By the time I got to see past the fat rear-end of the truck in front of me, with the driver holding the centre of the road trying to see what was causing the hold-up, it was too late to back out. And turning around at this point wasn’t an option.
An armed soldier was walking down the line of traffic, checking each vehicle. Beyond him a couple of others were tailing him at a distance, with others standing at the side of the road. They all looked primed and ready for something to kick off.
Logic told me that whoever or whatever these men were after, it couldn’t be me. It was unlikely to be Tzorekov, either; it was way too soon for the news of his arrival to have got out and to have activated this kind of response. In any case I doubted whoever wanted to stop him meeting with Putin would have involved the military, no matter how much pull they had. It would have raised too many questions. Or maybe I was underestimating the opposition.
My guess was, any interference thrown in Tzorekov’s way would come from forces unconnected with any machine of state.
I made sure the door panel hiding the pistol was secure and waited for the first soldier to stop and look in the car. He did so without acknowledging me, but gave my face the once-over for good measure, with no flicker of emotion. I didn’t offer to talk and he didn’t look receptive, anyway. He moved to the rear of the pickup and checked it out, his free hand resting right above where the Saiga was hidden. Finally he nodded and walked away to the next in line.
Five minutes later I was on my way again. It was slow-going in the stack of vehicles, but at least we were moving. My only problem was, the red light that should have been showing the Touareg’s position was dead. Either the signal had died temporarily or the Touareg was out of range. I put on speed, pushing past three trucks in line and earning a wailing air horn of frustration as I went by. I shared their feeling, but there was little I could do other than keep going and put my foot down. In the short time I’d been detained in the tailback, the traffic had got strung out like beads on a string and the faster-moving Touareg was long gone.
I called up Lindsay.
‘Go ahead, Watchman.’
‘I need a fix on the Touareg,’ I told her. ‘We got separated by a military roadblock. Any ideas?’
‘I have them on the screen, Watchman. I’d say about thirty-five miles ahead of your location and travelling fast. Are you in the clear?’ She was referring to the roadblock.
‘Yes, I am. What’s the other traffic like? They were several places in front of me until now.’
‘They have a lot of traffic behind them and a reasonably clear road ahead.’
‘Thanks for that. Listen, I have another question. Wherever Counselor is going, it has to be somewhere specific and safe for meeting up with somebody. He probably doesn’t know where that is yet, but somebody on our side might have that information … or at least might know somebody who does.’
‘I understand. I’ll get on it. Do you have someone in mind?’
‘Tom Vale. The British have been operating here for years, both commercially and in other ways. They have people who probably know the area well. Ask him for me, will you? The more I know about likely meeting places around here, the better. Counselor is currently heading north, and I get the feeling it won’t be any of the obvious locations. Callahan will know what I mean. Wherever this is going down – if it is going down – it will be somewhere quiet and away from the usual spots. It means a location the main man would know about but not his entourage.’
‘Copy that. I’ll call Vale now. He’s here in New York so he’ll probably want to call you back himself.’
I thanked her and disconnected, then focussed on driving. Tzorekov and Gurov had done the clever thing and used the impact of the roadblock to pile on the speed once they were free and clear, and to power past the slower trucks the same way that I was doing now, only a lot further back. I wondered why they had shot ahead. If they had a definite destination in mind, it was either still quite a way off, in which case they were simply getting impatient, or something must have spooked them into putting a foot on the gas.
Yet speed at this point made no sense, if what Lindsay had said earlier about Putin’s agenda was correct. I was willing to bet the Moscow veterans’ parade was carved in stone, since there would be too much to lose for Putin to show disrespect by not being there. Even if he cut short the visit to the troops in Kursk, I doubted he’d be able to make it to this region until the day after tomorrow.
But that left a whole lot of north-western Russia for a potential meeting place. And something told me it would not be where any of us expected.
I decided to risk it and keep up the speed. If the two men got too far ahead of me, without the tracking signal I’d never find them again in this vastly wooded region. Searching side turnings and tracks in the hopes that I’d happen on their trail would take forever, and with the light soon beginning to fade, that would be a no-go, anyway.
And all the time whatever opposition forces might be on their way here to stop them would be getting closer and closer.
It took over an hour for the tracker light to come on again. When it did, it showed the Touareg was just a few of miles ahead of me and not moving.
I slowed down. If they were doing what I suspected, they’d have stopped to check their back-trail. Both men would have been well aware of what they were up against coming here, and after travelling at speed to get this far, they must have begun to wonder if it could really be this simple.
A lot of the earlier traffic, just like the rain, had thinned out by now, and the road itself, once again bordered by acres of dense conifers on each side after miles of near-open countryside and a broad river crossing, had developed occasional wider stretches of verge. It opened the surroundings to more light and the less oppressive feel of travelling in a long tunnel. I’d passed two small truck pull-ins and a police post, the former temptingly near to getting me in for a quick coffee and some food, the latter less so, but I decided to press on. With the rations I had on board, I wasn’t about to starve or dehydrate.
I checked the map, which showed a turn-off to the left. It ran north-west towards the eastern shore of Lake Ladoga and a town called Olonets. From there the road ran all the way north to the top of the lake before veering north-east towards what would ultimately become the Kola Peninsula, or cutting off west again towards the Finnish border crossing near Nirala.
If Tzorekov was playing very cute, he might be close to doubling back by going right round Lake Ladoga counter-clockwise and eventually reaching Lake Komsomolskoye – which was where he might have been heading all along. But somehow I didn’t get that feeling. They had now spent several hours on the open road, all the time vulnerable to interception if the opposition had got their asses in gear. By heading direct for the suspected meeting place – if that’s where it was going to be – they’d have been able to get close and off the road with plenty of time to sit it out in relative safety and wait for the signal to go in.
I looked at the tracker. It showed the Touareg was ahead of me by a couple of miles but now moving at a consistent rate. It was almost on top of the turn-off and I had a side bet about what they would do, hoping it would be to stay on this road. I slowed some more, giving them plenty of space.
Seconds later they were passing the turn-off and continuing north. I’d won my bet.