Close Quarters

SEVENTEEN

I had one advantage over Grey Suit and his men, and that was where I’d left the Toyota. It was just outside the growing snarl-up of traffic that was already bringing the airport to a standstill. I reached the exit road without a problem, and spotted the jeep and the blanked-out truck caught up in a mess of military vehicles, with soldiers and militiamen arguing over who had the right of way. If I was correct about the identity of the soldiers in the truck, the militiamen were in for a rough time if they pushed too hard.

I silently wished them a long and enjoyable stay and called up Langley.

‘Go ahead, Watchman.’ The woman’s voice answered.

I said, ‘Tell Callahan there are troops on the way to the Obluskva Street address in Donetsk. They look like special forces. They’ve got Travis with them.’

‘Wait one.’ There was a click and Callahan came on.

‘I hear you. Go again?’ He sounded calm but I could sense his tension all the way down the wire.

I told him what I’d seen and asked, ‘Does Travis have the cut-out list?’

‘What? No. He was told to wait until he was contacted. Why do you ask?’

‘Because they’re heading for the first address on the list.’

‘It’s a coincidence. It has to be.’ But he didn’t sound convinced. ‘That’s crazy … there’s no way—’ He stopped dead, then said, ‘Stay on the line.’

He was gone two minutes, while I continued to head as fast as I dared for the Kyiv’ski District. If I could get there ahead of the troops, I might be able to give whoever was at 24d a warning to get out. Cut-outs, although part of a carefully built network, usually worked in isolation, known only by their handler. It was a matter of basic security: the less they each knew about others in the network, the less likely they were to give them away if they got picked up and questioned. But sometimes it was inevitable that one would come to learn the identity or location of another, by accident or instinct. If the person at 24d Obluskva was in that category, it would be a potential disaster for others along the line if he or she got picked up and grilled.

Callahan came back on. He sounded royally pissed. ‘The State Department gave Travis the first address. Worse, they sent it by SMS in plain text. They had no right but they did it anyway. Seems they didn’t have complete faith in us to keep him safe and wanted some control over what happened.’

I let it go by. The question of inter-agency jealousies and mistrust wasn’t my problem. But the fact that they’d given out the address unencrypted showed a serious lack of judgement and lousy security. Handing over such a delicate piece of information to an untrained civilian in the first place was about the most dangerous thing they could have done. They might as well have broadcast it over 24 TV, the Ukraine news channel.

Unless the address had been leaked by Travis himself somehow, then it must have been picked up and read by the authorities, who would have been sifting the airwaves for all communications from separatists and outside parties interested in the unfolding calamity. It wouldn’t have taken long for somebody to have asked why a Donetsk address should suddenly pop up in a text message from outside the country.

‘If they have one could they have the others?’

‘No. We made sure of that. Each one will be given a rendezvous point where Travis is to be delivered along with a contact code and time, but that’s it. The next in line will receive a message with that same RV and contact code, and will take over from there.’

It sounded a little vague to me, but I knew it had worked in the past. But when it came to protecting a network, any way of isolating individual members while having them come in contact with each other for an exchange was fraught with danger. ‘So who does the messaging?’

‘We do. As soon as we know the handover is imminent, we set the message in motion. Where are you right now?’

I gave him my location and where I was headed, but not what I was planning to do. The simple truth was I hadn’t yet decided on that myself. I clicked off and concentrated on driving. I had a germ of an idea but putting it in action would all depend on circumstances and opportunity.

Starting a shooting war in a city street is not to be recommended. The potential for collateral damage — that anodyne term used by the military, politicians and media to mean innocent bystanders — is huge and real. Add to that the opposition — in this case a truckload of special forces with itchy fingers — and anything could happen.

But you can’t always control these things.

I checked what I had in the way of armaments. It wasn’t great. I had a small submachine gun, courtesy of the big guy with the pool cue. Set against a truckload of armed soldiers, it was little more than a peashooter. But peashooters don’t come with an extended magazine of thirty-two 9mm shells. Somehow that fact didn’t surprise me. The bigger magazine is popular among gang-bangers because it looks both cool and scary; even a lousy shot with his head high on booze, mescaline or whatever, merely has to point and pull the trigger and the full load will discharge in a few-second ‘squirt’. The shots will go all over the scenery but that’s half the joy for anyone using it; you’re guaranteed to hit something, even if it’s only a cow in the next county.

In short, it wasn’t the best weapon for what I had in mind, but at least this one had a selector for firing single shots.

Obluskva was towards the east of the city close to the rail yards and bordered by an area of old industrial warehouses and factories blackened by years of smoke and the processing of metal. In the rail yard itself, the usual jungle of tracks, overhead wires and poles, stacks of storage containers huddled together, back-dropped by lines of freight cars of every description, with fuel tankers, gravel silos and piles of lumber waiting for shipment.

Through a haze in the distance stood the spectral outlines of three high-rise buildings, and I prayed that Number 24d Obluskva wasn’t one of them. Finding and getting to a specific person in tall buildings is not something you can accomplish quickly. It needs a team to cover all the levels, the elevators don’t always work and the network of stairways, familiar only to residents, are death traps for the unwary.

