“What is this?” he asked.
“You are coming with me, Filitov. Button your shirt. At least try to look like a man!”
Misha nearly said something, but bit it off. The look he gave the Chairman was enough to make the bodyguard move his hand a centimeter. He buttoned his shirt and tied his tie. It ended up crooked in his collar because he didn’t have a mirror.
“Now, Comrade Chairman, if you will sign this—”
“You give me custody of a criminal like this?” “What—”
“Handcuffs, man!” Gerasimov boomed. Unsurprisingly, the second deputy superintendent had a pair in his desk. He got them, put them on Filitov, and nearly pocketed the key before he saw Gerasimov’s outstretched hand.
“Very good. I’ll have him back to you tomorrow night.”
“But I need you to sign—” The second deputy superintendent found that he was talking to a receding back.
“Well, with all the people under me,” Gerasimov observed to his bodyguard, “there have to be a few . . .”
“Indeed, Comrade Chairman.” The bodyguard was an immensely fit man of forty-two, a former field officer who was an expert in all forms of armed and unarmed combat. His firm grip on the prisoner told Misha all of these things.
“Filitov,” the Chairman observed over his shoulder, “we are taking a brief trip, a flight that is. You will not be harmed. If you behave yourself, we might even allow you a decent meal or two. If you do not behave, Vasiliy here will make you wish you did. Is that clear?”
“Clear, Comrade Chekist.”
The guard snapped to attention, then pushed open the door. The outside guards saluted and were rewarded with nods. The driver held open the back door. Gerasimov stopped and turned.
“Put him in back with me, Vasiliy. You should be able to cover things from the front seat.”
“As you wish, Comrade.”
“Sheremetyevo,” Gerasimov told the driver. “The cargo terminal on the south side.”
There was the airport, Ryan thought. He stifled a belch that tasted of wine and sardines. The motorcade entered the airport grounds, then curved to the right, bypassing the regular entrance to the terminal and heading out onto the aircraft parking area. Security, he noted, was tight. You could always depend on the Russians for that. Everywhere he looked were rifle-toting soldiers in KGB uniforms. The car drove right past the main terminal, then past a recent addition. It was unused, but looked like the alien spaceship in Spielberg’s Close Encounters. He’d meant to ask somebody why it had been built, but wasn’t yet in use. Maybe next time, Ryan thought.
The formal goodbyes had been made at the Foreign Ministry. A few junior officials stood at the bottom of the stairs to shake hands, and nobody was in a hurry to leave the heated comfort of the limousines. Progress was correspondingly slow. His car lurched forward and stopped, and the man to Ryan’s right opened the door as the driver popped the trunk open. He didn’t want to go outside either. It had taken most of the drive to get the car warm. Jack got his bag and his briefcase and headed for the stairs.
“I hope you enjoyed your visit,” the Soviet official said.
“I would like to come back and see the city sometime,” Jack replied as he shook the man’s hand.
“We would be delighted.”
Sure you would, Jack thought as he went up the stairs. Once in the aircraft, he looked forward. A Russian officer was in the cockpit jump seat to assist with traffic control. His eyes were on the curtained-off communications console. Ryan nodded at the pilot through the door and got a wink.
“The political dimension scares the hell out of me,” Vatutin said. At 2 Dzerzhinskiy Square, he and Golovko were comparing their written notes.
“This isn’t the old days. They can’t shoot us for following our training and procedures.”
“Really? What if Filitov was being run with the knowledge of the Chairman?”
“Ridiculous,” Golovko observed.
“Oh? What if his early work on the dissidents put him in contact with the West? We know that he personally intervened in some cases—mainly from the Baltic region, but some others, too.”
“You’re really thinking like a ‘Two’ man now!”
“Think for a minute. We arrest Filitov and immediately thereafter the Chairman meets personally with a CIA man. Has that ever happened before?”
“I’ve heard stories about Philby, but—no, that was only after he came over.”
