Stalin's Final Sting

by Andrew Turpin

  Javed gave a thin smile at the reference to Severinov. Johnson was on the Russian’s tail, then. That was good in some ways, but Johnson would definitely be looking to prosecute, not kill. It confirmed in Javed’s mind that any meeting with Johnson would have to be after the deed he had planned for Severinov was done, not before.

  He wrote a quick reply to Johnson, reiterating that he was going to be busy for several days and would get in touch.

  After Javed had sent the email, he turned back to a web page he had been scrutinizing, which showed the flight path into Kabul International Airport for aircraft approaching to land from the east. It went almost directly above the building on which he had been positioned for his abortive RPG attack on Severinov’s property. He knew that was the case because he had seen aircraft passing overhead while waiting on the rooftop, but he had wanted to confirm it by checking the actual airport documentation.

  Javed leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. The rooftop was in actual fact perfectly positioned for an alternative attempt at Severinov—the next time the Russian flew into Kabul. That would be when he would deploy not an RPG but a Stinger missile.

  He was confident that his old mujahideen friend Mahmood, in air traffic control at the airport, would be able to tell him well in advance when either of Severinov’s planes were heading into Kabul. Javed had provided Mahmood with the registration details for the jets, and his role in the Afghanistan Civil Aviation Authority, which had to approve all flights into and out of the country’s airspace, gave him access to all aircraft flight plans.

  Surely the Russian’s charmed life was about to end. He had somehow evaded two attempts using the RPGs. It would have to be third time lucky with the heavy artillery.

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thursday, June 6, 2013

  Kabul

  The encrypted text message from Vic was short and to the point.

  “This is your man,” it said.

  Attached to the message was a screenshot from a website belonging to the South and Central Asian Studies Institute in New York City. The screenshot showed a photograph of a wiry-looking bald man with a straggly white beard and a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Underneath, it said, “Head of Research: A. Ahman.”

  “Well, damn me,” Johnson said. He glanced across at Haroon, who was sitting on the sofa opposite. “Come and see this. Abdul Akbari, also known as Abbas Ahman, appears to be alive and well and living in New York City. Is this the same guy you remember?”

  Haroon stood and came to look over Johnson’s shoulder at the photograph on the phone screen. “Don’t know. It does look like him. His beard’s gone white; it used to be black. He still looks thin as a rake.”

  “Vic says it’s him,” Johnson said. “So I’m trusting Vic. He’s rarely wrong. The only thing that bothers me is that we could be just wasting our time.”

  “Because you think he won’t have the files?” Haroon asked.

  “That’s one thing. To pin anything on Severinov, whether in court or in the media, we’ll need some sort of documentary proof. Journalists won’t write a story savaging a billionaire oligarch without evidence.”

  “You mean you’re not going to bother going to New York to see this guy simply because you don’t think he’s got the documents you need?”

  “Even if he did have them, I doubt he’ll suddenly turn informer,” Johnson said.

  “You don’t know that, Joe,” Jayne said from her chair at the dining table, where she was working on her laptop.

  “If he was going to be turned by the Agency or any other Western intelligence outfit, he would surely have done so years ago when he needed the money,” Johnson said. “Haroon had a go at him in the ’80s and got nowhere. I’m fairly certain that someone at the Agency must have done as well—it wasn’t me, obviously, but I bet someone tried. And he must have had other approaches. He was a prime target—someone in his position, in charge of the entire Afghanistan KGB archive. I mean, he’s probably very comfortable working as an academic by now.”

  Haroon and Jayne said nothing.

  “I’m wondering if it might be better to stay here and concentrate on pinning Javed down,” Johnson said.

  “We need to do both,” Haroon said.

