The Russian Defector

by Ethan Jones

  His move saved their lives.

  The Smart car swung back into its lane, but not before the truck clipped the rear corner of the car. It was barely a fender bender, but because of the speed and the difference in size, the Smart car was tossed around as if it were a toy car.

  Sokolov was thrown against the driver, whose head banged hard against the glass. Still, he tried to regain control of the vehicle and drive. He was able to straighten the wheels and stepped on the gas, but the car moved forward very slowly. One of the rear tires was blown out, and the undercarriage began to scrape the asphalt.

  Sokolov said to the driver, “Stop the car.” He pointed to the right. “There.”

  The driver nodded and steered in that direction.

  Sokolov looked a last time in the rearview mirror. The silver SUV had just turned onto their street. It came to an abrupt stop, and the blonde woman opened the door and hopped out of the driver’s seat. She was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a dark brown jacket. A pistol was visible in her left hand.

  Sokolov needed no more proof.

  He opened the door and rolled onto the sidewalk. He crouched near the side of the car and looked at the woman. She was darting among the cars, but he didn’t have a clear shot. He aimed high and fired a round.

  The woman dropped behind a taxi about thirty yards to Sokolov’s left.

  He seized the moment and dashed across the square to his right. He needed to cover about a hundred yards, and he’d reach his destination, the Canadian Embassy to Finland.

  Sokolov ran as fast as he could, dodging vehicles that sped toward him. He pointed the gun at a truck driver who didn’t seem likely to stop. The pistol didn’t faze him, and the driver didn’t even slow down.

  Shaking his head, Sokolov rushed behind the truck. He crossed the last lane and was now in the park area of the square. A bullet whizzed past his head. He ducked and rolled onto the grass. He crawled to a bench on the side and looked over his shoulder. He didn’t see the woman and couldn’t make out any shooters. He waited there for a moment, but no one popped up.

  He crawled backwards, then sprang to his feet and continued his dash. He zigzagged every few seconds, to make himself a harder target. No bullets zipped next to him, and he didn’t look over his shoulders.

  When he came to Aleksanterinkatu Street, he aimed his gun at a nearing bus. The driver slowed down, the bus weaving to an abrupt stop. Sokolov stepped in front of the bus, then carefully looked around it.

  A speeding motorcycle almost ran him over. Sokolov crossed the next lane, and, when he reached the sidewalk, ran to his left. He turned his head only once. The woman was halfway through the park, her gun pointed at Sokolov.

  He slid behind a couple of parked vehicles and waited. He heard no gunshots, and when he looked through the vehicles’ windows, the blonde woman had disappeared. Where did she go? He glanced around for another moment. She wasn’t in the park.

  He shrugged and turned his head to the left. The Canadian Embassy was now less than sixty yards away, down on Pohjoisesplanadi Street. So close, but yet so far.

  Sokolov cursed under his breath and bolted toward the embassy. He kept his pistol low and close to his thigh. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by the embassy’s security.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  The woman was gone.

  Is she really gone?

  He slowed down as he came to the corner. He could see now the tall wrought-iron fence and the Maple Leaf flag proudly waving its red and white colors, fluttering in the gentle breeze. Sokolov smiled. He was so close to completing his mission.

  He turned his head for a last time, and that’s when he saw her. The blonde woman had crossed the road and was staring at him. Her face was locked in a menacing glare, then she slowly lifted up a pistol equipped with a silencer.

  Sokolov’s smile froze. He had barely had time to lower himself next to the nearest car when one of its windows exploded into a geyser of glass shards. He looked toward the embassy’s gate. No one had noticed the commotion.

  He was still perhaps thirty yards away from the gate. Sokolov was confident he could cover the distance without being killed, but besides the woman assassin, he would have to deal with the guards, who were likely to overreact to a gunman approaching their station.

  So he took the extreme approach.

  He turned his pistol toward the embassy and fired through the fence at one of the empty parked cars inside the courtyard. One of his bullets activated the car alarm, and its shriek filled the street.

