by Kenneth Eade
An Involuntary Spy
Kenneth Eade
OTHER BOOKS BY KENNETH EADE
Brent Marks Legal Thriller Series
A Patriot’s Act
Predatory Kill
HOA Wire
Unreasonable Force
Killer.com
Espionage
An Involuntary Spy
To Russia for Love
Non-fiction
Bless the Bees: The Pending Extinction of our Pollinators and What You Can Do to Stop It
A, Bee, See: Who are our Pollinators and Why are They in Trouble?
Save the Monarch Butterfly
For my dear Valentina
The Love of my Life
When a lie becomes the truth,
The truth becomes a lie – Samm Simpson, GMO Activist
1
The headlines of every newspaper and every Internet news service ran the same story. His story; the story of Seth Rogan, 45 year old genetic biologist. Some were calling him a whistle blower. Others were calling him a traitor.
Society tends to put labels on everything and everyone. The label that is given to you will stick with you for a lifetime, especially in these days of the fledging Internet, which is swallowing up and replacing traditional journalism with real time news. The separation that once was between news and opinion has blurred and the two have bled into one another.
The president of the United States said he was wanted for “espionage” and “aiding our enemies.” Somewhere between his good intentions and unselfish acts he had become the “bad guy.” Espionage was always something that Seth had read about in novels or watched in the movies. He had never experienced it in real life. Until now. He didn’t feel like James Bond. He knew he couldn’t step off this Aeroflot nonstop flight from Washington to Moscow clean shaven, shoot ten bad guys who were on his tail, and then relax in bed with a beautiful female Russian spy, sipping on a vodka martini, shaken not stirred.
Seth fidgeted uneasily in his seat, as the Captain made an announcement over the PA system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. I’m afraid we have had bit of change of routing. We’re about 150 kilometers east of Kiev and have been directed by air traffic control to set down here. There is no cause for alarm – it’s only routine. After about an hour or so we’ll be back on our way to Moscow.”
The 777 lurched as the passengers moaned and groaned. They had already endured a long flight, preceded by a lengthy mechanical delay. They were tired. Tired of the bad food. Tired of the uncomfortable seats. Just plain tired.
No cause for alarm? Maybe not for them, but in Seth’s case there was definitely cause for alarm. The last time he had checked, the Soviet Union had long been disbanded, and Ukraine and Russia were separate countries. But, apparently, the Ukraine was now the 51st state of the United States, because the U.S. was forcing a Russian plane to land there. Seth’s heart beat as fast as a crack addict’s, almost thumping out of his chest. He clutched tightly to his briefcase, even though he had long since spilled all the beans by electronic upload. He held no more secrets on him to reveal – except one. The one without scientific backup and peer reviewed studies. The scariest one. The secret that he held onto to keep him alive. The plane began its descent into Kiev and with every air bump, Seth’s panic renewed. He became nauseous.
This was it. He was screwed. Doomed to spend the rest of his life in jail, or, even worse, to be shot on sight. Well, he deserved it for what he had done. Let the show begin.
Seth looked out the window at the cold, harsh landscape. It was barren and dry, a forest of a million tiny sticks. He tried to keep his mind clear. He knew what to do.
The plane touched down on the tarmac. The purser robotically performed her landings “voice over” on the PA system.
“Welcome to Kiev, ladies and gentlemen, where local time is approximately 6:30 a.m. We will be taxying for a while, so please keep seated with your seatbelts on until aircraft has parked at gate.”
Yeah, like Kiev was just where Seth wanted to be. How could this happen? He was so careful – he didn’t waste any time – got right out of there. How did they know he was on this plane? Russia didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States, and he had chosen Moscow as his route of escape. It was easy to get a non-stop flight from the states and the government didn’t tag you when you were leaving; only when you were coming into the states. He was naïve to think they would let him bolt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it will be necessary for you to deplane here. Please take all of your belongings with you, and hold on to your boarding passes so you can re-board aircraft. And please have passports out and open for police for inspection at door of aircraft,” said the purser.
The passengers fumbled for their belongings, and trudged down the aisle toward the front of the plane. Seth stayed put, clutching his briefcase. A cute blonde flight attendant came up to him, smiling.
“Sir you’ll have to deplane here. It’s only for about one hour.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sir?”
The poor flight attendant didn’t know what to do. Her smile faded into a frown.
“Please call the Captain.”
“Sir, please, I…”
“Call the Captain. I need to speak to the Captain.”
The flight attendant, flustered, went to the intercom phone and picked it up. Within minutes, as the plane continued to empty, a pilot approached.
“Sir, what is the problem?”
“Are you the Captain?”
“I’m the first officer. Now are you going to tell me why you refuse to leave the aircraft?”
“It’s me they’re after. I’m the reason they forced the plane to land here. My name is Seth Rogan and I’m a political refugee. I’ve petitioned for asylum from the Russian government, and the Ukraine has nothing to do with it. I won’t surrender to anyone but a representative of the Russian Embassy.”
“Sir, I…”
“Did you hear what I said?” Seth clutched at his briefcase, nervously.