  Johnson paced up and down the room, struggling to decide. The Pakistani had a point. “Okay,” he said eventually, turning to face Haroon. “I’ll go to New York. You’re right. The chance of meeting Akbari is too good to pass up. But—”

  “While you’re chasing Akbari,” Jayne interrupted, “I’ll stay here with Haroon and focus on Javed and Severinov. We know Severinov’s back in Moscow, and we can redouble our efforts to tail Javed.”

  “You might need to dust off your street skills, then,” Johnson said. “Try following him from his office. I’m just concerned about the security risks, though.”

  Jayne glanced at Haroon and grimaced. “Yes, that should be fun, with the Taliban all over Kabul looking for the next Westerner to kidnap—or blow up. But I can’t see any other option. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

  Thursday, June 6, 2013

  Moscow

  Severinov glanced out the tenth-floor window of the skyscraper office block at 42 Shchepkin Street toward the gleaming steel facade of the nearby Olympic Stadium. Then he turned to face the three other men in the meeting room.

  He had been summoned by Mikhail Sobchak at three hours’ notice to the board room of Russia’s Ministry of Energy for a meeting with Medvedev, the energy minister Alexander Novak, and—once again, to his horror—Vladimir Putin.

  Severinov had only once before seen Putin in the energy ministry headquarters—despite it being only a fifteen-minute drive from the Kremlin—and that was in 2008, not long after the ministry was formed under the leadership of Medvedev. Energy in Afghanistan, or more likely the wider strategic thinking behind it, was clearly rocketing up the president’s list of priorities.

  As soon as Sobchak made the request, Severinov had a rough idea of what might be on the agenda. They had made that clear enough at the previous meeting. He had asked Sobchak if he could bring along his corporate communications director to add his perspective and advice to the discussion, but the request was immediately refused. “The leadership wants to tell you what to do, not have a debate about it,” Sobchak had said.

  Yet again, as at Severinov’s previous encounter with him at Medvedev’s dacha, it was Putin who did most of the talking.

  “We want you to deliver the message that Russia is excited to take part in a whole range of construction projects in Afghanistan,” Putin said, calmly sipping from a glass of chilled water. “Oil and gas are obviously some of those—that’s your key message—and backing that up, you will state that Russia is supporting and is ready to take part in the investment project to build a natural gas pipeline running from Turkmenistan, via Afghanistan, to Pakistan and India.”

  “Yes, I understand the importance of that,” Severinov said.

  “Yes, but there’s more,” Putin went on. “We want you to also mention that Russia is ready to make heavy investments in highways, especially the Salang Tunnel, hydroelectric projects, railways, and housing. Also civil aviation and construction.”

  Severinov exhaled. “My only question would be whether I’m the right man to deliver this. I’ll be quite frank with you: if I get grilled on all that at the meeting, I’m going to be out of my depth. It’s not my expertise. It might be better for me just to stick to the oil and gas project, which I know well. I can touch on the pipeline too, of course.”

  Putin scrutinized him with a pair of ice-blue eyes, his face muscles motionless. “You are nothing but the advance messenger, Yuri. The warm-up act. Your job is to plant the seed so we get some media coverage that reflects our intention to try to create a kind of new warmth between Russia and Afghanistan. Then, further down the line, when you have sealed the deal for the oil and gas assets—note that I said when, and not if—I will travel to Kabul and sign
the agreement. It will be at that point we will really make a big show of our wider plans.”

  Medvedev leaned forward, his elbows planted on the polished boardroom table. “Your presentation is next Thursday, correct?”

  “Yes, Thursday, in Kabul,” Severinov said.

  “I will wish you good luck. Not that you will need it. And I will see you back in Moscow for a debriefing session, probably on the Saturday. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, that’s clear. Thank you.”

  Medvedev exchanged glances with Putin, and as if they were communicating telepathically, they rose as one. Medvedev nodded at Severinov, while Putin’s face remained impassive. They both shook Severinov’s hand in a perfunctory manner and left the room without a further word.

  When Severinov received the call to the ministry that morning, he had somehow been hoping that the entire project might be canceled and he would not need to go through with it. No such luck. Now the pressure was significantly greater, if anything.