“It’s one hell of a coincidence,” Vatutin said as he rubbed his eyes. “They do not train us to believe in coincidences, and—”
“Tvoyu mat’!” Golovko said. Vatutin looked up in annoyance to see the other man roll his eyes. “The last time the Americans were over—how could I forget this! Ryan spoke with Filitov—they collided as though by accident, and—”
Vatutin lifted his phone and dialed. “Give me the night superintendent . . . This is Colonel Vatutin. Wake up the prisoner Filitov. I want to see him within the hour . . . What was that? Who? Very well. Thank you.” The Colonel of the Second Chief Directorate stood. “Chairman Gerasimov just took Filitov out of Lefortovo fifteen minutes ago. He said that they were taking a special trip.”
“Where’s your car?”
“I can order—”
“No,” Golovko said. “Your personal car.”
26.
Black Operations
THERE was no hurry, yet. While the cabin crew got everybody settled in, Colonel von Eich ran down the pre-flight checklist. The VC-137 was taking electrical power from a generator truck that would also allow them to start their engines more easily than internal systems allowed. He checked his watch and hoped everything would go as planned.
Aft, Ryan walked past his normal place, just forward of Ernie Allen’s midships cabin, and took a seat in the back row of the after part of the aircraft. It looked much like part of a real airliner, though the seating was five-across, and this space handled the overflow from the “distinguished visitor” areas forward. Jack picked one on the left side, where the seats were in pairs, while ten or so others entered the cabin and kept as far forward as possible for the smoother ride, as advised by another crew member. The aircraft’s crew chief would be across the aisle to his right instead of in the crew quarters forward. Ryan wished for another man to help, but they couldn’t be too obvious. They had a Soviet officer aboard. That was part of the regular routine, and diverging from it would attract attention. The whole point of this was that everyone would be comfortably secure in the knowledge that everything was exactly as it should be.
Forward, the pilot got to the end of the checklist page.
“Everybody aboard?”
“Yes, sir. Ready to close the doors.”
“Keep an eye on the indicator light for the crew door. It’s been acting funny,” von Eich told the flight engineer.
“A problem?” the Soviet pilot asked from the jump seat. Sudden depressurization is something every flyer takes seriously.
“Every time we check the door it looks fine. Probably a bad relay in the panel, but we haven’t found the sucker yet. I’ve checked the goddamned door-seal myself,” he assured the Russian. “It has to be an electrical fault.”
“Ready to start,” the flight engineer told him next.
“Okay.” The pilot looked to make sure the stairs were away while the flight crew donned their headsets. “All clear left.”
“All clear right,” the copilot said.
“Turning one.” Buttons were pushed, switches were toggled, and the left-outboard engine began to rotate its turbine blades. The needles on several indicator dials started moving and were soon in normal idling range. The generator truck withdrew now that the plane could supply its own electric power.
“Turning four,” the pilot said next. He toggled his microphone to the cabin setting. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Colonel von Eich. We’re getting the engines started, and we should be moving in about five minutes. Please buckle your seat belts. Those of you who smoke, try to hang in there another few minutes.”
At his seat in the back row, Ryan would have killed for a smoke. The crew chief glanced over to him and smiled. He certainly seemed tough enough to handle it, Jack thought. The chief master sergeant looked to be pushing fifty, but he also looked like a man who could teach manners to an NFL linebacker. He was wearing leather work gloves with the adjustment straps pulled in tight.
“All ready?” Jack asked. There was no danger of being heard. The engine noise was hideous back here.
“Whenever you say, sir.”
“You’ll know when.”
“Hmph,” Gerasimov noted. “Not here yet.” The cargo terminal was closed, and dark except for the security floodlights.
“Should I make a call?” the driver asked.
“No hurry. What—” A uniformed guard waved for them to stop. They’d already come through one checkpoint. “Oh, that’s right. The Americans are getting ready to leave. That must be screwing things up.”