“Hands up!” The guard was in panic mode. “I don’t want to see your credentials. I want to check your pockets. Turn around.”
As I was about to turn, I saw Jill Rucker step out of the conference room. I crouched and Jill fired. The guard screamed. I grabbed his gun arm and pushed him into the second guard.
Jill ran along the wall to get me out of her line of fire. I was pushing the second guard backwards with the body of the first guard when she fired again. Both guards fell to the floor dead or dying with head shots.
I yelled, “Jill, they got us on the security cam! Elevators!” I grabbed the manager by his coat collar and dragged him to the door. Jill stopped at Arkady’s worktable and fired two shots into his chest and one into his head.
My first thought was, WTF! My second was that Arkady was on a recording swapping thumb drives with me. A triple-tap was the best thing he could hope for.
We ran down the hall to the elevator, dragging the manager with us.
I told him, “When we get off the elevator, act surprised. Go to the front entrance. Ask the guards what’s happening.”
I had my gun out. Jill shoved a fresh clip into hers.
As we exited the elevator, an alarm was shrieking and two guards were closing the front doors. We abandoned the manager and dashed for those doors, firing as we ran. The guards went down, people screamed, and the alarm was still making a racket.
We ran through the doors and were halfway down the steps before we saw them. Evidently the bank had a quick reaction force. On the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps stood three men in guard uniforms, pointing AK-47s at us. We stopped and threw up our hands. I said, “FSB! FSB!”
They weren’t buying. All three screamed instructions. “Drop your guns! Hands behind your head! On the ground!”
It’s not a good idea to drop a cocked pistol on cement steps. Jill and I bent to lay our weapons down. At that moment, the van that had taken us to the Omega meeting pulled up behind the guards. Masked men leaned out of the curbside windows and mowed the guards down in a hail of automatic weapons fire.
The shooter in the shotgun seat beckoned us to run for the van. We snatched up our pistols, ran down the steps, leaped over the guards, and scrambled through the van’s open sliding door. Other masked men pulled us inside and slammed the door shut as the van skidded away from the curb.
We went for a short, fast, twisty, no-talking drive, during which the masked men relieved us of our guns and dropped bags over our heads.
What is it with this hood-over-the-head thing?
After about ten minutes, our captors hustled us into another van and we sped away. The next leg of our journey took about forty minutes in fast traffic. I guessed we were heading away from Moscow.
The van stopped. I heard a gate squeak. The van rolled forward until we entered some enclosure that smelled of hay and manure. I knew we were inside because it was warmer and the wind no longer lashed the van. The van door opened and strong arms pulled me outside.
A voice said, “Walk. We will guide you.”
A man on either side took my elbows in vice-like grips and propelled me forward. We walked out into the cold. A few paces later, someone opened a door.
“One step up,” said the voice of authority.
We entered a kitchen. I could smell the lingering aroma of eggs and sausages. As we moved through two other rooms, I could hear Jill’s footfalls behind me. I estimated there were five or six men holding us: one in the lead—the voice—two each guiding me and Jill and maybe a sixth man bringing up the rear.
Beyond the kitchen, the rooms were warm and I smelled wood burning. We passed through a heavy door into a room that was colder, larger, and smelled of burnt wick and candle wax. The floor was stone. Voices and footfalls echoed. I was shoved onto a wooden bench. Jill was pushed down beside me. Our hoods were removed. We were sitting in the first pew of a church and alone, except for our masked escorts.
One of the masked men took a head scarf from his pocket and handed it to Jill. “Put this on.” He gestured toward an alcove housing a statue of the Virgin Mary. “Go light a candle and say a prayer thanking the Virgin for your deliverance at the bank. Take your time. I’ll tell you when you’re finished.”
Jill shot him a hostile glare, but did as she had been told.
On the opposite side of the church, another masked man stepped out of the gloom and snapped his fingers once.