  Severinov stood and walked to an anteroom, where his personal assistant Zinaida was waiting. Looking serious, she stepped forward as soon as Severinov poked his head around the door. “Yuri, I’ve just had a call from IT about your phone. They found a GPS tracker device built into the battery.”

  Before he had left for the boardroom meeting, Severinov had left his main phone with his head of IT and security at his Besoi Energy offices, a three-minute drive away on Gilyarovskogo Street, in an area between the Botanical Gardens and the Olympic Stadium. The issues Severinov had been experiencing with poor battery life seemed to have been getting worse, and after returning from Kabul, he had decided to get the device checked out.

  “That’s why it was draining quickly,” Zinaida continued. “They’re replacing it immediately, of course, but they wanted you to know. It will be fixed by the time we’re back to the office.”

  “A tracker? Dermo.” Severinov immediately tried to think when the device had last been out of his possession. He kept it almost permanently in his pocket or in his hand, apart from when he was sleeping or bathing.

  The only time he could think of was when he had attended a briefing at the Afghanistan Ministry of Mines and Petroleum, and he recalled being irritated because to remove phones on the basis that confidential information was being discussed seemed unnecessary.

  “It’s got to be that bastard Javed,” Severinov muttered. He kicked at the leg of a coffee table that stood near the door, causing it to lurch some distance across the hard wooden floor. Maybe that was how the Afghan had managed to evade being caught in the Sulaiman Mountains.

  It was time to get heavy. He needed to speak to Vasily. Before beginning their ultimately abortive and fatal operation in Afghanistan, Vasily had sent him details of the other five members of his Spetsnaz team. Perhaps he should bring them in now.

  Thursday, June 6, 2013

  Kabul

  Javed refreshed the map on his laptop screen for the fifth time. But still the small blue dot that had previously been showing at a location in Moscow was not there.

  He was certain the tracker in Severinov’s phone wouldn’t have failed. They were very reliable. The only conclusion was that it had been discovered and disabled.

  Javed swore and toggled the screen over to the second device, implanted into the cardboard spine of Severinov’s prospectus file for the oil and gas investment project.

  That, thankfully, was still operational and was showing up at the same location as it had been previously, at a large residential property near the Moscow River.

  Javed was completely certain that Severinov would bring the prospectus along for his key presentation to the minister because it contained all the vital and confidential financial projections the project team at the Ministry of Mines and Petroleum in Kabul had supplied to the serious bidders. He would need to refer to the numbers frequently.

  So Javed could at least still keep some track of Severinov’s movements, albeit not as effectively as if the cell phone device had continued to operate.

  Javed’s only concern—a major one—was that if the phone tracker had been found, then Severinov would most likely not take long to work out where it had come from and who had installed it.

  But what was he going to do about it, and could he prove it? It was certain he wouldn’t pull out of the presentation, because the stakes were too high. And he also wouldn’t be able to prove Javed’s involvement. There was no forensic evidence of the tracker’s origins: Javed was confident of that.

  So hopefully, it might not make too much difference to the outcome Javed had planned.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Saturday, June 8, 2013

  New York City

  The Turkish Airlines flight from Kabul should have taken about twenty-three hours. In the end, after delays with the connecting flight from Istanbul to New York’s JFK airport, it took over thirty, arriving at after six on Saturday morning.

  By ten past eleven, Johnson was sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park in Manhattan. About forty yards away, across the street that bordered the north side of the park, was the entrance to the South and Central Asian Studies Institute.

  Johnson yawned and sipped the take-out double espresso Vic had just brought him from a nearby coffee shop. He still felt as though trekking to New York in the hope that an ex-KHAD man would be able to fit missing pieces into his jigsaw was overwhelmingly optimistic.

  “What time does he finish work?” Johnson asked. He adjusted the Beretta M9 that Vic had given him, which he had stuffed into his belt and was concealed beneath a linen jacket.

