The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  In the passageway, a man stood smoking beside a window in the corridor, watching the countryside sliding by. He glanced at Fenenko, and without a word, pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the door behind him. Fenenko approached the compartment door, and entered uncertainly. Three men slept sitting upright, another wore headphones and held a small machine recording sound and pictures from the neighboring compartment. The last man, sitting by the window, was Nogorev. He motioned for Fenenko to take the seat opposite, then handed him a neatly typed document, signed by Defense Minister Tarkovskoi, Chairman of the Emergency Committee.

  “You are now formally under my command,” Nogorev said.

  “Yes sir. What are your orders?”

  “Whenever you’re alone, use the radio you took to check in. We’ll monitor the frequency constantly. Do nothing to arouse the suspicions of Balard or the SK woman. Follow Tupitsyn’s lead in convincing Balard of whatever is required to have him provide you with access to his Swiss account. He must have a means of accessing it. Any questions?”

  “Is the document in Tupitsyn’s brief case genuine?”

  “Yes,” Nogorev replied, “We did not have time to falsify a dossier. Tupitsyn will allow Balard and the woman to study it, if necessary.”

  “What if the file were made public? Something like that–”

  “It will never be made public,” Nogorev cut him off. “As soon as you have access to his account, you will execute both of them.”

  Fenenko was shocked. He was an undercover agent, not an assassin. “Is it necessary to kill them?”

  “No word of this can ever get out.”

  “I understand,” Fenenko said with a knot in his stomach. He glanced out the window at the Urals. “May I ask, where are we going?”

  “Balard needs proof. Something irrefutable, something he will not question or doubt.”

  “Where will he get that kind of proof?”

  Nogorev hesitated, deciding Fenenko would find out soon enough. Better to prepare him now for a secret so dangerous, those who knew of it feared even to whisper its name. “The American Gulag.”

  * * * *

  The train pulled into Krasnoyarsk, the third largest city in Siberia, shortly after 9 AM the following day. When it came to a halt in front of the elegant cream colored station, Valentina, Fenenko and Craig followed Tupitsyn across the concrete platform into the station, where Tupitsyn arranged for a vehicle. He knew the only vehicle that would be available was a minivan, hurriedly prepared for their arrival. It came complete with satnav, eavesdropping equipment hidden throughout the cabin and a homing beacon placed beneath the engine.

  Once they were out of sight, Nogorev and his team boarded a waiting refrigeration truck parked to the side of the station. It appeared to be merely another hard worked vehicle that delivered frozen food to outlying communities, but was actually fitted with direction finding equipment, listening devices, and facilities for a surveillance team on extended deployment. Within minutes of boarding, they were tracking the minivan, waiting for it to begin moving.

  Inside the station, Tupitsyn completed the paperwork while Valentina and Craig loitered near a small cluster of shops. They passed a newsstand offering a selection of newspapers, all of which were now subject to strict censorship. Valentina read the headline above a black and white photograph of burned out tanks.

  “What does it say?” Craig whispered.

  She picked up the paper and read quickly. “I don’t believe it! The air force bombed the main north south highway between Moscow and Tula late yesterday afternoon. It says the Tula Tank Division was trying to get into Moscow, to expand the reach of martial law in the city. Air Force Marshal Vochenko ordered the tanks to return to their barracks. When they refused, he bombed them south of Serpukhov. Seven tanks were destroyed and two aircraft shot down. The bridge over the Oka River was destroyed, stranding the tanks on the south side, but the army’s bringing up bridging equipment and surface-to-air missile batteries.” She dropped the newspaper back on the pile. “I have to get a message to Alexander.”

  “I thought you said the phones are bugged.”

  “Ours are,” she agreed, then hurried to a row of public telephones near the station’s entrance.

  “Who are you ringing?” Craig asked.