And for a single intruder, once in, there’s no easy way out.

I was in luck. Before I got to the high-rises I hit a highway cutting through the district from north to south, and beyond it found a rambling series of potholed streets and tracks dotted with small single-level houses surrounded by scrappy fencing and untamed vegetation.

The car bottomed out with a crash of the muffler as I hit a dip in the surface and I slowed down. Having the suspension fall apart on me now would be a disaster. I checked the house numbers, one eye on the rear-view mirror in case the troops had managed to force their way out of the airport and were close on my tail.

Ramshackle fences seemed the norm, surrounding ancient wooden sheds with corrugated roofs, patches of untended, weed-infested ground, cars on blocks and all the detritus of an area left to moulder and die. It was a stark contrast; everywhere else I’d seen made Donetsk seem like a modern city, landscaped and pleasant with parks, lakes, wide roads and boulevards. Yet here was like a forgotten zone, where life could have been unchanged from a hundred years ago.

Number 24 was different. It was part of a long, two-storey apartment block, its flaking walls painted a deep yellow, with small balconies and a high wall at each end around what I guessed were communal gardens. The building stood out in more ways than mere size; it was an island of a different style of living, perhaps forgotten from some previous city plan long overtaken by the nearby high-rises across the highway. I pulled up outside and hit the ground running, and went through the front door, which was unlocked. Each of the apartments had a letter suffixed to the street number. I found a, b and c but no 24d.

I banged on 24c. It took a while but eventually opened to reveal an elderly lady with wrinkled skin and white hair, blinking gnomishly at me through a narrow gap.

‘What do you want?’ She had a voice like dry paper rustling and smelled of vinegar.

‘Twenty-four d,’ I said to her. ‘I have a delivery.’

She shook her head and began to close the door, so I put my foot in the way. ‘Please. It’s important.’

She stared at me for a moment and I wondered what I would have to do to get a break. Then she stuck a gnarled finger through the gap and pointed down the corridor at a blank door with a small glass pane at head height. ‘See Yaroslav,’ she muttered. ‘Yaroslav.’ Then she slammed the door on my foot with surprising force until I withdrew it.

I hoofed along to the blank door and knocked with authority. Whoever the hell Yaroslav was, and I was guessing he was the building superintendent, I hoped he had better social skills than the old biddy. If not, I was probably going to have to beat it out of him.

The man who came to the door was as fat as he was tall, and wore a battered beret with a greasy rim. He didn’t look happy to see me, but I guessed that was his default position for callers.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for twenty-four d,’ I told him. ‘Delivery.’

He looked immediately wary and his eyes went walkabout. ‘There is no twenty-four d.’ He started to close the door and I pushed it against his substantial belly until he gave way. The smell coming out of his apartment was ripe and nasty, and I figured he must have been boiling live chickens in there.

‘There is no twenty-four d,’ he hissed. ‘Go away.’

‘There is and if you don’t tell me, I’ll report you to the city authorities.’ For good measure I flicked back my jacket to show the butt of the submachine gun. His eyes went walkabout again and his chin began to quiver. ‘I don’t mean twenty-four d any harm,’ I added. ‘I just need to speak to him.’

He nodded and pointed towards the back of the building. ‘There’s a narrow door at the end of the passage. No number. He’s in there.’

I left him to his chickens and went in search of the narrow door. It looked little more than a cleaner’s cupboard, but I was no architect. I pounded on the door hard enough to make the frame rattle, and hoped the neighbours wouldn’t care to investigate and the resident inside would be too shocked to hear that he was about to be picked up by security troops to protest.

The door eventually swung open and a skeletal, academic type in glasses stood looking at me. His face was parchment coloured and an aura of sickness hung around him like a cloak. He was dressed in a worn dressing gown and slippers, and holding a bright yellow handkerchief to his nose, the veins in his wrist standing out like snakes.

‘I don’t know your name,’ I told him, ‘but you should know that the security forces know about your connection to Travis. They’re on the way here right now. You’ve got to leave.’

He looked about as shocked as a man could do, and his face lost even more colour. I figured he’d been expecting this for some time but it was still a shock. Like anybody who lives a double life, you never know when discovery will come knocking at your door. He’d probably figured I was from the security police. ‘Who are you? Why do you tell me this? I don’t know a man called Travis.’ His voice was throaty with cold, but cultured and precise, and I wondered if, when he wasn’t being a cut-out for the CIA, he was a schoolteacher.

‘Did I say Travis was a man?’

He looked as if he could have bitten his tongue and was probably praying I wasn’t a member of the security police who’d just caught him out.

‘You were asked to escort Travis from Donetsk to an address in Pavlohrad.’ I spoke softly but fast, keeping up the pressure. We didn’t have time to stand here playing word games. ‘Once there you were to hand him over and he would be taken to another address further on. That’s all you were told. Now, do you want to stay here to be arrested or not?’

That got to him. He made up his mind and backed away into what was really little more than a large cupboard with a curtain across a small bed, a small camping gas stove and a corner washbasin. No wonder Yaroslav was reluctant to admit to his presence; Number 24d was a sub-tenant, undoubtedly here against building regulations, but a welcome back-pocket source of income as long as nobody spoiled the game.