“Sir, what is in the briefcase?”
“Call the Russian Embassy. Seth Rogan. I’m not leaving the plane except with them. I’m not coming out. Period.”
The First Officer turned and left. Now the plane was almost entirely empty. After a few moments, he returned with another pilot.
“Sir,” he said, “I’m Captain Davidoff. I understand you have some kind of diplomatic issue. But can you tell me what is in the case?”
“Have you called the Russian Embassy?”
“Yes we have, sir. Now can you please tell me what you have in there?”
“Why are you so curious?”
“Because, sir, the way you’re holding it. And sweating – you look very nervous.”
“You’d be nervous too if you were about to be taken by the CIA.”
“CIA? Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but…”
“Of course you don’t. I’ll leave your plane, but only with an official from the Russian Embassy.”
The Captain turned to talk to his First Officer and spoke to each other in Russian.
“Is the crew off?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m not getting off until I find out what’s going on.”
“I’m with you.”
Two armed police, accompanied by a man in a gray business suit, Jack Singer, one of the CIA’s men in Kiev, approached them. He spoke.
“What is your name?” he asked. Typical American accent, Midwest probably.
“What’s yours?” said Seth, facetious
ly.
“That’s not important. May I see some identification sir?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What happened to it?”
“It fell in the toilet.”
Singer turned to one of the armed policemen and ordered, “Go look in the toilet.”
The Captain interrupted. “Nobody is going anywhere in my plane without asking me first.”
“Sir,” said Singer, “This is a matter of national security.”
“Which nation?” Seth chimed in. “I didn’t know the United States government had the right to force a plane down in international airspace.”
“Neither did I,” said the Captain. “This is a Russian plane. And that’s not what I was told. What’s going on here?”
“I’m sorry Captain, I can’t tell you. It’s on a need to know basis,” said Singer.
“Well I happen to be the pilot in charge and I need to know. I’m responsible for this plane and everyone on it.”
“Captain, this is not about you. Sir, I’m asking you again, what is your name?”
“Don’t you know?” Seth replied. “I’m Barney Rubble, you know, Fred’s best friend?”
“I don’t think you realize sir, you are in a lot of trouble.”
In Russian, a voice from the front of the plane boomed out, “I don’t think you realize, Jack that the CIA has no jurisdiction here and this man is under my protection.”
The voice was from Yuri Streltsov, a strapping young Russian man, about 30, with a neck so thick it looked like his head was directly attached to his shoulders, biceps like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and not the best command of the English language.
“Hello Yuri,” said Singer.
Yuri flashed his badge at the police and they nodded.
“Let’s go Barney,” Yuri said, as he made a sweeping motion with his hand for Seth to come. Singer smiled slyly at them as they exited the plane.
“You may be able to walk through this airport, Yuri, but I can’t guarantee you safe passage once you leave,” said Singer.
“Oh Jack, I didn’t know you cared,” said Yuri.
“What did he mean?” said Seth to Yuri.
“He means they have team of assassins waiting outside and they have no problem killing me along with you because after we are dead they will disappear and our bodies will never be found.”
“Great. But you have men too, right?”
“Just me.”
“Just you?”
“Don’t worry. Here, put this on.”
Yuri handed him a heavy gray vest with straps, like a life jacket.
“What’s that?”
“Bullet proof vest.”
2
As they exited the plane, Yuri made it clear to the police to back off – this was not their affair. But Seth looked back and could see Jack Singer on his radio, and it didn’t look like he was calling his guys to tell them they lost the game. He had no reason to trust this Yuri Streltsov, but his choices were limited; liberty, albeit temporary, or death. He chose liberty.
Just outside the jet way, Yuri shoved Seth through a door with a red “circle sign” on it that Seth supposed meant, “No entry,” or something like it.
“Can you run?” Yuri said.
“I’m still trying to put this vest on.”
“You wanted to be spy, learn to multi-task.”
“I never wanted to be a spy. I just wanted to warn people of…”
“We talk later. Have to go now.” Yuri grabbed Seth by the shoulders, buckled on the vest, then gave him a push. “Run!”
And Seth ran. Following Yuri, he ran as fast as he could. He ran so fast he could feel the stinging sweat pouring into his eyes. Through one door, then another, down one set of stairs so fast his feet barely brushed each step, then through a tunnel. Finally, they smashed through a set of double doors and Seth felt the shock of the cold, outside air filling his lungs. But only for a second, as he was thrown into an already moving black Mercedes, head first, like a criminal under arrest or a kidnap victim.
Yuri jumped in next to him, gun in hand, and the Mercedes took off, through the parking lot and out the gated exit. The driver accelerated as the man next to him began yelling something in Russian. He looked panicked.
“What is he saying?” asked Seth.
“He says they are after us.”
Seth looked in the rear window, but didn’t see anything unusual. “How does he know?”
“Look.”
Just then not one, but two cars emerged from the parking lot, the first one breaking through the gate arm, and the other right behind it. They were both swerving in and out of the line of traffic like maniacs, which is what their own driver was now doing.