  “Don’t know,” Vic said. “He apparently doesn’t usually work on Saturdays, but my guy tailed him here earlier this morning. Maybe he’s just catching up on some work or something.”

  The caffeine started to seep through Johnson’s veins, immediately making him feel better.

  “You did well to trace him so quickly,” Johnson said.

  Vic shrugged. “It was easy once you got the alias. There’s only a handful of Abbas Ahmans in the States. We eliminated the others very quickly and ended up with this one. His immigration records gave us all we needed. A lot of Afghan refugees came here around that time—about twenty-five or thirty thousand in the late ’80s and early ’90s.”

  “And he was one of the few illegals.”

  “Most were legit,” Vic said.

  Johnson adjusted his sunglasses. The summer sun was beating down, and the leaves of the trees in the park and along both sides of Washington Square North were already looking a little limp. A queue, consisting mainly of young students and a few kids with skateboards, had formed in front of a hot dog cart farther along the path.

  A dog walker and three joggers passed along the path in front of their bench, and tourists were snapping photographs of each other. But Johnson kept his attention firmly on the five-story red-brick townhouse ahead of him, where the institute was based. Twelve red stone steps led up to a white-painted porticoed entrance with a black door.

  “Should work in our favor that he’s an illegal,” Johnson said.

  Vic glanced at him. “Gives us some leverage, definitely.”

  “I suggest we approach him here when he comes out of his office, not tail him home, where he can slam the door on us.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Have you made any more headway on Zilleman’s calls to burner phones?” Johnson asked.

  “Some, in that there are a few of them, and they do keep changing, which is a red flag,” Vic said. “I’ve asked the NSA team to now map exactly where the phones are that are being called. I’ve got a guy I’ve used before on this type of job working on it.”

  “Is that Alex Goode?” Johnson asked

  “Yes. You remember him, then. Steve’s his boss. He’s a bit of a wizard with this kind of thing.”

  “I do remember him,” Johnson said. “He did the recordings of Watto’s conversations last year on the Croatia job, didn’t he?”

  “Yes
, he’s the one. He’s in New York at the moment. So hopefully we should get a result soon. It might be that although there’s multiple phones, they’re in the same locations. Then we might have something helpful.”

  At twenty past twelve, Johnson saw the door of the institute open, and out came a tall man with a white beard and black-rimmed glasses. He didn’t need to nudge Vic, who was already picking up his bag from the ground.

  As Vic had predicted, Akbari turned right in the direction of the Christopher Street subway station. Johnson and Vic headed toward the park gate at the intersection of Washington Square North and Waverly Place, arriving there thirty yards behind Akbari, who was on the other side of the street.

  The two men had planned what they would do. They drew closer behind Akbari, who was walking slowly, a briefcase in his hand. When they got within five yards, Johnson called out softly. “Abdul Akbari.”

  The man paused in his stride momentarily but didn’t turn, and then he continued.

  Johnson waited until they had almost drawn level with him, then tried again, slightly louder this time. “Excuse me, are you Abdul Akbari? I think I recognize you.”

  This time, the man couldn’t ignore him. He stopped dead and turned his head. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” he said in clear but accented English.

  “No, I don’t think I have,” Johnson said, fixing his gaze. “Abdul Akbari. Former KHAD and KGB archivist in Kabul. That’s you, isn’t it? Even if you use the name Abbas Ahman now.”

  Without waiting for him to answer, Johnson continued. “I’m Joe Johnson and this is Vic Walter. We’re investigating two people in Afghanistan with whom I believe you’ve had contact in the past. We’d just like a quick word. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

  The man scrutinized first Johnson, then Vic, his face devoid of any obvious emotion. After several seconds, he said, “I am Abbas Ahman, and I am originally from Afghanistan, you have got that part right. But that is all. I am not Abdul Akbari.”