by Ted Halstead
Smyslov stood up, quickly followed by Vasilyev and Grishkov. Smyslov pounded each of them on the back as he walked them out of his office.
“Best of luck to both of you,” he said. “I know I’ll be hearing from you soon.”
Chapter Three
Kubinka Air Base, 65 Kilometers West of Moscow, Russia
Anatoly Grishkov grunted as the MiG-31’s pilot tightened the strap crossing his chest. The pilot was standing on a service cart adjacent to the MiG-31. “Cozy?” the pilot asked with a grin.
Grishkov’s right hand was still free, but he quickly thought better of his first impulse and nodded.
From the pilot’s answering laugh, he had seen Grishkov’s hand twitch, and then his decision not to follow through with the gesture.
“As your reward for not saying or doing anything rude, you get this special helmet,” the pilot said, handing one to Grishkov.
Grishkov noticed that the service cart did indeed have a selection of helmets of different sizes and slightly different shapes.
“Notice the small piece of plastic here towards the bottom of the helmet. If you press against it with your chin, you will be able to speak with me during the flight, which even at the speed we’ll be going will take some time. The only time I’ll ask you not to speak to me is when we’re refueling,” the pilot said.
Grishkov nodded. “And where will we be stopping to refuel?” he asked.
The pilot laughed. “Stopping? For a special passenger like you, there is no stopping. We will be refueling in mid-air, and as a bonus will be doing so at night.”
Grishkov stirred uneasily in his seat. “Which you have done before, yes?”
The pilot grinned at him as he finished checking Grishkov’s flight harness, and the fit of his helmet. “That’s why I’m flying you. Many MiG pilots have experience with mid-air refueling, but only a few have done so at night. We don’t do it unless it’s essential.”
The pilot climbed into the cockpit, and a crewman drove the service cart clear of the plane. As his hands blurred over the MiG’s controls, the pilot said, “When you have time someday, you can look up a video the Defense Ministry uploaded to the Internet showing how it’s done. Sadly, you can’t see it’s me in the clip. I’ve been told I’m quite photogenic.”
Grishkov was spared having to reply by the canopy closing, followed immediately by the roar of the MiG-31’s two turbofan engines.
En Route to Domodedovo Airport
Neda Rhahbar frowned as she finished reading the one-page summary, but said nothing.
Mikhail Vasilyev’s eyebrows rose, and he asked quietly, “Anything additional you’d like to know?”
Neda’s gaze moved to the driver in what was a silent question.
Vasilyev nodded approvingly. “You are right to check with me before speaking. However, in this case, I can tell you that the Director himself has approved our driver and intends us to use this time to discuss the mission. So, feel free to ask questions.”
Neda shrugged. “From what I see here, if Grishkov is successful in obtaining information on the Taliban’s planned theft of Pakistani nuclear weapons, it may be possible to prevent their capture. In that case, there will be no need for my expertise. So, I think it would be best to avoid telling me more about our mission than is on this page until we hear from Grishkov.”
Vasilyev looked at Neda with new respect. “So, let me guess. My namesake is still training at the Academy.”
“Yes,” she nodded. “He was also called Mikhail, but he was much older than you. He said one of the reasons the USSR lasted as long as it did was that its spies knew how to keep their mouths shut.”
Neda paused. “I believed him.”
Vasilyev smiled. “I know your training was cut short by this mission’s timing, but I’m pleased you have already learned the most important lesson. Still, do you have any questions about this mission that do not relate to its objectives?”
Neda frowned and pulled out her passport from her purse. “I was surprised to see that I am traveling to Pakistan on a new passport issued by the Iranian Embassy in Moscow under my real name. Don’t agents normally travel under an assumed identity? Also, wasn’t it difficult to get an Iranian passport for someone who recently defected from Iran?”
Neda had gone to the Russian Embassy in Tehran earlier the same year. It had been to inform them that her husband, who had been in charge of Iran’s nuclear weapons program, was planning to make three nuclear test devices available for an attack on Saudi Arabia. She had then barely escaped Iran with the help of two Russian agents, Alexei Vasilyev and Anatoly Grishkov.
Vasilyev smiled. “I will address your last question first. Remember, there has been a change of government in Iran since your defection. Only a few people at the top of that government know of your role in recent events, and they plan to keep it that way. So, if someday you wish to return to Iran, I believe it would be safe for you to do so, as long as you also remain quiet about your defection and the reason you left.”
If Neda noticed how intently Vasilyev was watching for her reaction, she gave no sign.
“No, thank you. Maybe someday many years from now I will go to see my parents and my sister if they refuse to visit me in Moscow. For now, though, Tehran only holds bitter memories.”
Vasilyev leaned back, satisfied. He did not doubt her sincerity.
“Now, to answer your first question. Since you had traveled to Pakistan before under your real identity when you were a university student, it is much safer to have you fly in using that identity. All travelers arriving at Pakistan’s international airports are checked through facial recognition, and due to your earlier trip, your photo is probably in their database.”
Neda frowned. “Really? Pakistan is not a rich country. How is their entry screening so sophisticated?”
