by Sean Black
The problem for Ninel was that if he fell he would drag her down with him. It was inevitable. She had been his roof, more than that in fact. She could be hanged a hundred times over for the things she had done to help him, and the money she had taken. The fact she had passed on most of it might save her and it might not. When the sharks began to circle, people often forgot favors done as they scrambled to get out of the water before they too were eaten.
Ninel was at her desk, working through a stack of surveillance reports on journalists and other dissidents, when her phone rang. The person at the other end gave her a time and a location to meet them. Then they hung up.
She tidied the reports, locked them into a cabinet, grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, and left.
Her contact worked in the office of the prosecutor general. He was former KGB, someone she had cultivated carefully over a period of years. Cultivated for precisely this reason.
They met at a café on Bolshoy Cherkasskiy Lane, near to the Kremlin, old friends bumping into each other. They were both recognizable enough that there would have been no concealing their meeting. Instead they chose a strategy of plausible deniability.
“Ninel, how are you?” he said, giving her a hug, and slipping the envelope into her pocket.
“Very well. I didn’t know you came here too.”
“It’s good to have a change from the old routine sometimes. Anyway, I must be going. We’re very busy, these days.”
“So I hear,” she said, as he hurried back out. Then she slipped off to the ladies’ room, found an empty stall, sat down, and ripped open the envelope.
Normally she would have torn up the contents and flushed them. This time she didn’t. She would, but only when Dimitri had seen them. Maybe if he saw his actual death warrant with his own eyes he might actually believe her.
She had to find him and fast. The clock was ticking.
48
“Listen to me, you stupid bitch, Mr. Semenov is here. His car is parked outside. Now tell him I’m here.”
The bank receptionist stared coolly back at Ninel. “I already spoke with his office. They said he is not available.”
Ninel snapped. Didn’t this woman understand that, by standing in the reception of a bank that was going to be raided in less than twenty-four hours by the office of the prosecutor general, Ninel was risking everything? Her career, her liberty and, quite possibly, her life.
She had spent the last few hours scouring central Moscow for Dimitri Semenov. She had finally tracked him down by spotting that stupid, overly conspicuous car of his, and now he was refusing to meet her.
She could have walked away. But her fate was enmeshed with his, and it was too late to untangle it. They either rode this out together, or they perished together, and she had worked too hard and sacrificed too much for that to happen.
Reaching over, Ninel grabbed the receptionist by the hair and slammed the woman’s face as hard as she could into the edge of the long desk she was sitting behind. The receptionist screamed.
Ninel lifted her head up. She had a gash just below her hairline. Blood poured from it into her eyes. “Do you think this is a game?” Ninel said to her. “Now try again or I swear I’ll put you inside Lefortovo myself.”
Dimitri ushered her hurriedly into the empty boardroom and closed the door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said.
Ninel reached into her jacket, pulled out the envelope and tossed it onto the table. She watched carefully as Dimitri opened it and read the warrant. His face grew pale.
“I’ve made some calls. This is just the start. You’ll be arrested, and you won’t be released until there’s a trial.”
“This is ridiculous,” he protested.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But have you ever paid a bribe? Have you moved money from the country that you can’t prove for definite is yours?”
“Have I paid a bribe?” He laughed. “This is Russia. Everyone pays someone.”
“Which is illegal, whether everyone does it or not,” she said.
He walked to the door and threw it open. “Pasha! Get in here.”
A slight, bespectacled man in his early thirties hurried in. He looked nervously at Ninel, who recognized him as one of Dimitri’s many lawyers.
Pasha took the warrant from his boss and he, too, paled.
“This is bullshit, right?”
Pasha held up the warrant to the light. “No, I don’t think it is.”
Dimitri grew more irritated. “I’m not asking if it’s genuine. I know it’s genuine. I’m asking if they can do this.”
In all the years she had known Dimitri she had never imagined that someone as clever as he was, so quick to measure a situation, could pose such a stupid question.
“They’re the state,” said Pasha. “They can do what they like.”
“And I can do nothing?” said Dimitri. “I just have to sit here and take it, accept my fate?”
“No,” said Pasha, “you don’t, and as your lawyer I would advise you not to accept your fate.”
The lawyer walked to the window and looked out over Moscow. Ninel knew what he was going to say, and she knew that that might be enough to get through the hard reality of the situation to Dimitri.
The lawyer held up the warrant. It was pinched between his fingers, as if it was somehow radioactive.
“Apart from the three of us here, no one knows that you have seen this. You have a plane at Vnukovo. You have an important business meeting tomorrow in New York that you must attend. You only this moment found out about it. If you leave in, say,” the lawyer checked his watch, “the next four or five hours, you’ll be in plenty of time to make the meeting.”
Ninel watched Dimitri’s face. A slow acceptance seemed to pass over him. She had taken a massive risk in coming here, but it looked like it was about to pay off. “Five hours from now is midnight,” she said. “Shall I meet you at the plane?”
