Aktobe Province, Kazakhstan
Ultimately, crossing the border out of Russia had been simple. Even without the acquired passports of the Russian agents, Logan’s plan had always been to exit Russia into one of the neighbouring ex-Soviet countries. He knew that Russia’s borders with these countries were extensive and, road and rail network aside, largely unmarked and unguarded.
Kazakhstan alone, the country to which Logan and Grainger had headed, had a border with Russia that stretched more than four thousand miles. Although border posts were in place on major routes, some multilateral, allowing internationals to pass through, and others bilateral, only allowing nationals from the two countries to pass, keeping full control of such a vast stretch of land was impossible. And entirely unnecessary for two such closely allied countries.
As it was, with the Russian passports in hand, there had been no need to abandon the vehicle and traipse over frozen ground to leave Russia. Logan had simply driven up to the bilateral border post near to the tiny Kazakh village of Zhanybek, shown his and Grainger’s IDs and passed through into the vast Central Asian country of Kazakhstan. The fact they only barely resembled the pictures on the passports didn’t matter. A couple of Russians passing into the ex-Soviet state was hardly worthy of a raised eyebrow even.
Being in Kazakhstan was a means to an end. Logan wasn’t planning on staying in the country any longer than necessary. It was simply a stepping stone. The problem was it wouldn’t be quite so easy to leave Kazakhstan, unless he was simply going to head back into Russia, which he had no intention of doing. That meant he needed help.
Which was why he and Grainger were heading along the twisting roads of western Kazakhstan, through the barren, frozen deserts and grassy steppes toward the city of Aktobe.
Logan had a basic understanding of the country’s geography from previous assignments there, but he was glad to have the assistance of the GPS unit. The drive from where they crossed the border to Aktobe was more than six hundred miles, yet wouldn’t even take them halfway across the vast country – one of the world’s largest and most uninhabited places. Kazakhstan was the ninth largest country by land area in the world, but its population, largely clustered in the larger eastern cities, was just seventeen million.
Logan had never been to Aktobe before, but he knew exactly the address to head to. With the aid of the GPS unit, he knew they were now only twenty miles from their destination.
They had stopped twice since leaving Russia: the first to rest and refuel themselves, the second time to refuel the car. They had both taken turns driving, giving the other a chance to sleep and meaning they had been able to keep going through the night. The drive to Aktobe had taken more than twelve hours and it was now mid-afternoon.
‘Do you really think he’ll be here?’ Grainger asked.
She had woken up about ten minutes before, after sleeping for the best part of the last two hours, but had so far not spoken.
‘He certainly was last time I checked.’
‘Which was when?’
Logan didn’t answer immediately. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he knew the answer wouldn’t instil much confidence in Grainger.
‘About two years ago,’ he said eventually.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shaking her head.
‘About two years? So is it two or is it more or less than that?’
‘More like three,’ he admitted.
Grainger tutted. ‘So we could just be greeted out here by some local farmer and his flock. That’s really going to help, isn’t it? Maybe he can sell us a cow.’
‘That could be quite useful actually,’ Logan gibed. ‘Would feed and clothe us for a while.’
‘So you know how to make leather goods now? You really are a master of all trades.’
They both smiled before Grainger returned to her point.
‘But if he is here, do you really think he can help us?’
‘It’s got to be worth a shot. Unless you have any better ideas.’
He certainly wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea, but they needed somewhere to stay away from watchful eyes. With someone who would have the means or at least the connections to help them to keep travelling away from Russia and onwards to safer ground. The more respite they had and the closer to safety they got, the more opportunity Logan would have to determine exactly what to do next. When it came down to it, there were really only two options: run away and hide, or fight back. His natural instinct preferred the latter but he had no clue yet where to start.
‘Carl, I just hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘Me too.’
He’d told her why they were going there. Whom they were going to see. Not a friend. Someone he knew. From a long time ago. So long ago it almost felt like a different life. Until recently, Logan would never have thought to turn to this man on whom he had kept a careful eye for much of his adult life.
