Hard Cover

by Adrian Magson

  Ironically, I realized that by a twist of fate, Vladimir Putin might now be in control of my future movements. Go figure.

  A flash of signals up ahead showed through the gloom. It was the Touareg heading off to the east. At least they were moving away from the city, which was an indication that they now knew where they were going. All I had to do was stay with them and remain invisible.

  As I followed them round the loop I dialled up Langley. It was time to give Lindsay a fix on our movements.

  ‘Go ahead, Watchman. What’s your situation?’ Lindsay sounded alert and ready. It would be late at night back in her electronic bubble, and she’d probably been catnapping since I’d called in last night. But that was no substitute for real sleep.

  ‘Currently heading east on the E105,’ I told her. ‘About eight miles to go before a possible turn-off to the north.’

  ‘Copy that. Any developments?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I get the feeling they might have a destination in mind.’ I was more convinced when I saw the Touareg pull into the outside lane and pick up speed, blowing a billowing wall of spray in its wake. I was pretty sure they’d done it for no other reason than to avoid the trucks, which weren’t always being driven in a straight line. But I stayed where I was in case they were running a check for tails. I made sure to check my mirror as well, waiting to see if another vehicle would slip past or had slotted in behind me.

  So far nothing doing, which was good.

  ‘We have a note from London, courtesy of Tom Vale,’ Lindsay continued. ‘A known asset was seen checking out Counselor’s London apartment and his house in Surrey.’

  A known asset. That meant somebody working out of Moscow’s London embassy. If they were checking on Tzorekov’s movements, it had to be on orders from somebody at home, and was unlikely to be a coincidence.

  ‘They know he’s on the move. That’s a pity.’

  ‘Correct. We’re checking with London to verify the source, but you should be aware that they will probably manage to track Counselor all the way.’ She hesitated as if embarrassed. ‘Sorry, I … you’ll know that better than me.’

  ‘No need to apologize. If you think something needs saying, say it.’ The checking would be made by someone in the US embassy in London’s Grosvenor Square or whatever other resources they had in place around the capital. They would send people round to all of Tzorekov’s known haunts, his office and related workplaces, the aim being to pick up on anybody asking questions about his movements. Put a face to that person and they might get a line back to whoever was issuing the orders. It was an inexact science against a security apparatus well-versed to operating in secrecy, but the effort was always worthwhile because it offered the opportunity and hope of putting another face on the map for future reference. And you never knew when that might be useful.

  It was part of the long game of counter-espionage and information-gathering.

  I signed off from Lindsay and checked the road both ways. Traffic was beginning to thin out, but I still had plenty of cover. Hopefully Tzorekov and his minder, if they could see me at all, wouldn’t concern themselves too much with a logging contractor’s battered vehicle on the same stretch of road and heading into a region thick with forest.

  A few miles later I had at least one answer about Tzorekov’s journey: he ignored the turn-off to the north and continued east without losing speed. It meant he wasn’t going anywhere near Lake Komsomolskoye and the area where Putin had his dacha, but heading instead round the other side of the vast Lake Ladoga and probably to the north. It was a huge land mass to be aiming at with few decent roads, and those that were there were often poorly maintained with few facilities, which was why I’d stocked up on bottled water, food supplies and fuel.

  It made the task of following somebody very risky but I didn’t have much choice. Wherever Tzorekov went, I was going with him.

  THIRTEEN

  We were approximately ninety mostly grindingly slow miles and four hours out from Saint Petersburg when I noticed Tzorekov’s car beginning to waver, causing a bunching of the other vehicles between us. I figured he’d either detected something was not quite right or he was about to take a turn off the road.

  I dropped back, pulling briefly onto the side of the road to allow a couple of heavy Kamaz trucks to go by. If Tzorekov had detected a presence, the trucks would do as extra cover until I figured out what he was up to. So far I had nobody obvious on my tail, unless the opposition were being cute and using trucks now as surveillance vehicles.

