sunglasses, then looked at Maxim. “What happened?” He turned the steering wheel and stepped on the gas.
“Not enough baggage handlers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. With so much unemployment and so many homeless, they can’t find enough people to do that job?
“Apparently so.”
“This country is so messed up.” Feliks cursed out loud.
Maxim shrugged. “What’s new?”
“About what?”
“Our operation…” What else?
“It’s status quo. Volkov and his associate are at the safehouse. We pick them up and take them to BWI. Once our plane is ready, we take off.”
Maxim nodded. The plan sounded simple enough, but nothing was ever that simple. He knew BWI was the Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport. The team was going to use a private jet “borrowed” from a Polish businessman with strong ties to Moscow’s political echelon and Russia’s intelligence services. “Who’s Volkov’s associate?”
Feliks slammed the horn as a tourist bus cut in front of him, then stepped on the brakes. “Watch it, you idiot.” Then he gave Maxim a look of disbelief. “Haven’t you read the most recent file?”
“Of course, I read the file.” Maxim tried to keep his voice neutral. “The woman’s name wasn’t there.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No, why would I say otherwise?”
Feliks shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you missed it.”
“I didn’t miss it. It wasn’t there. So give it to me…”
“Her name is Avelina Alexandrova.”
“Do you have a picture of her?”
“Not on me. You’ll see her when we get to the safehouse.”
“Who else is there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Our team. How many are there?”
“Four, that’s sufficient.”
Maxim nodded. “Yes, but once we reach the safehouse, we won’t need that much security. We’ve got to fly low. So we’ll take Volkov and Alexandrova and—”
“Wait a moment. She’s not authorized to fly with us.”
“What will happen to her when she’s left behind?”
Feliks lowered his sunglasses and glanced at Maxim with his large blue eyes. “I don’t know, and I couldn’t care less—”
“But I care. The orders are clear. We can’t have bodies turn up around Washington, DC or anywhere else in the States for that matter.”
“I was never informed of that.”
“Well, consider yo
urself informed. There are no other options for her. She can’t be eliminated here, and we can’t hold her indefinitely.”
“Of course we can.”
“Even if we could, it wouldn’t be wise. Sooner or later, we’ll have to deal with her permanently. It’s riskier to have her transferred through Canada or Mexico. We have a plan and a plane. So, she comes with us.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good—”
Maxim cut Feliks off. “It’s decided.” He made a dismissive gesture as if his words were not clear.
“Are you authorized to make such decisions?”
Maxim shifted in his seat. He was growing annoyed at Feliks’s constant defiance. “Stop the SUV.”
“What? Why?”
“Just stop. Right there.” Maxim pointed with his hand at the side of the road.
Feliks threw up his hands for a moment and turned on the signal light. He slowed down, then brought the Land Rover to a stop.
Maxim said, “Look, Feliks, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But there’s no need to act like a tough guy. I’m in charge of this op, whether you like it or not. And I am authorized to make all necessary decisions. If you can’t take that, get out of the SUV now.”
Feliks removed his sunglasses and locked eyes with Maxim. “You can’t throw me off like that…”
“I don’t want to, but I will, if you force me. We can’t fight among ourselves when we have a job to do. Is that clear?”
Feliks didn’t reply, and his eyes never left Maxim’s face.
A tense silence continued for another long moment, then Feliks nodded and looked away. “All right, the woman comes with us.” His voice sounded like it was his decision, but Maxim did not press any further. He needed Feliks, his experience, and the intelligence that he knew, considering the incomplete information in the GRU files and reports that Maxim had received.
Feliks started the car, and they drove in an uneasy silence for the next few minutes. Then, Maxim, wanting to thaw the ice-cold situation, said, “You’ve followed this case closely for the last few weeks, and you know the files front and back. Did you ever see anything to give you the impression Volkov might have a personal grudge?”
Feliks seemed to chew on his reply for a few moments. “Why do you ask?”
Isn’t it obvious? “Maybe that angle can help us understand why Volkov targeted those men.”
“Was there anything specific in the files?”
Maxim shook his head. He had studied some of the reports that Sasha had been able to secure in such short notice, but had found nothing to indicate Volkov was acting based on a personal vendetta. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Neither have I. There’s nothing personal about Volkov’s actions. He was a small cog in a large machine, which doesn’t function any longer in the manner and with the results to Volkov’s liking. So he’s taken upon himself to make things right. And they were GRU covert operatives, those brave agents you referred to as ‘those men.’”
“I meant no disrespect.”
Feliks shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you meant. We know for certain that Volkov is actively engaged in damaging our agency, its reputation and its people, along with the security of our country. For those reasons alone, he’ll be taken back to Russia to face punishment.”
“You sound very certain.”
“And you don’t…”
“I was just given this case, twenty-four hours ago—”
“Then you should listen to those who’re experienced, who know the files front and back…”
Feliks’s sarcasm burned, but Maxim decided to ignore it. He looked out the window at hotels and businesses along the highway, flashing by at a high speed. He glanced at Feliks, then at the speedometer. He was doing eighty miles an hour. Maxim smiled. At least, he’s got the speed right.
