The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  “Yes. They probably went into secret retirement funds for the bank manager and the FSB officers investigating the robbery. This is Moscow.” Yuri looked at me and shrugged. “There’s nothing you can do about it except get out of Russia.”

  “Where are we going?” Jill directed the question to no one in particular.

  Yuri looked at me again.

  I answered. “To an airport hotel. Pavel made a reservation for us in our Russian names and checked us in. I have a room key. We don’t have to stop at the front desk.”

  Everyone was quiet until Yuri began to brief us. “The guests where you are staying are mostly Russians. Room surveillance by the FSB is less extensive than at the high-end and Intourist motels where foreigners stay. At your hotel, surveillance begins when you make a reservation. If the FSB wants a look at you, they assign you to certain floors where the rooms have audio and video surveillance capabilities.”

  I asked, “Is our room being monitored?”

  Yuri gave us the bad news. “We don’t know all the floors and rooms that are under surveillance. Once you’re in the hotel, assume your conversations and actions are monitored and recorded.”

  I processed the implications of that out loud. “That means we have to take out the FSB surveillance suite before we go after our targets.”

  “What targets!” Jill was alarmed.

  “Tell you later,” I said. I thought I could feel the heat from Jill as she went into a slow burn. Left out again.

  I asked Yuri, “Where’s the FSB monitoring suite located?”

  “On the sixth floor.” Yuri gave me the suite number.

  “Can we avoid violence? Why not interrupt power to the FSB suite for thirty minutes while we take out the targets?”

  “Not possible. A power outage would be suspicious. The FSB might lock down the building and check every guest and every room. That would not be to your advantage.”

  “What’s the best time to take down the FSB surveillance team?” I asked.

  “They change shifts at 3 a.m.”

  “That’s an odd hour.”

  “Selected with care,” Yuri informed us. “It’s the hour when sex and other guest activities of interest to the FSB have usually been completed.”

  “How many on the surveillance team?”

  “Two men on shift and two coming in to replace them. The two of you will have to deal with the four of them.”

  Outnumbered again. Great. “Tell me about the targets, Yuri.”

  “The engineer is in room 524. The flight attendant is in room 526. A door connects their rooms. We have reliable information that they are lovers. At 3 a.m., it’s likely they will be sleeping in the same bed, probably hers. That should make your task easier.”

  “Good news at last. Anything else we should know?’ The we was to make Jill feel part of the team, even if she didn’t know the game.

  “The lovers usually take breakfast together in one of their rooms, before they leave for the airport. The pilot also has a room in the hotel. He leaves early on the hotel shuttle and eats at his favorite airport restaurant. The lovers join him and the remaining crew members at the gate and they all board the plane.”

  Yuri had no additional information and I had no more questions for him. No doubt, Jill had questions, but was disciplined enough to wait until I was ready to read her in.

  It was late when we arrived at our destination. Yuri got my wheelchair out of the trunk and bid us farewell. I sat in the chair with our luggage on my lap, waiting for Jill to push me into the hotel.

  She hesitated. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or wait ’til we’re inside where the FSB can hear you?”

  “We got into the country by switching places with a Russian couple. We’re going out the same way.”

  “Only, this time, the couple is not volunteering,” surmised Jill. “Who are they?”

  “A female flight attendant and a male flight engineer. They’re our targets.”

  Jill restated our problem. “And we can’t approach them until we take out the FSB surveillance team?”

  “Right.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Into the hotel. I’m freezing.”

  “You know what I mean. Where’s our flight going?”

  “Los Angeles,” I lied.

  Jill was angry. “I’ve earned the right to know your plans when they involve me.”

  That statement was really a question. I tried to answer it without telling Jill I didn’t trust her because she had lied to me twice and that, from our first meeting, I had a gut feeling that she was not to be trusted.