The man who had given Jill the scarf asked me, “How long since your last confession?” I thought I heard some humor in his voice.
“I don’t confess.”
“This is a good day to begin.” He pointed to the confessional with his AK-47.
I didn’t spend time in churches when I was assigned to Moscow Station, but I knew that Eastern Orthodox churches didn’t have confessional booths. So, we were in a Catholic church. In spite of persecutions by various regimes, there are well over a hundred thousand Catholics in Russia.
The interior of the confessional was dark except for a dim light on my side of the grill. My confessor could see me; I couldn’t see him.
The man on the dark side of the grille spoke English, with a slight Russian accent. “You’ve had a busy morning … and a lucky one. Did you get what you were after at the bank?”
“I went to the bank to cash a check. There was a misunderstanding.”
He laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ What you got from Arkady may—or may not—help your cause, now that we Russians know you have it. Putin is playing many games. The AVB documents is just one of them.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Think of me as the man who saved you from a firing squad.”
“How did you know we would be at the bank this morning?”
“We didn’t know what day you would choose. After Arkady invited you, I put the bank under surveillance. Frankly, I wasn’t sure you had the guts to try. I’m glad I was wrong.”
He changed subjects. “Arkady?”
“He got caught in a crossfire. He didn’t make it.”
There was a short silence on the other side of the grille. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Your partner?”
“She’s fine. Why did you rescue us? What do you want?”
“I want you to deliver a message to Washington.”
“Why me?”
“Before Ted Walldrum was elected your president, we could entrust certain people in the CIA and elsewhere in your government with information that would be useful to them. Now, there is such rapid turnover among your officials and the people we trusted are gone or not accessible. We were not sure who to trust with our contributions to the well-being of the United States. Then, suddenly, an honest man comes to Russia looking for truth at the risk of his life. That’s you. That’s why we selected you.”
“I’m in this for the money.”
“I’ve studied you, Maxwell Geller. You’re a proud man. You want to redeem your reputation. So, let’s get to the task.”
He continued, “I’m going to tell you a secret and hope you have the good judgment to pass it on to someone who can act on it. Is your judgment good?”
“You saved us. I owe you the truth. Lately, I’ve come to question my judgment.”
“In our line of work, it’s good not to get too comfortable with our judgments or the people around us.”
Enough with the philosophy. “What’s the secret?”
“Putin invited Kim Jung-Un to Moscow recently.”
“That’s public knowledge. Kim cancelled because of domestic concerns.”
“That’s what Kim told the world. What did your Agency sources say about the purpose of Kim’s trip and why he cancelled?”
“I won’t discuss Agency sources. Let’s just say I had no knowledge of Kim’s visit beyond what I read in the papers.”
“Fair enough. My sources told me the purpose of the meeting was to develop a peace plan for the Korean Peninsula. China was left out,
found out, and forced Kim to cancel. China’s President Xi told Kim and Putin there would be no Korean peace plan without Chinese input and approval. China is Kim’s principal benefactor. Kim had no choice but to decline Putin’s invitation.”
I was confused. “The meeting never happened. What’s the secret?”
“The secret is that another peace plan meeting is scheduled and the plan is designed to deceive the United States. The devil, as you say, is in the details.”
“I’m listening.”
My confessor struck a match and I could see his outline briefly, but he had turned away. I smelled tobacco burning and the match went out. He must have turned back to me because I could see the glow of his cigarette when he inhaled.
He said, “Your President Walldrum has boasted that he could bring peace to the Korean Peninsula where his predecessors have failed. Putin’s plan is to let Walldrum succeed.”
“And those devilish details … ?”
“The plan involves a summit meeting of Kim and Walldrum. Kim will agree to begin negotiations with the U.S. to halt his missile development, denuclearize the Peninsula, and normalize relations with South Korea. For his part, Walldrum will agree to suspend joint military exercises with South Korea and begin a phased withdrawal of U.S. troops from the peninsula.”
