by Ross Sidor
Avery proceeded back along the length of the shoulder to the Lada. His eyes flicked constantly onto the highway, paranoid about going the way of Raymond Davis, the CIA contractor who was arrested by Pakistani police after killing two bandits in Lahore. Unlike Davis, Avery knew he couldn’t expect the president to appeal to the Tajiks for his release. Traffic continued to whir by along the highway. Motorists stared as they passed, but no one stopped. There were no police cars, no sounds of sirens, yet.
As he walked toward him, Avery met Poacher’s gaze and saw his eyes shift and react to something, and Poacher threw up his SOCOM pistol once more, two handed, and yelled at Avery to get down.
Avery reacted immediately. He dropped to the ground out of Poacher’s line of fire, and rolled onto his back to see Dagar standing twelve feet away scooping an AK off the ground.
Poacher fired first and hit Dagar in the chest. Dagar dropped the rifle, staggered forward, and tripped onto the highway directly into the path of an oncoming truck. It smashed through him doing sixty, and Dagar went beneath the tires and undercarriage and was split open. As the truck braked and grinded to a halt some fifty feet away, it dragged with it the tattered, crushed body and left a trail of blood and pulped organs on the highway.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Avery told Poacher.
They returned to the Lada and slipped inside. Avery put the car into gear and accelerated.
The total duration of time spent on the side of the highway was fifty-seven seconds. The firefight, starting with Avery’s first shot, took twelve of those seconds.
Only with the adrenaline wearing off now did Poacher notice the blood dripping down his left arm from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. He examined the source and found a hole in the fabric and saw that he’d taken a hit, likely just a ricochet that had grazed across his arm, but still bad enough.
Avery got off at the next exit, knowing that there had been no shortage of witnesses and that Tajik police and GKNB would be on the scene soon and likely looking out for the Lada.
Poacher contacted Mockingbird and Reaper. Avery and Poacher met them in Dushanbe seven minutes later and transferred into their vehicle. They left the Lada behind, abandoned.
EIGHTEEN
Dayrabot
Bordering Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia, and Ukraine, Belarus is a tiny, landlocked, heavily forested former Soviet republic with a population of ten million, with the capital city Minsk located roughly in the center of the country. President Aleksander Lukashenko’s authoritarian government is referred to as the last dictatorship of Europe or the North Korea of Europe. Like North Korea, this country is a lingering despot of communism clinging to power, regarded as an international pariah, and often the subject of controversy and sanctions amongst the United Nations and the European Union. The latter banned the travel of Lukashenko and a hundred sixty of his top advisers, cabinet officers, and officials to their countries. Lukashenko has been in power since 1994, and most of his political opponents are in prison. Belarus’ state-controlled, Soviet style economy is dependent entirely on Russia for financial assistance, importation of raw materials and natural resources, and exportation of domestically produced goods.
Aside from the government’s rampant human rights violations and un-democratic practices, Belarus is also a notorious exporter of weapons, selling over two billion dollars worth of small arms, technical components, and military vehicles each year. Most of this money goes directly into a special fund for the president and his closest advisers. The president personally oversees every arms transaction through state-owned export companies.
In the late 1990s, Genex ltd, the Belarusian cargo carrier, delivered to Afghanistan weapons and equipment that Usama bin Laden purchased from Serbia. In 2004, Veronika Cherkasova, a journalist investigating Belarusian arms sales to Iran, was murdered outside her apartment. Belarus armed Ghadaffi as he struggled to maintain power during the Libyan civil war, and the UN secretary general personally called out Belarus for shipping military helicopters to the Ivory Coast’s internationally condemned regime. Most recently, Minsk armed Syria in its war against the Islamic uprising. Private jets from rogue regimes and outlaw groups have been caught landing in Minsk, delivering gold and diamonds to senior officials of Lukashenko’s government. The West is especially concerned by Belarus’s negotiations with Tehran to sell Russian-made S-300 missiles to Iran.