While 24d did what he had to, I went back out and checked the street. This area was isolated from the buzz of the larger city, and other than a few birds in the trees dotting the neighbourhood and the distant sound of a piano playing upstairs, the silence was a relief. If the black hats arrived, I’d hear them coming.

I got back to hear Number 24d banging around in the depths of his tiny room for a few seconds, then he appeared dressed in plain pants and a jacket and carrying a small bag. He had developed a high colour and was breathing heavily from his exertions, and I hoped he was ready for what lay ahead. From now on in, his entire life was about to change dramatically.

‘Is that all you have?’ I asked.

‘It is all I need,’ he replied with great dignity. ‘My life is very simple.’

And about to get a hell of a lot more complicated, I wanted to add. Instead I asked if he had somewhere to go and hustled him towards the stairs.

He nodded. ‘I have friends who will help me. I have nothing to keep me here so maybe it’s for the best.’ He tried to smile but it didn’t quite gel. Not surprising when a complete stranger arrives on your doorstep unannounced and turns your life upside down. ‘I lost my job at the university,’ he explained, ‘and the money paid by your CIA was not enough to live on. So, I live here in this small box.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘But we do what we have to in life, do we not?’

‘Yes, we do. Will Yaroslav talk?’

He nodded sadly. ‘Of course he will. He’s a fat, miserable turd who feeds off the misfortune and sadness of others. I have no doubt he will have another person in there to replace me before the day is done. But don’t worry — the authorities will not find me. The way things are going in this country, somehow I don’t think I will be at the top of their list of people to deal with.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Ironic, is it not? Most of us spend our lives working to leave some small footprint, some memory of our passing in the vain hope that we as individuals were not entirely irrelevant. Yet here am I hoping that my footprint will be non-existent.’ He waggled a set of car keys. ‘Thank you for coming to warn me. I have my car nearby. I will complete what I was paid to do, but that will be all.’

‘But I don’t have Travis yet. You should go. Get away from here.’

He considered it for a moment in silence, his breathing harsh. We arrived at the front door, where he turned to me. ‘But you are here to rescue him, are you not?’

‘That’s my job, yes.’

‘Then we both have something to finish. Come to Vokzal’na Square directly west from here. It is not far. I will wait for one hour. If you do not come, I will have to assume you have not been successful.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

He walked away without waiting for a reply, towards whatever future awaited him yet still prepared to do what he’d been paid for. I could only admire his quiet courage.

I went back to the car and drove along the street, hooking a left at the end of the block then left again. I was now in a deserted back run behind the apartment block. On the other side was a large patch of communal vegetable gardens surrounded by sagging wire fencing and dotted with tiny sheds like matchboxes stood on their ends. Most of it looked neglected and weed-strewn, adding to what was already a desolate and moody backdrop, as if inviting the bulldozers and graders to come and do their worst.

I walked to the end of the street and ducked behind a section of wooden fence around a deserted plot of weeds, and found a vantage point where I could keep an eye on the approach road. With luck I’d hear the sound of any vehicles coming before they got to me, which would give me time to come up with a plan to spring Travis.

The truck was the first to arrive, no doubt having used its weight and the complement of troops on board to bully its way through the crush of vehicles at the airport. It stopped a hundred yards away out of my line of sight near a single property surrounded by a chain-link fence, with a barn-type building backing on to the road. Through the sagging open double doors of the barn I got a glimpse of a bunch of chickens in a wire-framed pen. I focussed on the truck and over the clatter of the engine I heard a brief burst of a voice coming over a radio link. ‘Stay put and wait. ETA five minutes.’

The jeep with Travis. The clock was now ticking.

My priority was to get Travis away from the men in the jeep, but the troops in the truck was a problem I couldn’t ignore. Somehow I had to immobilise them.

I moved out from behind the fence and found a gap in the chain-link surrounding the property. I was out of sight of the truck or anybody inside the house and had an easy route to the barn. I ducked inside and breathed the overheated, musty atmosphere of about a dozen chickens. They ignored me, focussing on their feed or their grooming. So far so good. I moved over to the front wall for a look-see. And heard a cough very close by.

I stopped dead and froze. A trickle of water sounded. Somebody was relieving himself just a couple of feet away on the other side of the barn wall. Through a slim gap in the planks I caught a glimpse of a uniform.

I held my breath and prayed the house owner wasn’t about to come out and protest at this invasion of their property, or to collect some eggs.

The soldier finished and moved away, and I peered through a knot-hole in the rough planking. The truck was a dozen feet away, but inching slowly forward as the driver held the engine on the clutch, the heavy ribbed tyres squeaking as they rolled over a line of stones half-buried in the earth close to the barn wall.

I slid back and tried not to cough. The barn began to fill with noise and the acrid smell of diesel and heavy exhaust smoke, and the structure was vibrating with the proximity of the engine. The chickens were getting nervous, too, and abandoned their feeding, electing to go into a protective huddle in one corner of the pen.

I reckon I had a couple of minutes, if that, to do something before Grey Suit arrived and gave the order to move in.

If that happened, all bets for Travis were off.