As city streets transformed into a rundown business-residential district, most vestiges of her personal safety net, real or perceived, slipped away. Trust was all that remained. Trust in operatives she barely knew, and reliance on mafiya thugs who would cut a businessman’s throat on the off chance that the Rolex he sported was real. At least she wasn’t squeezed between two bratva soldiers. She had her own seat, which gave her some confidence in the situation cooked up by Berg and Sanderson’s crew.
She had been instructed by Farrington to meet their Solntsevskaya contact in a modest café near her hotel, where she would be given further instructions. Farrington told her that she would likely be put into action tonight. The bratva had identified a unique opportunity that fit the overall mission profile, but the window was transient, requiring her to meet her new friends sooner than expected.
Viktor arrived promptly at 9:30, joining her at the small table with an espresso and a grim face. Without saying a word, he downed the small cup and stood, waiting impatiently for her to finish. She took a deep swig of her strong coffee and joined him for a short walk around the block. Minutes later she sat firmly pressed into the worn leather seat of a black vintage E30 class BMW, heading east out of the city. Fifteen minutes into the drive and nobody had said a word to her. She sat silently next to a murderous-looking man, whose emotionless face displayed a crisscross of several short scars. Deep blue tattoo work crept up his neck, peeking over the collar of his black leather jacket. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Hard men that chain-smoked shitty cigarettes and bathed in strong cologne. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car.
A few minutes later, after she had completely abandoned the idea of jumping out of the car into this completely unfamiliar and markedly rougher neighborhood, Viktor snubbed his cigarette into the car’s overflowing ashtray and turned to her.
“I need you to put this over your head,” he said, extending a hand between the front seats.
He gripped a thick black piece of cloth, which she assumed was some kind of hood or bag.
“I’ll cover my eyes,” she replied in Russian, meeting his serious glare.
The man next to her took another drag on his cigarette, not appearing to tense for action. She kept staring at him until he spoke again.
“It’s a security precaution. Standard procedure. Two minutes,” he said.
“I’m not putting a bag over my head,” she said.
“Then we’re not going any further,” he said, and the vehicle pulled over to the side of the road.
The BMW nestled under a thick tree next to a tall, rusted fence. The unmarked street resembled more of an alley, bordered by persistent, untrimmed bushes and trees that scraped the right side of the car at times. Half of the asphalt had crumbled, leaving wide, washed-out portions containing potholes that required the driver to constantly maneuver the vehicle from side to side. A weathered brick building with a corrugated tin roof sat across the street from the car, separated from the road by a six-foot, gated cinderblock wall. The residence stood next to a collapsed wooden structure that had fallen victim to fire long ago.
She figured the fire had destroyed the brick building’s roof, explaining the new tin roof. Measuring the cinderblock wall mentally, she calculated an easy jump and lift to get over in one swift movement. She could probably be over the wall before they could level their weapons for a shot. Glancing up and down the street, this appeared to be her only option if she was forced to fight her way out of here. What she would do once she landed on the other side was another story.
“They told me you wouldn’t be a problem,” Viktor said.
“And nobody said anything about putting a bag over my head.”
“Would you prefer to ride in the trunk?” he countered.
She slowly shook her head, sensing a shift from the seat next to her. The man rolled down his window and tossed the cigarette. She moved her hand slowly for the door handle, just in case the situation spiraled out of control.
“Then we have a problem,” he said, eyes drifting to her hand.
“Feel free to step out, Ms. Reynolds. Nobody will stop you, but I’m not kidding when I say that this car will not drive any further toward our destination unless you wear this hood…or ride in the trunk. Nobody else is in the trunk, right?” Viktor asked, addressing the driver.
They all started laughing, which caught her off guard. They had been deadly serious up until this point. The sudden shift heightened her tension.
“See? We’re not so bad. We make jokes, just like the Sopranos. Right?” Viktor said.
She eased her shoulders and caught herself smiling vaguely, unsure what to make of the sudden change in behavior.
“Look, Ms. Reynolds. If you can’t trust me for two minutes, we’ll have to hire a prostitute like I suggested and hope for the best. I don’t think Yuri will be happy with that scenario. We’ve come up with a solution to one of your group’s hurdles. You’re infinitely more qualified to pull this off than one of our drugged-up hookers. We need to get you some new clothes for the job. We have a wide selection at one of our warehouses,” he said.
Now she was intrigued. Farrington, aka “Yuri,” hadn’t provided any of the details for tonight’s mission. She didn’t like the implications for her role in whatever they had planned, but she’d play by their rules for now. She couldn’t possibly let them trust any aspect of the overall mission to a prostitute.
“I saw some nice clothing boutiques near the hotel. Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Don’t you think shopping in clothing boutiques might attract unwanted attention?”
Viktor had a point, though she wondered how careful they had been with her pickup. Shopping for designer clothes in a Novosibirsk boutique had to rank lower on the list of suspicious actions than getting in a car with three gangsters. It all came down to a little trust. She took the black hood from Viktor and placed it over her head, waiting for someone to start choking her. Nothing happened beyond the car lurching back onto the broken street, moving toward what she envisioned to be the bratva’s version of the Bat Cave.
Chapter 31
Dmitry Ardankin hung up the phone and immediately dialed Director Pushnoy’s direct line. The secure telephone system prompted him for a passcode, which he entered. The passcode enabled his call to bypass Pushnoy’s secretary and ring directly at his desk, or whatever phone the director had designated to receive calls. Only a few of the Foreign Intelligence Service’s deputy directors had been given this number, and none of them abused it. Ardankin reserved the use of Pushnoy’s direct line for emergencies. He wasn’t sure if this qualified as an emergency — yet, but it was without a doubt headed in that direction.
He waited tensely as the phone rang, hoping that it would go to the director’s voicemail. He hated answering Pushnoy’s one-word questions, often fired in rapid succession like a machine gun.
“Speak quickly, Dmitry. I’m in the middle of something,” the director said as a greeting.