  The road had dropped many miles ago from a four-lane highway separated by metal barriers, to a standard two-way road with heavy markings to show the edge of the blacktop. That and the continued rain had slowed our progress dramatically, although it hadn’t prevented some crazy manoeuvres by truckers in a hurry, overtaking where death seemed a high probability. However, there was nothing much I could do about them but hope nothing would alert Tzorekov and his pit bull to my presence.

  We were now moving through a long corridor of trees crowding the road, with a narrow gravelled shoulder on each side. A few wooden houses could be glimpsed dotted about in clearings whenever the rain slackened, but for the most part we were in a dark world of noise and tail lights, exhaust smoke, of giant radiator grills too close for comfort and the ever-present squeal of wipers and the hum of the heater trying to do a job against the odds.

  Then I glimpsed a flash of colour through the gloom. It was a battered sign with a gas pump image. We were approaching a service stop.

  The Touareg signalled to turn off. Beyond it I spotted an access road to a Statoil gas station with a restaurant at the rear. There were rows of big trucks and several cars, but nowhere was there sufficient cover if I followed them off the road. I was going to have to go on by and hope there wasn’t a back road out.

  I kept going, sticking close to a rust-covered truck with a low skirt that was throwing up a wall of spray. From the corner of my eye I saw the Touareg had slowed to a crawl just inside the access road, with a figure in the front turning to study the traffic going by.

  I gave it ten miles before I pulled into a side road leading to a collection of small wooden houses, each with a patch of garden. I found a concealed gateway where I could keep one eye on the main road, then jumped out and did some stretches to loosen the kinks, before taking the spare decals from the back of the pickup and changing my profile from a logging company to a construction firm. The decals were fitted with magnetic strips, and fitted easily over the existing signage, including a third on the tailgate for good measure.

  Next I went to the rear of the pickup and unscrewed the nearside tail light unit. In the body space behind it was a canvas bag holding a Yarygin ‘Grach’ 9mm semi-automatic and two spare clips. I took the gun out and replaced the light unit, then moved across to the other side.

  The space behind the right-hand unit held a Saiga semi-automatic rifle with a wooden stock and butt. It came with a night vision scope and three spare magazines. It felt light and comfortable and I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use it. I’d left it to Yuri to specify the type of rifle depending on availability, as long as it was accurate and didn’t look as if I was about to start WW3. Hunters in Russia are a common enough sight, especially those hunting grouse and blackcock. If I did get stopped with a rifle, even if I was slightly out of season, I figured offering an on-the-spot fine and having a nice polished sporting-style rifle would get me off more lightly than toting an all-composite plastic assault rifle with night sights, an extended magazine and a grenade launcher.

  I put the Saiga back in its space but kept the pistol and scope tucked inside the door panel. I was now ready for whatever lay ahead. I took a drink then hit the road again, but at a slower speed. The rain had slackened off, but the road surface here was bad, with the edges merging into the verge in a string of puddles, beneath which lay the potential for burst tyres and damaged suspension. More experienced drivers in the region had developed a habit of hogging the c
entre line, which was alarming to the uninitiated, especially when the vehicle coming at you was a ten-ton truck with battered front fenders. The additional worry was the constant clatter of loose gravel and crushed stone on the underneath of the bodywork, with larger pieces skidding out from other vehicles like shrapnel.

  I was beginning to worry about where the Touareg had got to. The red light indicator showed me that it was some way behind me, but not moving closer. I slowed some more, in case they had decided to turn off or double back, and allowed a few vehicles to go by in the hopes of seeing them coming.

  Then the picture changed dramatically. The tracking light began to move up fast on the small screen. Fifteen minutes later the Touareg came blasting by, lights full on and kicking up a storm of spray. I caught a brief glimpse of Tzorekov slumped against the door, head thrown back in sleep, and Gurov at the wheel. He didn’t even spare me a glance.

