Surface to Air

by Gérard de Villiers

  The Americans had a phobia about hostages, even in a country like Russia, Tolkachev knew. Every American citizen was sacred, especially one who had put his life on the line as a spy. And Russia was powerful enough to resist international pressure. The charge brought by the country’s attorney general would give the arrest a veneer of legality that should quiet any critics.

  Anyway, the Americans weren’t crazy. Even if they immediately realized it was a setup, they knew they would have to kowtow to the FSB if they wanted to get Soloway back.

  The exchange of spies in Vienna in July 2010 had created a precedent.

  It was a workable formula: no money, no betrayal, and nobody admitted fault.

  Feeling satisfied, Tolkachev lit one of his pastel cigarettes. He was pleased at the idea of getting Viktor Bout released. Bout might merely be an ex-GRU agent turned adventurer, but he was a Russian citizen.

  Besides, some Americans hadn’t realized that the Cold War had resumed, in more subtle shape. The Russians didn’t miss communism, but the United States still represented absolute evil, as it had in the days of the Soviet Union.

  Tolkachev took Bortnikov’s report and went to store it in his safe.

  It was dynamite.

  —

  Sukhumi’s saucy maid with the big breasts opened the door for Malko.

  “Gospodin Sukhumi isn’t here yet,” she said. “He phoned to say that he’ll be late. There’s another person waiting in the billiard room.”

  Malko knew the apartment’s layout. When he reached the billiard room, he immediately spotted Julia Naryshkin’s curly red hair.

  Sukhumi had phoned three hours earlier to invite him to dinner, saying he had something interesting to tell him. Malko hadn’t expected either Gocha’s lateness or Julia’s presence.

  “Good evening,” she said, turning around.

  She had changed her clothes and was now wearing a pair of jeans that looked sewed onto her. She still had no bra.

  She looked at Malko confidently as he approached, took her hand, and kissed it.

  Julia seemed pleased to see him.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” he said. “It’s a very nice surprise.”

  “For me too,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

  She was flirting with him, yet she didn’t have the profile of most oligarch girlfriends. There was no direct provocation, she clearly had a good brain, she was physically very attractive, and she had unmistakable inner strength.

  What makes her tick? Malko wondered.

  Theoretically, Gocha wasn’t the kind of man Julia would be attracted to, yet she was his mistress. Was it for money? He’d heard she was financially independent. Her connection with the Dagestani strongman was strange, too.

  While these thoughts were going through Malko’s mind, Julia reached in her purse and took out a business card.

  “I didn’t have time to give you this last time,” she said quite naturally.

  Malko pocketed it just as the front door slammed. Thirty seconds later Sukhumi came into the billiard room. He ran over to her, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close.

  “Dushenka! How pretty you’re looking!”

  Slyly, he ran one of his big hands over her rump. The young woman gently pulled away and said:

  “Your friend here has been waiting, too.”

  She hadn’t changed expression. A woman with perfect self-control.

  Sukhumi abruptly turned to Malko and said:

  “Come on. We have to talk.”

  Taking Malko by the arm, Sukhumi led him into the room he used as an office. It was piled with cartons of vodka and littered with files. A Kalashnikov with a charger stood in a corner.

  The Georgian kicked the door shut, dropped into a ratty old armchair, and lit a cigarette.

  “I saw somebody last night,” he said. “An old pal from before ‘the man with the birthmark.’ ”

  “So what did you hear?”

  “You were right. Something’s up.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know the details, but the big shots in the FSB are licking their chops. Apparently it’s a plan to screw the Americans, trap some FBI guy. They’re thrilled. They’ve never had an American in Lefortovo before.”

  “What do they have in mind?

  “I have no idea,” Sukhumi admitted. “We’ve only heard rumors, but it seems serious. I can’t ask any more questions, otherwise it’ll come back and bite me.”

  “Thanks, Gocha. I appreciate this.”

  Malko now found himself facing a dilemma. Should he warn the FBI about what was going on? If he didn’t, he became an accomplice to a Russian setup. If he did, the consequences could be even worse.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Malko flashed Sukhumi a grateful smile.

  “Thank you again, Gocha,” he said. “And now I think I’ll leave you with your girlfriend.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you having dinner with us?”

  “I can’t. I have to pass on your information.”

  Tom Polgar absolutely had to be told.

  Sukhumi wrested his bulk out of the armchair.

  “What do you think of Julia?”

  “She’s charming.”

  The Georgian snorted.

  “She’s a lot more than that, to have survived in Dagestan! Magomed, the guy she was with, he’s an animal, a killer. His pals, too. I think Julia enjoyed that.”

  “She had money,” said Malko.

  “Some, but she doesn’t give a damn about that. Something else turns her on.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Sukhumi. “I’m still trying to find out. But I can tell you one thing: she’s a volcano in the sack. When she’s in the mood, that is. Come on, you can say good-bye to her.”

  Julia Naryshkin was still there, playing with the billiard balls.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave,” said Malko, kissing her hand and looking her in the eye. If he didn’t already have her business card in his pocket, he would have been sorry to go.

