by Dale Brown
The young woman’s face blanked. She was a pretty girl, he realized for the first time, very pretty. The glare of the overhead fluorescents shaded her skin so that it looked like the shade of a pale rose, accentuating her eyes. Those eyes narrowed slightly as he stared.
She nodded. “Good,” said Chelsea. “When do we start?”
“Tonight.”
16
Crimea, Occupied Ukraine—the same day
Gabor Tolevi was not a big fan of Grozny Avia, a Russian-owned airline best known for its harrowing flights in and out of places like Chechnya. But Armenia—even Tolevi wouldn’t try Chechnya—was the only way to get into Crimea from the West without going to Russia, and Grozny Avia was the only airline, at the moment, connecting it to the recently annexed “free state” of Russian-occupied Crimea.
Getting to Armenia itself wasn’t easy; flights from Turkey had recently been canceled, and Tolevi had to fly all the way to Dubai before connecting.
Despite the labyrinthine route, both flights had been way overbooked. In danger of being bumped from the Grozny flight, Tolevi had contemplated bribing the gate clerk, a not-uncommon tactic. He’d ultimately decided against it, deciding it would demonstrate beyond doubt that he was either a spy or a smuggler, and it was always best to leave such issues in doubt. As it turned out, he had kept his seat; he received two large kinks in his neck and shoulder as a reward.
Tolevi exchanged scowls with the steward and left the aircraft, eyes straight ahead as he walked up the jetway. Even before the takeover, flights were routinely monitored by the Russian intelligence agency known by its initials as SVR RF, and Tolevi had no doubt that his arrival was noted by several other intelligence agencies as well. Hiding in plain sight was his only option, and one he was supremely good at; while he had access to phony passports and other IDs, he had left them home for this trip. It was generally safer to do so.
Besides, one could find things of that nature in any country of the world.
Tolevi made his way through the terminal to the taxi stand, where a chaotic jumble of private cars and a few older vans crowded out the two licensed taxis that were trying to reach the queue. Tolevi cut to the back of the mélange, knowing from experience that the easiest way to leave the airport was to find a private car that was just arriving; using Ukrainian, he told the driver in a small, slightly battered Fiat that he was going to Perov, a suburb a few miles south of the airport. The man suggested a price in rubles.
“Fifty euro,” answered Tolevi, switching to English and not only bumping the price in the man’s favor but offering a currency far surer and more valuable.
It was also a test of sorts, which the driver passed, agreeing in broken English to provide “best service quick trip.”
“I don’t care about the speed,” said Tolevi in Russian.
“Da,” said the man. “Yes. We go.” He didn’t pronounce the words well; clearly it was a second language.
Another test passed.
Tolevi settled back in his seat, observing the man and the car. When they were outside the confines of the airport, Tolevi leaned forward and told the man, in Ukrainian, that he had changed his mind and wanted to go instead to Yalta, on the southern coast.
“Yalta,” said the man, feigning surprise, but not very well.
“For two hundred euro,” said Tolevi.
The driver considered the offer, then began a long harangue about how difficult it would be for him to find gasoline for the trip back. Tolevi let him talk, uninterrupted.
“What do you think?” asked the man finally. “Three?”
“Two hundred,” said Tolevi. Two hundred euro was an excellent price, and the man should have no problem finding fuel in Yalta.
“Yes, OK, good price,” said the driver.
Yalta was roughly an hour and a half away. The first half of the drive was a slog through the mountains. Tolevi’s fatigue was no match for the driver’s recklessness, the small car spending so much time on the left-hand side of the road that Tolevi began to think the man had learned to drive in England. The second half of the journey paralleled the coast and was considerably calmer, but by then Tolevi was not only wide awake but also brooding on what he would do in Yalta.
He had the driver take him directly to the Embankment, Yalta’s fashionable tourist strip on the harbor. After paying the man off, Tolevi went directly into Tak, a popular restaurant that had catered to wealthy Ukrainians from the west and north before “liberation.”
The hostess looked first at the bag he was wheeling behind him, then at his jeans, which were fairly new, his sport coat, which was not, and lastly at his face. The puzzled frown she’d worn exploded into a smile; with a burst of laughter she came out from behind the small podium and embraced him.
“Cousin, cousin, what are you doing here?” she said, practically shouting.
“I needed a rest.” He hugged her for a long moment, then gently pushed her back. “Anna, you are gaining weight.”
“What? What?” She twirled around, as if looking in a mirror.
“No, I’m teasing.” It was an old joke between them. Anna weighed ninety pounds, if that. Standing at five-eight without heels, she looked like a toothpick.
“Where is Drovok?” he asked.
“Where is he ever? In the back, as always. Did he know you were coming and didn’t tell?”
“No. It’s a surprise for him as well. Sshh now, don’t ruin it.”
Tolevi left his suitcase near the register and went through the restaurant to the kitchen, wending his way past the prep station and the stoves to the alcove at the back, where Jorge Drovok was hunched over a small table. He had two laptops open, and a Microsoft Surface; he clutched a satellite phone to his ear. Tolevi started to tiptoe, but Drovok looked up at the last moment, ruining the surprise.
