Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 12

Before parachuting into enemy territory in the dead of night, he used to feel more or less the same way. There was always the concern that the chute might not open, but never had he jumped not knowing if he had a chute at all — not until now, that is. He was about to break the first rule of intelligence activity: “Do not take action without a safety net.” Leaps of faith were meant for fools and dead people, not intelligence officers.

Edward was very uncomfortable in the airport departure lounge, not only because he was embarking on a journey into the unknown, but also because he was taking Natalie with him. She had insisted on coming along, and since he could not speak a word of Russian and didn’t know the first thing about the country, he could hardly argue. She made it very clear that she knew the risks and was ready to take them. He tried to dissuade her, pointing out that she was already on a Russian hit list and it was only chance and Larry’s connections that had gotten her out in one piece. But she was adamant. Also, he knew deep down that, where he was going, he needed her.

They went over all the details in the safe house. Edward helped Natalie conceal inside her portable tape player the array microcircuit that Larry had switched at the Air Force base. Edward’s initial plan was for his assault team to bring it along with them so that if they could somehow manage to take control of the array, they might use it themselves to hamper whatever the Black Ghosts were doing. Natalie, however, suggested that she and Edward smuggle it in with them. That way, if the need arose sooner, they could take advantage of it.

Larry had been able to offer Edward one more resource for when he got to Moscow. “There’s a guy I used to deal with occasionally, works as a staffer in the British Embassy. I was never too sure how reliable he was — hard to tell which side he’s on. But he might come in handy if you need something in a hurry.” He gave Edward the man’s name and number.

From the information Donoven had given to Larry over time, they knew the Black Ghosts had people working in just about every facet of Russian security, including customs and immigration at the major airports around Moscow. Given the possibility that Donoven had, before his death, given someone Edward’s description — and Natalie’s being on the hit list to start with — they had ruled out a regular flight into Moscow. With all that in mind, it made more sense to enter Russia by the back door.

“Alaska Air Flight 603 for Vladivostok is now ready for boarding,” announced the barely intelligible voice so unique to airports and hospitals. It varied in accent but always had the same sound and apparent echo. “Please have your boarding passes ready. People who need assistance in boarding, please notify the attendant at the gate.”

With very little pomp and ceremony, they were soon high above the Bering Sea in the McDonnell Douglas 80. The uniformly cold air made for a very smooth flight. The meal was the usual bland airline fare: The steward’s description of the matter on the plate was the best way to find out what it was meant to be. Edward leafed through a magazine from the pouch in front of his seat while Natalie dozed, her head resting on his shoulder. Once again, he was struck by how she managed to make a perfectly natural action seem full of intimacy and promise. He was amazed at her ability to relax while on her way to what could very well be her doom. On every flight into battle there was always that one person who fell asleep, no matter how dangerous the mission, no matter how slim the chances of survival. Edward had often wondered whether it was stupidity or a phenomenal ability to suppress one’s feelings.

“We are now crossing the Island of Sakhalin,” the pilot announced with the hint of a Southern twang, almost two hours into the flight. Edward, in the aisle seat, could barely see the land below. He was not going to wake up Natalie for that. From thirty thousand feet, most places had a tendency to look alike. Someone once told him that they blamed the map makers for all the problems this world had. If they would only separate the countries by lines and not paint each country in a different color, it wouldn’t take people long to realize how stupid borders were in the first place. Even though he found that speech — which had been made with some pathos and a large amount of brandy — to be rather simplistic, it had a point.

Before long they approached mainland Russia and the administrative district of Khabarovsk. The plane veered slightly to the left, giving Edward a brief first glimpse of Russian soil. He vowed to tread very carefully until that shoreline was moving in the opposite direction. He felt like a blind man entering a bear’s den and sitting himself on the bear’s paw. No matter how friendly that bear may have become, it was still a bear.

The plane angled gently down and the announcement came that they were starting their decent into Vladivostok. Natalie stirred, murmured something warm and incomprehensible in Edward’s ear, like a soft, purring cat. Then she awoke fully. Moving automatically, she drew a small powder case from her handbag and a lipstick, which she started to apply while staring into the small mirror in the case. With a jolt and a rumble of undercarriage, the plane touched down.

