“You won’t have to.” Mockingbird explained the contact procedure he’d worked out with the journalist. “He’s taking a bigger risk than you. You can scope it out first. If you don’t like something, simply walk away, and he’ll never even know what you look like or who you are. He’s the one who has to worry about this being a set-up. At least it’s better than staking out the airport and hoping to get lucky.”
“Okay. Set it up. But if I see something I don’t like, or I get a bad feeling, I’m calling it off.”
“One of my guys should go with you,” Poacher said. “Our cover will hold over there.”
But Avery shook his head. “No, I’m going to need to be discreet there. Plus there’s no way Langley is going to approve it.” And once Langley received and denied Sideshow’s request for entry into Belarus, eyebrows would be raised. The Seventh Floor would want to know exactly why Poacher wanted his team in Minsk. Given Sideshow’s mission in Tajikistan, they’d quickly start making connections between Belarus and Cramer, and that’s what Avery wanted to avoid.
Poacher reluctantly agreed.
In truth, Avery preferred going in alone. As much as he valued Sideshow’s help in Tajikistan, he was better off on his own.
NINETEEN
Avery breezed through security and customs at Dushanbe International. He’d arrived early and was confident no one observed him board the Aeroflot Tupolev. He was concerned not only with the GKNB, but also the Russians. If Ramzin’s people spotted him boarding a flight to Russia, the game was up before it began. Before departing, Reaper forged a Tajik entry stamp on his Nick Ambrose passport. He’d only know for sure he was clean when he landed in Sochi or Minsk and wasn’t immediately picked up by the authorities.
Avery slept through the three hour flight. The Tupolev landed at Sochi International Airport, located in the city of the same name on Russia’s Black Sea coast, late Friday morning. Following the recent terrorist mass transit bombings in nearby Volgograd, there was heightened security; including Interior Ministry OMON special police troops with body armor and submachine guns. They eyed every foreigner with suspicion, and Avery was glad to board his flight to Moscow.
At Sheremetyevo, he had a ninety minute layover before the two hour, eleven minute flight to Minsk. This was his first time in the Russian capital, but he didn’t leave the airport to go sightseeing. Instead, he ate an overpriced sandwich from a concession stand, drank a Coke for the caffeine boost, and spent the entire three hours in a soft, cushioned armchair in the departures lounge, people-watching, before his final flight. Fortunately, the jet lag wouldn’t be too bad. The time zone change was fairly minor, and it was always easier to travel west and gain time than go east and lose it.
The ninety minute Belavia flight to Minsk was the quickest of his three flights, and the Boeing 737 landed early Friday evening and taxied to Gate 2.
In the terminal, Avery immediately maneuvered ahead of the other travelers and rushed to the second floor of the arrivals sector to get in line for his migration card. With that in hand, he was directed through passport control and then, finally, customs, where his luggage was once again searched. The customs officer asked him the routine questions about the nature of his visit and business and the length of his stay, listened with disinterest to Avery’s practiced responses, and finally stamped his Nick Ambrose passport and allowed him through.
Avery wasn’t sure where he was going next, but it was important to act like he had a purpose. He stopped at the nearest information kiosk and studied the large directional display depicting the layout of the airport. Then he took a three minute walk to the nearest men’s room, where he took his time inside the stall and washing up at the sink.
Next, he took another walk to the closest news stand, where he picked up an English-language paper and a pack of cigarettes. From there, he went to the cocktail lounge, ordered another Coke, and sat around for a bit, before finally proceeding to Gate 4, on the opposite side of the airport, where he was to meet the contact.
He hadn’t needed to piss, didn’t care about the latest headlines, and certainly hadn’t been craving a drink. It was simply cover for action. If any Belarusian KGB were observing him or airport security watching from the surveillance cameras, they would have not realized that Avery had just conducted a mini-dry clean run. But they likely were not observing, because the SDR came up dry.
Avery stepped outside through the sliding glass doors. The air was cool and smelled of fresh rain. Night had already descended over Minsk and there was the sound of car horns blaring, traffic whizzing past on the highway, and mostly Russian-speaking voices.
He stood near a concrete post and set his suitcase down on the sidewalk, produced a cigarette, and lit it. He wasn’t a smoker, but looking like an uneasy flyer enjoying the opportunity to finally light up would buy him a few more minutes to stand in place, scope out his surroundings, and scan faces. He kept his posture relaxed and comfortable, but his eyes never rested. They observed and took in everything around him, keeping track of people and vehicles and noting their placement. People walked busily past him without even glancing his way.
Twenty-five feet away, he watched the lines of stopped taxis and cars waiting to pick up newly arrived passengers or make drop-offs. Irritated policemen yelled at drivers to move their illegally stopped vehicles, horns blared, and steady streams of traffic flowed in both directions on the double lanes of the M2.
He was looking out for a blue 1998 Fiat Siena. And a minute later, he spotted it, off to his left, pulled over on the shoulder, lights blinking, eight car lengths away, behind the taxi pick-up lane, facing him. The Siena’s windows were lightly tinted, so he was unable to see inside, but he could distinctly make out the silhouette of a single occupant in the driver’s seat.
Avery waited two more minutes before taking one last drag on the cigarette. Then he dropped it and ground it out beneath the sole of his boot. He glanced right once, then left, and started toward the Siena.
Within five feet, the passenger side window rolled halfway down.
The driver was a woman. Early thirties, Avery assessed, fit looking, East European, with shoulder-length auburn hair, high cheekbones, and no cosmetics. She wore a light blue North Face fleece with jeans. Both her hands were planted on the wheel. She gripped it tight, because her knuckles went white. She appeared alert and defensive, but not intimidated, and Avery supposed that being a reporter she was likely accustomed to meeting with unsavory strangers under unusual circumstances and taking risks to run down a story.
Avery’s eyes swept over the rear seats, checking that were was no one else in the car.
“Usun, et meie ühine sõber korraldas sa mulle küüti,” he said in Estonian. His enunciation of the memorized statement left much to be desired. He’d just told her that he believed their mutual friend had arranged for her to pick him up.
If it was a trap, that meant they’d been reading her e-mails and would know the recognition phrase. That may have occurred to her, too, because she didn’t appear too relieved. “I am always happy to help a friend,” she responded in good English. “My name is Aleksa. You should get in before someone notices us.”
Avery realized he’d been standing out here too long, and a cop, some twenty feet away, was watching them now, getting ready to blow his whistle and yell at them. Avery opened the passenger door and slipped in. He moved the seat back and set his suitcase on the floor.