Close Quarters

SEVEN

Entering a potentially hostile country can be accomplished in a number of ways. You can go in under the badge of an official or accredited body, such as government, trade mission, approved NGO — a non-governmental organization — or, if allowed, a member of the media. Or you can use whatever independent routes or means might be available that require a visa and a business plan. Since Callahan had told me an official badge was out of the question, and media personnel were already getting the run-around because of the deteriorating political situation, I was having to be inventive.

I’d flown in to Ukraine’s Sergey Prokofiev International Airport at Donetsk late in the afternoon on papers supplied by Callahan. I was of mixed Polish/German parentage from a small German town near Cottbus on the border, and was looking for building work and possibly setting up a small business. Although I wasn’t planning on going to any meetings, I’d had Callahan’s people make a couple of appointments beforehand with the local department of trade and chamber of commerce. With everything else going on in the country, I figured they would soon forget all about me, and by the time someone realized I hadn’t shown up, I fully expected to be on my way out of the country.

The atmosphere in the airport terminal was tense, with a heavy presence of soldiers and cops around, all heavily armed and looking jumpy. There was a variety of uniforms, some complete and reasonably smart, others with men wearing a combination of combat jackets, jeans and trainers. Anywhere else and they could have been special forces, but these guys had the rumpled look of militia rather than highly trained specialists.

Given the situation, I wasn’t the only optimistic business traveller entering the country. There was a mix of German and French convention delegates, with a sprinkling of Koreans, and their numbers gave me useful cover until I was certain I hadn’t attracted any official attention. As soon as I could, I broke off and headed for an anonymous hotel close to the airport where I’d made a reservation. I was already dressed for the part, in a dark leather jacket, pants and heavy shoes. I’d sourced them from a German chain store specializing in work casuals, and looked about as invisible as it was possible to get in this part of the world. Just another working stiff edging his way through life.

Ed Travis was being held at a large hotel half a mile away, within the airport boundary. I’d tried to get a room there, but had been told there were no vacancies ‘for the foreseeable future’. It sounded as if whoever was preventing him leaving had taken over the whole building. Travis was waiting to receive the ‘go’ message as soon as I got myself organized and called in to Langley. At that point the local asset would be given the nod and the rabbit would begin to run.

I didn’t have much time to spare. I needed to get on the ground and busy, ready to locate and check Travis’s surroundings and follow his progress. With all the military activity in the area, that wasn’t going to be easy. I’d have to run the risk of roadblocks and random stops by militia, but I figured I could talk my way through.

The first priority was to pick up some wheels. I’d automatically ruled out any of the usual rental agencies. If they weren’t already closed through lack of customers and the risk of not getting their cars back, they soon would be. But that wasn’t my only reason for avoiding them. I didn’t want to risk leaving an electronic trail; hiring a car requires a credit card and a passport or driver’s licence, neither of which I wanted to show unless absolutely forced to. The passport I’d used was good, but I didn’t want to risk placing it under intensive scrutiny. Any experienced immigration officer giving it a thorough scan would eventually find holes in it. The fact was, I was now off the grid and that was the way I wanted to stay.

I’d picked up the name of a supplier in Donetsk through a contact in Berlin. Max Hengendorff was a go-between for resources; if you needed a weapon, a car or a couple of enforcers, he was your go-to guy. He had connections with certain people among the criminal elite across Europe and knew everybody worth knowing. ‘Ivkanoy in Donetsk,’ he’d said, when I told him where I was headed. ‘He will get you what you need. He’s rough around the edges but I hear good things about him. I’ll give him a call and let you know when and where.’

‘Fine,’ I’d replied. ‘Usual rules apply.’

He’d laughed. ‘Of course. Don’t they always.’ Usual rules meant no names, no questions and no dud deals.

I’d heard back within the hour, which was why I was now preparing for a meeting in a bar not far from the main railway station.

I checked my appearance in the room mirror, used some product to muss my hair, then placed a few things in a folding overnight bag and slipped out the rear of the hotel.

It was getting dark now, and the glow of lights over the city was throwing shadows across the station buildings and surrounding streets. The traffic was light and I was able to move without attracting attention, keeping to the inside of the sidewalk, just another worker on the way home.

The Dynamo Bar was a medium-sized place with a mix of manual workers and men in shirts and ties, most of them talking about the football, which was being played out on a large screen behind the bar. If the customers had any opinions about the unrest threatening to tear their country apart, they were staying off the subject and focussing on the game.

I ordered a beer and looked around for the man named Ivkanoy. Max had described him for me in unflattering terms, and I soon spotted him. He was sitting alone at a corner table, a fat man in a rumpled, greasy suit and tie, with a battered briefcase at his feet and a cell phone clamped to one ear. In what was a pretty crowded room he had managed to retain a wide space around him, which told me something about his reputation locally. He looked me over when I signalled that I’d like to sit down, and finished his phone conversation before nodding at a seat. I noticed a few looks coming my way from other men in the bar, and figured this man was well-known but not exactly popular.

‘Ivkanoy?’

He didn’t say anything. I figured he was playing mean and moody because it suited his self-image and he wanted to keep up a front for the others in the bar. So I mentioned Max in Berlin and reminded him that I’d come for a car.

He gave me another cautious look, eyes flicking over the cheap clothes, my bag and day-old stubble. I’d been speaking in German-accented Russian and was hoping he didn’t have anything against the old enemy.

‘Max? I don’t know a Max. And I’ve never been to Berlin.’ He looked back down at his phone, his whole bearing uninterested. ‘And if you want a car, try the airport. They have lots of them.’

‘I prefer to go private,’ I told him. I was puzzled by his attitude and wondered if there was some kind of needle thing going on between him and Max. Or maybe he was suspicious of a set-up and thought I was an undercover cop trying a sting operation. ‘Look, do you want to do business or not? If not, tell me and I’ll go to somebody who does.’

The straight talking got to him. He adjusted his tie, which looked as if he’d used it to strangle somebody, and waved his cell phone. ‘Hey, calm down. It’s no problem. I need to make a call,’ he said and glanced at his watch. ‘You asked for an “extra”. You know how much, right?’

The ‘extra’ was a weapon, a semi-automatic. I was going into some dangerous territory with all kinds of militias and unofficial armed groups roaming the streets, and I didn’t feel much like putting myself at a disadvantage from the get-go. A gun was a last resort, but it might just be necessary to get me and Travis back home again in one piece. ‘Max told me how much.’

I saw the glint of speculation in his eyes. Now I was here the agreed figure wasn’t going to be enough. He knew what he wanted and was going to hold out for it, figuring I would pay up since I didn’t have time to play games. I added thirty per cent to the figure and he nodded, pleased with his bargaining skills. ‘You wait here and I’ll be back.’ He grabbed his briefcase and ambled away towards the front door, a path clearing for him as if by magic. By the time he hit the street, he was on his cell phone.