  His gunshots drew the attention of the security guards. Four men armed with rifles poured onto the street and pointed them at Sokolov. Instinctively, he tossed the pistol to the ground and dropped to his knees.

  “Get down, down!” one of the guards shouted at Sokolov.

  “Yes, yes, but there’s a shooter, a blonde woman, across the street.” He pointed with his right hand. “Between the blue Peugeot and white Volkswagen.”

  One of the guards looked in that direction. “There’s no one there.”

  “Go check it. I swear I’m not lying.”

  His face was so close to the sidewalk that he felt the air blowing against his face because of his heavy breathing.

  “Stay there.” The guard who had first talked to Sokolov twisted his left arm behind his back. “The police will come and get you.”

  “No, no, no. That would be a terrible mistake. My name is Oleg Sokolov, and I’m an SVR agent. I want to defect.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Well, you’re not getting inside the embassy.”

  Sokolov shook his head. “You don’t understand. I want to switch sides, give the Canadians secrets of the Russian intel service. But I won’t talk to you, or your supervisor.”

  The guard hoisted Sokolov to his feet. A second guard grabbed him by the arm. “And who would you like to talk to, sir ?” he asked in a voice dripping with ridicule.

  “I’ll talk only to the acting chief of the CIS’s Europe Clandestine Section in Helsinki. His name is Justin Hall.”

  Chapter Two

  Outside the Canadian Embassy

  Pohjoisesplanadi Street

  Helsinki, Finland

  “Sokolov has escaped,” Tiana Trifonova said slowly into her cellphone. “They’re dragging him inside the embassy.”

  She was standing next to a silver SUV. Her attentive blue eyes were following the gestures of the armed guards. One of them seemed to be considering whether he should cross the street and check the area. He gestured to another guard, who gave him a stern headshake. The pair joined the others, who had taken the detainee beyond the fence perimeter and into the grounds under the jurisdiction of Canada.

  “Just because he’s in their custody doesn’t mean he’s safe. Traitors are never safe, no matter where they are,” the ice-cold voice of Dmitry Kotov, her boss, rang in her ear.

  Tiana felt a shiver traveling down her spine and goosebumps forming on her arms. Just a week ago, Kotov had eliminated—no, executed—a man suspected of betraying their Motherland. The man had pleaded, sworn on his mother’s grave, his innocence. It didn’t change anything. When Sokolov entered the Canadian embassy on his own terms and of his own will, he had signed his death warrant.

  “Nothing will keep him alive, even an immediate admission of guilt, which, as we both know, is not going to happen.” Kotov’s voice turned sharper with every word. “He will leave the embassy in a body bag…”

  “So our only option is to convince the Canadians to hand him over?”

  “That’s the first option, but not the only one. The Canadians are meek and compliant, like puppy dogs following their master. They don’t bark, and they don’t bite. They wouldn’t want any bloodshed.”

  Tiana frowned and looked at the phone. While she agreed with her boss’s sentiment, she feared he might have underestimated the situation. Kotov was stationed in Moscow, over a thousand kilometers away. Th
e last time he had come to Helsinki had been five years ago, and he had stayed only two days.

  On the other hand, Tiana had spent the last two years in the country and had left the Finnish capital for less than a week over the last three months. She wondered whether she should bring up her concerns to her boss and weighed the pros and cons of not speaking up. Against her better judgment, she decided she couldn’t remain silent. “Mr. Kotov, there has been a recent development that perhaps you might be unaware of … The Canadians, they have a new ECS station chief … Well, new as in two months old.”

  “And?”

  “The man is not your common bureaucrat, or supervisor. He’s seen many years of combat in the most wretched corners of the world. Syria, Iraq, Iran, Somalia, Yemen. You say it, he’s seen it, done it. Not only done it, but done it extremely well, surviving against unbeatable odds and relentless enemies.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, sir. It has no other meaning but that of factual information. I’m not inferring anything or coming to any conclusions. I just want our actions to be well-thought-out—”

  “And they will be, as always.”

