by Ethan Jones
Justin nodded. If Sokolov left the embassy, whether or not is was of his own will, his fate was sealed. Justin said, “If these names are solid, I’ll do the best I can, so you can be safe for good…”
Sokolov nodded and began to type into the phone.
Justin said, “But if you try to trick us—”
“I’m not going to do that—”
“If you trick us, I won’t bother handing you back. I will put a bullet in your head…”
Sokolov looked up and gave Justin an inquisitive glance. “I don’t think you’re authorized to do that…”
“Lack of authorization has never been a problem. But you know that. You know me. Don’t try my hand. You’ll regret it.”
“I won’t.”
Sokolov finished typing the two names and showed the phone to Justin. “One is in America. Washington, DC. He’s an FBI agent in charge.” His voice had turned upbeat. “The second one is an intern, working for one of the candidates in the US presidential race.”
“You’re not making this up?”
“I’m very serious. The second isn’t a double agent, but because of her proximity to the candidate, who might win the nomination, I thought it’s better…”
Justin looked at the phone, then at Sokolov. “I’ll check this right away.”
“Did you listen to the recording?”
“Haven’t had a chance, but I’ll get to it immediately.”
“You’ll be surprised at what you’ll hear.”
Justin nodded and stood up. He closed the door behind him and nodded at the guard standing outside the conference room. When Justin came to the elevators, he decided to head to the washroom. When he had rounded the corner, his left running shoe slid on the marble floor. He lost balance, and a sizzling pain shot through his entire body. What’s going on?
He leaned against the wall for balance, but still his legs failed him. He slid along the wall and lowered his body to the floor with a loud thud.
Justin cursed under his breath as a couple of embassy employees walked out of the washroom. “Hey, man,” said one of them, “you okay?”
“Yeah, man, just chilling,” he replied in a sarcastic tone.
He brought his knees to his chest and pulled out his phone.
The man who had talked to Justin shrugged.
When the pair had disappeared, he sighed and his face twisted in a grimace. The leg pain was traveling through his back and up his spinal cord. What’s happening to me? He bit his lip and placed a call to his doctor.
Chapter Thirteen
Swiss Medical Center
Helsinki, Finland
Justin sat in the small room awaiting the results of his x-ray. The doctor had finished the examination, but didn’t have anything conclusive. Justin didn’t have internal bleeding or swelling, but the area around the shattered femur, near the middle of his leg, was quite sensitive. The doctor couldn’t be certain of the cause. The x-ray would serve to ascertain whether there had been any changes to the bone.
Justin sighed and looked at the wall across the room, full of the doctor’s medical degrees from a host of universities and colleges across Europe and the United States. Besides being one of the greatest surgeons in the country, the doctor was extremely discreet, which came in handy in Justin’s circumstances. He had been registered under a fake name, and all his patient information was false. No one in the center, besides the doctor, knew about Justin’s real identity.
He liked it that way.
At first, he had experienced a pang of guilt from not reporting the episodes when he had almost lost his balance. Justin worried about the potential impact on his career, especially his field operations. How good could a lame agent be? Besides, he reasoned, if this were something severe, the agency’s doctor would be able to detect and report it.
He didn’t.
Justin said nothing either.
Instead, he sought out this doctor and half-convinced, half-coerced him to treat him off the record. Justin hoped the episodes were isolated and would disappear as healing continued.
That didn’t appear to be happening. Instead, he seemed to be getting worse. What’s going on here? They’d better find out what’s wrong. This … this can’t continue…
He shrugged and returned to his tablet. He had downloaded the audio recording from the dropbox account that Sokolov had given him. The file lasted two minutes and twenty-five seconds. It was a conversation between the Russian president and the president of Ukraine. Justin didn’t recognize the voice of the latter, but Sokolov’s note on the dropbox identified the man as the top official.
The two officials were discussing the upcoming elections in the United States and the potential outcome. The Russian president was certain that the results wouldn’t surprise him. In somewhat vague terms, he seemed to indicate that Russia was doing more than monitoring the campaign developments, but stopped short of admitting outright meddling in the election process.
The president of Ukraine had crafted his public image as a strongman, dead set on opposing any land concessions to Russia. He had promised more than once that there was going to be no peace until Russia had ended its occupation of Crimea. However, the recording showed him as trying to reach a back-channel deal with the Russian president. Moreover, he was offering his assistance to Russia with the investigation of a certain candidate for the most powerful position in American politics.
Justin frowned as he replayed the recording. It sounded genuine, but he was familiar with the endless possibilities provided by state-of-the-art digital technology. If one had money, time, and expertise, the result would be a very authentic-looking or sounding piece of content, audio or video.
Justin couldn’t be certain of the file’s legitimacy, and that was the greatest problem with such digital modifications: It confused people about what was real and what was fake. If they couldn’t tell the difference, some people stopped believing what was real altogether.
Justin wasn’t one of them.
