Chapter 3 – Sunday, October 23rd
Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia – 16:09 Local Time; 13:09 UTC
Muscles almost screaming in protest, Markova forced her legs to keep going up the hill, needing to beat her personal best. The autumn weather was starting to deteriorate, the mist threatening to turn into a fine drizzle, the cold air tugging at her lungs.
For five days now she had tested herself every afternoon and evening, covering the same route: north-west following the Volga River, down through the trees, and then back up the hill to the two-storey country retreat – it was much too impressive to merely call it a dacha. To refer to it as a prison also seemed slightly inappropriate, Markova’s captors polite enough, just not that talkative.
Fifty metres short of her Moscow apartment, Markova’s car had been blocked in by two others, four armed men ensuring she would not do anything too stupid. Bundled unceremoniously into the back of a van, it had then been an uncomfortable ride to a safe house in Moscow’s western suburbs, before a five hour journey north.
The country house was somewhere for its wealthy owner to enjoy peace and tranquillity well away from the stress of Moscow, the nearest town of Tutaev some fifteen kilometres to the south. There were a handful of regular staff, plus a dozen guards, with always at least six on duty when she wasn’t locked in her room. The guards wore no uniform, but their military training was obvious, Markova assuming that they too were Special Forces Spetsnaz. Not perhaps SVR, more likely Military Intelligence (GRU), their disdain for the FSB a natural part of their training.
The daily routine had never yet varied: her room unlocked at nine, breakfast downstairs, then two to three hours of questions. The afternoon and evening were hers to do as she pleased. Although most of the house was off-limits, she had free reign of the gated estate. The GPS ankle bracelet she wore had proved far more effective than Markova had expected, her attempts to escape or surreptitiously remove it invariably meeting with abject failure. Still, such episodes had provided a certain amount of entertainment for the guards, and it seemed to be expected that she wouldn’t just sit back and do nothing.
The morning sessions were always difficult: not that there had never been anything physical, no threats, and no intimidation other than the standard scenario of two interrogators – one male, one female – bombarding her with questions. For some reason the woman had been the worst, her soft-spoken and persistent tone rapidly getting under Markova’s skin.
Markova had given honest answers to some questions, been more evasive with others, occasionally being caught out with a lie, sometimes not. Initially the interrogation had centred on General Grebeshkov’s murder. Who would want him dead? Why might Alekseyev have killed him? How well did she know Alekseyev? And why would he kill Trukhin?
Eventually the focus had moved on to her specific role within the FSB. Why did she report directly to Grebeshkov? What was her present assignment? Had she ever investigated President Golubeva? And what about General Morozov?
Markova was in no mood to be accommodating, yet she had no wish to have the truth beaten out of her. For the time being she had opted to drip-feed relatively useless information, while trying to work out who exactly her captors worked for. The two interrogators often seemed to be unsure where to direct their line of inquiry, and when Markova had deliberately thrown in an off-hand reference to Wilhelmshaven, her comment had virtually been ignored.
That had seemed to rule out anyone associated with Sukhov or the SVR, and Markova had been forced to rethink her strategy. She had assumed she was merely expected to confirm certain facts, but now it seemed as if she knew far more than her two interrogators. There had been no questions concerning Pat McDowell and fortunately nothing about Nikolai. They were obviously working very much in the dark, guessing that Markova knew something worthwhile. Somehow she needed to turn that to her advantage, hopefully well before her captors finally lost patience.
It could have been worse, an elegant country house outside Tutaev far superior to an unheated cell-block in Siberia. Her room was the standard of a luxury hotel with overlarge bed, a massive TV and an impressive range of satellite channels; the food was excellent, and even the company was acceptable.
The TV was her single source of news, Markova’s self-reproach only increasing as she learnt of her colleagues’ arrest. She assumed it was driven by the need to protect Sukhov, the President perhaps also using the opportunity to stamp her authority on the FSB. Moscow too had abruptly returned to a more unsettled state, a new round of street protests bringing back memories of the previous year, the demonstrators unhappy at the military’s perceived interference in Russia’s newly-elected government. The police had been more restrained than usual, trying not to provoke the familiar running battles, hoping no doubt that the protests would die out once the weather deteriorated. Elsewhere, British TV was its usual mix of political and economic woes, with little to suggest that anyone had acted upon or even received Markova’s message, while CNN was more interested in the routine bellicose outpourings from North Korea.
There was certainly nothing to help explain what Sukhov and McDowell might be involved in. Markova’s instincts kept telling her to fight back – but to what end? And even if she escaped, where could she go? The area was sparsely populated, and whilst heading south to Tutaev was feasible, it was also a fairly obvious option. Forty kilometres north-west was the city of Rybinsk; to the east was a hundred kilometres of forest and farmland. Then there was the Volga: the river was in full flow, cold and unyielding, and without some form of boat the six hundred metres across to the opposite bank would be an impossible challenge.
Still, Markova was learning more each day while making sure her muscles grew accustomed to any future demands. Warm clothes, chocolate, a lighter: she was gradually amassing a few essential items – even a couple of thick plastic sacks and some strong garden twine just in case the Volga option should suddenly become more attractive. The fact no-one seemed bothered about searching her room might suggest her status was actually somewhere between prisoner and honoured guest – or more likely the guards knew she wouldn’t live long enough to use her badly-hidden hoard.
Markova now regretted her off-hand mention of Wilhelmshaven: despite the muted response there was no guarantee someone hadn’t pursued it, recordings of each interrogation no doubt passed on elsewhere for a more detailed analysis. McDowell habitually cut out any dead wood, especially if he sensed the authorities were ready to pounce. Maybe one day, McDowell too would be expendable, Golubeva or whoever he worked for, needing to protect their anonymity.
After six days with her stress levels jumping from extreme to another, there was always that nagging concern of not knowing how long her incarceration would last and what the next stage might be. She was even irritated by the fact that unless she just wore her uniform, then her choice of clothes was dictated by someone else’s guess as to her size and preferences – neither of which was particularly accurate.
She slowed to a walk as she crested the rise, her gaze following a black dot low in the sky as it moved ever closer, the hum of the helicopter’s rotor blades barely heard against the wind.
The military helicopter landed on the grassy bank opposite the house. Markova was still too far away to identify either of the two figures that were quickly escorted inside, but she sensed her time here might soon be at an end, one way or another.
The Trust Of The People Page 6