  “Alexander’s sister-in-law. I’ll get her to relay a message through her husband.” When a woman answered, she said, “Tanya, it’s Valentina. I need you to give Dim a message for Alexander . . . Tell Alexander I’m OK. I’m with Pavlya and our foreign friend. We’re helping with his family problem. We should be finished in a day or two. I’ll call Alexander then . . . Yes, that’s right . . . I know, I just saw it in the newspaper. It’s terrible! . . . Tanya, it’s very important Dim doesn’t use the phones. He’ll have to speak with Alexander in person . . . Yes, thanks.” When she hung up, Valentina said, “Dmitri will get the message to Alexander in the next twenty four hours.”

  Tupitsyn signaled he had the keys, so they followed him outside to the carpark. Tupitsyn took the wheel, removing the handcuffs to the brief case and placing it on the passenger seat beside him. He ordered the others to sit in the rear, then drove north through the city for a few minutes. Presently, he pulled in to a hardware store and parked.

  He turned to Valentina. “Go inside and buy a pair of bolt cutters, a pick axe and a shovel.”

  Valentina gave him a curious look, but did as she was told. Fenenko went with her, leaving Craig and Tupitsyn sitting alone in the car.

  “Will this take long?” Craig asked, attempting to make small talk.

  Tupitsyn glanced at him in the rear vision mirror. “This is Siberia. Everywhere is far.”

  “Won’t they notice you’re gone?”

  “I have taken leave. By the time they realize I’m not coming back, it will be too late.”

  A few minutes later, Valentina and Fenenko returned with the three items they’d been ordered to purchase, then Tupitsyn drove them north, out of the city on a surprisingly modern divided-lane freeway. An hour later, the freeway had become a single two lane road that became less well maintained the further north they went. They passed a few cars and trucks heading in the opposite direction, and occasionally on long flat stretches of road, Craig noticed a refrigeration truck a few kilometers behind, always at the same distance, never drawing closer or falling too far behind.

  After a few hours, Craig began to doze, forgetting all about the white truck.

  * * * *

  A few hours later, Craig tapped Tupitsyn on the shoulder. “Stop.”

  Tupitsyn glanced at him over his shoulder. “Why?”

  “Call of nature,” Craig said.

  “I need to stretch,” Valentina added.

  Tupitsyn scowled and reluctantly pulled over to the side of the road. Craig climbed out and walked back along the road a short distance looking for a suitable piece of forest. Just as he was about to slip into the privacy of the forest, the white refrigeration truck emerged onto their stretch of road about half a kilometer away. It slowed and pulled off the road as he stepped into the forest to relieve himself.

  Behind him, Valentina stood at the rear of the van and did a few simple exercises to relieve cramped muscles. A few minutes later, Craig strolled back to Valentina.

  “What’s wrong with that Tupitsyn guy,” Craig said, “He just won’t shut up.”

  Valentina looked at him strangely, then realized he was joking. “Yes, he is a great conversationalist.” She glanced back at the minivan, where Fenenko and Tupitsyn were leaning towards each other, lips moving, engaged in conversation. After a moment, Tupitsyn saw she was watching, then both he and Fenenko fell silent. Valentina turned away uncomfortably, wondering if there was more between them than either had let on.

  Craig noticed the refrigeration truck was still parked in the distance. “I saw a big white truck like that following us a while back. I wonder if it’s the same one?”

  “There are many vehicles like that out here.”


  “Guess I’m just jumpy.” He started toward the minivan.

  “You’re not armed, are you?”

  “No,” Craig stopped, turning back to her curiously.

  “Can you use a gun?”

  “Badly. Remember, I’m the mergers and acquisitions guy.”

  “Tupitsyn is armed. So is Fenenko.”

  “You’ve got him out gunned, two to one.” Craig saw the doubt on her face. “Right?”

  “Yeah, we do,” she said with more confidence than she felt. She tried to remember how long Fenenko had been working with them. Almost a year? Who had vouched for him? She couldn’t remember. “Just be careful,” she added, then they climbed back aboard the minivan.

  * * * *

  They reached the southern shore of the Yenisei River in the early afternoon, drove on past several small villages into thick forest until the satnav told them to turn onto a dirt road. After a short drive through dense woodland, they came upon a rusting three meter high chain link fence, and an old gate with a rotting wooden sign affixed to it. A fading hammer and sickle symbol was painted on the sign alongside Cyrillic characters.

