Close Quarters

TWENTY-NINE

I pulled over and rolled to a stop on the grass verge. The jeep pulled over with me and stopped in front, blocking any escape. Seconds later I was out of the car and standing against the hood, with the rest of the traffic thundering by a few feet away. The two men from the back of the jeep stood guard, while the front seat passenger strutted his stuff and demanded to know who I was and where I was going.

I was worried this might be another Rambo-style vehicle check, but it quickly became obvious that there was something too efficient about the officer and his men, and that they weren’t playing at being traffic cops just for the hell of it.

I told him I was from Germany and that I had a family to feed and was looking for work. I’d heard about some kind of government hostel hiring a maintenance man in Pavlohrad and was hoping to get the position.

He nodded like he was familiar with the place and peered into the car. I held my breath. If he saw the sniper’s rifle I was in a whole world of trouble. He took an age walking round the car, tapping on the roof as if deep in thought. All the while I waited for him to open the doors and for the hammer to fall.

But he didn’t. Instead he turned back and began flipping through my papers. I relaxed a little. I knew the address was a blind and even if he had the time or inclination to check it out, it would come up good.

‘You’re a long way from home. And Germany is a rich country.’ He meant why was I wasting time looking for work in a poorer economy that was in danger of disintegrating into civil war any day now.

‘I heard things were good here for people willing to work hard. I want to set up a business, employ others.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not good right now but you have to take a chance and run with it, right?’

He grunted with scepticism and I knew why. The kind of chances the military takes bear no resemblance to those in civilian life. Guns and ammunition present a more final and binding solution than spreadsheets, order books or corporate rules, and risk for civilians is measured purely in economic terms, not life and death. ‘It sounds a good plan, but you should pay more attention to news reports. What kind of work do you do?’

‘Electrician, plumber, carpenter … whatever you want me to do, captain,’ I replied. He was a junior lieutenant but he didn’t take offence at the promotion. His mouth twitched and he handed the papers back and nodded at the rear of the Isuzu. ‘If you’re so good with your hands, get your stop light fixed — it’s flickering like a welcome sign on a Black Sea whorehouse.’

A burst of chatter from his car radio interrupted any further discussion. He listened, head cocked to one side. Whatever was said galvanized him into action. He gave a brief signal to his men and said to me, ‘You can go.’ With that, they all jumped aboard and were gone.

I let out my breath and got back in the car. It had been a random stop, but served as a timely reminder of just how fragile my presence here was.

Pavlohrad was quiet, with wide roads and not much in the way of traffic to fill them. I guess anyone who didn’t need to travel was keeping their heads down. The elegant gold mushroom domes of the orthodox Christian churches flashed in the light, and after all the signs I’d seen of military activity, the town was indisputably civilian in tone and appearance, with an understated elegance to the buildings.

I followed the main road in and passed a large IS-3 Russian heavy tank sitting on a plinth. It was a memorial to the liberation of Pavlohrad in 1943 and a simultaneous reminder of the country’s past and its links to its vast neighbour to the east.

I turned off the road before crossing the river Vovcha, which snakes its way through the town from north to south, and stopped to look at the map. I’d decided to check out the address of the cut-out first before going to the Hotel Tipol, where Travis was staying, just so I had a picture of the layout. Knowing where all the players were located was a must.

I checked the list on my cell phone. Apt 5, 12, Terkova Street. According to the map it was close by. I drove slowly, relieved to have caught up with Travis again. I’d make sure he was OK, then step back and wait for Callahan to make the next move. If the original plan went ahead, Travis would be handed over to someone else and be on his way.

The address I’d been given was in a small, three-storey apartment block over a row of shops not far from the river. It was a quiet area with little traffic and few pedestrians, and darkness was setting in. I’d been so focussed on getting here that I hadn’t even noticed how the day had slipped by so fast.

I parked a hundred yards down the street and walked back towards the apartment block, conscious of being watched every step of the way, even if only out of innocent curiosity. It’s a familiar feeling when operating in hostile areas. You have to learn to deal with it, even if you can never entirely dismiss it; having that little bit of nervous edge is what keeps you alert and out of trouble.

I stopped at a small store across the way. It smelled of cooked meats, fruit and vegetables, and had a trio of elderly ladies in headscarves exchanging some local gossip. They stopped talking when I walked in, but started up again once they figured I was harmless. I bought some fruit and a bottle of water, taking my time as I kept an eye on the apartment building across the way to see if anything bad was playing out. When I was satisfied nothing was, I paid up and left, carrying a plastic bag. At least now I was just another local making his way home.

