Private Beijing

Chapter 88

We returned to the Land Rover, and West reached into the glove compartment for a communicator that looked like a satellite phone. I guessed it was an Echelon machine, used by the CIA for secure comms, and wondered whether he was just a Marine or whether he moonlighted for the agency. Was he moonlighting now?

He placed a call which was answered moments later.

“Mom, me and Cousin Lenny have got some great souvenir photos. Do you know anywhere that could process them?” he said.

He listened for a moment.

“The store in Kuzminki? Great idea.”

He hung up and turned to me.

“That was Erin Sebold. She wants to meet us at one of the Agency’s facilities. She can help with the photos.”

I nodded and he started the engine, pulling into the slow-moving rush-hour traffic that was circling the park.

“How long have you been stationed here?” I asked as we drove through the city.

“Six years,” West replied. “It’s my last posting. Assuming I don’t re-up. You were in the Corps, right?”

I nodded. “While back.”

“You know you’re a legend?” he remarked, and I shook my head. “Seriously, even if you were a flyboy, a millionaire hero Marine is a role model for so many.”

“I don’t know who that guy is, but he sounds cool.” I smiled. “And I won’t take offense at you calling me a flyboy.”

“None intended,” he scoffed.

“I just see a problem and need to fix it,” I said more seriously. “Everything else is noise.”

“Did you always know you wanted to start a detective agency?”

I shook my head. “It was my dad’s. I took it over after I left the Corps. That was something I never expected, but after what happened in Afghanistan, I couldn’t stay. I lost people. Buddies.”

“I feel that. It cuts deep,” West replied.

We sat in silence for a while, and I reflected on those I’d lost.

“What do you think you’ll do if you don’t re-up?” I asked.

“Who knows? Maybe close protection. Maybe I’ll start my own detective agency.”

“Ha! Well, if neither of those works out, look me up. There will always be a job for you at Private.”

“Thank you, Jack,” he replied.

He seemed genuinely touched. Maybe he wasn’t as connected to the CIA as I had thought?

We talked about our military experiences and traded war stories as we crossed the Russian capital. Finally, when we were in the south-east of the city, West turned onto a narrow sidestreet full of old warehouses and storage facilities.

He parked outside a rundown yard where dozens of ancient trailers and trucks were stored.

“Come on,” he said, and we got out.

The gate wasn’t locked and he led me into a graveyard for huge trucks, trailers, and containers that would once have transported tonnes of goods around Russia. We went deep into the yard, navigating the maze of rusting metal machines and containers, until we reached a Soviet-era ZIL truck.

West knocked on the back door and it opened slowly to reveal an empty container. As I looked closely at the interior, I realized something wasn’t quite right and then the far wall rose. It wasn’t a wall at all. It was an LED display a few feet from the door, showing an image of an empty trailer. It retracted into the ceiling, and in the gap beneath it I could see a glimpse of workstations and surveillance equipment.

West climbed in and crouched to go through the gap. I followed. Once we were inside, the door swung shut and the screen descended.

The container was about thirty feet long, eleven wide, and twelve tall. There were six workstations but only two were occupied. The analysts were a couple of women in their thirties who were focused on their screens.

Erin Sebold was supervising them. She turned to welcome us as we approached.

“Mr. Morgan, Master Gunnery Sergeant, how can we help you?” she asked.

“We’ve got photos of the men who took my country manager, and the license plates of the vehicles they used to abduct her,” I replied.

“Quick work for a couple of holiday makers,” she replied. “Can you give them to Cecily?”

The older of the two analysts turned and held out her hand for my phone.

“I’ve unlocked it,” I said, passing it to her.

She gave me the withering look I’d seen on Mo-bot’s face numerous times.

She connected the phone to one of the devices at her station, and soon my photo library was displayed on a large screen that formed one side of the container. Cecily highlighted all the photos I’d retrieved that day and scrolled through them.

“We should be able to acquire the vehicles on Hawkeye,” Erin suggested, and Cecily nodded.

“Hawkeye?” I asked.

“A few years ago, the Agency realized we often only appreciated the significance of an event long after it happened, so we changed the way we approach satellite data. High-resolution, near-constant surveillance and long-term storage. We keep a permanent record, a history of everything that has happened,” Erin explained. “And we do this on a global level.”

Cecily took the timestamp and geolocation data from Mrs. Minsky’s photos and input them into the Hawkeye program.

A moment later, an overhead satellite image popped onto the big screen and I recognized it as Dinara’s neighborhood. I could see her building and the park opposite. And, more importantly, the three vehicles that had taken her away.

“We can tag them and the AI will follow them through the city,” Cecily said as she used the cursor to attach markers to three target vehicles.

She typed a command and the image changed, jumping forward a few seconds. The vehicles were now on the road. Then it changed again and they were partway round the square, and then again and the system had picked them up in a different neighborhood. The intervals between these images shortened as the AI got better at processing their route. We followed it on a series of high-resolution satellite images of Moscow that had been taken more than twenty-four hours ago.

“We lose them on the edge of the city,” Cecily said, drawing my attention to a country road beside thick forest.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but next to the last image we had of the SUVs and van that had taken Dinara, I saw the distinctive wreckage of two crashed vehicles. I had driven past that very spot on my last trip to Moscow.

“I know this place,” I said.

“Can you pick them up again?” Erin asked.

Cecily shook her head.

“I’ve been there before,” I remarked, drawing close to the screen and studying the very last image we had of the convoy.

“Ma’am, there’s something I think Mr. Morgan should know about Valery Alekseyev,” the younger analyst said.

“Go ahead, Kate,” Erin replied.

“Alekseyev isn’t his real name,” Kate revealed. “That’s his mother’s maiden name.

“Alekseyev’s father’s name was Salko. He is Yevgeny Salko’s half-brother. His elder brother. Our intel suggests Alekseyev recruited Yevgeny into the SVR.”

The news left me reeling. Yevgeny Salko had been a director of the SVR with responsibility for the Bright Star program. I’d destroyed his life’s work and his career during my investigation into Karl Parker’s death.

“Our sources indicate Salko might have been executed after your intervention,” Erin revealed. “He was certainly disavowed and no one has seen or heard anything from him since.”

I studied the satellite image of the van, picturing Dinara inside the vehicle, alone and frightened, and as I looked at the picture I realized I was scared too. This wasn’t about geopolitics or espionage. This was personal. I’d unwittingly ruined Alekseyev’s brother, and possibly cost him his life. This man would go to the ends of the earth to make sure his brother got justice.

“This is a vendetta,” I remarked. “It isn’t about what I did to Russia, this is about what I did to Valery Alekseyev’s family.”

I looked once more at the satellite picture of the two wrecked vehicles by the side of the road, and recalled my previous journey north out of Moscow.

“I know where he’s taken them,” I said. “I know where they are. Back where all this started.”