The Russian Defector

by Ethan Jones

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fifteen Kilometers East of Pokivka

  Donetsk People’s Republic

  Tiana’s phone rang with the annoying ringtone she had assigned to her boss, SVR Director Dmitry Kotov. She frowned. What is it now? New orders, or specifics about my unknown mission?

  She wondered whether they should stop, as she looked at the driver of their Land Rover cutting through the woodlands. They were avoiding the main roads, as it was unclear who controlled what part of the self-proclaimed independent region. Clashes between rebels and Ukraine government forces were small and sporadic, but took place regularly.

  “Yes, boss.”

  Kotov didn’t reply right away.

  Tiana heard nothing for a brief moment, then Kotov’s shouting almost deafened her. She moved the phone away from her ear. “Boss, what’s going on?”

  “This piece of junk computer decided to update right now.”

  She heard a banging noise and imaged Kotov kicking the computer underneath his desk. He said, “I was going to send you an updated report, but I guess that will have to wait. I can tell you the gist of it.”

  Tiana brought the phone closer to her. “Okay.”

  “As expected, Sokolov is revealing more classified intelligence to the Canadians. In turn, they conveyed that intel to the Americans. A double agent has been detained in Washington. He was working for the FBI. We’ve also lost an asset reporting about the campaign of a presidential candidate, one of the frontrunners.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tiana said.

  “Yes, but it’s a weak blow. We have hundreds of double agents, assets, and sources in America. Back to the Canadian embassy, they made an expected move. The CIS’s boss has talked to our big boss about the Ukrainian missile crisis…”

  “I understand. So, they’re not handing over Sokolov?”

  “No, they’ve decided he’s too valuable, because of the intelligence he’s providing.”

  Tiana cursed out loud. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

  “Don’t worry too much about it. Everybody makes mistakes.”

  Tiana pursed her lips. She didn’t like the way Kotov said the last word. There was no warmth in his voice. Instead, it sounded like there was a hint of pleasure in Tiana’s failure to stop the defector.

  Kotov continued, “We’re not executing the attack against the embassy. We weren’t going to anyway. It was a bluff, a bluff that worked…”

  Tiana frowned. She didn’t like that she was kept in the dark about the true nature of the operation. Kotov had led her to believe the assault on the Canadian embassy was moving forward at full speed. She had developed the assault plan and had assigned specific tasks to each team member. When she was ordered to fly immediately to Ukraine, on another unspecified, but urgent, operation, she had suspected the assault had been scrapped. Still, it would have been good to know. By now, she should have been used to Kotov’s and SVR’s tactics of telling operatives just the minimum details necessary to carry out their assignments. But this was important, no, it was crucial. She unclenched her jaws and said, “So, what was the purpose of the threat?”

  “Isn’t it clear? We wanted Sokolov to give the Canadians the flawed intel he had about the missile. And he did that. Our hope was that it was going to be the first thing that came out of his mouth. It wasn’t, but we can live with the loss.” Kotov’s voice had turned matter-of-fact, as if he were talking about losing spare change. “We want the Canadians, the Americans, the world to know that the ‘lost’ missile is in the hands of Ukrainian rebels, and we have no control over them.”

  Tiana nodded. “Understood. Now, what are my orders?”

  “Your friend, Mr. Hall, has been dispatched to Donetsk, to assist in finding the ‘lost’ missile. Your mission is to make sure he doesn’t.”

  “Who is he working with?”

  “We don’t have any intel about the Canadian part of his team. But we’re providing our own ‘assistance.’”

  Kotov’s razor-sharp, ice-cold voice sent goosebumps crawling up her skin. She glanced at the driver, but he wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation. His eyes were glued to the zigzagging road as a small truck barreled from the opposite direction.

  Kotov said, “It’s a group of four former Spetsnaz. They will meet Justin and his team in Donetsk. Their orders are, of course, to help in whatever manner is needed, mostly to navigate through the deadlands and reach the missile’s location.”