“We will be at Embassy in ten minutes,” said Yuri.
“Can’t we call the police – for backup?”
“Look, Seth, you are not very good spy, are you? Police have no official business to stop us, but they are not going to help us. Once we get to Embassy, Russian Special Forces – Spetsnaz – they will be all backup we need.”
“Why don’t they come now?”
“This is Ukraine, no longer same country as Russia. On Embassy ground is only place they can act.”
The pursuing car behind them on the right, a black Mercedes jeep, sped up to catch them, and played a game of tag with their car, which lurched forward to avoid being pinned.
“Windows are bulletproof, but get down anyway,” yelled Yuri. Seth obeyed.
Their driver swerved evasively, as the pursuing jeep caught up. The driver of the jeep motioned angrily for them to pull over. Then the guy in the passenger side of Seth’s car pulled his gun out, rolled down the window and fired back their answer.
“What’s going on?” asked Seth, hearing the gunshots, and peeking out of his hiding place.
“He tries to shoot tires.”
The pursuing jeep swerved, and its occupants shot back multiple shots, which Seth could hear pinging against the metal sides of their car.
Yuri pushed Seth down further behind the driver’s seat, yelling “Get down!” and rolled down his window, shooting at the jeep. One shot, two shots, then the third blew out the jeep’s left front tire and the jeep lost control, hurling into oncoming traffic. Most of the cars swerved out of the way like a synchronized swim, but a truck hit the rear side of the jeep, sending it into an uncontrolled spin, and another car smashed into its passenger side, completely crushing the jeep and most likely its occupants. The second pursuing car, a silver Mercedes sedan, was stuck behind the resulting jam.
“What happens when they find dead CIA agents in that jeep with guns?” said Seth, rising from his hiding place.
“All will be clean. There will be no guns, no agents. Just American tourists involved in traffic accident,” said Yuri.
Just as it seemed they were out of danger, the silver Mercedes emerged, and pushed itself up on the shoulder of the road, away from the jammed up cars.
“They’re back,” yelled Seth.
Their driver accelerated, weaving through cars, making evasive moves.
“How many times do I say get down!” said Yuri, and pushed Seth down again. “We are almost there.”
The silver Mercedes was again on their tail. Seth’s driver floored it, swerving into the right lane, and almost hitting the car in front of them. He came right up on the rear bumper of another car, hits the brakes, downshifts and powers around it.
“Embassy is here,” said Yuri.
One more screeching sharp right turn, and they were at the gates of the Embassy, which was opened by two Spetsnaz soldiers. The gates closed behind them, and the pursuing silver Mercedes rolled by slowly.
Yuri was an agent of the Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB. His assignment was Seth – to keep him alive, deliver him to Russia and monitor his ongoing safety pending the decision on his application for asylum. So far, it was a task he had not failed. As their Mercedes entered the grounds of the Russian Embassy, several armed gu
ards took their watch posts behind it. A steel garage door opened and closed behind the Mercedes and Yuri ushered Seth inside.
Yuri took Seth into a waiting room. The room, and the entire building, was a classic throwback to the days of Imperial Russia. Original oil paintings hung from the richly wallpapered walls, framed by wood cornice. Seth sat down in one of the classic cushy French armchairs that ordained the room. He was offered water by a beautiful Ukrainian brunette, which he gladly accepted.
After gulping a fair share of water, Seth was led in to the ambassador’s office. The ambassador, a man in his early 60’s with graying hair, met Seth with outstretched hand. “Good morning, Mr. Rogan, I am Gregori Petrov, the ambassador to the Ukraine.”
“Good morning.”
“I know that Kiev was not your final destination, but we would like to welcome you here just the same.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. It seems I owe you my life,” said Seth.
“Gratitude is not necessary. Your safety is of utmost concern to us. On the other hand, your government seems intent to harm you, Mr. Rogan. Have you decided what to do with your documents?”
“First, I want to make sure the public knows the dangers of genetically engineered foods and how the government allowed them into the market despite the danger.”
“And the other matter?”
“That I have not decided yet. Can you tell me the status of my petition for asylum?”
“That is being considered by the president himself right now. But we have been instructed to give you safe passage to Russia and to protect you during your stay there. Mr. Streltsov will be your point of contact and I can assure you, he is very good at what he does.”
“I have seen that.”
“You will dine with me tonight, here at the embassy, and we have prepared one of the apartments for you for your brief stay with us. Tomorrow, we will escort you to the airport for your flight to Moscow with a full diplomatic motorcade of security.”
“Thank you.”
The Russians had always been the enemies to Seth as long as he had known, although the U.S. never had the war with them that everyone had anticipated. They had always been the enemies in every movie, and he remembered one day in high school when the entire school was ushered into the gym for an assembly, where they were lectured on the dangers of the “evil empire.” “Their newspaper is called Pravda, which means truth,” they had said, “but it’s filled with lies.” Seth had no reason to trust his new protectors, but his choices were limited to them and them alone at this point. He had willingly placed himself, ironically, in the hands of the enemy.