“Gabe!”
Drovok jumped up to embrace his cousin, then went off to fetch a bottle of vodka. They spent a few minutes catching up on various acquaintances. Then, two drinks down, they got around to business, discussing how and when they would import several shipments of this same liquor. They always spoke of vodka, though most of the shipments included other items. Smuggled caviar and pickled fish were especially lucrative when going west, but the real money came the other way—the European embargo made smuggling food into Russia and its patsy state, Crimea, a very profitable activity. Drovok got a percentage for his work arranging the boats that brought the goods ashore; lately his share had been whittled down because the payoffs were increasing. Where once every fifth or sixth official had a hand out, now it was every other.
“I can talk to my partners, but there are limits,” said Tolevi. “They keep talking about Sevastopol, going in through there.”
“The bribes there are worse. And there would be no one for you to trust.”
“I don’t take their side. I’m just saying.”
“Another vodka?”
“Just. Then I go.”
“How’s your daughter?” asked his cousin when Tolevi finished his drink.
“Good, very good.”
“I see the photos on Facebook. She looks more like her mother every day.”
“Yes.” Tolevi felt a sudden wave of emotion. He clasped his hands around his cousin quickly, then went back out into the kitchen, turning down the hall and grabbing a dark workman’s coat before exiting into the alley at the back of the building. Walking quickly, he stepped out to the street, then crossed the road and went down a block before going toward the water.
Tolevi might or might not have been followed from the restaurant; it was simply safer to assume that he was. And he didn’t want to be followed now.
The Russians and the locals were well aware of the smuggling operations, or at least that part of it involving his cousin; if they weren’t, there would have been no need for bribes. But there were other things he needed to do, and those required some measure of privacy. He achieved this in the following manner: After going down the block, he swung into
an alley and doffed the workman’s coat. He hopped over a fence onto the main street and, two blocks away, entered the Embankment Hotel through the front door.
He slowed as he approached the registration desk, then veered quickly toward the restrooms in the side hall. Tolevi put his hand up to the door, but instead of pushing in, he continued to walk, as if deciding to go somewhere else. At the end of the hall he turned right into another hallway. The pool was here, as was a small gym. There were bathrooms between these two; he went into the men’s, where in the last stall he removed his clothes and put on the swimming trunks that he had taken from the work coat. He bundled his clothes, carrying them with him as he went out to the pool and then the boardwalk outside, crossing the cement to a row of lockers. He put the clothes in and carried the key in his hand to the sea on the other side of the boardwalk.
With a dash, he jumped in. Two quick strokes and he dropped the key; two more strokes and he ducked beneath the surface, holding his breath until he was behind one of the boats tied to the nearby wharf.
It would not have been impossible to follow Tolevi from that point on, but it would not have been easy, and when he emerged from the water a half hour later in the backyard of a Russian pensioner, he was reasonably sure no one had followed him. A half hour on, driving the pensioner’s car—the man had known his father—he set out for Kerch, another port town on the northeast coast.
Some hours later, he arrived in Kerch. After parking near the town center, he walked across the cement cobblestones in front of the Cathedral of Prophet St. John the Baptist, head bowed slightly as he passed, until he reached the nearby beach. There he found a bench in view of the sea and sat, waiting as the sun set behind him.
Shadows danced across him, extending to the sand as the last few tourists walked to the inns and hotels farther up the street. Tolevi remained, staring at the dark line of the jetty on his left, more park than wharf. A single ship was tied up there: a Russian corvette.
“A warm night,” said a voice behind him in Russian.
The heavy Ukrainian accent made it difficult to understand, and it took Tolevi a moment to respond.
“Warm is good,” he replied.
“Can I sit?”
Though he had not yet seen the other man, Tolevi raised his hand, gesturing that he had no problem. The man slipped around the other side of the bench, squatting on the edge of the slats. He was much younger than Tolevi, barely out of his teens, and though his voice was even, he was obviously nervous—he jangled his feet around, kicking up a tiny vortex of sand and dust.
“You’re Russian?” asked the newcomer.
“My mother was. My father Ukrainian.”
“Your Russian is very good.”
“My Ukrainian is better,” said Tolevi, demonstrating. “I was looking for a good place to eat.”
“There are many. You have the numbers?”
They were barely out of the authentication—the switch to Ukrainian had been meant to seal it—and here the boy wanted to be gone. Tolevi considered—was he merely scared, or was he part of a double cross? Tolevi was particularly vulnerable here, without a weapon or backup. It would be nothing for a group of thugs to appear, drag him a few hundred yards, and throw him in the water.
But if it was a trap, why not just shoot him directly and be done with it? Why play games.
To get the account numbers, of course.
“You have the numbers?” asked the boy again.
“I’m hungry,” said Tolevi impulsively.
He got to his feet and began walking. His contact hesitated before trotting after him.