In addition to selling military hardware directly, Belarus is also a safe haven from which Kremlin-sanctioned arms merchants can store and export their merchandise, most of which originates from nearby Bulgarian or Czech factories. The Kremlin itself frequently uses Belarus as a proxy to provide arms to clients that the Russian Federation cannot do business with directly for political reasons, like Sudan or, previously, Saddam Hussein. Many Western diplomats believed that Belarus did very little in its foreign relations without the approval, if not outright backing, of Moscow.
Most recently, in response to American and European Union economic sanctions, Belarus has threatened to withdraw from the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons and reacquire its status as a nuclear power. In the first two years after Belarus became an independent country in 1991, like Ukraine and Kazakhstan, it was briefly in possession of nuclear missiles from the Soviet Union, but Belarus eventually turned the warheads over to Russia in exchange for security guarantees. In August 2013, Moscow and Minsk finalized plans to begin construction of a permanent base on Belarusian soil that will host Russian nuclear bombers. In November of the same year, Lukashenko announced construction of a nuclear power plant.
Although a frequent target of CIA’s Counter Proliferation Center and Europe Division, as well as British, Polish, and German intelligence services, Belarus is a difficult country for the Agency to operate in, due to the closed, repressive nature of Belarusian society and the reach of the security services. In 2008, Minsk expelled several CIA officers with diplomatic cover for their involvement with opposition politicians and parties.
The photographs provided to Mockingbird by an anonymous source with the Internet handle ADen80 showed the GlobeEx An-22 sitting on a parking revetment at Minsk National. The aircraft’s identification number— RA8564G—was in clear view on the tail. The geographic coordinates in the photo’s time and date stamp matched those of Minsk. The distance between Ayni and Minsk, and the timing of the aircraft’s departure and arrival, was consistent for a nonstop flight between the two countries, and Mockingbird was convinced that the picture was genuine.
Before reading up on Belarus online, Avery had known next to nothing about the country. But Belarus made a logical destination for Ukrainian arms traffickers and rogue spooks. Maybe Minsk was just a layover and Cramer had already moved onto another destination or maybe he was still there. Either way, there was only one way to pick up Cramer’s trail now.
Avery had no contacts in Europe. He didn’t have a feel for the local gestalt and the mood on the streets. He wasn’t intimately familiar with the political and social landscape and climate the way he was with Afghanistan or Pakistan. He didn’t know the lay of the streets or how to get around there. He didn’t speak a word of Belarusian or Russian. In short, he didn’t know how to blend in there. He’d be even more of an outsider than in Tajikistan. And when someone felt like an outsider, they invariably acted the part—awkward, unconfident, apprehensive, and timid— and consequently stood out.
His previous experience in Europe was limited to a couple brief jobs back when he’d been a cleaner. In Poland, he was sent in when the defection of a Russian navy captain went sour, and Avery was tasked with getting both the agent and his handler out of Kaliningrad, the Russian enclave nestled on the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania.
Then, in Germany, after a terrorist rendition operation went to shit do to incompetent management and poor OPSEC, Avery had been tasked with sanitizing the safe house used by the compromised CIA unit—who had already fled the country in a hurry, with warrants issued for th
eir arrest—and retrieving vital equipment and materials before German federal police raided the place.
Those had been the most stressful jobs of his career, far worse than anything he’d come up against in Iraq or Afghanistan. He didn’t mind having to shoot it out with terrorists, especially in a war zone where his rules of engagement permitted him to shoot first. That’s why he trained so hard. But going up against another country’s police and counterintelligence services and risk spending the rest of his life in prison was a different story. He didn’t know how the Cold War generation did it.
Aside from essentially going into Minsk blind, he’d also be without backup. There’d be no support from Culler. Sideshow had very specific op orders, Afghanistan or Uzbekistan was acceptable, with Seventh Floor approval, but their mandate didn’t include Belarus. Avery could easily end up dead in an alley or spend the rest of his life in the Amerikanka, Belarus’s notorious Stalin-era KGB-run prison for spies and political prisoners. And no one would ever know or care.