  Instead of those truths, I told her, “I was in the field for seven years, working alone most of the time. For survival, I didn’t share my plans with colleagues until there was a need for them to know. It’s an old habit. I’m comfortable with it and it’s hard to break. You won’t have to put up with it much longer. Tomorrow, we’ll be in the States.”

  Jill didn’t reply.

  We entered the busy lobby and she pushed me to the elevator, attracting little attention, and we rode up to the sixth floor. On the way to our room, we took notice of the door to the FSB monitoring suite. I let us into our room with the key Dr. Zhukov had given me at the hospital. To my surprise, we had a two-room suite. For the benefit of our FSB watchers and listeners, I complained about being in too much pain to sleep and I took first watch in the living room, watching television. Jill made tired noises and went to bed.

  My decision to take first watch allowed the roller coaster that had become my life to deliver yet another load of good-news-bad-news. The RT—Russian Television—commentator was reviewing and ridiculing indictments in the Walldrum-Russia collusion case, claiming they were attempts by the “deep state” to unseat a duly elected U.S. president. The program showed videos of indicted Americans from Walldrum’s inner circle at various locations. The video that caught my attention was recorded at a posh Moscow hotel. It showed a retired U.S. general, President Walldrum’s future national security advisor, sitting next to Vladimir Putin, at a gala dinner celebrating the tenth anniversary of the Russian Television network.

  I had seen still photographs of that seating many times. This was the first time I’d seen the video. Someone in the background looked familiar. Over Putin’s shoulder, a woman at another table looked directly into the camera. She appeared annoyed, rose from her chair, and walked out of camera range. That woman was the person I knew as Jill Rucker, crack pistol shot, karate expert, and Russian speaker, the Jill Rucker who told me she had never been to Russia.

  Was Jill there with the American general? Was she his bodyguard? Was she there with the Russians as a guest or bodyguard? Whatever her role, I knew one thing for sure. Jill Rucker was a liar.

  At 2:15 a.m., I began my act for the benefit of our FSB monitors, if they were listening. “Olga! Wake up!”

  Jill came out of a sound sleep. Her look said she was not quite with the program, but she adjusted quickly. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m having chest pains. Get my medicine. It’s in my coat pocket.”

  Jill brought me the bottle of aspirin provided by Dr. Zhukov.

  “Water,” I said with fake pain in my voice.

  Jill got water from the bathroom and I used it to wash down a couple of pills.

  Playing the role, she hovered over me with feigned concern. After a few minutes, she asked, “Are you feeling better?”

  “Worse. I think I need to go back to the hospital.”

  We dressed hurriedly, but taking care to draw out our departure until a few minutes to 3 a.m., when the FSB shifts changed. I got into the wheelchair and Jill pushed me into the hall. It was empty. Not what we wanted, but we had prepared a contingency.

  “Olga, I forgot my cane.”

  Jill returned to the room and stalled as long as she could before bringing the stick out and hanging it on the back of the chair. Just then, the elevator announced its arrival with a little “ding” and two pla
inclothes FSB hoods stepped into the hallway and came toward us. I slumped forward holding my chest. “Olga, please, the elevator is here. Let’s go.”

  One of the FSB men went back and appeared to press a button to hold the elevator for us.

  Jill pushed me at just the right speed so that we were directly opposite the surveillance suite as one of the FSB men slid his magnetic key through the slot and unlocked the door.

  As soon as the door was open slightly, Jill shot him twice. He fell forward blocking the door open. I shot the younger man who had held the elevator for us, proving once again Clare Boothe Luce’s warning, “No good deed goes unpunished.” I felt sorry for him as he fell into the room, stumbling backwards over his downed partner.

  Jill leaped over them and into the suite. I followed her. A fellow monitoring the bank of TV screens was half out of his chair when Jill shot him. We turned in opposite directions scanning the room for the fourth man. He was absent.

