Private beijing, p.24
Private Beijing, page 24
West steered the F-350 into one of the airport parking lots and we hurried out to catch a taxi from the deserted rank.
The driver, a taciturn middle-aged man with a perpetual scowl and a cigarette hanging from his lip, nodded when West told him our destination and we set off for home turf.
CHAPTER 85
“WE’VE GOT A problem,” West said as we made our way into the city. “Over there.” He pointed beyond the taxi driver.
Through the windshield I saw a line of traffic, red tail lights flaring as the drivers slowed. Their vehicles crawled toward a Moscow Police checkpoint.
“We’re two blocks from the embassy,” he said.
The Russians were nothing if not predictable. This was exactly what they’d done when I was last in Moscow. They’d encircled the embassy and used checkpoints to try and catch me.
“I’m going to tell him to pull over so we can walk from here,” West said.
I nodded and he spoke to the driver in Russian. The man’s scowl deepened and he tutted as he signaled and pulled out of the line of traffic.
He stopped by the sidewalk, which ran in front of some apartment blocks, and West paid him. We clambered out of the bright yellow Skoda Octavia, and I was grateful my injuries seemed to have downgraded from intense pain to dull aches.
“Foot patrols,” West said, nodding toward a trio of uniformed Moscow police officers who were milling around near the vehicle checkpoint. “We need to be careful.”
“Hey!” I heard the taxi driver yell, and turned to see him leaning out of his window, addressing the trio of cops.
He said something in Russian and West cursed under his breath.
“He just told them we’re Americans and wanted out when we saw the checkpoint.”
“Hey!” one of the officers yelled in English. “Stop!”
“Can you run?” West asked me.
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Well, let’s go then,” he said, starting off at a sprint.
I raced to catch up, hearing yells and barked commands aimed in our direction.
“We’re going to take the rat run,” West said.
He set a cracking pace that left me struggling to keep up. Every part of me screamed with pain and I was already out of breath. The collision had taken a greater toll than I’d realized.
I heard tires screech and saw the three vehicles that had formed the checkpoint racing toward us. The trio of officers on foot ran in our direction, yelling instructions and giving hurried commands into their radios.
I followed West along a path that led to one of the large apartment blocks ahead of us. He stepped off the path and ran across a small lawn, aiming for a gap between the block and its neighbor. I saw more apartment buildings through the gap, set around a large square.
“Come on,” he said, and when I glanced round I saw the reason for his urgency; there were more police officers coming from almost every direction.
We ran on, passing through the gap between the two buildings, emerging onto the square. A path edged a park that featured a small football pitch and playground.
We ran along the path for a short distance until West suddenly turned right and raced toward the entrance to one of the apartment blocks. He yanked the front door open and held it for me as I struggled to catch up.
“Thanks,” I said breathlessly, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Instead he sprinted across the lobby to an interior door that led further into the building.
We burst into a corridor lined with numbered doors. West ran ahead until he came to apartment 12. There were a couple of locks, but he ignored these and touched the center of the figure 2 in the apartment number.
“Fingerprint reader,” he explained.
The door clicked open and West pushed it wide. As I followed him inside, I glanced down the corridor to see police officers in hot pursuit.
West slammed the front door shut and locked it. Moments later there was the hammering of fists on the other side.
“Come on,” he said, leading me from a narrow hallway into a sparsely furnished living room.
He ran over to a black fabric-covered couch and lifted it surprisingly easily.
“Spring-loaded,” he explained, as the wooden floor beneath the couch slid back to reveal a set of steps.
“Down,” he said.
I did as instructed and hurried down a dozen steps.
He followed and allowed the couch to fall in place behind him. When he reached the bottom of the steps and the couch and hatch had sealed closed, West bolted the mechanisms into position and a light came on.
Above us we heard the thunder of footsteps and then the start of what I’m sure would be many bemused questions in Russian.
“Come on,” West said as he started running down what looked like a very long tunnel.
“What is this place?” I asked, following him.
“It’s the rat run. A way in or out of the embassy without being seen,” he replied. “We bought the apartment and built the tunnel after all those times you had trouble getting in and out.”
It was an impressive escape route.
“A few things changed after your last visit, Jack.”
“The Ambassador?” I asked
“Ambassador Dussler is still here. In fact, he’s waiting at the embassy, eager to see you.”
CHAPTER 86
THE TUNNEL RAN in a straight line for about half a mile. Tiny motion-activated LED lights came on as we approached them, illuminating our way. West slowed to a gentle jog as we left the Moscow police behind us.
“That was a little too close,” he said.
He had the decency not to blame me for being too slow. Each step was making me feel better though, and I was shaking off some of the worst after-effects of the crash.
After six or seven minutes we reached a dead end. The tunnel was capped by a concrete wall. West found a particular area near the bottom right corner and held his palm to it. An optical reader disguised as a patch of concrete scanned his handprint and the wall retracted and then descended into the floor.