He had already sent the link to his boss, and their cyber-analyst team was hard at work trying to detect any alteration or manipulation of the content. The analysts, recruited from the top cybersecurity companies around the globe, would be able to ascertain if the file had been doctored.
He nodded and thought about his doctor. What’s taking him so long? One of the things he hated was waiting. Justin couldn’t stand wastefulness, and, sitting here, waiting on the doctor’s examination bed, he felt like he was burning precious time he didn’t have.
He turned his phone on; he had turned it off during the doctor’s examination. There was a new email in his inbox. It was from one of the intelligence analysts’ teams from the ECS office in the city. Justin had assigned the woman the task of looking into Sokolov’s story, the narrative he had given them upon his arrival at the embassy. One of those tasks involved double-checking all details related to the killing of a hairdresser during a shooting in the eastern section of the city. Sokolov had cited it as the catalyst for his decision to defect, since the SVR was planning to frame him for the assassination.
It was a simple case of mistaken identity, and Justin had read about it in the media. He didn’t think the episode carried as much value as Sokolov was assigning to it; however, he wasn’t directly involved and definitely not the one shouldering the blame. Justin’s personal experience had shown him that Russian operatives had been made to disappear for causing half the embarrassment to the agency.
He clicked and opened the email. He downloaded the ten-page report and began to review it. According to the analysts’ team, most of the intelligence gathered from partner agencies matched Sokolov’s narrative.
Most, but not everything.
One specific detail, in particular, had caught the team’s attention. In an intercepted communication between Sokolov and one of his superiors, the defector had received praise for a well-executed operation. The conversation had taken place after the date on which Sokolov claimed the SVR had turn
ed its sights on him. Did he make a mistake?
Justin shook his head. Sokolov prided himself as a meticulous man, not prone to such careless mistakes. He had been asked a couple of times about his version of the facts. The date had never changed. Did he … did he think we’d never find out, intercept that communication?
His face was darkened by a frown. If one detail was off, the entire picture was wrong. If Sokolov had lied to them about one single detail, they couldn’t trust him about anything. Does this mean he’s not a defector? What is the Russian’s plan? How do we find out?
He thought about contacting Moretti. He had already received the information about the two people that Sokolov had identified as working for the Russians. What if he’s making up that intel? Or could it be that the intel is accurate so that we can trust Sokolov beyond any doubt?
He shrugged. This could go both ways. If it were up to Justin, he’d confront Sokolov about the discrepancy and relentlessly pursue the truth. He doubted his boss would approve of that approach. Moretti was known to be more tactful. He’d definitely want more evidence before coming to such a radical conclusion, that Sokolov was trying to become a double agent.
He sighed and began to think of how he could dig up more evidence. His thought process was interrupted by a knock on the door. Then the doctor entered the room with a chart in his hand. “Mr. Hall, I have the results back.” He sat on the chair across from the bed. “The x-ray is clean. No issues with the bone. No fractures or misalignment or other problems with the positioning of the bone, and there’s no delayed union.” He showed the x-ray to Justin and pointed at a couple of spots on it, before putting it on the small desk next to the computer’s monitor. “I can’t be certain about injuries to nerves or blood vessels, but that doesn’t seem likely. The tendons and the muscles are showing no signs of overexertion.”
Justin nodded. “I haven’t put any extra pressure on them. Like I told you earlier, just simple walks, the occasional run, but not too fast or too long.”
“And no problem with your vision?”
“No, I see just fine.”
“Any other changes to your health?”
Justin shook his head.
The doctor sighed. “Well, this could be what’s called an acute compartment syndrome. The pressure inside the muscles increases to excessive levels. The pressure disallows a normal blood flow. The muscles and the nerves in the area aren’t getting the needed amount of nourishment and oxygen.”
“What can we do about it?”
“If I’m right, then we’ll have to do surgery.”
Justin wanted to say “no” outright, but he caught himself. The doctor wasn’t looking for an answer on the spot.
The doctor said, “It doesn’t have to be done today or tomorrow, but also you can’t postpone it for long. If it’s ignored, the condition will only get worse…”
“How much worse?”
“You might become disabled … permanently.”
Justin bit his lip and began to shake his head. This … this can’t happen. “You said ‘if you’re right.’ What if you’re wrong?”
The doctor held Justin’s gaze for a long moment. “I don’t think I’m wrong; that’s just a way of speaking … There could be an infection, which can be treated with antibiotics to get you started, but again, you’ll have to do surgery.”
Justin said, “Could this be a simple case of injured ligaments?”
The doctor smiled. “Everything is possible. This could be nothing, or could be everything. But we don’t have to figure this out now. Why don’t you come back again tomorrow or the next day, for more tests?”
“Tomorrow won’t work. I’ll call you about the day after that.”
The doctor nodded. “You know what to do.”
“Can you give me pain killers?”
“Sure. Vicodin?”
“Yeah, that works. A week’s worth.”
