March 7, 10:42 A.M.
Moscow, Russia
The large man stepped around his desk and settled into his chair with a creak of leather. He had the call up on his speakerphone. He had no fear of anyone listening. No one dared, especially not here.
“Where is the target now?” he asked. Word had reached his offices that an operative—an American mercenary with a dog—had been assigned to help Dr. Bukolov leave Russian soil.
That must not happen.
“Heading west,” the caller answered in Swedish-accented Russian. “Aboard the Trans-Siberian. We know he is booked through to Perm, but whether that’s his final destination, we don’t know yet.”
“What makes you think it would be otherwise?”
“This one clearly has some training. My instincts tell me he wouldn’t book a ticket straight to his ultimate destination. He’s too clever for that.”
“What name is he traveling under?”
“We’re working on that, too,” the Swede answered, growing testy.
“And where are you now?”
“Driving to Khabarovsk. We tried to board the train at Vladivostok but—”
“He gave you the shake, da?”
“Yes.”
“Let me understand this. A man and a large dog lost you and your team. Did he see you?”
“No. Of that we’re certain. He is simply careful and well trained. What else have you learned about him?”
“Nothing much. I’m making inquiries, trying to track his finances, but it appears he is using a credit card that has been backstopped—sanitized. It suggests he’s either more than he seems to be or has powerful help. Or both. What came of the hotel search in Vladivostok?”
“Nothing. We couldn’t get close. His employer—that bastard Bogdan Fedoseev—rented out the entire penthouse. Security was too tight. But if we can reach Khabarovsk before the train does, we’ll board there. If not . . .”
The Swede’s words trailed off.
Neither of them had to verbalize the problems such a failure would present.
The railway branched frequently from there, with routes heading in many different directions, including into China and Mongolia. Following their target into a foreign country—especially China—would exponentially multiply their surveillance challenges.
The speakerphone crackled again as the caller offered one hope. “If he is using sanitized credit cards, we should assume he has several passports and travel documents. If you have any colleagues in the FPS, it may be helpful to circulate his photo.”
He nodded to himself, rubbing his chin. The caller was referring to Russia’s Federal Border Guard Service.
“As you said,” the caller continued, “a man and a large dog are hard to miss.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I would prefer to keep the scope of this operation limited. That’s why I hired you. Sadly, I am beginning to question my judgment. Get results, or I’ll be making a change. Do you understand my meaning?”
A long silence followed before a response came.
“Not to worry. I’ve never failed before. I’ll get the information you need, and he’ll be dead before he ever reaches Perm.”