Dimitri looked from Pasha to her. “Yes,” he said. “Meet me there, Ninel.”
His voice was soft, almost affectionate, in a way she had never experienced. They stood there like two comrades in arms who knew that the battle was lost.
She walked over and took the warrant. “I’ll make sure this is destroyed. You may want to think which of your papers you don’t want anyone to see.”
“Thank you,” said the lawyer.
At the door, Dimitri caught up to her. He touched her arm. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I should have listened to you.”
“Yes,” she said. “You should.”
49
Vnukovo Airport, Moscow
Flight plan filed and checks complete, Dimitri Semenov’s freshly acquired Gulfstream GV sat on the apron, awaiting clearance to taxi. The flight plan showed Kiev as the final destination.
Once they were in the air and out of Russian airspace Dimitri planned on telling the pilot to go to London. The GV had a range of a little under eleven thousand kilometers, or just over six thousand nautical miles, more than enough to get them to London. There they would refuel and go on to New York where Dimitri, on his lawyer’s advice, intended to claim political asylum.
Political asylum would muddy the waters in case the Kremlin requested an immediate extradition. America had courts and layers of procedure that would have to be gone through. It would buy him enough time to put together a proper plan.
The money was less of a worry. Most of his cash had been placed outside the reach of the Russian authorities long ago. That was part of the reason this was happening.
He would lose some assets. His two banks for one. He would have to fight to hang on to his gas and oil holdings. Once some time had passed he was confident he could organize some form of settlement, handing them over in return for some payment.
The tricky part was right now. Getting this plane up into the air before someone in the prosecutor general’s office got wind of it.
If he was caught now, while he was in the process of fl
eeing the country, it would be all kinds of bad. He would look guilty, and the prosecution would go to town. Assuming he made it to trial, which was by no means guaranteed.
He unclipped his seatbelt and got up from his plush leather seat. He walked to a window and peered out. He checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes.
Where the hell was Ninel?
She was supposed to have been here a good ten minutes ago. There was only so long they could wait. They should have been getting ready to taxi by now. For someone who had been so uncharacteristically panicked, she was cutting it close.
Unless, of course, there was a reason for her delay. A reason like her having been detained.
If they had her, would she give him up? He knew the answer to that. She would have no other option. He was her bargaining chip. It was him they really wanted, not her. Although now she had warned him, and they were bound to hear about it eventually, that might change.
He was an oligarch. But she was one of them, so her actions would be seen as a betrayal. There was a special kind of justice reserved for traitors. It was the same around the world.
The cabin door opened, and a harried-looking captain appeared.
“Excuse me, Mr. Semenov, if we don’t leave soon we’ll miss our slot. If that happens we may not be able to leave tonight. There are restrictions. No flights to depart after one o’clock.”
“How long do we have?” asked Dimitri.
“Four, maybe five minutes, six at a push.”
“Okay. Thank you. Get on your radio, see if you can do something. Maybe swap our slot with someone else.”
The captain shook his head. “I’ve already moved us twice. We’re the second to last departure of the evening.”
“So swap with the last?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” snapped Dimitri.
The captain sighed. “It’s an official flight. The president.”
Dimitri closed his eyes. Of course it was. “Very well. Perhaps it would be best not to request that we switch with them.”
“I’ll delay as long as I can.”
Dimitri sank back into his seat. If she didn’t get here in the next few minutes he would be left with no alternative. He would have to go without her.
He pulled out his BlackBerry, debating whether to call her. She knew when they were leaving and where from.
But if she had already been detained, and his number flashed up on her cell phone screen, her fate would be sealed.
He threw it onto the polished walnut table and dug out a pack of cigarettes. He would smoke one final cigarette and then, if there was still no sign of her, he would instruct the captain to taxi onto the runway.
The guard folded his arms, looked down at Ninel from his seat inside the gatehouse, and repeated what he’d just said with a completely blank expression. “No.”
Ninel opened her car door, got out, and jammed her official ID right into his face. “I am a colonel of FSB and this is a matter of national security. If you know what’s good for you then raise the barrier and allow me through.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I have my orders.”
“From whom?”
The guard looked around, as if someone might be listening. “From the office of the president himself. His flight is waiting to leave.”
Ninel swallowed the acid bile that rose from her stomach to burn the back of her throat. That was why security was so tight. Putin himself was using the airport. It was a coincidence. It had to be. He wouldn’t dirty his hands with someone like Dimitri, no matter how much money was involved. It was beneath the dignity of his office.
But if it was a coincidence it was one hell of a bad one. Bad for her. She had been cutting it fine. She’d had to go to her office and destroy a lot of documents, then go home and swiftly pack, mostly sentimental items, like photographs and letters, things that were irreplaceable.
Still, she had never thought for a second she would be held up here. She could see the airfield. She could hear the roar of the aircraft engines. She was so close to freedom she could almost touch it.