At first the sight was like that of any other insignificant airport where Edward had landed during his lengthy travels, until he saw the almost endless line of gleaming Ilyushin II-86 planes with the Russian flag painted on their tails. The big, wide-bodied aircraft looked like overstuffed Boeing 707s. Further down, Edward could see the Ilyushin II-76 transport planes. He recalled how, during the Cold War, these aircraft had been code-named “Candide” in Western intelligence reports, and getting this close to them meant you were in deep trouble. Things haven’t changed much, he thought. Seeing their ominous silhouettes in the evening light, he was reminded again of the urgency of his mission. It was very possible, he thought, that because the war had not been fought and won on the battlefield but rather in the weary minds of politicians and on the backs of their own people, not everyone was aware that it was in fact over. It would take very little effort to turn the tide, making what was now an airline fleet back into an airborne armada.

Clearing customs in Vladivostok seemed to take forever. A stout bureaucrat in an unimpressive uniform examined each of their documents in turn, applying rubber stamps, initials, and signatures that probably served no real purpose except guaranteeing his children an employed parent. Unlike many of its former satellite states, Russia does not allow foreigners complete freedom of movement within its borders. Fortunately, Joe Falco had found the right person to help them, and Edward’s visa and other documentation had come through very quickly. Natalie already had a visa from her stint as a reporter in Moscow, which was still not officially over.

Once the surly official was done with them, they rechecked their baggage aboard Aeroflot Flight 219 to Novosibirsk and settled once again into the uncomfortable seats to wait. There was nothing to do in that giant complex but sit and stare at the huge murals of the workers and peasants, all smiling with joy as they brought the abundant fruits of their labors to be shared by all, under the warm glowing sun and the red flag with its golden hammer and sickle. Edward couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in enemy territory. And indeed, the enemy was here, although not in power — for the moment.

Along with several hundred other people who looked almost like refugees with all their belongings, they waited on the platform of the Novosibirsk train station at the foot of a huge bridge that spanned the Ob River. The train was late. It seemed to Edward that, over the last few days, most of his time had been spent waiting. Natalie sat on the bench beside him, reading a paperback novel. Since they had started this trip, a relaxed, silent relationship had developed between them, which Edward found so much easier than having to make conversation all the time.

In the distance, a train whistle blew. The people on the platform began to get to their feet and busy themselves with bags and bundles and the occasional suitcase that had undoubtedly seen better times. Several minutes later, the Trans-Siberian Express moved with agonizing slowness into view at the end of the long stretch of rail. The electric engine rumbled into the station, pulling behind it a motley collection of different-colored cars, like a dance troupe in perfect step but out of costume.

Natalie translated the silver Cyrillic lettering on the sides of the cars: “Moscow-Vladivostok. Here, this is ours.” She pointed to the gray car, third from the front of the train.

They had been lucky to get a berth on the train, luckier still that it was a first-class cabin with twin bunks and a shower. Taking the train had been Natalie’s suggestion: Although their visas were good, the rest of the extensive travel documentation needed for the trip might not stand up to close scrutiny, and security on the train was lax. Unless you looked or sounded like a Chechen or someone from the Caucasus, she explained, no one bothered you.

With some people still on the platform loading their baggage into the crowded cars, the heavy iron wheels clinked on the tracks and the train began to move forward.

Edward lay on his bunk. Within a few minutes the rocking motion of the train had lulled him into a gentle sleep, which came as a sweet relief after the hours of waiting.

On the bunk below, Natalie lay awake, looking out the window as the taiga, the endless forest of the Russian hinterland, slipped by. This train, she felt, was like Russia itself, hurtling forward into the night, guided by the immutable, inexorable steel rails of destiny, taking its passengers whither it would, callously indifferent to their own wishes and hopes for what lay in store at journey’s end.

The clinking of the wheels and the rhythmic movement of the car echoed her thoughts with every mile the train covered. At last she sighed, resting her head on the pillow, and she, too, slept.