  The moment he was outside, Malko switched on his encrypted BlackBerry and called Polgar. The station chief answered immediately, talking over a background hubbub. He wasn’t at the office.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Malko.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m at the Café Ararat. A cocktail party where I have to see some people.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Want me to send my car?”

  “I should be able to find a taxi. If I can’t, I’ll call you back.”

  Leaving the Kempinski, he walked a little way toward the bridge and raised his arm. A car driven by a woman pulled up, and Malko told her where he wanted to go.

  “That’ll be three hundred rubles,” she said.

  —

  When he stepped out of the elevator, Malko encountered a dense crowd on the Café Ararat’s terrace, which had a sweeping view of the Bolshoi theater and the city. As usual, there were plenty of gorgeous, haughty women, but they came with price tags. Looking around, Malko spied the CIA station chief deep in conversation with a fat man with glasses. Polgar quickly got free, and Malko led him over to a picture window.

  “Did you find something out?” he asked.

  Malko related Sukhumi’s information, and Polgar gave a low whistle.

  “Christ! I have to let Washington know.”

  “You could just step across the hall, Tom. The FBI is on the same floor as you at the embassy, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t have the guts to do that,” Polgar admitted. “Besides, what if they get suspicious? They’re so paranoid. I can’t tell them anything without approval from Langley.”

  “Suppose something disastrous happens in the meantime?”

  Polgar shrugged.

  “That’s their problem. The bureau guys screw things up on their own time, and they don’t tell us about it. If a life were at stake, I’d try harder
, but that’s not the case.”

  “Okay, but you’ve been warned,” said Malko. “I really wonder what the FSB is cooking up.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Polgar soberly. “And by the way, I doubt Langley’s going to let me talk to them.”

  “So what I did was pointless.”

  “Not at all! I’ll go back to the office this evening and draft a report, and date-stamp it. That way, they’ll know we figured out that the FSB was setting a trap.

  “If we talk to the FBI now, it’s sure to come back to haunt us. Knowing the bureau, they might even accuse us of plotting with the FSB. And we would have to reveal our sources, namely you and Sukhumi. God knows where that would lead.

  “Maybe this’ll teach those jerks not to launch these crazy sting operations. They could just go out and find some real terrorists, instead of inventing them. We even have some spares, but they won’t go after them.

  “The FBI guys are bureaucrats, not real field agents. In the States, they flash their badges and think they can do anything. They act like they’re above the law.”

  No doubt about it, Tom Polgar didn’t like the FBI.

  Malko heaved a sigh. He should have stayed at Gocha’s with the alluring Julia Naryshkin.

  —

  For once, Rem Tolkachev stayed at his office late. The day before, shaking with fever from a cold, he’d only been able to put in a couple hours’ work before heading home.

  He was eager for a bowl of borscht at the Kremlin’s Buffet Number 1, but first he had to go through the most recent documents delivered by the men in gray.

  A brief report from the Border Guards brought Tolkachev up short. It told of the arrival in Moscow of one Malko Linge, a CIA operative who had often visited Moscow in the past. According to the form, he was staying at the Kempinski Hotel.

  Tolkachev looked at the document thoughtfully. The name Malko Linge was all too familiar to him. The man had made several forays into Russia and wreaked a great deal of havoc. The secret services considered him an extremely dangerous, very professional adversary. The KGB and then the FSB had both recommended eliminating him, and had even tried, but without success. The thaw in relations between Russia and the United States had worked in Linge’s favor.

  In any case, major intelligence services very rarely killed each other’s agents, which could launch tit-for-tat reprisals. Mistakes were sometimes made in the heat of action, of course, but that wasn’t the same thing.

  Pensively, Tolkachev put down the Border Guards’ report. Linge’s presence in Moscow couldn’t be happenstance, and he was too experienced an agent to come here without a good reason.

  There was just one explanation: the CIA had gotten wind of the operation he was planning against the FBI. But how?

  The FSB’s request for information about Amritzar must have piqued the agency’s curiosity, and it sent its point man to investigate. The crucial question was: Could Linge derail the operation Tolkachev had designed?

  He carefully went over the operation in his mind. The trap was already set, and everything would be over two days from now. No matter how brilliant Linge might be, it would be impossible for him to interfere on the Russian side. Somehow he would have to get the information from his Moscow sources, and then warn the FBI.

  Just in case, Tolkachev wrote a brief note to the FSB’s Second Directorate, which tracked foreigners, ordering it to immediately start close surveillance of Linge.

  But then the old spymaster wondered if he wasn’t passing up an unexpected opportunity. After all, Linge was an enemy of Russia. Eliminating him could only be for the good. The trick was to dress it up so that it wouldn’t look like a murder.

  He rang for a man in gray and gave him the note. Then he switched off his office lights and headed for the buffet.

  This was no time for him to be sick.

  —

  Malko gazed at the Kremlin towers, fascinated as always by this symbol of power that had endured through the centuries. Traffic moved slowly below the high red-brick walls. They didn’t even look defended, and in fact the Kremlin grounds were open to the public.