There was something not quite right about that. I needed clarification. “Even if Kim was serious about giving up his nukes—which he isn’t—China and North Korea are the parties that gain by having U.S. troops out of South Korea. Putin gets nothing and the deal might backfire. We could pull our troops out and send them to Europe to reinforce NATO. Putin wants NATO weaker, not stronger. What does he get out of this plan?”
“He gets Walldrum a Nobel Peace Prize—which your president’s ego demands—and that’s Walldrum’s ticket to reelection in 2020. Understand that Putin’s goal is to keep Walldrum in office as long as possible so that Walldrum can continue to disrupt the U.S. government and the Western alliances.”
“Assuming Walldrum is elected, what happens to the peace plan?”
“Now, you’re thinking like Putin. Kim will back out of the plan.”
“What does China get out of this scheme?”
“That’s one of the secret details. China gets nothing.” He blew smoke through the screen at me, maybe for emphasis. “Xi will approve this plan, believing he has a chance to reduce U.S. forces in the Far East. Putin’s plan is to make a side deal with Kim.”
“What’s the deal?”
“In return for entering into these phony negotiations with Walldrum, Putin will secretly supply whatever North Korea needs to become a nuclear-armed nation, with ICBMs, by the time Walldrum stands for reelection in 2020. At that point, Kim is assured the survival of his regime. He will be less dependent on China and have the support of his new friend, Russia. Putin will have checkmated Chinese ambitions by installing a nuclear-armed North Korea on the Chinese border and by leaving thirty thousand U.S. troops in South Korea.”
No doubt, responsible people in Washington needed to know that the peace plan, if it materialized, was a fake. “When will this meeting take place?” I asked.
“Kim is planning a secret trip to China in March 2018. Ostensibly, it’s to consult with President Xi Jinping. The truth? It’s a four-party meeting involving Kim, Xi, a senior official from the Russian Foreign Ministry, and a senior officer of the GRU,” Russian military intelligence. “They will work out the details of a Korean peace plan.”
“Why is the GRU at the meeting?”
“The GRU officer will plan clandestine measures to support Walldrum’s 2020 reelection campaign.”
“What are the names of these Russian officials?”
“The fact that there will be a meeting and the officials involved are closely held secrets in my government—if I gave you names, sources would be exposed and killed.”
“How did you find out about this meeting?”
“My answer is the same. Sources would die.”
“I need more than a church confessional rumor to sell that story in Washington.”
He hesitated. “For your purposes, say it was divulged during pillow talk of two homosexual lovers close to Putin.” My confessor chuckled. “If that gets back to Moscow, Putin will tear out what’s left of his hair. He hates gays.” My confessor’s voice turned serious again and impatient. “Your Washington contacts have satellites. Tell them to see if Kim’s special train goes to China in March.
“Speaking of going, I assume you have a plan to get out of Russia. Now is a good time to execute it. You know too much. You and your partner are the primary targets of every policeman, border guard, and FSB agent in Russia.”
I didn’t tell Rodney what my exfiltration—exfil, for short—plan was and I certainly wasn’t going to share it with some faceless guy in a confessional. Misdirection is often best. I told him, “When people are expecting you to run, laying low is a good idea.”
“If you were thinking of the farmhouse—”
I wasn’t.
He continued, “It’s no longer safe for you there. My men collected and packed your belongings. Your suitcases are here, even the money you hid under the floorboards.”
How does he know about the farmhouse, and why isn’t it safe?
“That was thoughtful of you,” I said. “We’d like to change clothes, and could you have someone without a mask and AK-47 take us to Leningradsky Train Station?”
It was almost 4 p.m. when we left the church. Moscow daylight was fading fast and I was happy to have darkness to cover our travels. Three blocks from the station, Jill and I got out of the sedan provided by my father confessor. Jill took a direct route. I took a longer one at a slower pace, to give her time to complete some tasks.