As they neared the destination, the GPS took them on a route that circumvented the city of Aktobe, taking them further north, back toward the Russian border. Over the course of the six-hundred-mile journey, they had snaked back and forth toward the border numerous times, coming within just a few miles of it as they bypassed the northern city of Oral, the capital of the West Kazakhstan Province. The mood in the car had become strained and somewhat awkward each time they had come closer to Russia, as though they were fearful of a sudden onslaught from hordes of Cossacks.
Whatever the outcome of their visit to Aktobe, they would need to look for alternative transport from here on in. They had to believe the Russians would follow them over the border at the least and would probably already be in touch with the Kazakhstan NSC – the National Security Committee, successor intelligence agency to the KGB – to ensure Logan and Grainger were on their wanted list. Although they had made hours of solid progress, now was a good time to lay low while they figured out their next steps.
They passed the small city of Aktobe and the landscape soon returned to largely uninhabited hinterland. In the summer months, temperatures in this part of the country would soar – much of the area was sandy desert with just small pockets of grassland and vegetation. In the winter, it was cold and dark, icy and foreboding.
Through the night, the temperature had dropped to below minus twenty. It was currently a more balmy minus five, but the cloud cover of the day had also brought with it heavy snow, which was making driving almost impossible. The main roads they had travelled on from the border had been well gritted and clear of snow and ice, but now they had moved onto a smaller, twisting single-track road and the conditions were worsening by the minute.
Logan slowed the car to less than ten miles an hour, squinting as though it would help him see through the sheet of white hitting the windscreen. The wipers vibrated and shuddered as they whizzed across the glass as fast as they could go, but the snow was falling so quickly that it made little difference.
They took a left onto a narrow lane that rose into the distance and had deep cuts in the snow from the wheels of previous vehicles. Snow, piled up on the side of the road, towered over them.
As Logan edged the car up the track, he felt the back end lose grip and begin to fishtail. He pressed down hard on the accelerator. The engine whined and the tyres spun and skidded but eventually found traction and the vehicle shot forward suddenly. Logan eased off the accelerator momentarily while he restored control, then pushed down again, slowly building up the power, willing the inadequate vehicle to keep going up the hill.
After another hundred yards, the GPS unit showed they had reached their destination.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Grainger said. ‘There’s nothing here at all.’
She was right. But this had to be it, Logan thought. They had to be near.
‘Those things aren’t always accurate, you know,’ Grainger continued. ‘I mean, we could just be driving aimlessly here. Wouldn’t we be better sticking to some semblance of civilisation?’
‘No,’ Logan said. ‘This track isn’t here just for the hell of it. The house must be here somewhere. We’ll keep going.’
‘I can’t see a thing out of the windows. It’s just snow everywhere.’
Logan huffed in agreement but didn’t otherwise respond. Visibility couldn’t have been more than a few yards. But then, as they rounded a bend in the track, the view in front began to clear. Logan wasn’t sure whether the snow was dying down or the change of direction, which meant the snow was now coming at them from behind, had helped give them a better line of sight.
Not long after, in the near distance, Logan caught sight of what they were looking for and felt a wave of relief wash over him.
In front of them was a large, sandy-coloured wall with thick snow sitting on it like icing on a cake. Within the layer of snow, there were flashes of metallic grey here and there: barbed wire. Beyond the wall was a house. It was huge: three storeys tall, many windows wide. But it was also plain, box-like, much of it with a flat roof. It was unassuming and unattractive. The walls were white-washed but their colour against the bright white snow made the house look stained and yellow and dirty.
The track led to a set of sliding metal gates at the front of the property. The gates were a simple structure. Functional. Security rather than decoration. There was a small wooden guard post in front of the gates.
All in all, the building and its security-driven trimmings didn’t look like a residence. More like a small barracks or army outpost. Logan wondered whether that had indeed been its original purpose. The city of Aktobe had long been a strategically important position and had played a large part in many Central Asian conflicts over the years.
‘Are you sure about this, Carl?’ Grainger asked. ‘Just what the hell is this place?’
‘It’s nothing more than I expected,’ Logan said. ‘And it at least tells me that he’s definitely still here.’
‘Right now, I’m not sure if I’m happy about that or not.’
‘Well, we’re here now. What have we got to lose?’
‘Out of the frying pan, into the fire.’
‘Something like that,’ he conceded.
‘I think we can at least safely say that we’re not going to be buying any cows today.’