Private Beijing

Chapter 85

“We’ve got a problem,” West said as we made our way into the city. “Over there.” He pointed beyond the taxi driver.

Through the windshield I saw a line of traffic, red tail lights flaring as the drivers slowed. Their vehicles crawled toward a Moscow Police checkpoint.

“We’re two blocks from the embassy,” he said.

The Russians were nothing if not predictable. This was exactly what they’d done when I was last in Moscow. They’d encircled the embassy and used checkpoints to try and catch me.

“I’m going to tell him to pull over so we can walk from here,” West said.

I nodded and he spoke to the driver in Russian. The man’s scowl deepened and he tutted as he signaled and pulled out of the line of traffic.

He stopped by the sidewalk, which ran in front of some apartment blocks, and West paid him. We clambered out of the bright yellow Skoda Octavia, and I was grateful my injuries seemed to have downgraded from intense pain to dull aches.

“Foot patrols,” West said, nodding toward a trio of uniformed Moscow police officers who were milling around near the vehicle checkpoint. “We need to be careful.”

“Hey!” I heard the taxi driver yell, and turned to see him leaning out of his window, addressing the trio of cops.

He said something in Russian and West cursed under his breath.

“He just told them we’re Americans and wanted out when we saw the checkpoint.”

“Hey!” one of the officers yelled in English. “Stop!”

“Can you run?” West asked me.

I nodded. “I think so.”

“Well, let’s go then,” he said, starting off at a sprint.

I raced to catch up, hearing yells and barked commands aimed in our direction.

“We’re going to take the rat run,” West said.

He set a cracking pace that left me struggling to keep up. Every part of me screamed with pain and I was already out of breath. The collision had taken a greater toll than I’d realized.

I heard tires screech and saw the three vehicles that had formed the checkpoint racing toward us. The trio of officers on foot ran in our direction, yelling instructions and giving hurried commands into their radios.

I followed West along a path that led to one of the large apartment blocks ahead of us. He stepped off the path and ran across a small lawn, aiming for a gap between the block and its neighbor. I saw more apartment buildings through the gap, set around a large square.

“Come on,” he said, and when I glanced round I saw the reason for his urgency; there were more police officers coming from almost every direction.

We ran on, passing through the gap between the two buildings, emerging onto the square. A path edged a park that featured a small football pitch and playground.

We ran along the path for a short distance until West suddenly turned right and raced toward the entrance to one of the apartment blocks. He yanked the front door open and held it for me as I struggled to catch up.

“Thanks,” I said breathlessly, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Instead he sprinted across the lobby to an interior door that led further into the building.

We burst into a corridor lined with numbered doors. West ran ahead until he came to apartment 12. There were a couple of locks, but he ignored these and touched the center of the figure 2 in the apartment number.

“Fingerprint reader,” he explained.

The door clicked open and West pushed it wide. As I followed him inside, I glanced down the corridor to see police officers in hot pursuit.

West slammed the front door shut and locked it. Moments later there was the hammering of fists on the other side.

“Come on,” he said, leading me from a narrow hallway into a sparsely furnished living room.

He ran over to a black fabric-covered couch and lifted it surprisingly easily.

“Spring-loaded,” he explained, as the wooden floor beneath the couch slid back to reveal a set of steps.

“Down,” he said.

I did as instructed and hurried down a dozen steps.

He followed and allowed the couch to fall in place behind him. When he reached the bottom of the steps and the couch and hatch had sealed closed, West bolted the mechanisms into position and a light came on.

Above us we heard the thunder of footsteps and then the start of what I’m sure would be many bemused questions in Russian.

“Come on,” West said as he started running down what looked like a very long tunnel.

“What is this place?” I asked, following him.

“It’s the rat run. A way in or out of the embassy without being seen,” he replied. “We bought the apartment and built the tunnel after all those times you had trouble getting in and out.”

It was an impressive escape route.

“A few things changed after your last visit, Jack.”

“The Ambassador?” I asked

“Ambassador Dussler is still here. In fact, he’s waiting at the embassy, eager to see you.”