At the station, I put my suitcase—minus what I needed to get out of Russia—in a locker and purchased one ticket to St. Petersburg. If cameras and the FSB were watching for a couple on the run, that might throw them off. Casually, I strolled outside.
Jill was standing beside a cab she had hired. “Oleg! Over here!” she shouted at me.
I slid into the back seat beside her and off we went. We would change cabs twice more before heading for our destination, a hotel at Sheremetyevo Airport, but first we had to make a hospital stop.
CHAPTER 25
I HAD NEVER met Dr. Zhukov, but his medical services were an important part of my get-out-of-Russia plan, all of which I had withheld from Jill Rucker. She was not happy about that. For reasons of self-preservation, I was. And, I must admit, the closer we got to leaving Russia, the more paranoia I felt.
At the hospital, we slipped past busy administrative gatekeepers and went directly to Zhukov’s office on the second floor. His door was open. The doctor wore the obligatory white coat and was examining a medical file through thick, rimless spectacles. He had a graying beard, but looked to be about the same age as Pavel. Resistance is a business for young people.
I knocked and said, “Cousin Pavel sent me about my back. I was in an accident.”
Without a word, Zhukov bounded out of his chair and closed the door behind us. Giving me and Jill a worried appraisal, he said, “Your accident is all over the news. You were lucky to survive.” He didn’t sound happy that we had.
“It was an unavoidable tragedy,” I explained.
He ignored that. “Please sit over there on the examining table.”
With Jill looking on, wondering what the hell was happening, Zhukov quickly, expertly, and silently applied bandages to my forehead, the left side of my face, and the bridge of my nose. I was sure that no one could identify me from the Russian wanted posters that were probably circulating. Jill recognized what we were up to and patiently awaited her turn.
Zhukov gave me a satisfied appraisal and turned his attention to Jill, helping her into a dark wig and applying unattractive false moles to her upper lip and chin. Our disguises completed, Zhukov went to a closet and rolled out a folding wheelchair for me. “Please sit here.” H
e also provided a cane.
To Jill he said, “Would you go to the elevator and hold it for us?”
As soon as she left his office, Zhukov gave me three hypodermic needles in their paper and plastic shipping cases. “Take two and don’t call me in the morning.” He smiled for the first time. Turning serious, he added, “One for each person, in the neck, and a spare, if you need it.”
Zhukov pushed me to the elevator and turned me over to Jill. “There is a car waiting for you downstairs in the name of Egorshin. Take the chair with you. Your driver said it might come in handy at the hotel. Good luck.”
On the ground floor, Jill wheeled me out of the elevator and toward the hospital exit. Just inside the door, a thick, middle-aged fellow pushed himself off the wall and approached us. It was the cop who had interrogated me at the Omega Group meeting.
“Mr. Egorshin?” he asked, as if he had never seen us before,
“Yes.”
“Your doctor called a car for you. I’m Yuri, your driver.”
He addressed Jill. “Do you need help with the wheelchair?”
“I can manage. Will you take the luggage?”
The luggage was in my lap and there wasn’t much to take. We were traveling with a couple of overnight bags of items taken from our suitcases before ditching them in lockers at Leningradsky Station.
I played the cripple, struggling into the front seat of the car with assistance from my cane and Jill, while Yuri folded my wheelchair into the trunk. Jill rode in the back seat, literally and figuratively, because Yuri addressed most of his comments to me during the trip.
Once we were in the traffic flow, Yuri said, “The security services are tearing Moscow apart looking for you. You are wanted for bank robbery and murdering guards in the process.”
“Bank robbery?” asked Jill.
“Yes. You got away with several hundred thousand rubles, didn’t you?”
“That’s a lie,” she protested.
“Of course, it is,” admitted Yuri. “What did you expect them to say, that you stole forged documents that would destroy your government’s case against Ted Walldrum?”
I asked, “Are there really rubles missing from the bank?”
The President’s Dossier Page 19