  ‘Watchman, stand by for an update.’ It was Lindsay. I slowed and turned up the volume over the rush of road noise, and flicked my indicator for a following truck to get off my tail and go by.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said, as he cruised by just inches away, the slipstream rattling the pickup like a dog shaking a rabbit. The passenger looked down at me from his perch and laughed. Maybe he had something against construction companies.

  ‘I’m patching Tom Vale through. Please hold.’

  A click and a buzz and Vale was on the other end. ‘Sorry to burden your morning – I gather it’s wet out there.’ He sounded a little tense, in spite of the humour.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You heard about the asset checking out Tzorekov’s place? We now have confirmation of a phone call from London to a Moscow number that they’re on his trail. Pulkovo was mentioned, so you should expect company anytime soon.’

  It was to be expected. Having a figure like Tzorekov go on the move without warning or detail would have sounded alarm bells for anybody watching him. After what amounted to years of private banking and commercial activity, all open to scrutiny like any other businessman, and little apparent interest in his homeland, having him and Gurov suddenly duck out of the limelight would have been instantly noticed. All it remained for me to find out was who was going to be involved and how good they were in chasing him.

  ‘Any mention of where they were heading?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’ll keep you informed.’ He disconnected and I had Lindsay back on, this time with information on weather patterns over the next forty-eight hours.

  ‘Rain,’ she told me briefly. ‘Lots of it. It’s unlikely to lift for several days, according to long-range forecasts.’

  It wasn’t ideal, but there was good as well as bad. I didn’t mind poor weather conditions so much; in the current situation, bright sunshine and clear visibility for miles could be a disadvantage. Keeping Tzorekov’s vehicle in sight wasn’t essential at the moment until the opposition showed up. Then a lot would depend on whether they were expecting him to have company and what their intentions were. I didn’t think for a moment, after the briefing in New York, that there would be a welcoming committee. But they would be under orders from whoever was controlling them, and I doubted the decision to eliminate a figure like Tzorekov would be taken lightly. The fact that he was now on Russian soil would raise a degree of caution in some minds, no matter how opposed they might be to allowing him anywhere near Putin. But not all minds were so restrained. There would be some who would go for the nuclear option, which meant despatching Tzorekov and ending the problem once and for all.

  ‘You might like to keep an eye out for air traffic in the area,’ I suggested. ‘They won’t want to lose any time.’ I was counting on the opposition not being local. Tzorekov’s move had probably taken the Russians by surprise as much as it had everyone else, so having someone deal with the situation would mean bringing in people from outside.

  ‘Copy that, Watchman. I’m tracking all light aircraft. There’s a pattern of regular private flights and more regular military traffic in the region, but the bad weather has currently closed down a lot of non-essential movement.’

  Well, that was useful. It might keep the bad guys off Tzorekov’s back for a while, although if somebody really wanted him out of the picture badly enough, I couldn’t see them adhering to any regulations. Getting up here by road would take too long in these conditions, so an overland hop, as risky as that might be in poor weather, was the most likely option, dropping them by air as close as they could to their target area.

  ‘What about Impaler?’ I said, using the code name we’d agreed for Putin. It wasn’t the best I’d ever heard, but it would do.

  A tapping of keys and she came straight back. ‘He’s in Moscow at the moment. He’s expected to attend a veterans’ rally in the city tomorrow, with other ministers and military top brass. Immediately after that he’s scheduled to take a flight to Kursk in the south to address army units based there.’

  Kursk. That wasn’t far from the border with Ukraine. But it was a long way from where we were now heading. It was probably a ‘well-done, guys’ visit to the troops in the south, for reasons I could easily guess, and Lindsay confirmed it.

  ‘It’s believed they were among some of the units used across the border in Ukraine. If true, they lost a few men. Impaler’s been under pressure from some quarters to recognize their efforts without confirming to the world that they had used regular forces. This could be the first move. He’s also visiting some oil and gas infrastructures in the area, and bolstering support among the locals. This is expected to take him over the next three days, according to an agenda released this morning.’