Vasilyev shrugged. “The cost of facial recognition technology has dropped substantially as many countries, cities, and even companies have started using it routinely. And remember that we are talking about a country willing to spend billions on nuclear weapons in the name of security. The primary target of facial recognition in Pakistan is Indian spies, just as their nuclear weapons are aimed at the Indian military.”
Neda shook her head. “But your name in the file is not your real name, and it says your passport is Pakistani!”
Vasilyev grinned. “Well, it helps that thanks to my mother, my complexion is a bit darker than the average Russian’s. As for my dark brown hair, I’m sure you must have seen it before on your last trip to Pakistan. The British were there for a long time. Of course, my identity has been thoroughly backstopped, including the false birth certificate listing my late father as British. A shame he never acknowledged me, or I might have obtained a British passport.”
Neda shook her head even more stubbornly. “None of that explains how your name can be different, and mine cannot.”
Vasilyev nodded. “The name in my current passport is identical to the one I used on my first trip to Pakistan, and on every trip since. You see, no country has access to a worldwide database that can verify the identity of every traveler. All a country can do with facial recognition is force a person to keep using the same identity every time they travel to that country. Unless that is, they are willing to answer some uncomfortable questions.”
Neda was clearly not convinced. “Can’t facial recognition be fooled by wearing glasses and a wig, for example?”
Vasilyev smiled. “You can make the software’s job harder. However, facial recognition works by reducing the dimensions of a face to a mathematical expression. It might be possible to change measurements like the distance between the pupils of your eyes.”
Now his smile widened. “But, I’ll bet it would hurt.”
Neda shivered. “Very well. One final question. The reasons for traveling together as a married couple are obvious. But have you considered that questions may be asked about our age difference? I must be at least five years older than you, which
is unusual in both Iran and Pakistan.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Six years older, actually. But your looks explain how I came to marry you in spite of that.”
Neda blushed and for once had nothing to say. Vasilyev could hear a poorly concealed snort of amusement from the driver.
“I apologize for my poor choice of words,” Vasilyev said. “It was not…professional. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But in this work, beauty is like strength or any other attribute. It is a tool to be used in accomplishing the mission. In this case, I am confident it will protect us from questions that might have been raised by our age difference.”
Neda shrugged, clearly still uncomfortable, but at least less so.
Vasilyev said with relief, “And it is good that was your last question,” as he pointed out the car window at the airport terminal building. “It will be some time before we are in a location where it will be safe to ask another.”
En Route to 201st Military Base, Tajikistan
Grishkov wasn’t aware of it, but he was doing his very best not to move or breathe. An IL-78 “Midas” aerial refueling tanker filled the canopy in front of him, and a part of his brain was insisting the pilot was trying to fly inside it. In spite of this, a lifetime of first military and then police discipline had kept Grishkov’s chin off his helmet’s radio switch.
Instead, Grishkov tried but failed to follow the dialogue between the pilot and the tanker coming over his helmet headset. The few clipped words were Russian, but meant nothing to him. He took some comfort, though, from the calm and professional tone of the exchange.
Finally, with a distinct “thunk” the tanker’s refueling equipment detached from the MiG-31 and began to return to the IL-78. After a few minutes, the MiG-31 began a gentle bank to the right, and within seconds the tanker was no longer visible.
Grishkov realized as air flowed into his lungs just how tense he had been. His first reaction was annoyance, as he thought to himself he’d been in many more dangerous situations. After a few more moments, he realized that the difference this time was that his survival had depended totally on the pilot’s skill.
As though he were reading Grishkov’s mind, the pilot’s amused voice now came over his helmet’s headset. “See, I told you I did this before! You did remember to start breathing again back there, right?”
Grishkov remembered to press his chin against the helmet’s talk switch. “Yes. A good thing I was wearing a mask feeding me oxygen.”
The pilot’s laugh echoed in Grishkov’s ears. “Very good! I’m glad to have a passenger with a sense of humor.”
Then the pilot’s voice lowered and became more serious. “I would, of course, never ask what you will be doing after you finish this ride. To satisfy my curiosity, though, I will ask you one question. In your opinion, not your bosses, is all this effort worth it?”
Since Grishkov had spent the hours before the tanker appeared mentally reviewing his mission to prevent the Taliban from obtaining Pakistani nuclear warheads, he didn’t hesitate for a moment.
“Yes,” he said.
The pilot grunted with satisfaction. “Good. I can hear in your voice that you mean it. I talked recently with an American diplomat who was visiting Kubinka Air Base, and can tell you that sometimes risks like nighttime midair refueling are taken without real cause.”
Grishkov knew the pilot expected him to ask but was also curious. “And what would an American diplomat know about unnecessary risk in military operations?”
The pilot laughed and said, “Well, this diplomat told me an incredible story about being part of a group of military officers and civilian officials visiting a U.S. Marine base. One of the many items of military equipment he saw demonstrated was the Harrier Jump Jet.”
Grishkov nodded, but then realized the pilot couldn’t see him. “Yes,” he said, “I have heard of it. It can go straight up like a helicopter, then fly at high speeds like a plane, and come straight down to land.”