  Craig gave Valentina a questioning look.

  “It says, ‘Restricted Military Access! Keep out.’”

  Inside the fence was an abandoned wooden guard post, which had not been maintained for many years. Mounted on stanchions every ten meters were spot lights, some pointed in toward the facility, others aimed out into the trees. Guard towers, partly consumed by the forest and unmanned for many years, remained recognizable.

  Fenenko took the bolt cutters and cut the chain securing the old gate. He returned to the minivan, then Tupitsyn drove them along a heavily overgrown track.

  “What is this place?” Craig asked.

  “Proof,” Tupitsyn said. “Camp 497. It has no other designation. During the days of the Union, to enter here unauthorized was an automatic death sentence.”

  “And now?” Valentina asked.

  Tupitsyn shrugged. “Depends who catches you.”

  The minivan bumped along the dirt road for a kilometer before the forest abruptly ended. To the left, an exercise area overgrown with long grass stretched from the road to four old wooden barracks. To the right, two crumbling basketball courts with rusted hoops stood alongside a crude baseball diamond. Hypnotized by the barracks complex, wondering if this really was where his father had spent his last days, Craig didn’t notice what they approached on the right.

  Tupitsyn parked, handcuffed the brief case to his wrist and got out. He pulled the van’s side door open. “Bring the pickaxe and shovel.”

  Fenenko and Craig picked up the tools and followed Tupitsyn to a rectangular plot of land bordered by a few trees. The grass was overgrown, but the neat rows of small concrete squares in the ground unmistakably marked the graves of more than forty men. On each concrete slab, a five digit number was imprinted in the concrete. No names, no crosses, no Stars of David, just numbers.

  “So many?” Craig said, astonished.

  “Welcome to the American Gulag,” Tupitsyn said bleakly. He walked past the tombstone, reading the numbers carefully. When he found the number he was looking for he pointed to the ground. “Dig here.”

  The last resting place of Colonel Jack Balard was located in the back row, furthest from the road, indicating Craig’s father had been one of the last to die.

  “Fenenko, use the pick,” Tupitsyn said, “Balard, you shovel.”

  “And what will you do?” Craig asked.

  “You are the one who wants proof, not me,” Tupitsyn replied imperiously, clearly with no intention of sharing in the manual labor.

  Fenenko was puzzled why Tupitsyn should be so specific as to the division of duties, but he did as he was ordered. Almost from the first stroke, he realized why he had the pick axe – the soil had recently been disturbed. If Craig was breaking ground, he might have realized this was not soil that had been frozen and untouched for years. Craig shoveled when it was his turn, distracted by the thought that his father had died in a frozen prison far from home, and that he was now desecrating his grave.

  When the hole was barely three feet deep, Fenenko’s axe thudded into a solid surface. “There’s something here!”

  Craig shoveled lumps of soil clear, then brushed aside the remaining dirt to reveal a form wrapped in a decaying canvas bag. Once the bag had been a heavy coarse material, now it was paper thin.

  “Do you want me to open it?” Fenenko asked.

  “No!” Craig snapped. “I’ll do it.” He tore the flimsy material apart with his hands, revealing a skeleton whose flesh had long since decomposed. The prison garb the skeleton wore had rotted to rags, leaving nothing with which to identify the body.

  “There is your proof,” Tupitsyn declared. “Now give me my money?”

  Craig ignored him as he delicately examined the skeleton. He considered taking the skull for dental records, but decided that would be too much of a violation. He searched for some form of identification, peeling back rags and lightly blowing away dirt. Sitting on the rib cage in plain view, right where he was bound to find them, was a set of dog tags. Craig retrieved them, finding his father’s name clearly imprinted on them.

  “It’s him,” he whispered as he felt a terrible ache grow in his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Valentina said sadly.

  “Hurry,” Tupitsyn said with growing impatience. “If we are found here, none of us will ever leave Siberia.”