The doctor shook his head. “Three days. If the pain doesn’t subside, you’ve got to come and see me again.”
Justin sighed. “Sure.”
“Okay. Get dressed and come to my office. I’ll have it ready.”
Justin finished putting on his pants and stood up. He had to lean against the bed and slowly sat back down. The right leg had decided to go to sleep on him, and the left one just couldn’t carry his body’s weight. A sharp pain seared through his body. I wish I had that Vicodin now.
He sat there for a couple of minutes until his legs had decided they wanted to cooperate with his brain’s commands. He shuffled down the hall and picked up the meds. He popped a couple of pills in his mouth and washed them down with a glass of water from the cooler in the reception area.
When he sat in the embassy-issued Volvo sedan, he thought about his situation. I’ve got to come clean with my boss about my leg. But not today. After the tests and the doctor’s conclusions. We’ve got more important things on our hands. He nodded and put the car into gear. He thought about dialing his boss to share the concerns about the defector potentially being a double agent.
Then Justin’s phone beeped with the arrival of a message. It was Moretti: Call me ASAP. New, serious development.
Chapter Fourteen
Town of Marihansk
Donbass Region
Eastern Ukraine
Carrie realized things were going to turn sideways the farther away they went from Marihansk. The commander had warned them that his influence grew weaker and weaker with every kilometer they drove. Ragtag militias ruled various parts of the region, and all of them accepted no one’s authority but their local commander’s.
Even without his warning, Carrie knew the commander was telling the truth. The gunmen operating the first checkpoint at the town’s entrance waved them through with barely a glance. At the next checkpoint, five kilometers to the east, the commander had to talk to the chief of guards and convince him to let them pass. At the third checkpoint, money changed hands, and still the guards gave Carrie’s team menacing glances.
The storm was coming.
By now, the commander’s lackeys would have found his raided house and the dead bodies. News traveled fast through cellphones. It was only a matter of time until someone decided that the team’s Lada SUV deserved a closer look.
They were now about three kilometers from the frontline, which zigzagged through a series of villages and hamlets mostly along a soft terrain, peppered by a few hills here and there. In some areas, the distance between pro-Russian separatists and the Ukrainian army was just two hundred yards. Despite the ceasefire, both sides exchanged fire regularly.
Carrie rolled down the window and drew in a deep breath. The cold night air filled her nostrils. She glanced up ahead at a series of glowing lights in the distance. Through her binoculars, she noticed the bright blue and yellow colors of a large Ukrainian flag rippling in the window atop a three-story cinderblock building.
The narrow gravel road snaked downhill, then came to a checkpoint, about three hundred yards away from the building. A gray, old-model BMW sedan and a large army truck were to the left, and three small trucks were on the other side. A floodlight was mounted on top of the army truck, and heavy machine guns were mounted on the backs of the small trucks. A handful of gunmen were visible behind and around protective walls created by concrete blocks, heaps of dirt and debris, and sandbags. Two rolls of concertina wire stretched across the road. “We’re getting closer,” she said.
The commander sat up straighter in his seat. “You’ll let me go now, like you promised…”
Carrie shook her head. “No, not yet. You’ve got to help us with the last obstacle.” She tipped her head. “Do you see the last checkpoint?”
The commander shook his head. “I’m of no help to you out there.”
“Then we might as well get rid of you. Is that what you want?”
The commander grimaced. “Of course not.”
“So make yourself useful. You know the plan. Stick to it, and you’ll live. Make a mistake
, and you’ll die.”
“If I make a mistake, we’ll all die…”
“Right, and all includes your daughter, and your wife, and your sister and her children…”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“Don’t try me, Honchar.” She pressed her pistol harder against the commander’s side. Her voice had turned razor-sharp and ice-cold. “You don’t know me. Don’t presume anything because I’m a woman, or a Westerner.”
Honchar just stared at her.
Carrie said, “I have a deal in place with my team across the contact line. If we don’t return tonight, in one piece, the people who have your daughter will … well, you can image how much pain they would cause her…”
Honchar just bit his lip.
“Would you like to talk to her one last time?” Carrie said.
“Not needed.”
“Good, so don’t change your mind now. Play your part, play it well, and you can go back.”
Honchar nodded slowly, but the evil look remained on his face.
Carrie sighed. She didn’t like relying on the separatist commander who had so many reasons to betray them. But she had no other option. The asset had been wounded the previous evening, when he had barely escaped execution. Maybe he loves his daughter more than he loves revenge…
She emptied the magazine of her Sig Sauer pistol, then removed the round she had chambered. “Here.” She handed it to Honchar. “You’re returning the kidnapped journalist because the ransom has been paid in full. The translator was wounded, because he attempted to escape. The bodyguard was killed, because he tried to resist. Did you get that?”
Honchar groaned. “Yes, I’m not stupid.”
“I want to make sure you don’t say the wrong thing…”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“And here’s two thousand dollars, if things get tough, and we have to pay for our freedom.”