I walked past the building, chewing on an apple and watching for signs that I wasn’t about to walk into a trap. An old man was sweeping some dirt on to the street and a dog was sitting watching him. Above them a curtain twitched and an old lady flicked a duster against the window.

The street was quiet so I walked on, taking my time and tuning in to my surroundings. If there were police or army here, there would be something in the atmosphere — a tension like no other. But I couldn’t feel it. And the old ladies in the store were the kind who would have been talking their presence to death if they’d seen anything.

I continued a tour of the block, then walked back. When I reached the apartment building the old man had disappeared but the dog was still there, doing what dogs do when somebody is looking.

It was now or never. I stepped through the front door. I was in a small lobby with a flight of tiled stairs leading up right in front of me and a narrow passageway running towards the rear of the building. Two doors with numbers. 1 and 2. A bank of mail boxes stood against the wall, the slots stuffed with junk mail and newspapers.

As I walked up the stairs I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stirring. I ignored that one; it’s a natural reaction to going somewhere you shouldn’t, and besides, I hadn’t seen anything to concern me. Sometimes you have to know when to override the instinctive signals the body and brain sends you otherwise you’d never move forward.

Number 5 was on the next floor. Three other doors shared the landing, along with a couple of bicycles, a small pram and a broken bathroom cabinet. I listened outside 5, heard the sound of a television or radio with a news update. The bit I caught didn’t sound good; separatists were boasting of three government tanks set on fire and a police station blown up, but the government was denying it as lies.

A man’s voice spoke, followed by a woman’s laughter. But not from the television.

I backed off. If the woman was in the last thing she’d want was me stepping into her life out of nowhere, especially if her husband was unaware of her private work for the CIA. If Travis had made it this far, I’d find him at the Tipol.

I checked the hotel’s location and followed the directions. It was back across the river on a broad boulevard lined by trees and a scattering of shops, houses, a gas station, another hotel and a school. I parked close by and walked past the front entrance, giving it the once over.

The Tipol was surprisingly large given the size of the town. A four-storey building with coloured fascia and lots of flower tubs, it boasted a large sign over the front door listing its many facilities including conference rooms and Wi-Fi. The car park was busy, but one vehicle stood out immediately.

An old black VW Polo with a bumble-bee sticker on the rear window.

I didn’t have to look twice. It was the same car I’d followed out of Obluskva.

I walked round the block and back. No sign of surveillance, no military or cop presence. But something felt odd. Why was 24d still here? He should have been long gone into his new future — taking with him any chance of his car being spotted.

There really wasn’t an option. I was going to have to go in.

I approached the reception desk. The foyer was standard hotel issue with a selection of uncomfortable looking chairs, bright posters of the local countryside and a rack of tourist brochures. The clerk was a young woman in her early twenties.

She looked up and smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I need to speak with one of your guests,’ I explained. ‘The driver of a black Polo.’

She thought about it and nodded. ‘I think I know the one. He arrived with another gentleman. Can I take your name?’

I ignored the question and feigned embarrassment, telling her that I’d scraped the Polo with my car and wanted to apologize to the owner, that my conscience wouldn’t allow me to just drive away.

She looked impressed. ‘Of course. One moment, please.’ She checked her computer screen then picked up a phone and dialled a number. She waited and pulled a regretful face.

‘I am sorry, sir. There’s no answer. He must have gone out.’

‘Might he be in the restaurant?’

‘No, sir. I have just come from there. Two ladies and a man I know personally. But not Mr Travis. Can I take a message?’

Travis. He was using his real name? Jesus.

‘No. Thank you. I’ll be around for a while so I’ll call back later.’

I got out of there and did another tour of the area, checking for stray State Department employees and blown cut-outs. But they were nowhere to be seen.

I’d been in the area enough for one day, and it was getting dark. If Travis was out with 24d, it was pointless looking for him, and sooner or later somebody would wonder why I was hanging around.

I found a quiet spot with a view of the hotel’s front door and ate some fruit and drank the water. It wasn’t the best meal I’d ever had but certainly not the worst. Besides, I’d found that once I was on an assignment and ready for go, so-called proper meals were something of a luxury.

By nine o’clock there was still no sign of Travis. To make sure, I walked back into the hotel, where a different receptionist was on duty. I asked if Travis was in.

She checked her screen, then rang his room extension, keeping one hand over the dial pad so I couldn’t see the room extension number. All the time she managed to keep one eye on me as if I might run off with one of the uncomfortable chairs. After several rings she shook her head. ‘I am sorry. Maybe he’s asleep.’

I agreed that maybe he was. ‘I’ll call him in the morning,’ I said, and left her to it.