Private Beijing

Chapter 87

Having slept on the flight from Beijing, I was ready to go, but West needed some rest. After I’d been checked over by the duty medic who’d pronounced me battered but essentially fit, we each took one of the embassy staff bedrooms. Mine was on the third floor, located in a small residential wing away from the offices, on the western edge of the building. It was simply furnished, with a single bed, closet, desk, chair, and small bathroom.

I wanted to call Justine to reassure her I was safe. I knew how worried she was about me coming to Moscow but given the amount of surveillance the embassy was subject to, decided the risk would be too great. Once I’d used the bathroom, I lay on the bed, expecting restless impatience to be my companion while I waited for morning, but I had underestimated how exhausted I was. Days of relentless pressure in Beijing and the after-effects of West’s collision with the Russians combined to send me to sleep. I didn’t even realize I had gone until I woke to find bright sunlight streaming through the window.

“Feel better?” West asked.

He was seated at the desk. I’d been so far under I hadn’t even registered him come in.

“Yeah,” I replied, rubbing my face.

“Ready to go?”

Had he feigned the need for rest for my benefit?

“I’ve packed a truck, so we’re ready when you are,” he added.

Whether intentionally or not, the enforced rest he’d given me had made me feel so much better. I got to my feet and stretched, energized and more like my old self.

Ten minutes later we were in one of the embassy Land Rover Defenders, concealed in a secret compartment beneath the flatbed. Next to us was in assortment of weapons West had borrowed from the armory, and above us were flight cases of gear that wouldn’t raise eyebrows during a search. Comms equipment, torches, and other field supplies.

And the flight cases were searched, twice, at two checkpoints near the embassy, but the secret compartment did its job and soon the Land Rover made it out of the danger zone.

After a while twisting and turning through Moscow, the Marine driver pulled over and gave us the signal to open the compartment. We climbed out to find ourselves in a derelict industrial site.

“I made sure we weren’t followed, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” the Marine said.

“It’s just Marlon today. I’m officially on vacation.”

“Some vacation,” I remarked with a smile.

“There are worse ways to R and R,” West replied. “You going to be OK getting back?” he asked the Marine.

“There’s a cab rank about a mile east of here.”

“Well, get going,” West suggested.

“Enjoy your vacation, sirs,” the Marine replied before jogging away.

West took the wheel of the Land Rover and I climbed into the passenger seat.

“Where to?” he asked.

“I think we start at Dinara’s apartment. See what we can find out about this raid on her and the others.”

He nodded, started the engine, and headed out of the deserted lot.

I gave him directions and forty minutes later we were in Yermolayevskiy Lane, opposite a small park. West drove the Land Rover into a bay alongside the green space.

It was 8:30 a.m. when we arrived, and we only had to wait a minute or so before one of the residents opened the front door of Dinara’s block and allowed us in while he headed out for work. We passed through a simple lobby and climbed some dingy stairs to the fourth floor.

As we walked toward the apartment, I was surprised to see an old woman sitting in the corridor, reading a book. She was on a battered old folding garden chair, had a mismatched table beside her and was surrounded by pot plants.

“Going to make it tricky to break in,” West observed. “Maybe I can distract her?”

I nodded, but the woman made it clear there was to be no distraction when she started yelling at us angrily.

West replied in Russian, his tone soothing and conciliatory.

“She says we better not be here for more trouble. The last gang smashed Dinara’s door in and broke this lady’s chair.”

“You are Americans, yes?” the woman said in broken English. “They smash my chair. I don’t like this one so much.”

As we came closer, I saw the door frame was splintered, and a roughly fitted padlock secured the door to it.

“Did you see the people who did this?” I asked.

“Your name?” the woman replied haughtily.

“Jack Morgan. Dinara works for me.”

“Then you are a very bad man,” she said, rising indignantly from her rickety chair. “This woman needs a husband and babies, not to be working all God’s hours.”

“Did you see the men who did this?” West asked.

She fixed us with a disapproving stare.

“Dinara is in danger,” I said. “We’re the only people who can help her.”

She hesitated and then sat down and reached under the chair for her phone.

“I have photos,” she revealed. “After they broke my chair and took her away, I got pictures of them and their transport from my window so I could make a police report. But the police don’t want to know. Maybe you can help.”

She opened her phone and swiped through a series of photos that showed two grey UAZ Patriot SUVs and a matching UAZ-452 van with blacked-out windows parked not too far from where we’d left the Land Rover. A group of half a dozen men were crowded around Dinara, who was in restraints, and a series of sequential pictures showed her being forced into the back of the van.

“Can I have copies of these?” I asked.

The woman shrugged and I AirDropped them onto my phone.

I pointed out a detail to West.

“License plates,” I said.

He nodded.

“If you find Dinara, tell her Mrs. Minsky helped,” the old woman said.

“I will. Thank you, Mrs. Minsky,” I replied while hurrying toward the stairs. “We’ve got faces and plates,” I said to West, who jogged alongside me. “We can find these guys.”