“Why didn’t you say that before?” she barked at the guard. “Why do you think I’m here?”
His shoulders lifted and fell. “I have no idea.”
She pulled out an envelope from her jacket and held it up. “I have to deliver this.”
He went to take it, but she pulled it back. “It’s not for the likes of your eyes. Only the president.”
Doubt seemed to appear in his eyes. He couldn’t risk refusing her entry if this was true. Like so many, he still held the old attitudes, the most important of which was self-preservation. Only ever do something if not doing it might draw the wrath of your superiors.
He withdrew into his little wooden cabin. Turning his back he lifted an old rotary landline phone and began to dial.
Seeing her chance, Ninel grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, ducked under the barrier and took off. The guard shouted after her, but she kept running as fast as she could, beyond the guardhouse and toward the runway.
The captain opened the cockpit door and walked down to Dimitri.
“Mr. Semenov, the control tower says that we have to taxi now.”
Dimitri checked his watch. They had already gone a minute past the captain’s latest estimate. It really was now or never.
“Okay, go ahead,” he told the captain. “Let’s taxi.”
He pulled out his BlackBerry and tapped out the number he had for Ninel on the keyboard. He hit the call button, a last roll of the dice. If she’d already been detained . . .
She answered. She sounded out of breath.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m here. I’m here,” she shouted. “Look out of your window.”
He scooted over into the next seat and stared out just as the captain dimmed the cabin lights. He didn’t see anything apart from a couple of other jets parked at their stands.
“Where?”
“Here. Here. I’m waving.”
He saw her then. Running with a bag across open runway.
The engines roared to life. As he grabbed for the seatbelt buckle, ready to run to the cockpit, he saw a military jeep turn the corner behind a hangar. It was heading straight for them. There were soldiers sitting in back, weapons readied.
The jeep bore down on Ninel as she ran toward the Gulfstream. Even if she got to them before the soldiers did they wouldn’t have time to stop, lower the steps to let her on, raise them again, and get to the runway.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, the BlackBerry still in his hand, Dimitri ran down the aisle to the cockpit. He muted the call as he threw open the door.
“Get this thing up. Now.”
The pilot and co-pilot stared at him, like he was a madman.
“Yes, sir,” the captain said, pulling back on the throttle, the aircraft picking up speed.
Losing his balance as the Gulfstream made a sharp turn toward the start of the runway, Dimitri grabbed for the back of a chair. Steadying himself, he put the BlackBerry back to his ear.
“Ninel, I’m sorry. I’ll do everything I can for you.”
“No!” she screamed down the line. “Wait! Don’t leave me here! Not like this!”
Dimitri Semenov threw himself back into his seat, put his seatbelt back on, laid the phone on the table and closed his eyes.
What have I done?
“I’m sorry, Ninel. I truly am.”
50
With gray clouds gathering outside, Dimitri hurried down the staircase of the townhouse in shorts, sneakers and a T-shirt. Lock waited for him at the bottom.
It had been an unexpected request. Elizabeth’s routine involved a run in nearby Central Park, but Lock had yet to see or hear of her husband being involved in any form of exercise that didn’t involve aspiring young models.
“We good?” said Dimitri.
“Yes,” said Lock. “All set.”
He had already cautioned Dimitri that now mi
ght not be the best time for him to take up jogging in such a public place. Dimitri had quickly shot him down, saying he needed to get some fresh air and clear his head. Together the two men headed outside, stepping directly into a Town Car that would drop them at the edge of the park.
In the car, Dimitri was unusually quiet. Lock read it as the residue of shock from the home invasion.
The car dropped them off in a relatively quiet spot on Fifth Avenue and the low 100s. Dimitri managed to jog for a hundred yards before stopping, hands on knees.
“You okay?” Lock asked him.
He straightened up. “I don’t want to run, or jog. Let’s just walk.”
“Okay,” said Lock, puzzled, but scanning the smattering of people walking or running past them for any sign of a potential threat.
They walked on for another hundred yards, Dimitri sucking in big gulps of air. Finally, when he had caught his breath, he stopped. “I needed to get out of the house so we could talk. Last night, I couldn’t sleep.”
Lock was hardly surprised.
“I looked at the material the outside agency you hired had gathered.”
“And?”
“There was something. No one apart from me could possibly have noticed it, or realized its significance, but there it was.”
Dimitri looked around as if some masked assassin might spring from behind a tree at any moment. It was strange: even among all the mayhem, Lock hadn’t seen him quite this rattled. Or paranoid.
“So what was it?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment. But it’s serious, Ryan. You know how I told you this is all being orchestrated back in Moscow?”
“I do.”
“Well, that’s only half the story, and to understand, you need to hear all of it.”
“Well,” said Lock, “if we’re going to have a big heart-to-heart, maybe we should find somewhere that’s a little less exposed.”