We went through the newly created opening into what looked like a ten-feet-long six-feet-wide metal bank vault. Rivets peppered the walls and thin structural supports propped up the ceiling. There was no door, just a metal wall at the other end, but when the slab of concrete closed and returned to its position, the inner metal wall rose into the ceiling.
“Tempered steel,” West said. “The roof is a solid block that can be dropped into the space, sealing it.”
I glanced up and shuddered the thought of the heavy block falling on us.
“Simple but effective way of closing it off if anyone ever discovers the tunnel,” West observed.
He took me into an embassy equipment room. It was full of emergency gear: torches, medical supplies, and flight cases lined up on neat racks. I watched the wall close, concealing the tunnel, and West went to the door and tapped a code into the keypad beside it.
A buzzer sounded and he pulled the door open, leading me into a basement corridor.
A uniformed Marine was waiting for us there.
“The Ambassador is here, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” he said.
He took us through a maze of identical corridors until we reached a bank of elevators. He escorted us to the top floor, hand just touching his sidearm the whole way. He knocked on the door to Ambassador Dussler’s office and opened it for us.
West and I stepped inside to find Dussler leaning against his desk talking to Erin Sebold, who sat on a couch on the other side of the room. Dussler hadn’t changed since our last meeting, and was still as confident and suave as ever, except in contrast to his usual tailored suit, today he wore navy sweatpants and a grey hooded top. Erin Sebold was in jeans and a thin sweater. The casual clothes looked out of place in the very traditional office but were the result of the lateness of the hour. There was the obligatory photograph of Dussler with the President, and framed artwork that dated from shortly after the Revolutionary War hung above antique furniture that was carefully arranged to impress visiting dignitaries.
“Jack Morgan, you sure know how to make a dramatic entrance,” the Ambassador said, stepping forward to offer me his hand. “Good to see you.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances,” I replied.
“What happened at the airport?” Erin said, getting up to greet me.
“Two guys tried to abduct him,” West responded. “FSB probably.”
“How did you stop them?” Erin asked.
“I improvised,” West remarked. “I’m going to need a new vehicle by the way.”
“That’s some improvisation,” Erin remarked.
“It was,” I said. “He saved my life. I owe you,” I told West. “I won’t forget it.”
“I reckon we’re even from before. The country owes you a debt,” he countered.
“So, what’s happening, Jack?” Dussler asked.
“A faction of Chinese nationals struck a deal with Valery Alekseyev to work together to advance their strategic interests. Private was the intended target. A secret Chinese group led by a guy called Fang Wenyan was supposed to destroy my business, kill my people, and, when I’d suffered enough, kill me.”
“On Alekseyev’s orders?” Dussler asked.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’m guessing it was supposed to be revenge for what I did here and in Afghanistan.”
“Alekseyev is bad news, Jack,” Erin observed. “It would explain what our sources told us. Yesterday morning, raids took place on the Private office here and the homes of every member of its staff. All your people were arrested and incarcerated somewhere.”
The thought of Dinara, Feo, and the others being held captive filled me with anger.
“I need to find them. And then I need to put Alekseyev out of action.”
Dussler and Erin exchanged a concerned look that indicated the sensitivity of the situation.
“We cannot be seen to be aiding a vigilante mission against a member of the Russian Government, Jack,” Dussler said. “Even if America’s strategic interests would be served by the removal of that man. I’m afraid we can only provide moral support.”
I was deflated. “I have to help my people.”
Erin eyed me sympathetically, but she and Dussler seemed resolved.
“Sir, ma’am, I have some annual leave due,” West responded. “I’d like to use it now to show Mr. Morgan around Moscow. Take in some sights.”
“Sights?” Dussler asked.
“Yes, sir, sights,” West replied.
Erin murmured approvingly. “That’s not a bad idea. Maybe you could borrow a camera and any other gear you might need for sightseeing from the armory,” she suggested.
“I was hoping you might say that, ma’am,” West replied.
It was clear what was happening. The US Government was going to support me through West, while retaining plausible deniability. It was an elegant lie, and fine by me. I would have single-handedly torn Moscow apart, stone by stone, to recover my team and get two minutes alone with the man who had been responsible for so much evil.
Having West by my side would make the task a great deal easier.
CHAPTER 87
HAVING SLEPT ON the flight from Beijing, I was ready to go, but West needed some rest. After I’d been checked over by the duty medic who’d pronounced me battered but essentially fit, we each took one of the embassy staff bedrooms. Mine was on the third floor, located in a small residential wing away from the offices, on the western edge of the building. It was simply furnished, with a single bed, closet, desk, chair, and small bathroom.
I wanted to call Justine to reassure her I was safe. I knew how worried she was about me coming to Moscow but given the amount of surveillance the embassy was subject to, decided the risk would be too great. Once I’d used the bathroom, I lay on the bed, expecting restless impatience to be my companion while I waited for morning, but I had underestimated how exhausted I was. Days of relentless pressure in Beijing and the after-effects of West’s collision with the Russians combined to send me to sleep. I didn’t even realize I had gone until I woke to find bright sunlight streaming through the window.