Simply put, the Charlie Foxtrot potential was high.
Avery’s first priority was simply getting into the country. He couldn’t use his Nick Anderson diplomatic papers. But on a job, he always had a backup. He’d enter on an Irish passport in the name of Nick Ambrose, a Canadian who had immigrated to Ireland. Americans and Brits would warrant scrutiny from the Belarusian authorities as a matter of course, but nobody ever had problems with the Irish or Canadians. Nick Ambrose was a satellite dish engineer. Avery even had business cards and fliers, as well as the necessary credit cards, driver’s license, and a Kinsale Library card.
Aside from a plausible cover for action, the biggest hurdle was the visa application. Whether coming to Belarus on business or private matters, visitors were required to submit their visa application one week in advance. The applicant also needed to include contact information for the Belarusian citizens they were visiting or the offices they were doing business with.
Avery continued reading and clicking websites, and found his solution.
By special decree of President Lukashenko, visas would not be required for foreigners visiting Minsk for the three-week-long International Ice Hockey Championship games, as long as they had their tickets upon arrival.
Avery clicked onto the International Ice Hockey Championship website. The games had just started and were into their first week.
It was as solid a cover as he was going to get within twenty-four hours. Tourists from all over Europe were flocking to Minsk. And that’s exactly why Lukashenko was waiving visas. The games would be a huge boost to Minsk’s tourist industry and economy. But it would also be impossible for the KGB to keep track of every Westerner in the city, and their surveillance teams would hopefully have higher priorities than a Canadian hockey fan.
Avery bought tickets on his Nick Ambrose credit card for games later that week and printed them. Next, he put his flight plan together and paid for the airline tickets. The Aeroflot flight to Russia’s Sochi International Airport left Dushanbe International 8:45AM tomorrow, thirteen hours away.
Unfortunately, the lack of official cover meant no diplomatic lockboxes in which to smuggle his equipment into the country without going through Customs. The small x-ray proof compartment in his suitcase was large enough only for the Glock.
Sure, he could arrange through Gerald Rashid to forward his equipment to the embassy at Minsk so he could pick it up from a local case officer there, but that created an inevitable chain of records and paperwork in two countries, as well as back at Langley, and he definitely didn’t want to alert COS Minsk. Avery didn’t know who the local CIA chief was, but from experience, he knew these guys, or gals, were often appointed because they were politically reliable. Most didn’t make a move outside the embassy without ambassadorial permission. They’d be none too happy to have an independent freelancer, especially one with Avery’s reputation, operating on their turf, with weapons.
“And what’s the plan once you arrive in Minsk?” Poacher asked. He was skeptical and had already tried to talk Avery out of it.
Avery didn’t have an answer to the question. Mockingbird had compiled a list of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs owned or frequented by Russian mafiya vor, plus offices and facilities used by GlobeEx Transport. But scoping out these places in hopes of finding a familiar face from Ayni was a long-shot. They knew the hangar and terminal GlobeEx used at Minsk National. Another long-shot, scoping that place out hoping to catch a glimpse of Cramer, but so far it was the best he had.
“I’ve arranged a local contact for you,” Mockingbird said, before Avery could respond to Poacher’s question. Mockingbird had been quietly working on his laptop the entire time Avery had been putting together his travel plans. “The source that provided the intel on the Antonov. He’s willing to meet me, or rather you, I should say. He’s pretty interested in Litvin’s business, too. I think he’s a journalist, probably Russian. He said he’s working on a story in Minsk.”
“This can’t be a good idea,” Poacher said. He didn’t even need to elaborate why, because he knew Avery was already thinking the same.
“What’s his name? Have you checked him out?” Avery asked.
“He won’t provide a name, but I searched his screen name and got a few hits. That’s how I surmised he’s a reporter. He’s taking a risk by doing this. Belarus isn’t a safe place for an investigative reporter. If he’s on the level, he could be a real asset. At least he may have insight into Litvin’s operations and he’ll know his way around Minsk.”
