He could make out Dubinin standing in front of the operations shack, talking with two men with brassards and sidearms. Military police. And Dubinin was gesturing toward the plane. The three men started toward the military police jeep parked alongside the operations building.
Valentin Shishlin made his decision. They would be upon him within the minute, not enough time to ditch the gold and the banknotes. He didn’t have the luxury of examining the situation at leisure. If he hesitated, he would face the firing squad. And if he made a run for it? Well, the Chinese border was but fifty kilometers away. By the time they scrambled the fighters, he’d be over the Tien Shan mountains and into Sinkiang. As for antiaircraft fire, the three airfield batteries would be shut down for the night, since it was hardly likely an enemy would attack.
He buckled his shoulder harness and firewalled the throttles. The plane lurched across the muddy field, bucking like an untamed horse. The runway ran diagonally across his front, and he’d lose valuable time trying to get there. Instead, as he approached the narrower taxiway, he swung the plane around, flicked on the lights, and in twenty seconds was airborne, hugging the ground to gain airspeed.
From the tower, KGB Brigadier General Evgeniy Tomskiy watched the plane stagger into the air. He turned to the station commander. “Sound the alarm.”
The colonel hit the horn button. The high-pitched wail echoed from hills surrounding the base. Within a minute the four MiG-61 duty pilots were speeding in their jeeps toward the hangar where mechanics were already pre-flighting their aircraft. Four minutes later they were airborne.
“You briefed the pilots personally, did you not?” General Tomskiy asked the base commander.
“Yes, sir.”
“They understood the orders?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
Missiles appearing from out of nowhere and flashing by his wings so terrified Major Valentin Shishlin that he almost rammed his aircraft into the towering blackness of the Tien Shan mountains dead ahead. He dodged as much as he dared, and after what seemed like a hundred missile tracks had shot by harmlessly, there was sudden surcease. His radio altimeter showed the ground dropping away sharply, which meant that he had cleared the mountains and left the Soviet Union behind. He switched on his may day beacon and landing lights, tuned his transmitter to the international distress frequency, and called the tower at Aksu, the closest Chinese airport.
After some time, Aksu-or somebody-replied, in basic English, and in the distance runway lights flashed on. Ten minutes later he was on the ground, the sweat congealing in his flying suit, his pulse still hammering, and his mind working at forced draft to compose a plausible story to cover his defection. Shortly after he saw the runway lights, he put the Yak-237 on autopilot and divested himself of his contraband by shoving it out the cockpit window. He wouldn’t need it now that he was on foreign soil: American propaganda broadcasts advertised a bounty of $500,000 cash for any pilot who defected from Russia or its satellites with his aircraft.
In the end he was rewarded with $600,000, for not only was his tearful story of flight from communist oppression swallowed by the gullible Americans, but the safe that was in the back of the plane yielded papers in which the Americans were most interested. Shishlin was flown to the United States and spent two weeks at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, undergoing a thorough debriefing. He could throw no light on the documents from the Yak-237’s safe, but he did provide a most comprehensive account of his background, leaving out only his illegal activities.
To the bulging archives of the CIA, Valentin Shishlin added details of his childhood, schooling, military training, and reminiscences of the hundreds of individuals with whom he had come into contact in his years as an air force pilot. Among the names he mentioned was that of a frequent flier, one General-Major Evgeniy Tomskiy of the KGB. The Americans took note of the name, but if it meant anything to them, they didn’t show it.
“And that’s all we’ve got, Rip,” said President Turn-bull. “A lot of questions, no answers.”
“And this man, Shishlin-couldn’t he throw any light on the wheat shipments?”
“No.”
“Well, how about the forced-draft construction of those factories whose plans were in the safe in Shishlin’s plane? What are they manufacturing?”
The president shrugged. “You see, nothing but questions. But all the indications are that something big’s afoot. I’ve talked it over with my scientific adviser, Dr. Sid Bussek, and he’s of the opinion that it all relates to some new Soviet secret weapon.”
“A weapon made from wheat, for Christ’s sake?”