  Craig ignored him, and continued searching for papers or photographs, for anything that would confirm the skeleton’s identity, but found nothing.

  “What are you waiting for?” Tupitsyn demanded.

  Craig nodded slowly as he blinked back a tear. He stood, about to climb out of the shallow grave, when a glint of silver caught his eye. He reached down between the ribs to retrieve the metallic item from inside the skeleton’s rib cage. It was a small silver pin, engraved with a shield and thunder bolt, and the words ‘Libertas vel mors’. Craig blew the remaining dirt off it, then polished it against his arm.

  “It’s an air force insignia,” Craig said, unable to take his eyes off the unfamiliar motto.

  Tupitsyn watched Craig suspiciously, keeping his hand within easy reach of the gun holstered under his arm.

  Libertas vel mors? Craig wondered, masking his confusion. He sensed Tupitsyn’s eyes on him, and said, “It must have been his.”

  “Satisfied?” Tupitsyn demanded.

  Craig nodded, and pocketed the wings and the dog tags. Tupitsyn relaxed and slowly moved his hand away from his gun

  “Take me to a phone. You can have your money.” Craig said, turning to Valentina, giving her a warning look the others didn’t see. “And you can have yours. I want to go home.”

  * * * *

  It was past sunset when the minivan drove into the small city of Lesosibirsk, west of the graveyard. They hired rooms in a small hotel, then paid the proprietor to let them use his office in private. Tupitsyn placed a piece of paper with a string of numbers on it in front of Craig. “That is my bank account. Transfer my ten million American dollars to it.”

  Craig glanced at the piece of paper. “I want to see the file first.”

  Tupitsyn held up his brief case. “It is here.”

  “I want to review it.”

  “That was not the agreement!” Tupitsyn bristled. “I have given you proof–”

  “Yes, but I still want to see what I’m paying for. Once I’ve studied the file, I will make the transfer. Not before.”

  “You expect me to trust you? Three of you, one of me. I don’t think so!”

  “That’s the deal,” Craig said flatly. “I won’t cheat you, but I won’t let you cheat me either. If the file checks out, I’ll make it twenty million.”

  Tupitsyn stared at Craig angrily, then cursed silently under his breath. He put the brief case on the table, removed the handcuffs and carefully worked the combination lock. When he opened the case, Craig rem
oved the aging KGB document and settled into the chair behind the desk.

  “How long will this take?” Tupitsyn demanded.

  “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be a while. Valentina, will you translate for me?”

  Tupitsyn’s anger rose, but he said nothing.

  Craig looked at the first page of Cyrillic characters, then turned to Valentina, “What does it say?”

  * * * *

  Three hours later, Craig was barely halfway through the file, and was deliberately proceeding as slowly as possible. Most of the documents were routine reports on interrogations, prisoner movements, medical checks and notes by observers. From the file, Craig came to believe his father had been broken and had divulged all that he knew of stealth technology. What the file did not reveal was how Colonel Balard understated the technology’s operational parameters. He’d quickly come to realize his interrogators had been lying. They had no other prisoners validating what he was saying, or his small deceptions would have been discovered. So he lied, subtly and cleverly, through months of interrogations without discovery.

  Tupitsyn watched the tediously slow way Craig went through the file, often asking Valentina to repeat seemingly irrelevant details. He’d paced for the first hour, then sullenly sank into one of the deeply padded chairs against the wall. Deciding this time consuming process had hours to run, he stood and nodded to Fenenko to follow him.

  “I will be outside,” Tupitsyn said. He glanced at the barred windows, certain there was only one way in or out. “Do not attempt to leave.”

  Craig looked up, as if he hardly cared and return to the file.

  “I need to use the men’s room,” Fenenko said and followed Tupitsyn outside.

  Tupitsyn ordered Fenenko not to let Craig or Valentina leave, while he called Nogorev.

  Inside the office, as soon as the door closed, Craig straightened. “God, I thought they’d never leave! Give me your phone, quickly.”