“Unlike you, I can’t disappear for days on end without answering questions,” Jackson said.
“That whole diversion took less than eight hours.”
“What can I say? I’m on a tight leash.”
“That’s not a bad thing. I’ll be in touch shortly. Thank you again, my friend. You always come through for me. I owe you big time,” Berg said.
“No worries. Friends help out friends, even if they are a pain in the ass. I’ll get the ball rolling in Kazakhstan. I have to get going here,” Jackson said.
“I’ll get you the coordinates. Talk to you soon.”
Darryl Jackson placed his phone on the desk and drummed his fingers. On a micro scale, he owned Berg’s ass for all of these risky favors, but Darryl was never one to forget the bigger picture. Without Berg’s intervention years ago, he would have died a miserable death at the hands of the Taliban outside of Kabul. Karl Berg had stepped in and done the right thing on his behalf, before they were friends. He’d never forget that, which is why he’d always help out, even if it meant trouble for him at home or with Brown River. Berg would do the same for him if the tables were turned.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts list, quickly finding the number he needed. His relationship with the detachment chief in Astana was a little strained after Berg’s crew ditched several government-registered and easily traceable AK-74s, but nothing came of the screwup.
Fortunately for Brown River Security’s Kazakhstan detachment, the site was strewn with nearly three dozen additional AK-74s belonging to the Russian Spetznaz platoon that mysteriously ended up massacred on Kazakh soil. Apparently, the presence of a few extra weapons never climbed high enough on the government’s list of “shit that doesn’t make sense here” to warrant further investigation. They had bigger questions to contend with, and most of these questions were directed at the Russian government. Specifically, they focused on uncovering a reasonable explanation why a small Kazakh village located over 400 miles from the Russian border had been subjected to a small-scale invasion, which included 30mm cannon fire from a Russian attack helicopter.
With the heat off Brown River, Darryl funded new weapons, in addition to some expensive gear previously denied to the detachment. This cleared the air enough that he felt comfortable asking for the chief’s help with this. With $450,000 to spread around, he felt certain that the chief would have no trouble mustering volunteers, most likely to include himself. Berg had tossed around a half-million dollars like pocket change. With money like that flying around, Jackson shuddered to think about the implications. Something big was going down.
Chapter 28
“Katie Reynolds”, aka Erin Foley, felt the train slow to a crawl, eventually jolting to a stop several minutes later at her destination. She glanced at her watch, impressed that the train had arrived only five minutes late after a four-day journey across Siberia. Despite historical grumblings about Soviet inefficiencies, she got the distinct feeling during her trip that the Trans-Siberian Railway had always run on time. She looked around at her first-class compartment, making sure that she didn’t leave anything behind. Novosibirsk was one of the biggest stops “1 Rossiya” would make on its westbound journey to Moscow, so she would have plenty of time to debark, but a few close calls at smaller stations along the way had made her paranoid.
The train had almost left without her in Birobidzhan, where a supposed ten-minute stop turned into a three-minute pause at the platform. This had been her first attempt to buy food from a local vendor outside of the railway platform. Dashing out to buy food and snacks was a common activity for passengers on the train, especially foreigners who hadn’t adjusted to the limited cuisine available in the restaurant car. She’d never eaten mutton before and had no intention of trying it. Grilled ham and cheese sandwiches had started to wear thin on her by that point, and she had only been on the train for a day. She never reached the front of the line to buy anything, having to scramble back to the train with several other travelers. She had been warned by Berg to stay on the train. The next westbound train didn’t run for two days.
Her next attempt brought her closer to salvation, but still left her empty handed. At the Slyudyanka station, on the shores of Lake Baikal, she ventured out to acquire the much-talked-about smoked fish. Once again, she had been assured that she could have the fish in her hands within minutes, leaving plenty of time to return. When the train whistle sounded, she was in the middle of a transaction, forcing her to throw money at the vendor and grab the tinfoil-wrapped fish. Upon returning to her compartment, she discovered that she had absconded with a chunk of meat vaguely resembling the mutton served onboard. That was her last venture off the train.
After four days of ham and cheese sandwiches, accompanied by potatoes, Erin was ready for a four-course meal at Novosibirsk’s finest restaurant. Of course, her cover as a struggling Australian travel blogger didn’t exactly permit such indulgences. If her hotel accommodations in Vladivostok were any indication of what she could expect in Novosibirsk, she’d have to set her sights lower.
The train car remained still long enough for her to be sure that the engineer had finished making any final adjustments at the platform. She grabbed her oversized rucksack and heaved it onto her shoulders, adjusting the straps for a snug fit. Her black nylon, theft-proof travel bag followed, slung over her right shoulder. Pickpocketing and petty theft didn’t top the list of tourist concerns in Novosibirsk, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Her Australian passport and Russian tourist visa were irreplaceable at this point, providing her the only legitimate way to depart Russian soil. If these were stolen, she’d have to take her chances with Farrington’s team or find a way to slip over the border into Kazakhstan. Either choice presented dangers.
Erin wasn’t fooled by the faux optimism back at Sanderson’s camp. The destruction of Vektor’s bioweapons facility would be difficult enough. Successful exfiltration of the team would require a miracle. As much as she yearned to be part of the direct raid on Vektor, she wasn’t suicidal. She’d gladly take a first-class seat on whatever flight would take her as far away from Novosibirsk as possible.
She opened the door and joined a few passengers in the hallway. Most of them had no plans to spend more than the train’s allotted thirty-minute stop in Novosibirsk. A few of them asked her if she had already purchased nonconsecutive trip tickets, worried that she might not be able to secure tickets to continue her trip on a different train. The Trans-Siberian didn’t function like many of Europe’s railways, where passengers could buy passes for unlimited travel. Stops on the Trans-Siberian had to be planned in advance, or a wayward traveler could find themself stranded, unable to negotiate the bureaucracy and language barrier needed to purchase another ticket.
She tipped the first-class car attendant, who acted surprised and distraught by her departure. He had enjoyed her company over the past four days, fawning over her ability to speak flawless Russian and complimenting her “limited” knowledge of Russian history. She neglected to mention her international relations degree, with a concentration in Russo-Soviet history, from Boston University, or her follow-on graduate degree in post-Cold War Russian politics. She played the role of decently informed travel writer, listening to his history lectures while they stood in the hallway sipping tea. All part of her cover, though she wondered what he really thought about her.
Mikhail had been an attendant on the Trans-Siberian for nearly thirty-three years, many of those during the Cold War, when the railway took on a near mystical and legendary reputation for intrigue and espionage. It was inconceivable to imagine that he hadn’t been embroiled in KBG schemes to observe passengers and report suspicious activity. For all she knew, he might have been a former KGB proxy-agent. Hotels, trains, stores, all were plagued with proxy-agents, who were given ranks, job security and additional privileges in return for their additional duties.