  Tiana shook her head. “They’ll never make it…”

  “Yes, the team is there to undermine their efforts from the inside. However, because Justin has proven himself to be unstoppable, you’ll be there to ensure he learns there’s a first time for everything…”

  Tiana smiled. “Ready to teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

  The driver glanced at Tiana and nodded.

  She returned the nod and gave him a thumbs-up sign.

  Kotov said, “You know what to do. Make sure you do it right.”

  “Have no doubts about it,” Tiana said in a strong voice. “I wasn’t able to stop Sokolov, but I’ll make absolutely certain that Hall doesn’t get anywhere close to that missile.”

  “Excellent. Review the reports, and let me know if anything is unclear.”

  “I will do that.”

  Tiana looked at the driver, then ahead at the hills rising up in the distance. This time, I’m going to get it right, or I’ll die trying…

  Chapter Nineteen

  Donetsk Airport

  Donetsk, Ukraine

  The analysts team in Helsinki hadn’t sent a new report, so Justin couldn’t do much during the short flight from Kharkiv—the second largest city in Ukraine, home of almost a million and a half people—to Donetsk. He tried to relax, but his thoughts bounced back and forth from Sokolov’s questionable narrative to what might be waiting for him in the territories controlled by the rebels.

  Justin was still bothered by the detail of the intercepted communication, in which Sokolov had been commended by his SVR superior for his good work. Sokolov had been wrong about the date, but how big of a deal was that mistake? As Justin’s boss had pointed out, it was but a single detail. The rest of the intelligence obtained from the Russian defector had checked out.

  The CIS operative just couldn’t let go of the discrepancy. He had been trained extensively on how to deal with such situations. Moreover, his experience had taught him that if one single detail of a narrative was wrong, the entire narrative couldn’t be trusted. Especially in situations like this one, when the intelligence came from a person who might not be completely truthful…

  Justin sighed and took a sip from the coffee cup he had bought at the airport before they boarded the small Antonov An-28, which barely sat sixteen passengers. The Donetsk Airport had been the scene of fierce fighting, especially early in the conflict. After the Ukrainian army had lost its control in early 2015, the airport was left in ruins. The terminal, the runways, everything was destroyed.

  After the Ukrainian government forces had pushed back the rebels, the army had cleared one of the runways of debris and had filled the craters left by heavy shelling. Still, very few aircraft ventured to complete the dangerous flight, even though a shaky ceasefire had been in place for over two weeks. Justin’s preference would have been to drive, but time was not on his side. Carrie was already waiting for him in the city, and the Russian team was about to join them soon. He didn’t want to be the one delaying the operation.

  As the airplane began to descend, Justin tried to look out the window, but his view was almost completely obstructed. He had an aisle seat, and the man sitting to his left—a reporter from a Belarus TV station—was snapping shots with his long-zoom camera. After a couple of attempts, Justin gave up. He’d have all the time he wanted to observe the ruins, up close and personal.

  The Antonov’s wheels hit the tarmac, and the pilots applied the brakes. Inertia pushed Justin’s head forward, but the
threadbare seatbelt kept him in the tight seat. The tires screeched, and the wheels bounced over the uneven terrain, but the plane kept sliding forward. Justin held onto the seat in front of him, praying the airplane would stop moving soon. He had heard that about half of the actual runway was functional. The rest was covered by debris and dotted by shell craters.

  The airplane’s speed decreased slowly, and it made a left turn, followed by a right one. Justin tried to look over the reporter’s shoulder, but he was covering the entire window. Justin shrugged and finished the last sip of his cold coffee.

  As soon as the plane stopped, and the pilots turned off the twin turbo-prop engines, the reporter lost interest in the static images outside the window. He leaned back against the seat, and Justin took a sweeping gaze. The entire terminal had been turned into a gigantic pile of scorched rubble. Skeletons of burned aircraft, tanks, and vehicles were scattered everywhere. It looked like a post-apocalyptic town that had been overrun by zombies.