  Where was he? In the bathroom, and he came out fighting. Jill was pivoting toward the bathroom door, but hadn’t completed the turn when the guy struck. He brought his left fist down hard on Jill’s gun wrist, and used his right hand to rip Jill’s gun from her hand. At the same time, he kicked Jill’s legs out from under her. Then, he focused on me.

  The move to get Jill’s gun was brilliant. Knocking her down was a mistake. Jill had been in my line of fire. When she fell, I had a clear shot at her attacker. I fired three bullets into his chest and he went down. Jill snatched her gun from his dead hand.

  I searched the bodies and found a master key that would let us in to surprise the lovebirds. Meanwhile, Jill pulled my wheelchair in from the hall and disabled the console that allowed the FSB to spy on guest rooms. On our way out of the suite, I spiked the electronic lock to delay entry into the suite and discovery of the bodies. That done, we ran downstairs to the lovers’ rooms.

  According to Yuri, the flight attendant was in Room 526 and the lovers would spend the night in her bed. He made a good guess. Using the passkey, we slipped in without waking them. Moonlight defined their bodies for us. I motioned Jill to the attendant’s side of the bed. I went to the other side, peeled one of Dr. Zhukov’s needles out of its plastic case, and plunged it into the sleeping engineer’s neck. I sat on his chest while he struggled briefly and went limp.

  Unfortunately, his struggle awakened his lover. She bolted upright with a scream in her throat. Jill clamped a hand over her mouth and I plunged the needle into the target’s neck. Her eyes rolled back, she sagged, and fell back onto her pillow.

  “What’s in those needles?” asked Jill.

  “Dr. Zhukov didn’t say.”

  “How long will they be out?”

  “Until the Second Coming.”

  She chewed on that for a while. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  “I picked this flight attendant because she resembles you, physically. She’s your new identity and your ticket on a plane to the States.” I took a paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Jill. “That’s her bio. Study it. Know what’s in her purse and luggage. Put on her uniform. Wear her jewelry and perfume. You have to be her until we get through airport security this morning.”

  “Do I need to know anything about the duties of a flight attendant?”

  “No. Once you’re on the plane, you’re a FSB major. No one will question you.”

  I checked my watch. It was almost 4 a.m. I advised Jill, “You’ve got about ninety minutes to transform yourself into that flight attendant … and make sure there’s nothing in her luggage that will hang us up at the security check.” It was not unheard of that some flight attendants had a sideline of smuggling.

  I had my own transformation to make. I removed Zhukov’s mummy wrap from my head and face, shaved and showered. Afterwards, I went through the flight engineer’s belongings with an eye for anything that should be discarded before the security check. Everything passed muster. I put on his uniform and ID badge, and checked myself in the mirror. Not bad.

  A room service waiter delivered the lovers’ breakfast. I had him leave it in the hall. After we ate, we hung “do not disturb” signs on the doors of both rooms and took the shuttle to Sheremetyevo Airport.

  When we arrived, I addressed a question I’m sure was on Jill’s mind. “I haven’t told you why the pilot will let us onto his plane. We’ll meet him in a few minutes and I’ll run down the con. You just listen and go along.”

  “Don’t I always?” She gave me a nasty look.

  Just as Yuri said, we found the pilot having breakfast at his favorite restaurant. I recognized him from the photo Pavel had given me. He was a thin man with a full head of gray hair and a smug expression.

  “Captain Federov?”

  “Yes?” He looked up, frowning, probably annoyed that a three-striper interrupted his breakfast.

  “I’m Colonel Usenko, state security.” I flashed my FSB credentials. “This is Major Yukovka, also of state security.” Jill and I sat down.

  Federov pushed back from the table, concern on his face. His eyes widened as they moved from our unfamiliar faces to the familiar name tag of two of his flight crew.

  I noted his concern. “Don’t be deceived by our uniforms or name tags. We are working undercover and require your cooperation to observe—and eventually catch—a group of smugglers.”

  “How can I help you with smugglers?” Again, he glanced at our uniforms. “Is my crew involved?”

