Private Moscow

Chapter 96

We left the embassy in the Land Rover’s secret compartment, and were one of three identical vehicles that set out from the compound at the same time, each heading for a different Moscow airport.

West had told us not to come out of the compartment after the initial search at the police checkpoint on Bolshoy Devyatinsky Lane. He was worried Russian intelligence would have picked up the presence of three CIA birds fueled and ready to fly at three different airports, and might have tied them to an escape attempt.

His fears seemed well founded, because the Land Rover was pulled over and searched twice en route to the airport. When we were stopped a second time, Dinara held my hand and squeezed it tight. We were in absolute darkness, so I couldn’t see her face, but her clammy palm and rapid, shallow breathing told me everything I needed to know. She was afraid, and, deep down, so was I. It would only take one exceptionally vigilant police office, or a failure of the Land Rover’s countermeasures, and our lives would be forfeited.

“You guys know you can’t search the diplomatic pouch,” West told the unseen officers.

We could hear them rifling through the mail sack above us. The bag was West’s official reason for driving to the airport. The police officers ignored his complaint, and after a few minutes we heard a grudging Russian voice.

“You can go.”

The engine roared as we gathered speed, and Dinara released my hand.

“Not much longer,” West yelled. “We’re a few minutes out.”

I was thrown against Dinara as the vehicle made a sharp right turn.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It’s OK,” she replied.

The rest of the journey passed in tense silence, and a few minutes later, the Land Rover slowed. We’d arrived at Domodedovo Airport.

“Another checkpoint,” West said.

The Land Rover was searched again, and we heard West explain the purpose of his trip a fourth time.

“I’m delivering an urgent diplomatic pouch to a State Department plane.”

Every panel was thumped and we could hear the beeps and alerts of sensor equipment, but even after a thorough investigation, our hiding place remained undiscovered. I could sense Dinara bristling with nervous tension, and I longed to be free of our cramped sarcophagus.

“OK,” a voice said.

The engine sprang to life, and the Land Rover started moving again.

I took a deep breath, and sensed Dinara relax, but our relief was premature.

“We’ve got a problem,” West said. “Two unmarked cars have followed us onto the airfield.”

My heart started racing, and Dinara’s breathing picked up again. Soon, I heard the familiar sound of jet turbines idling. We came to a halt and West applied the parking brake.

No one said or did anything for what seemed like an age, and I felt my body charge with pent-up energy. I needed to run or fight.

“Here’s the situation,” West said. “We’re twelve feet from the plane, by the airstairs. The two cars, I’m guessing FSB or SVR, are about twenty feet behind us. They’re parked in a ‘V’, passenger doors side on, so they’ll have a good firing line the moment things kick off.”

I hadn’t thought it possible, but my pulse quickened further.

“We don’t have a choice,” West said. “We’re going to have to wrestle the bear. I want you to come out as slowly and quietly as you can.”

I searched for the latches and opened the compartment. Dinara and I climbed out slowly, so we didn’t cause the Land Rover to make any telltale movements. Our presence was concealed by the vehicle’s privacy glass. West was in the driver’s seat, and he kept looking straight ahead as we took our places on the bench seats and closed the secret compartment.

“I’m going to walk to the back,” he said above the noise of the jet engines. “When I open the rear door, I want you to climb into the front and make a run for it through the driver’s door. I’ll cover you.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

“You got a better way?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“OK then,” he continued. “On my mark.”

He opened his door and climbed out. The cold air that filled the cabin couldn’t counter the blaze of nervous energy, and I felt beads of sweat prick my forehead and neck.

I looked at Dinara, who was gripped by fear, but she nodded bravely. West’s steps became a solemn countdown as he walked round the vehicle.

He opened the rear door, looked at us both and said, “Go!”

I climbed over the front seat and jumped through the driver’s door onto the asphalt. The Gulfstream G650 jet was a few paces away, and a man in a suit stood at the top of the airstairs.

“Come on!” he urged.

I heard a voice shout in Russian as Dinara jumped out of the Land Rover.

“Stop!” another Russian voice yelled in English.

I grabbed Dinara’s arm and we started running as the first shots rang out. I glanced over my shoulder to see the silhouette of men ducking for cover behind two unmarked vehicles as Master Gunnery Sergeant West pinned them down with pistol fire.

Dinara and I raced up the short run of steps, and the suited man bundled us inside and closed the door.

“Go! Go! Go!” he hollered.

The engines roared and the G650 started to move.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Morgan, Miss Orlova,” the suited man said. “My name’s John Hudson, and I’m here to make sure you get home safely.”

I sat port side and looked back to see West raising his hands in surrender. One man confiscated his weapon, two more took him into custody, and a fourth spoke furiously into a radio. But whatever he was saying and whoever he was saying it to couldn’t stop the inevitable, and moments later the engines surged, and we took to the sky.

I glanced at Dinara, who smiled with relief as we left Moscow.