“Correct,” the pilot said. “However, a Harrier pilot seldom uses the ‘straight up/straight down’ capability because it has a high fuel cost. Instead, vectored thrust allows for very short takeoffs and landings, and the use of roads as runways.”
“Interesting,” Grishkov said. “I can see how that could be very useful in combat operations. But, just a moment. Why was this group at a Marine base?”
“A good question,” the pilot replied. “They were attending a U.S. military academy. They had been selected because they were thought likely to reach General’s rank or for the few civilians the equivalent in their agency. The idea was to make them aware of what each military branch could do, and so they visited a base representative of each service in turn.”
“A worthwhile concept,” Grishkov said. “So, I imagine the ‘unnecessary risk’ came from the demonstration?”
“Indeed,” the pilot said, “The Harrier would land on a two-lane blacktop road cut through a pine forest on the base, while the visiting group would observe.”
“Observe from where?” Grishkov asked.
“From either side of the road, lined up a couple of meters away from the edge,” the pilot replied.
“Efficient,” Grishkov said dryly. “That way, no matter whether the jet veered slightly right or left on landing, you could still be assured of having a wing slice through half of the group.”
The pilot laughed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. The diplomat told me he started to think the demonstration might not be altogether safe when he noticed one of his classmates edging back from the road until he had nearly reached the trees. He then recalled that his classmate, named ‘Tom,’ was himself a Harrier pilot. When the diplomat asked Tom what he was doing, he replied, pointing at the rapidly approaching Harrier, ‘I don’t know this guy’ and moved back a little farther.”
Grishkov laughed in turn. “But if he told you this as an amusing story, I presume the landing took place without incident.”
“Yes,” the pilot replied. “Then this diplomat told me something interesting. He said that the most impressive military capability he had seen demonstrated was at an airbase in Oklahoma. He was taken inside a structure he was told covered more acres than any other on earth, and required the use of electric carts to see any significant portion.”
Grishkov grunted. “And inside this huge structure?”
The pilot said thoughtfully, “Aircraft in the process of refurbishment. He saw more aircraft than he could count, many stripped to the fuselage. He told me this brought home to him the real strength of the U.S. military- a logistical capability no other country could match.”
Chapter Four
Islamabad International Airport, Islamabad, Pakistan
Neda Rhahbar looked around her in amazement as they walked to the terminal exit. “It is so much nicer than the last time I was here. I can’t believe it’s the same airport.”
Mikhail Vasilyev smiled. “It’s not. The new airport for Islamabad was opened in 2018, not so long ago. Companies based in France, the UK, the U.S., and Singapore all had a hand in its design and construction. I agree that the result is very impressive.”
It was only a short walk from the airport exit to the attached parking garage. Neda exclaimed with dismay when Vasilyev stopped in front of a small white, boxy car that appeared to have been built in the 1980s.
“Surely, this is not our car!” Neda exclaimed.
Vasilyev laughed and replied, “Yes, I’m afraid so. Let me get our luggage put away, take a look around the car, and I’ll explain as I drive.”
Not long after they had driven clear of the airport, Vasilyev said, “Now, to help you get oriented, we’ll be going most of the way down Kashmir Highway, and then once we’re in the city we’ll turn off on Khayaban-e-Suhrwardy. Our temporary quarters are within walking distance of the Russian Embassy. The whole drive should take less than an hour, as long as the traffic cooperates.”
Neda was scowling. “Never mind that. You were going to tell me why we
have this terrible car.”
Vasilyev grinned and said mildly, “Well, I’ve driven worse, even in Russia. This is a Suzuki Mehran, retired from the European and Japanese markets in 1988, but sold in large numbers in Pakistan until 2019. That’s why we’re driving it, and why its color is the most popular for a car sold in Pakistan- white. This car is as close to anonymous as possible, which is an excellent thing for people like us.”
Neda’s frown, if anything, deepened. “I am looking for any sign of airbags, which even in Iran most cars possessed.”
Vasilyev nodded. “You won’t find them. Or antilock brakes, shock absorbers, seat belt warnings, or for that matter, rear seat belts. Everything, including transmission, ignition, doors, and windows, is manual.”
Neda shook her head. “We didn’t have to get a car this bad to be anonymous. Remember, I was here before, and I saw plenty of Toyota Corollas, and they are much better cars.”
Vasilyev smiled. “You’re right. In spite of Corollas costing more than twice as much as Mehrans, by 2019, they were outselling it, one reason the Mehran was finally retired in Pakistan. But you’re a scientist—how could the systems in a modern car be used against us?”
Now Neda’s frown changed from annoyed to thoughtful. “I’ve seen videos of stolen cars being remotely disabled by police, and the doors locked to prevent the escape of the thief.”
“Correct,” Vasilyev nodded. “Even more cars are vulnerable to hacking that would allow a built-in GPS to be remotely monitored, or even fed false data. You are right that police have some access to these tools. However, we are more likely to be targeted by ISI, which has the technical capability to do far more. You are familiar with them, yes?”