  I smiled. “No. You and your crew are not in difficulty.”

  “Where are my engineer and flight attendant?”

  “They agreed to let us take their places so that we do not alert the criminals. We believe the smugglers have been successful because they have accomplices in flight and ground operations, as well as other elements of the Aeroflot organization. This, of course, is a state secret, not to be discussed with anyone else.”

  “I understand. What can I do?”

  “The suspects, a man and woman, are traveling in coach. We want to keep them under surveillance until we arrive in Paris.”

  Jill’s eyebrows arched when I said “Paris.” Earlier, I told her we were flying to Los Angeles. The more I learned about Jill Rucker, the less I trusted her. Deception is one way to keep an operation from being compromised, and getting out of Russia was the difference between life and death. Compromise was not an option.

  I continued briefing Captain Federov. “Do nothing out of the ordinary. Follow your usual routine for this flight, with two exceptions. Major Yukovka—call her Natasha—will replace one of your flight attendants in coach so that she can observe the smugglers. I will replace your flight engineer in the cockpit.”

  The captain looked worried.

  I explained. “I need to be in the cockpit because we believe these criminals have a unique communications system with the ground and service crew in Paris. I must be in position to observe those crews without attracting attention.”

  “What if there’s an emergency and I need a flight engineer?”

  “Captain, I have read your file. You were a qualified flight engineer, correct?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Then, I’m sure you can handle those duties for the relatively short flight to Paris. However, I have anticipated that you might need help in an emergency. There is a flight engineer aboard in civilian clothes. If you require his services, I will identify him to you.” That was a lie, well told. “Any other concerns, Captain?”

  “No, Colonel.”

  “Of course, you will not discuss our duties with anyone except your first officer after we are cleared for takeoff. Please advise your flight attendants that Major Yukovka will supervise them in coach.” I smiled. “Let’s go to Paris, Captain.”

  We accompanied Captain Federov to security and breezed through without incident. Jill, cutting a fine figure in her Aeroflot flight attendant’s uniform, ran interference for us. The security guys seemed more into checking her figure than her documentation
. Federov and I followed in her slipstream. The three of us joined the remaining crew at the departure gate and boarded the aircraft.

  With Jill trying to fake it, departure prep was a bit hectic, but everyone settled down once we were airborne. It was quiet in the cockpit. Ordinary Russians tend not to chat with FSB colonels.

  Although we were off the ground, we were still in Russian airspace and I had a disturbing vision of MiGs escorting us back to Sheremetyevo if anything went wrong. What could go wrong? That depended a lot on who was traveling with us.

  I broke the cockpit silence. “Captain, I would like to see the passenger list.”

  A flight attendant delivered one. I scanned it. “Captain, please identify the security officers,” the Russian equivalent of U.S. air marshals. “I may need their assistance.” Or I may need to kill them.

  I had no doubt that, after the bank shooting, our pictures had been sent to every law enforcement officer in Moscow, especially the plane’s security staff. Our only edge was they were most likely looking for us among the passengers, not the crew.

  The captain pointed to a name. “This is your man.”

  The security officer had an aisle seat in the last row of first class, left side of the plane as you face the cockpit. That meant his right hand—his gun hand—was free for a clean shot at anyone trying to force his way into the cockpit. The window seat next to him was empty. So, no interference.

  “Any other security personnel?”

  “With the exception of you and … Natasha, no.”

  I doubted there was just one security officer onboard. Russian officials traveling outside of their country always travel in groups of two or more. It’s insurance against defections. I scanned the seating arrangements in coach, looking for a likely colleague of the first-class security officer. There was a woman in the last row on the aisle. The window seat was unoccupied, same MO as the security officer in first class.

  I pointed to her name on the manifest and asked, “Is she anyone special?”

  “No. Just another passenger,” said the captain.

  Using the cockpit intercom phone, I called the flight attendants’ station at the rear of the aircraft.