  The flight attendant opened the half-clamshell loading door at the aft, and the passengers filed out of the airplane. Justin was in the second-to-last seat. He picked up his rucksack he had set next to his feet, carrying the basic gear for this operation: wads of American dollars, two burner phones, his official Canadian passport, and a Foreign Times reporter ID card. He stepped down a metal three-step ladder into the open air.

  Before his feet even hit the tarmac, the sharp smell of burning rubber assaulted his nose. He looked around for the source. A black SUV was burning about fifty yards away. Flames were chewing through the front tires, and the sharp wind was blowing the black, billowing smoke toward the Antonov. Justin walked around the plane and nodded at a group of men in dusty green uniforms smoking and chatting at the edge of the runway, near two white trucks. Ukrainian servicemen.

  When he turned his head further to the right, he noticed a silver Skoda sedan driving toward the Antonov, on the debris-littered side of the runway. It picked up speed as it drove past a couple of Mig-21 fighter jets, then it drove around a large crater. It disappeared behind the hulk of a charred truck, then it seemed to drop out of sight as it reached a depression on the broken tarmac.

  Justin peered at the sedan as it climbed up and began to slow down, since it was about thirty yards away from the airplane. The woman behind the wheel removed her aviation-style sunglasses. Justin smiled as he recognized his long-time partner, Carrie.

  She parked a few feet away from the Antonov and stepped out of the car. “Justin, I really missed you.”

  He hoisted the rucksack over his shoulders and walked toward her.

  They fell into each other’s arms for a tight embrace. They hadn’t seen each other since Carrie had visited Helsinki for the weekend, three weeks ago.

  Justin said, “How’s Ukraine treating you?”

  “Ukraine is fine. It’s these pesky rebels that are quite annoying.”

  “Who’s that?” He nodded at the bearded man in the Skoda’s front passenger seat.

  “That’s Ihor, our local partner. Tough as steel and trustworthy.”

  “Good to know.”

  “How was the flight?”

  “Alright. Some turbulence right after we took off, but nothing serious. What’s with the burned vehicle?” He pointed toward the SUV.

  Carrie said, “There was a shelling just minutes before you landed. Mortar fire from the south.” She turned in that direction.

  Justin looked at the thin tree line, across from the heaps of rubble of the former terminal. “Isn’t the airport secure? And the city?”

  “ Relatively secure, which means not secure at all.”

  “Did they get them?” He nodded at the servicemen.

  “They returned fire and sent a team, which found only spent shells.”

  “How often does this happen?”

  “Rebel incursions have intensified over the last three days. They’re testing the ceasefire, provoking the army into a massive retaliation.”

  Justin watched the reporter who had been sitting next to him during the flight climb aboard a minibus along with most of the other passengers. “Why? Are the rebels luring the army into ambushes?”

  “It seems that way. We have reports of daily shipments of heavy weapons and troops flooding in from all directions. Something large is in the works.”

  Before Justin could say anything, a couple of gunshots echoed from behind them. He swung his head around and looked toward the terminal. He couldn’t see the shooter, but he slid behind the aircraft’s nose, along with Carrie.

  She glanced at Ihor, who had stepped out of the sedan. He unfolded the metal stock of his AK rifle and pointed it toward the terminal as he took position near the back of the Skoda.

  Justin looked at the servicemen, who had completely ignored the gunshots. One of them glanced at Justin and laughed out loud, then tapped one of his buddies on the arm as he pointed at Justin. All the soldiers turned their heads toward Justin and Carrie and laughed at them.

  Justin shook his head. “They think it’s some kind of a joke…”

  Carrie said, “One of their friends, firing in the air for fun…”

  Justin’s eyes flitted between the minibus making its way toward the terminal, the terminal ruins, and the group of soldiers. He was thinking that perhaps he and Carrie had overreacted about the gunshots, which were a fact of life, when one of the soldiers collapsed against the side of the truck. A bullet had struck him in the back, and blood erupted from his chest.