“If he’s who you think he is,” Avery said, “and not a plant set up by Litvin or the Belarusian KGB.”
“There is that,” Mockingbird acknowledged meekly.
“If he wants to stay anonymous, how am I supposed to find him and identify him? I’m not going to sit around in a hostile country and wait for him to find me.”
“You won’t have to.” Mockingbird explained the contact procedure he’d worked out with the journalist. “He’s taking a bigger risk than you. You can scope it out first. If you don’t like something, simply walk away, and he’ll never even know what you look like or who you are. He’s the one who has to worry about this being a set-up. At least it’s better than staking out the airport and hoping to get lucky.”
“Okay. Set it up. But if I see something I don’t like, or I get a bad feeling, I’m calling it off.”
“One of my guys should go with you,” Poacher said. “Our cover will hold over there.”
But Avery shook his head. “No, I’m going to need to be discreet there. Plus there’s no way Langley is going to approve it.” And once Langley received and denied Sideshow’s request for entry into Belarus, eyebrows would be raised. The Seventh Floor would want to know exactly why Poacher wanted his team in Minsk. Given Sideshow’s mission in Tajikistan, they’d quickly start making connections between Belarus and Cramer, and that’s what Avery wanted to avoid.
Poacher reluctantly agreed.
In truth, Avery preferred going in alone. As much as he valued Sideshow’s help in Tajikistan, he was better off on his own.
NINETEEN
Minsk
Avery breezed through security and customs at Dushanbe International. He’d arrived early and was confident no one observed him board the Aeroflot Tupolev. He was concerned not only with the GKNB, but also the Russians. If Ramzin’s people spotted him boarding a flight to Russia, the game was up before it began. Before departing, Reaper forged a Tajik entry stamp on his Nick Ambrose passport. He’d only know for sure he was clean when he landed in Sochi or Minsk and wasn’t immediately picked up by the authorities.
Avery slept through the three hour flight. The Tupolev landed at Sochi International Airport, located in the city of the same name on Russia’s Black Sea coast, late Friday morning. Following the recent terrorist mass transit bombings in nearby Volgograd, there was heightened security; including Interior Ministry OMON special police troops with body armor and submachine guns. They eyed every forei
gner with suspicion, and Avery was glad to board his flight to Moscow.
At Sheremetyevo, he had a ninety minute layover before the two hour, eleven minute flight to Minsk. This was his first time in the Russian capital, but he didn’t leave the airport to go sightseeing. Instead, he ate an overpriced sandwich from a concession stand, drank a Coke for the caffeine boost, and spent the entire three hours in a soft, cushioned armchair in the departures lounge, people-watching, before his final flight. Fortunately, the jet lag wouldn’t be too bad. The time zone change was fairly minor, and it was always easier to travel west and gain time than go east and lose it.
The ninety minute Belavia flight to Minsk was the quickest of his three flights, and the Boeing 737 landed early Friday evening and taxied to Gate 2.
In the terminal, Avery immediately maneuvered ahead of the other travelers and rushed to the second floor of the arrivals sector to get in line for his migration card. With that in hand, he was directed through passport control and then, finally, customs, where his luggage was once again searched. The customs officer asked him the routine questions about the nature of his visit and business and the length of his stay, listened with disinterest to Avery’s practiced responses, and finally stamped his Nick Ambrose passport and allowed him through.
Avery wasn’t sure where he was going next, but it was important to act like he had a purpose. He stopped at the nearest information kiosk and studied the large directional display depicting the layout of the airport. Then he took a three minute walk to the nearest men’s room, where he took his time inside the stall and washing up at the sink.
Next, he took another walk to the closest news stand, where he picked up an English-language paper and a pack of cigarettes. From there, he went to the cocktail lounge, ordered another Coke, and sat around for a bit, before finally proceeding to Gate 4, on the opposite side of the airport, where he was to meet the contact.