Turnbull laughed self-consciously. “Yes, I know. It sounds preposterous, but Sid’s been right before. It’s a hypothesis that needs testing.”
“That would seem to be the next step, all right.”
The president cocked an eyebrow at Forte.
Forte raised his hands. “Not me, Mr. President. That’s a job for the CIA.”
“Unfortunately, the KGB’s penetrated the CIA. We don’t know the good guys from the bad guys anymore. Can’t risk the Soviets finding out that our suspicions have been aroused. You, on the other hand, will keep your mouth shut. Also, you have the private resources to do the job. If I go through the budget process to finance the operation, all the wrong people will get wind of it. Finally, you were on your way to Bangladesh when my message caught up with you, by your own say-so to find out the story behind the wheat shipments.”
“But I-”
“So all I’m asking is that you pursue that line of investigation and see where it leads. Now-while there’s still time to act. Through government channels, it’ll take ten days to get the inquiry off the ground. You, on the other hand, you can leave tonight.”
“It doesn’t-”
“What it comes down to is a question of national security. I wouldn’t be asking if I thought anybody else could do the job.”
Forte grimaced but was silent.
The president smiled benevolently. Forte’s pride wouldn’t allow him to refuse.
14. CHITTAGONG
26 JUNE 2009
“Ziaur Satto, at your service.” the swarthy little man wore immaculate white ducks.
Camouflage, Forte decided, was not going to be difficult: it was going to be impossible. He weighed eighty pounds more and was a head taller than any man in sight and had fair skin. Ziaur Satto might have better fit in with the surroundings had it not been for his starched whites, carnation buttonhole, and monocle. He was a caricature of the British sahib who had ruled this part of Asia more than a half century earlier. He was as out of place as Forte himself in the sea of Bangladeshis-short, thin, sun-scorched, and mostly clad in undershirt and wraparound lungi-who clamored to carry his canvas carryall.
“Glad to meet you, Ziaur.” Forte surrendered his bag to a porter, who balanced it on his head and trotted ahead of them to the waiting taxi. An old Volvo, it was one of the few four-wheeled vehicles at the Chittagong airport. Because of a chronic fuel shortage, Bangladesh made do with three-wheeled motor scooters, which snarled about them like a pack of angry jackals as they roared down the highway toward the city.
“Mr. Mansour instructed me to put myself at your entire disposal, Mr. Forte,” said Satto. “Without undue modesty can I lay claim to be knowledgeable about affairs of commerce more than whatever other in the metropolis of Chittagong where have I specialized in export import bills of lading invoices and letters of credit lo! these many years as a result of which I have earned the complete and abiding faith trust and confidence of our esteemed Mr. Yussef Mansour whose word is my command.”
Forte took a deep breath. “He said you know where the bodies are buried.”
“Yes indeed I do although was I given to understand your respected self wished to initiate inquiries as to the status of the corn trade and not into subject of cemeteries about which needless to say am I also eminently qualified to discharge the function of informant and confidant.” He paused and looked at Forte conspiratorially. “Whose bodies?”
“That’s a figure of speech,” said Forte. “It means you know the local situation.”
“How very true is what you say my dear Mr. Forte for in fact my business calls for what in vulgar parlance is termed an ear to the earth which apprises me not only of commercial happenings but events in the political realm frequently reacting one with the other to produce the utmost droll consequences an example of which happened yesterday when at the orders of aforesaid esteemed Mr. Yussef Mansour I attended the press conference of our premier-”
Forte tuned out and turned his attention to the crowds, which parted like the Red Sea before Moses as the Volvo hurtled down the highway. The population of Bangladesh was estimated-it had been thirty years since a census had been taken-at 163 million, and it seemed that they had all come to impede Forte’s progress from airport to city. Along both sides of the road hordes of naked little children with big bellies and hollow eyes played in slow motion before flimsy huts of corrugated iron and cardboard. There wasn’t a well-fed human being in sight along the road, and while Forte realized that airport roads were a common refuge for the poor, his suspicion about the import of wheat now seemed thinner than the poor devils he was looking at: surely people that hungry would eat anything.