  Tiana shook her head and looked at the embassy’s entrance. Two of the security guards had retreated to their initial positions beyond the fence. The other two, the ones who had been taking the SVR operative inside the courtyard, had entered the embassy building.

  Kotov said, “And to make sure that … eh, these ‘recent developments’ are dealt with promptly and efficiently, you’ll be in charge of handling the … let’s call them ‘negotiations’ for the return of the turncoat.” His tone of voice was a combination of impatience and frustration.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure it’s handled correctly.”

  “Good. Should I dispatch a second team?”

  Tiana felt as if Kotov had slapped her across the face. “To what purpose?”

  “To handle any complications or blowback…”

  “There will be neither.” Her voice turned stern and icy, which rivaled Kotov’s.

  “Are you certain you can handle this … what’s the Canadian chief of station’s name?”

  “Justin Hall.”

  “Yes, so you’re certain you can handle Mr. Hall?”

  “Absolutely,” Tiana replied without hesitation.

  “So, it’s settled then. Make contact with Hall, if he’s the one in charge of dealing with this situation, which should be the case. If he refuses the soft option of handing back our traitor, we’ll move to something rough…”

  Tiana nodded slowly as a frown spread across her face. Kotov didn’t just talk tough. She had seen Kotov’s operations in action. But the rough option—a complete assault against the Canadian embassy in an attempt to extract the traitor—would be stupid, even by Kotov’s or any other Russian standards. The diplomatic crisis that would ensue could have catastrophic consequences. But did Kotov care? Do I care?

  “Tiana, are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m just thinking of a plan of action.”

  “Great. Have something on my desk in an hour, and I’ll approve it in the next. A note will go from our Ministry of Foreign Affairs to their Canadian counterparts, requesting the return of the traitor immediately. They’ll have a twenty-four-hour window. Your op will run on parallel tracks.”

  “Understood.”

  “Questions?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m sure I’ll have some while I’m putting the extraction plan in action…”

  “Good. I’ll be in the office.”

  Kotov ended the call.

  Tiana looked at her phone, then glanced at the Canadian embassy. The three-story, red-and-beige brick building was well-guarded. A well-executed plan would have to take place under the cover of darkness. She shrugged. I hope it doesn’t come to the rough option. Hall, I hope you and I can come to some sort of an agreement. But the rough option remains on the table. If Kotov is dead set on moving forward with a strike, I’ll have no choice but to execute it to perfection…

  Chapter Three

  Helsinki Airport

  Helsinki, Finland

  Justin Hall stood from his crouched position as he took another picture of the landscape stretching outside the airport: sunrise over skyscrapers stabbing at the sky in the distance. Airports rarely had such views. And Justin had even fewer opportunities to enjoy such precious moments.

  He took another shot, pretending to struggle to capture that elusive, perfect picture. He smiled to himself, in a clear sign of satisfaction. Then he looked to his left, in the direction of his target—a Syrian man in his early thirties—who was sitting outside the nearest gate, waiting for his departure flight.

  Justin was also waiting, for his order, which wasn’t forthcoming, causing unnecessary frustration and complications to the snatch-and-grab operation. Justin’s team, composed of two other ECS operatives, had followed the target ever since he had left the safehouse, in the southern outskirts of the city. They had passed by many excellent opportunities to seize Farook Najjar, the confirmed member of an Islamic terrorist organization based in Germany and operating across Finland, Scandinavia, and northern Europe. There were many back alleys, empty stretches of roads, and even a situation when Najjar visited the washroom at a gas station, before continuing his drive to the airport.

  The order never came.

  The ECS operative fidgeted with his phone. He thought about calling Flavio Moretti, the chief of the Europe Clandestine Section, or ECS, of the Canadian Intelligence Service, stationed in Vienna. He was Justin’s boss, and Justin wanted to request, no, demand the authorization for them to spring into action. If the order was delayed for another ten, fifteen minutes at the most, the operation would be a complete write-off, if it wasn’t already. The waiting area was getting crowded with passengers dragging their luggage. There were a few toddlers running around, and a couple of old women in wheelchairs. Not the greatest place for close combat.