By 7 a.m. the train had reached Sverdlovsk. They had decided to stay on board, even though the stop was to last three hours. Many of the passengers who could barely afford the ride and could not bear the cost of meals on board got off to purchase food. They saw them coming back an hour or two later with a few pieces of fruit or loaves of bread.

At 10 sharp, after almost two full minutes of deafening whistle blowing, the train continued westward toward Perm and Kirov. Edward and Natalie spent their time watching the monotonous view, reading and sitting in the train’s modest dining car, eating food that made Edward sorry he hadn’t finished his meal on the plane. There was no coffee, so they made do with lukewarm, diluted hot chocolate. With the help of the phrase book, Natalie also gave Edward some coaching in Russian.

By the end of the first day, their conversation started taking on a much more personal tone. Being alone in the crowd, and she his only link short of hand signals, seemed to strengthen a bond between them. She told him more about her life and gently questioned him about his.

She had been born in St. Petersburg when it was still called Leningrad. When she was four, her father, a diplomat, received a posting to Washington. A few months after they arrived, he was called back to Moscow. Natalie stayed behind with her mother who, as was the case with most Soviet diplomats’ families, also had a job at the embassy. They didn’t hear from him for a few weeks. Then her mother was informed that her father had a medical problem and that the family should return to Russia. Suspecting the reason her husband had been called back and not heard from since was that he had been involved with an American woman who was working for a U.S. intelligence agency, Natalie’s mother knew she would be returning to a very unsure future, both for herself and her daughter. After they had packed all their meager belongings, and less than an hour before the car from the embassy was to pick them up and drive them to the airport, Natalie’s mother, leaving everything behind, called a cab. Then, from a pay phone across the street from the White House, she contacted the State Department and requested assistance to defect.

After more than a month spent in a hotel in Miami, where the mother was extensively debriefed, the State Department finalized their status and helped them relocate to Nebraska.

“Years later,” she said, her voice quavering, her eyes filled with moisture, “we found out that he was imprisoned, interrogated, and executed within a few days of arriving back in Moscow. When they told us to go back, my father was already dead.” She looked away through the window. The Ural Mountains slid past, indifferent to the train and its cargo. Edward moved closer and gently took her hand. After a short pause, she continued her story.

Her mother remarried, allying herself with a wealthy cattle rancher. Natalie was sent to a private school in New Hampshire and later to Columbia University, where she studied journalism. After graduating, she had gone back to Omaha for a while, gathering experience working on a local paper, doing odd jobs. She wanted to get a job on her own merit and not have one bought for her with her stepfather’s name and money. But that turned out to be more difficult than she had expected. She had the talent; all she needed was a break. As she had never exchanged a word of English with her mother, even though they both spoke it fluently, her Russian was flawless.

Edward listened with increasing fascination. In the forced intimacy of their shared quarters, they had at first been excessively polite and circumspect. Then they had broken that barrier and developed a cheerful, almost boisterous camaraderie that alleviated the boredom of the journey. Looking at her now, in her long, oversized T-shirt and dark blue jeans, Edward gradually became acutely aware of how much he desired her. He wondered idly how this would affect their operational effectiveness.

Natalie was asleep on the lower bunk when the train pulled into Kirov. Edward knew there would be a four-hour stopover here. The fact that she was asleep worked to his advantage as he wanted to pay someone a visit, alone. He moved about very quietly. Since they had spent most of the night talking, she was not likely to wake up yet. He left a note on the washstand before leaving, saying he should be back shortly.

Joe Falco had given him the address. There was no phone number — this was strictly face-to-face business. The address was of a Russian veteran of Afghanistan, a counterpart to the Vietnam vets in the States. Joe had gotten in touch with him through a friend who used to fly for Air America in its heyday, when it was the semi-official airline of the CIA. The pilot had been flying supplies in to the Mujahedeen rebels fighting the Soviet-backed puppet government in Kabul.

The pilot had introduced Falco to some Soviets who were searching for their “Missing In Action,” or MIAs for short, very much the same way the Americans were looking for their MIAs in Vietnam. The two organizations — if the Russian one could be regarded as an organization — provided each other with any assistance they could.