They drove for a little longer on the Dulles Access Road, then Feliks began to slow down as they came near Exit 828 leading to Weihle Avenue. He turned the steering wheel to the right and switched lanes.
Maxim said, “I thought we were staying on this road for most of the trip…”
“We’re meeting an asset, at a diner, just across from Lake Thoreau. Will not take long.”
Maxim sat up straighter in the seat as they drove past the Metro station. “What asset? For what reason?”
“Nothing to worry. He’s a detective we’ve turned. He’ll report to us about the police investigation.”
“This detour also wasn’t in the file.”
“You must have missed it.”
“It wasn’t there.” Maxim bit his lip, slightly regretting the rise in his voice.
“Are you receiving incomplete files?”
“Yes, that’s obvious, and it has to stop. Who is this man?”
“One of the officers investigating the shooting outside Volkov’s house. It has become very suspicious, considering neighbors reported gunfire, and the police found blood and cartridges, but no wounded people. And the residents of Volkov’s townhouse have disappeared without a trace.”
“How much can we trust this detective?”
“He hasn’t lied to us and has incriminated himself by divulging classified police information.”
“Could this be a trap?”
“Of course. Everything could be a trap. You could be working for the FBI.”
Maxim didn’t like the dirty look Feliks gave him when he said the last words. Maxim arched his brow, just like Feliks had done, then said, “So could you.”
“Right. So we’ve got to trust each other. I know this man. I’ve worked with him. I trust him.”
Maxim held Feliks’s gaze for another few seconds. Maybe you do trust him. The problem is … I don’t trust you…
Chapter Seven
Lakeside Café, Lake Thoreau, Reston
Virginia, United States of America
The diner resembled the ones Maxim had seen in movies depicting life back in the fifties and sixties. It had a black-and-white tiled floor, white plastic tables, and red chairs and booths. The dim lighting came from fluorescent lights mounted on the low ceiling. The diner was almost empty, with only three old men and a couple of burly construction workers in blue overalls with reflective yellow bands around their sleeves and backs sitting at the other end, near the counter. A single black man dressed in a grayish suit drinking coffee and finishing up his breakfast—bacon, eggs, and toast—was sitting two tables away from the door, in a booth.
Maxim guessed the detective was perhaps in his late forties, but no older than fifty, or fifty-two at the most. The detective, who Feliks said was named William Wright, gave them a disinterested look, as if they were going to ask him for spare change. How did the GRU get him to cooperate? Blackmailed him, most likely, Maxim thought.
Feliks slid into the booth without saying a word to Wright. Maxim did the same, but he offered a small nod. Wright studied Maxim’s face and slurped the last of his coffee. Before he could say anything, a young waitress appeared tableside. “A refill for Will?” she said in a bubbly voice.
“Sure, honey,” Wright replied in a booming voice. “Feliks, breakfast?”
“Sure, whatever you’re having.”
“Good choice,” the waitress said. “How about you, sir?”
“Coffee, black. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
Maxim shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Wright studied Maxim’s face. The detective had gray bushy eyebrows that matched his thick mustache. His grayish eyes were bloodshot, and he looked pale and unwell. Wright had broad shoulders and a spare-tire belly, and Maxim wondered how he could even fit in the tight booth.
“Your friend doesn’t say much,” Wright said to Feliks.
Maxim leaned closer and spoke in a soft whisper. “My name’s Maximillian Thornichinovich—”
“Thorn-a-what now?” Wright interrupted Maxim with a headshake. “No, no, no. That’s too long of a name. Ain’t nobody got time for that, son. How about we c
all you Max? That’s a good name. And for last name, Thorne.”
Feliks nodded. “Max Thorne. That’s a good name.”
Maxim smiled.
“Did I say something funny?” Wright’s voice sounded gruff, leaving no doubt that he wasn’t amused.
Maxim shook his head. “No, no. Your words reminded me of a friend, from back home. He said that if I ever came to America, people would shorten my name to Max Thorne. I like that. It has a good ring to it.”
“Well, it’s settled, then.” A smile appeared on his large face. He picked up half of a slice of toasted bread and used it to mop up the last crumbs of egg and bacon. He wiped his lips with his napkin, then said, “So, Agent Thorne, what can I do for you?”
Max glanced around. The nearest patrons were beyond earshot, but still he didn’t like Wright’s tone. His booming voice sounded much louder than it needed to be. “First, let’s keep our voices down—”
“They can’t hear nothing…”
Before Max could say another word, the waitress walked toward them. “Your coffee’s right here.” She set the cup on the table.
“Thanks,” Max said. He waited until the waitress had returned to the counter, then said, “Let’s be careful, very careful. Second, what’s the update on the investigation?”
“Yes, about that.” Wright lowered his voice to merely a whisper. “Detectives are still combing the area for witnesses and clues. Now they’re looking at security cameras that might have caught something. A license plate, someone’s face that can help with an ID.”
“Ballistics report?” Max asked.
“Too early for that. DC police doesn’t rush unless there’s a dead body. And there have been three homicides since this incident. Those take priority.”
Max nodded. The GRU crew were professionals, and they would have used clean weapons. Volkov and Alexandrova were pros too, but he couldn’t be certain. He had worked on cases when agents had been careless, or people had used a traceable weapon so as to leave clues on purpose.