  The ring of his cell made him jump.

  “I’m downstairs,” said Polgar.

  The station chief had ordered coffee and was looking at the almost empty lobby.

  “I thought I would hear from you sooner,” said Malko. It was almost six p.m.

  “Time difference,” said Polgar shortly. “It took Langley a while to think things over, and almost certainly consult with the White House.”

  “So?”

  “We don’t move. The agency feels that your information isn’t specific enough for us to alert the FBI. The bureau might think it was a setup on our part, which would kick off an endless round of administrative infighting.”

  Malko found the whole thing infuriating, but he held his tongue.

  “I’m positive Gocha is right,” he finally said.

  “Maybe, but we can’t reveal him as a source. It would put his life in danger.” Polgar shook his head. “We’re closing this one down, Malko. You may as well go back to your castle.”

  “But what if something really bad happens? Say an FBI agent is arrested or killed?”

  “Too bad,” said Polgar indifferently. “They screw up, they pay for it.”

  The station chief’s decision sounded final.

  “In that case I’ll leave as soon as I can get a flight. After stopping at Eliseevskiy to stock up on herring and red caviar, of course.”

  “Take your time,” said Polgar amiably. “The information you got is useful. We have it on record, so if something goes wrong, we can use it to underscore the FBI’s stupidity.”

  With friends like that…The two men fell into a rueful hush.

  This situation is insane, thought Malko to himself. The CIA is getting into bed with the FSB over a turf war!

  “I have to go,” said Polgar. “Let me know when you’re leaving town, and we’ll have lunch together. Officially.”

  —

  Malko was about to hang up when a woman’s voice said “Da?”

  “Is this Julia?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Malko Linge.”

  “How nice of you to call,” she said with a light, rippling laugh. “I was about to go out.”

  “Are you free for dinner?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m heading for Radio Moscow. I have a one-hour broadcast, so I’ll be finishing very late.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Malko. “I’d really like to see you again.”

  “So would I, but another time. How about tomorrow?”

  “Sure. What should we do?”

  “I live pretty far away. Why don’t I meet you at the Kempinski around seven?”

  “Perfect.”

  After a pause, she added:

  “Best not to mention this to Gocha. He’s very jealous.”

  She hung up before Malko could comment.

  He didn’t feel like spending the evening alone. Suddenly he thought of Alina Portansky, the paralyzed painter’s wife who had helped him so much during his last assignment. She had risked her life—and her virtue—to assist him.

  He found her number in his phone’s memory and dialed it, but a recorded voice announced that the number was no longer in service. This caused him a twinge of anxiety. Alina had stood up to the security services’ pressure and had refused to accept any protection.

  What had happened to her?

  He couldn’t leave Moscow without finding out.

  He knew generally how to get to the Portanskys’ place, but he couldn’t recall the name of their street.

  The Kempinski bellman called him a taxi.

  “I’m going to Petrovsky Boulevard,” Malko said to the driver. “I’ll tell you where.”

  A few moments later he said:

  “Stop here.”

  Malko had just recognized the little street where the Portanskys lived. He handed the driver four hundred
rubles and started walking.

  Another taxi stopped right behind him, and a husky man with a black watch cap pulled down to his ears got out. He looked right and left, as if getting his bearings.

  Malko turned onto the street, and walked around a Dumpster. A hundred yards on, he looked back and saw the man with the black cap again. He was now walking behind him, his hands in his pockets.

  Malko’s pulse picked up.

  There were no coincidences in Moscow, and Malko knew the secret services well enough to beware of them. When he reached the intersection of the street where Alina lived, he turned and sprinted down it as fast as he could.

  He wasn’t armed, and the man behind him certainly didn’t wish him well. Halfway down the street, Malko looked back to see the man round the corner and start running after him. Now the situation was unmistakable.

  Reaching the building door, Malko frantically punched in the apartment code, but it didn’t work. The heavy metal door was ajar, so he ran inside to the elevator and closed the cabin’s grill doors. The ancient mechanism lurched into movement as the front door flew open. The man in the watch cap ran toward the rising elevator, a long dagger in his right hand. He had hooded eyes in a pale, brutal face.

  He grabbed the elevator doors and tried to pry them open. Failing that, he stuck his knife through the grill, slashing around at random.

  The elevator rose with exasperating slowness. Meanwhile, the man turned and ran for the staircase. Malko’s stomach was in knots. If Alina had moved, he was doomed. Looking down, he could see the man sprinting up the stairs. When the elevator reached the fifth floor, the killer was on the third. Malko burst out of the elevator and ran to the Portanskys’ apartment door. Ignoring the keypad, he rang the bell.

  Once. Twice. Three times.

  The man was now just one floor below him.

  Malko glued his ear to the door, but heard nothing, then stepped back to see how close his attacker was.

  A creak made him turn around. The door was opening.

  CHAPTER

  12

  “Who’s there?” came a woman’s voice, low but firm.

  Wheeling around, Malko could see a woman in the shadows.

  “Alina, is that you?” He was gasping for breath.