  “Down, down,” Justin shouted at them in English.

  They dropped to the tarmac as another bullet shattered one of the truck’s windows.

  Ihor returned fire, two- and three-round bursts.

  Justin peered at the terminal ruins, his eyes moving left to right. He couldn’t make out the shooters’ positions. There were so many nooks and crannies where an entire platoon of rebels could be safely hidden from view.

  He looked at Carrie, who had pulled out her Sig 9mm pistol. She said, “I don’t see them.”

  Justin turned his head to the soldiers. Two were trying to help their fallen comrade, while the fourth was returning fire with a light machine gun.

  A bullet zipped near Justin’s head, and another struck the side of the airplane. He lay flat on his stomach on the tarmac. He turned his head to the right and looked at the minibus. It had stopped on the side of the runway, and its passengers were scattering around the area in panic.

  He said at Carrie, “I’m going to them.” He gestured to the soldiers.

  “I’m with Ihor. There are two AKs in the trunk…”

  “Be safe.”

  “You too.”

  He took a long moment to scout the front of the terminal, then bolted toward the servicemen. He reached the second truck without drawing fire. Then he picked up a Dragunov sniper rifle sitting on the truck’s running board. He checked the weapon to make sure it was loaded and in working condition, then stretched near the rear wheel. He looked through the scope and noticed a small puff of white smoke. Then a man’s head wearing a helmet popped up.

  “He’s at one o’clock, near the tower, at the bottom…” He shouted at the soldier.

  Justin fired a single round.

  It missed the sniper, and the man disappeared behind a large concrete bulkhead.

  Justin chambered another round.

  The soldier opened up with his machine gun. The bullets struck all around the sniper’s position.

  Justin looked through his scope, but couldn’t find the sniper or anyone else shooting from that side of the terminal. He looked at Carrie. She was aiming her AK at the terminal, but wasn’t firing. Justin kept searching for another minute, while the soldier poured an entire 100-round ammunition box at the sniper’s nest.

  There was an uneasy silence for a few seconds, then a loud rumble came from the sky. A black helicopter appeared to Justin’s right. He was flying low, perhaps at six hundred feet. The helicopter unleashed a torrent of fire at the suspected sniper po
sition as it made an attack pass. A couple of rockets blew up that section, then the helicopter strafed the area with 30mm cannon fire.

  If the sniper—or snipers—were still in the ruins, those became their graves.

  A moment later, the volley ended, and the helicopter disappeared toward the other end of the runway. A couple of military Jeeps sped toward the terminal.

  Justin drew in an easier breath as he looked at Carrie. She was sitting next to the Skoda and gave him a small nod. When Justin turned his head behind him, the wounded soldier was no longer breathing. One of his comrades must have closed the dead man’s eyes. His face looked at peace.

  Justin shook his head. This land could turn deadly at a moment’s notice, and each breath he took could very well be his last. He locked eyes with one of the soldiers, who gave him an angry glare. “I’m sorry about your friend,” Justin said.

  The man nodded and said nothing.

  Justin’s eyes found the minibus. One of its side windows was shattered. He wasn’t sure if it had been like that before, or if the sniper had targeted that vehicle as well. A couple of the passengers were standing next to the minibus, while others remained lying on the tarmac and the nearby field.

  Justin left the sniper rifle on the tarmac and made his way to Carrie. “Welcome to Ukraine,” she said in a weary voice.

  “I’m Ihor.”

  “Justin.”

  They shook hands, then Ihor said in English with a strong accent, “We should go now.”

  “Where do we meet the rest of our team?”

  “The Russians should have arrived, but there was a complication.”

  “What is it?”

  “They didn’t say. Something unrelated to this mission. They’re mercenaries, so it could be anything.”

  “How long until they’re in town?”

  “A couple of hours. Later this evening, at the most.”

  “Do we have a safe place?”