  Interesting. If the plans were true, then it would appear to put any idea of Putin meeting with his old mentor out of the question. He could hardly be in two places at once. But given a fast flight and the might of the office of president, using a supposed and publicised visit to troops in some southern outpost followed by a detour to check out some energy pipelines in the region, would allow him time to disappear off the radar for a while without arousing too much suspicion.

  It made me wonder whether he had, as some observers had suspected in the past, resorted to using a double to give himself maximum coverage in what was a vast land mass and a lot of fires to fight in a very mixed population. Saddam Hussein had elevated the practice to an industrial level, but Putin wasn’t Saddam.

  I signed off and got back to watching my nose and tail. Right now the machinations of the various parties to this picnic were unknown and therefore not worth worrying about. Being unseen and remaining that way was my priority.

  Up ahead, a line of tail lights flared bright red in the gloom.

  FOURTEEN

  Leonid Tzorekov came awake with a start as Gurov was forced to brake sharply. A line of red brake lights was glowing through the spray some way ahead, lending the trees either side a ghostly glow.

  ‘What is it?’ The older man sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Why are you slowing down?’ He sounded irritable, an impatient old man scornful of their slow progress and his loss of sleep.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Arkady Gurov appeared relaxed, but he was as watchful as always. He slid his hand towards the door pocket where he had placed a GSh-18 semi-automatic. It was loaded and ready to go, although the two men had had some disagreement over having a weapon of any sort with them on this trip.

  ‘We are here to stop a war,’ Tzorekov had protested, when Gurov had first shown him the gun. ‘Not start one.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to use it unless I’m forced to.’ Gurov’s voice carried a tone of respect as always, but there was also a measure of steel. His boss’s safety was his one and only concern, and always had been. He didn’t have to say how dangerous this venture was, because the old man knew that perfectly well. But sometimes Tzorekov forgot what the old country was like, and ignored what it had become.

  A phone call before leaving Saint Petersburg had tracked down a dealer and a time and location, and had taken
Gurov to the service area washroom shortly after entering the restaurant. He had returned after a few minutes, the gun heavy in his coat pocket.

  ‘I hope that does not happen. It’s more likely to get us killed.’

  ‘It’s an insurance policy, that’s all. You know the risks we are taking.’

  ‘Insurance? For what? Against what?’ He sounded petulant, as if unable to comprehend their situation.

  Gurov had touched the old man’s hand in reassurance, acutely reminded of his boss’s age and underlying fragility. It was hard to see in a man he’d known for a large part of his life, when all he’d known was his toughness and resilience and sense of purpose. ‘I can already feel them out there. They know we’re coming.’

  Tzorekov puffed out his lips, but said nothing. Then he nodded and gripped Gurov’s hand in return, as if confirming his utter faith in the younger man, who was like a son to him. If Gurov thought he needed a weapon, the gesture said, then so be it.

  Gurov dropped the window and leaned out. He couldn’t see much through the haze, just a vague line of vehicles crawling along, tail lights flickering, and the same plunging rain that had dogged them ever since their arrival. Then he saw a flashlight being waved and figures in uniform walking down the road, peering through vehicle windows. They were armed, he could see that, but their insignia was impossible to distinguish at this distance.

  ‘It’s either police or military,’ he said calmly, and pushed the gun out of sight.

  ‘Out here? What can they want?’

  Gurov shrugged. There could only be one kind of authority out here: military or intelligence. They were the same thing, really. ‘It’s probably a security exercise. Relax – they’re not interested in us.’

  The line of traffic slowed to a stop and the Touareg was quickly enveloped in a new haze, this of exhaust smoke from the stationary line of vehicles. Gurov switched on the air-conditioning to keep the cabin free of the diesel fumes being belched out by a large haulage truck immediately in front as the driver kept stabbing at the gas pedal to keep the engine turning over.