  Justin ran his hand through the wavy hair that reached the nape of his neck. The hair had become ashen at the temples, since he was pushing thirty-eight. But he was trim and fit and could put a twenty-year-old to shame, especially when it came to endurance. He exercised every other day, unless he was running an operation, which was almost always the case.

  Until that fateful day in Afghanistan.

  During a covert operation near the border with Iran, a bullet had fractured Justin’s left femoral shaft. It had been his lucky day, as the round had missed all the main arteries and veins. It had cut through the biceps femoris, the thigh’s outermost muscle. Ten weeks had passed since it happened, and the recovery had been swift and continuous, but not complete. Justin walked fine, but when he ran, the injury had the potential of slowing him down.

  It didn’t stop him from participating in field operations, but he wasn’t sure in the case of a long, arduous chase. It hadn’t happened yet, but the dreaded thought burned at the back of Justin’s mind. What if it did? What if it allowed a target to escape? Justin had suffered a couple of episodes when he had almost lost his balance, but he had been able to catch himself before falling. His doctor had concluded it was simply fatigue from overexertion and had asked Justin to take it easy.

  Justin sighed and looked at the terrorist. He was typing on his phone, oblivious to the agents keeping him under tight, constant surveillance. He stopped and scratched his long beard for a brief moment. Then his large black eyes cast a sweeping glance around the waiting area. Is he looking for us? Is he wondering if he’s being followed? Justin shook his head. Even if he is, Najjar isn’t going anywhere. He’d already be in handcuffs, if it were up to me.

  He glanced at his wristwatch, then at one of the screens near the gate. Ten minutes until Turkish Airlines started the boarding of Flight TK 1764 to Istanbul. Justin expected a short delay of perhaps ten, fifteen minutes, as was the case with all flights. They could pick up the chase in Istanbul. Justin and his team members had tickets to t
he same flight as the terrorist. But once on the ground, the operation would have to start from scratch.

  When Justin looked at Najjar again, the Syrian had turned his head in Justin’s direction. The operative moved his gaze over the terrorist’s shoulders, but there was a flash of recognition on the Syrian’s face. He gave Justin a grin that was nothing but menacing and stood up. He looked around, and Justin knew what the militant was doing. If there was one surveillant, there had to be more.

  “I’ve been made,” Justin said onto his throat mike. “Move on the target—”

  “We don’t have the order yet,” replied Arian, one of the team members, standing at the opposite end of the waiting area.

  “I am giving the order,” Justin said. “If we don’t act now, he’ll…”

  His voice trailed off as Najjar reached inside his gray pinstriped jacket and pulled out a pistol. “ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! ” he shouted at the top of his lungs. God is the greatest.

  The terrorist waved the pistol around for a moment, aiming it at random passengers, as they screamed in panic. One of the airline clerks manning a booth near the gate must have pressed some kind of alarm, because an ear-piercing ringing filled the area. Passengers began to scatter in all directions, climbing over seats in a stampede.

  Najjar fired his pistol.

  One of the bullets struck a young man in the back. He collapsed over one of the seats. Najjar aimed his pistol at another man and fired again. This time, the terrorist missed, even though the man was a mere ten yards away.

  Justin could wait no longer.

  Amidst the chaos, he aimed his trusted Sig Sauer P320 9mm pistol. The first bullet struck Najjar in his lower abdomen. Justin could have aimed for the terrorist’s head, but that would have been a harder shot. The operative hoped he could simply incapacitate Najjar and end his carnage. Then, they’d ask him questions about his group’s plans.

  It didn’t work.

  Najjar fell to his knees, but kept the pistol clenched in his hand. He realigned his aim with a young girl running along with her mother. They were almost behind the safety of one of the thick white columns when the bullet struck the little girl in the back. She fell into the outstretched arms of her mother, who screamed like a wounded animal.