The Beijing conspiracy

CHAPTER 48

I t was getting on towards 9 p.m. and the temperature had plunged to below zero when Curtis heard the urgent knock on his door. Cocking the Browning 9mm Hi-Power pistol he’d retrieved along with the M4 earlier in the day, Curtis carefully eased the curtain away from the window. From photographs he’d studied, Curtis would have recognised the slim Georgian scientist anywhere. The man with the pencil-thin black moustache, oval face and black hair streaked with grey was clearly nervous.

‘Inside,’ Curtis commanded softly as he opened the door and checked up and down the ground floor porch. Further up the road the car belonging to the two FSB gorillas was still in position.

‘Brendan O’Shaughnessy,’ Curtis said, introducing himself. Provided they got out of Siberia in one piece, Dolinsky would come to know his real identity soon enough. For now, it was best that the introduction matched Curtis’ passport, just in case.

‘Eduard Dolinsky.’ Dolinsky’s voice was surprisingly soft and his handshake tentative although his English, Curtis knew, was excellent.

‘The vehicle’s in the car park around the back. Follow me,’ Curtis said, grabbing his own backpack and the brown bag he’d retrieved in Novosibirsk.

Three cars followed them out of Koltsovo, but after several kilometres all three had turned off, and Curtis began to breathe a little easier. Any attempts to engage Dolinsky in conversation had been met with monosyllabic answers, which suited Curtis just fine. He was still very wary of the scientist’s motives; it would take more than an operation like this before there was any trust.

The four-wheel drive’s powerful lights probed a long way down the road, lighting the dusting of snow on either side. Thank God Washington hadn’t asked him to attempt this in the middle of winter, Curtis thought as he pulled his parka tighter around himself. Occasionally the Toyota’s lights would pick up a fox and once he thought he saw a Siberian weasel. Around midnight, Curtis slowed for the Siberian town of Novo altajsk, just to the east of the regional capital Barnaul on the Ob. Barnaul marked the point where the mighty Ob River, which together with the Irtysh River had its source high in the Altais to the south, began its epic journey north across the Siberian steppes and on towards the Arctic Ocean.

By the time the sun rose, Curtis had passed through Bijsk and Gorno altajsk. The traffic had been light and they’d passed the occasional truck and dilapidated utility. Heavy mists covered the alpine fields, drifting among the spruce and pine trees that clung to the ridges above as the road wound up into the towering snow-covered Altais; a vast mountain chain stretching across Russia in the north, Kazakhstan in the west, and China and Mongolia to the east and south. Curtis changed down a gear as they passed through a Buddhist Altaian village and the twisting road continued its steep climb into the Mount Belukha region. The 4506-metre high glacial massif was Siberia’s highest point and Curtis knew that the helicopters would struggle in the thin, alpine air. The spruce and pine trees had given way to aspen and birch, which later changed to the larch and dwarf conifers that could survive in the freezing altitudes. Three hours later Curtis slowed and pulled to the side of the road, which was now barely more than a track.

‘What are you doing?’ Dolinsky asked in his thick Georgian accent.

‘Piss stop and refuel,’ Curtis replied, going around to the back of the four-wheel drive and reaching for one of several jerry cans Vladimir had thoughtfully provided. He froze as he caught a movement on the track up ahead. Signalling Dolinsky to stay down and keeping the vehicle between him and whoever was up ahead, Curtis reached in and grabbed the M4 from the bag in the back seat. Using the light covering of snow to mask his footfall and the thick larch and conifers as cover, Curtis moved silently up the ridgeline.