“Feel better?” West asked.
He was seated at the desk. I’d been so far under I hadn’t even registered him come in.
“Yeah,” I replied, rubbing my face.
“Ready to go?”
Had he feigned the need for rest for my benefit?
“I’ve packed a truck, so we’re ready when you are,” he added.
Whether intentionally or not, the enforced rest he’d given me had made me feel so much better. I got to my feet and stretched, energized and more like my old self.
Ten minutes later we were in one of the embassy Land Rover Defenders, concealed in a secret compartment beneath the flatbed. Next to us was in assortment of weapons West had borrowed from the armory, and above us were flight cases of gear that wouldn’t raise eyebrows during a search. Comms equipment, torches, and other field supplies.
And the flight cases were searched, twice, at two checkpoints near the embassy, but the secret compartment did its job and soon the Land Rover made it out of the danger zone.
After a while twisting and turning through Moscow, the Marine driver pulled over and gave us the signal to open the compartment. We climbed out to find ourselves in a derelict industrial site.
“I made sure we weren’t followed, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” the Marine said.
“It’s just Marlon today. I’m officially on vacation.”
“Some vacation,” I remarked with a smile.
“There are worse ways to R and R,” West replied. “You going to be OK getting back?” he asked the Marine.
“There’s a cab rank about a mile east of here.”
“Well, get going,” West suggested.
“Enjoy your vacation, sirs,” the Marine replied before jogging away.
West took the wheel of the Land Rover and I climbed into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” he asked.
“I think we start at Dinara’s apartment. See what we can find out about this raid on her and the others.”
He nodded, started the engine, and headed out of the deserted lot.
I gave him directions and forty minutes later we were in Yermolayevskiy Lane, opposite a small park. West drove the Land Rover into a bay alongside the green space.
It was 8:30 a.m. when we arrived, and we only had to wait a minute or so before one of the residents opened the front door of Dinara’s block and allowed us in while he headed out for work. We passed through a simple lobby and climbed some dingy stairs to the fourth floor.
As we walked toward the apartment, I was surprised to see an old woman sitting in the corridor, reading a book. She was on a battered old folding garden chair, had a mismatched table beside her and was surrounded by pot plants.
“Going to make it tricky to break in,” West observed. “Maybe I can distract her?”
I nodded, but the woman made it clear there was to be no distraction when she started yelling at us angrily.
West replied in Russian, his tone soothing and conciliatory.
“She says we better not be here for more trouble. The last gang smashed Dinara’s door in and broke this lady’s chair.”
“You are Americans, yes?” the woman said in broken English. “They smash my chair. I don’t like this one so much.”
As we came closer, I saw the door frame was splintered, and a roughly fitted padlock secured the door to it.
“Did you see the people who did this?” I asked.
“Your name?” the woman replied haughtily.
“Jack Morgan. Dinara works for me.”
“Then you are a very bad man,” she said, rising indignantly from her rickety chair. “This woman needs a husband and babies, not to be working all God’s hours.”
“Did you see the men who did this?” West asked.
She fixed us with a disapproving stare.
“Dinara is in danger,” I said. “We’re the only people who can help her.”
She hesitated and then sat down and reached under the chair for her phone.
“I have photos,” she revealed. “After they broke my chair and took her away, I got pictures of them and their transport from my window so I could make a police report. But the police don’t want to know. Maybe you can help.”
She opened her phone and swiped through a series of photos that showed two grey UAZ Patriot SUVs and a matching UAZ-452 van with blacked-out windows parked not too far from where we’d left the Land Rover. A group of half a dozen men were crowded around Dinara, who was in restraints, and a series of sequential pictures showed her being forced into the back of the van.
“Can I have copies of these?” I asked.
The woman shrugged and I AirDropped them onto my phone.
I pointed out a detail to West.
“License plates,” I said.
He nodded.
“If you find Dinara, tell her Mrs. Minsky helped,” the old woman said.
“I will. Thank you, Mrs. Minsky,” I replied while hurrying toward the stairs. “We’ve got faces and plates,” I said to West, who jogged alongside me. “We can find these guys.”
CHAPTER 88
WE RETURNED TO the Land Rover, and West reached into the glove compartment for a communicator that looked like a satellite phone. I guessed it was an Echelon machine, used by the CIA for secure comms, and wondered whether he was just a Marine or whether he moonlighted for the agency. Was he moonlighting now?
He placed a call which was answered moments later.
“Mom, me and Cousin Lenny have got some great souvenir photos. Do you know anywhere that could process them?” he said.
He listened for a moment.
“The store in Kuzminki? Great idea.”
He hung up and turned to me.
“That was Erin Sebold. She wants to meet us at one of the Agency’s facilities. She can help with the photos.”