Joe had tried to help some American families trace their vanished sons by putting them in touch with Vietnamese agencies through his new Russian friends, even if such actions were regarded as unpatriotic. A Russian veteran living in Kirov, introduced to Joe through his pilot friend, had been doing the same type of work with the Mujahedeen. The man, known only as Gregor, had been eager to make contacts in the West — not for the good of mother Russia, but because he saw a distinct possibility of economic gain for himself, in addition to helping some lost soul find better permanent accommodation.

Edward hired the lone taxi waiting outside the station, a beat-up vehicle which was a Russian replica of a ‘57 Chevy. Only when it started to move did he realize that they had probably saved a bundle on the shocks. He read the address out loud to the driver, repeating it several times until the driver, with a sonorous “Da, da, okay,” indicated that he knew the way.

As they drove through the streets of Kirov, Edward searched the Russian phrase book he carried in his pocket. He realized it would have been smarter to bring Natalie with him on this excursion, but it was too late to worry about that now. Besides, Gregor had indicated that he was to come alone. They reached their destination, an apartment building in an undistinguished suburb. It seemed that the only difference between the various buildings was their height and the color of the laundry hanging from the front porches. Edward had the impression there was one basic plan for an apartment building which had been approved by the Supreme Soviet and then replicated over and over throughout Russia.

Edward wanted to be sure that the taxi driver would wait for him. The only thing he could think of was to tear up a ten-dollar bill and hand the driver half. There was no doubt in his mind that the man would be there when he came back out.

Time was running like sand from a broken hourglass. Not knowing the man he was about to meet, in an unknown city with a train that for all he knew might leave before the scheduled time because some businessman slipped a few rubles to the engineer, Edward climbed the staircase three at a time to the fifth floor, smelling a variety of dishes on his way up. He finally arrived at his destination and rang the bell. A big, morose-looking man opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.

“Gregor?” said Edward.

“Da?” the man asked suspiciously.

“Speak English?” asked Edward. The man’s face softened a little. “American? Pazhahlsta, come.” He closed the door, unhooked the chain, then opened it wide.

They sat in the living room, which was simple and sparse in its furnishings and decoration. The air was stale with heavy body odor. It took Edward some time to explain who he was and why he was there. It appeared Gregor was waiting to verify that he was talking to the real Edward, the one his American friend had told him to expect.

Edward wasn’t sure at first how far he could trust this man, but realizing he was still alive and free, he decided he had nothing to lose. Gregor listened. Edward explained that there was a conspiracy between Americans and Russians to bring back the good old days when everybody was killing everybody else and the military industry was making money. When he had finished, Gregor scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then he stood up. “Okay, we take drink,” he said, opening a dresser and pulling out a plain bottle with no label.

Edward shook his head. “I can’t drink, my friend.”

The Russian opened his eyes wide. “Can’t? What mean, can’t? You mean not want.”

“I want more than you can imagine,” Edward said with a grin. “I’m on the bloody wagon.”

“What?”

“I’m an alcoholic.” The words were still hard to say.

“Me too! I love alcohol, good reason to drink.” He handed Edward the bottle.

“When I start, I can’t stop.” Edward pushed the bottle back gently, hoping his host would understand.

“Not to worry. I have much bottles, drink how much you want.”

“Thanks, but no. I’m sick, you see. If I drink I can’t do anything.”

“Okay, I give bottle na rodny, for road.”

Edward nodded with relief. He had passed the test again.

Gregor, it turned out, didn’t mind drinking alone. He poured Edward a glass of water from the tap and settled down with the vodka bottle on the table in front of him. By now, he was beaming and talking volubly in his heavy, halting English.

“America wonderful country. I like go there. When I be rich man.” He laughed loudly. “Maybe you help I be rich man. We do business, good money, yes?”

Edward sipped his water and nodded noncommittally. Gregor was suddenly morose again, gazing through the window at a gray landscape of apartment buildings. “Ah, Rassia, what could be if you know how.” He turned his mournful eyes back to Edward. “We have problems. But we learn. We need vremya, you know, how say, time. Slowly, slowly.” He poured more vodka. “Now. You go to Moscva. What will you do in Moscva?”