Tolevi stayed near the water, working out how he might proceed. He was sure that he hadn’t been followed, but that was all he could be sure of. It was very possible the young man had been, even if he wasn’t working for the Russians.
So hard to know. In the end, all Tolevi could do was gamble on trust.
But not yet.
He veered right, walking up toward YugNiro, the solid-looking building on Sverdlov Street that housed the oceanography and fisheries institute. Two blocks farther, he found a small café and went inside; the young man followed.
Tolevi had only been to Kerch two or three times over the past few years, and he couldn’t remember being in this particular café. It was nearly deserted—odd, given the hour, though possibly not so strange since the Russian takeover. He asked for a table on the porch. The kid followed.
“I think—do you think this is safe, to spend so much time together?” asked the young man when he sat.
“I wonder if they have beer,” said Tolevi.
They did, and while the choices were limited to Russian, Tolevi managed to find a Knightberg Shisha, a good stout.
The kid said he wasn’t thirsty.
“Nothing then?” Tolevi asked.
He shook his head.
“How are things in the new republic?”
The boy frowned and shook his head.
Fair enough. The less I know about you the better.
“How do you go back?” Tolevi asked. He had only been to the annexed parts of Ukraine twice since the takeover and was genuinely curious.
“Through Russia; it’s easier. I take the ferry. I have an hour.”
“Mmmm . . .”
The beer came. The rest of the place remained empty.
I don’t trust him, thought Tolevi. But realistically, this does not look like a trap. And I cannot stay here all night.
Still, he hesitated, sipping the beer.
“How old are you?” Tolevi finally asked.
“Old?”
“Your age.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“You go to school?”
“I do many things. I’m not here to play around.”
“Mmmmm. . . .”
The brief flash of anger reassured Tolevi. He took a long sip of the beer, then slid back in the chair.
“Here are the numbers. You’re ready?”
“Ready.”
“I will not repeat them.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
The numbers were accounts in two banks to be used by the resistance fighting the Russians and traitors near Donetsk. This was the only way they were transferred—person to person, with nothing in writing. The equivalent of a half million dollars was in one bank, three times that amount in the other.
How much of that would reach the resistance, Tolevi could not know. Nor did he want to. He was somewhat ambiguous about the conflict—he had relatives on both sides, after all. His prime interest was in the money he would receive from the CIA for delivering the information.
The young man closed his eyes, memorizing the numbers. Then he rose.
“You’ll pay?” he asked Tolevi.
“Always. One way or the other.”
17
Boston, the same day
Borya pedaled slowly toward the bank, watching the traffic with one eye and the curb with the other. It had been cloudy when she left home, threatening rain, but now the sun was out full blast, warming the air with a promise of spring. Buds were starting to peek out of the dead wood of the trees, and already the morning was warm enough that she didn’t need the sweatshirt she’d bundled herself in. It was so warm, in fact, that she decided to stop and take it off a block from the bank; she rode up onto the sidewalk, hopping off the bike with a quick, practiced motion. The seat and pedals on the Shimano mountain bike were adjusted so her legs were at full extension, and a careless dismount could hurt. She pulled off her sweatshirt and tied it around her waist, smoothing it against her baggy khaki pants.
She’d decided to skip school at the last minute and in fact was still not entirely comfortable with the decision. Her father was away, which made skipping school more problematic, not less. Any call home about her absence would go to voice mail, where she would intercept it and return it, pretending to be her au pair—a college student who was a serious pain before leaving the family employ two years before. The wom
an who looked in on her in the evenings—never use the term babysitter—was a kindly old dolt who was easy to dodge. But her father had an unfortunate habit of calling the school when he was out of the country, ostensibly checking to see how she was doing; this made skipping more problematic, if not downright dangerous.
Even though he wasn’t Roman Catholic, her father had an unworldly and to Borya’s thinking inexplicable respect for the nuns who ran the school; a cross word from them always brought swift retribution.
Not that he would hit her—she couldn’t remember that he had ever done so, even when she was five or six years old. But his lectures. These were old-school tirades, marathon sessions that varied in volume from hour to hour—and they did last hours. Guilt was a heavy component, as was the sainted memory of her beloved mother, God rest her soul, who would be invoked a minimum of twelve times. Borya hated this mother—not her real mother, whom she had only the vaguest memory of, but the sainted, beloved mother her father presented during these speeches.
It was a joke, really. He’d indulged in a series of ho’s for as long as she could remember—his various attempts at being discreet had grown pathetic over the years—and Borya was fairly certain that such a practice would have originated before her mom’s death. How could you cheat on a person and venerate them at the same time? But he definitely venerated her now. The house was practically a shrine to her, with photos everywhere.
There was a certain resemblance between mother and daughter, as visitors often remarked. Borya focused on the differences—her own raven hair cut short and brushed back, tattoos on both her arms, baggy boy clothes in sharp contrast to the gowns and long skirts her mom wore in most of the photos.
Borya chained her bike against the railing of the Starbucks where she’d stopped, then walked around the side to go into the store. She ordered a venti cappuccino—a two-week-old habit—and gave the clerk a rewards card.