“Gather information, mostly.”

“And what you do with information?”

“Try and stop a military coup.”

“Why you do this? You not Russian?”

“It’s good for my country that your country is democratic. We don’t want another war.”

Gregor’s eyes widened. “Good. I help you. I have friends in Moscva.” He fetched a small brown notebook, from which he copied a name, address, and phone number on a scrap of paper, which he handed to Edward. “Here. This my friend. You need something, legal, no legal, he help.”

Edward looked at the paper. He took out his pen and a small notepad and coded the information for himself into what seemed a simple address in New York, then he handed the note back to Gregor.

“No. You take.” Gregor tried to push the paper into Edward’s hand. “For you.”

“No need,” said Edward, “thank you.”

Gregor smiled. “Ah, professional. I like. My friends like. Good.”

Gregor drank more, saluting everything American he could name, from McDonald’s to Cadillacs and then some, until Edward took his leave. As a parting gift of goodwill, Gregor presented him with a flask-shaped bottle of vodka that slipped easily into Edward’s inside coat pocket. They shook hands and the big Russian hugged Edward and slapped him on the back, knocking the air out of his lungs. Gregor stood at the top of the staircase until Edward got to the bottom, where he could hear the big man cry after him, “Dus vidaniah, Tavasrish,” which by now Edward knew to mean “goodbye, my friend.” Outside, the taxi was waiting for him. Or, to be more exact, for the other half of the bill.

Back on the train, Edward went straight to the cabin. Natalie was standing by the wash basin, wearing her oversized T-shirt and, as far as Edward could see, not much else. She had an odd look in her eye that Edward could not quite fathom.

“Where were you?” she shot at him.

“I had to see someone.” Edward realized she was angry.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Everything’s fine. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“For God’s sake, Edward. I’m not a little baby. You should have told me what you were doing.”

Edward was stuck for words. He stared at her for several seconds, then he said in a low but firm tone, “Let’s get one thing straight here, Natalie. When it comes to the operational side of this journey, I tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. This is not an operation run by a committee, we don’t take a vote on things or make mutual decisions, and I don’t have to explain myself to you, or anybody else for that matter. Is that clear?”

Natalie sat on the bunk, looking away from him. She burst into tears. “I thought something terrible had happened.”

He sat next to her on the bunk and took her in his arms. “I was so worried about you,” she sobbed. He pulled her closer to him, stroking her back, trying to soothe away the tears. She buried her face in his neck, and he breathed the warm fresh scent of her hair. He felt a tightness in his groin and a pleasant weakness in his chest. But he could do nothing about it. His role here was that of comforter, not seducer.

Natalie lifted her head and sniffed. Seen like this, her face streaked with tears, she looked even more beautiful.

“I’m sorry I cried. It’s not like me,” she said finally.

“It’s okay.” He leaned his head on hers. For a long time they sat there in each other’s arms, until the Trans-Siberian started rolling again. She turned her head and watched as the station house and the deserted platform slowly moved away, clearing the view for more of Russia’s endless forests.

Natalie slid a cold hand under Edward’s shirt and slowly ran her hand across his chest. Rolling to one side, she lifted her leg across his thigh, her T-shirt riding up. He realized he was right: She had nothing under the shirt but herself. He drew her closer to him, searching with his lips for hers, his hand pressing against the small of her back. Slowly, bit by bit, she helped him off with his clothes, kissing every part as it was exposed. He, in turn, ran his lips over her soft skin, breathing in her scent, drinking it, feeling his head drift with it. Then, as though in a slow dance through a perfumed dream, they were naked, swaying on the narrow bunk. Her slim, soft body motioned slowly in his arms. Kissing his chest she coiled slowly, sliding down his body like a gentle wave, teasing him to the point of ecstasy.

Then, kissing her way back, she lifted herself gradually, standing as high as the upper bunk would allow before returning to unite with him. He felt the smooth warmth as she slowly took him in, seating herself on him, letting the gentle motion of the train dictate the rhythm as it rolled onward to Moscow.