AKTAU, RUSSIA
Corrine sat in the small room, waiting for Dolov to reappear. She had her lawyer face on, assuming that she was being observed, and well aware that anything she said might tell the FSB considerably more than she wished. She sat alone in the room for more than an hour, head up, eyes straight, knowing that Dolov’s absence was part of the interrogation process.
Finally, the door swung open. Dolov and the woman who had checked her pocketbook earlier entered. The FSB officer apologized for keeping her waiting, saying that he had to locate a female guard so he could talk to her.
“There’s no need for that,” said Corrine.
“I have to follow the law,” said Dolov. He brushed his hand across his scalp, where he was going prematurely bald. He squinted, then bobbed his head; finally he put his finger to his chin. “The airplane that landed to pick you up—and we do know it’s here for you, Ms. Alston—is contracted to a company that works with the American CIA.”
Corrine considered what to do. As an attorney, her advice to a client would be to say nothing. But would that help her now?
“Well I’m not with the CIA,” she said.
Dolov clearly did not believe her. Corrine realized she needed to find out why he’d stopped her—the fact that they thought she was a CIA officer wouldn’t ordinarily be reason to stop her. Were they just sending some sort of message, hassling a suspected agent for passing through the territory? How was the game played? She had no feel for the rules.
She was out of her element. She was a lawyer, not a spy.
Except that she was; her boss had made her one.
“Do you always accuse Americans of working for the CIA?” she said finally.
“Two days ago, a very dangerous man was broken out of prison near Groznyy,” said Dolov. “The CIA was involved.”
“That’s terrible,” she said. “But what does that have to do with me?”
Dolov said nothing.
Corrine realized that she had to give him something, a story he could use to justify letting her go. But saying anything meant taking a risk. If she said something that didn’t check out, he might jail her for lying. And, of course, she couldn’t say anything that would jeopardize the others or the operation.
If you didn’t take risks, you didn’t succeed. That was what Ferguson was all about. He wasn’t a cowboy; he just existed in a system that demanded audacious risks.
“What were you doing in Kyrgyzstan?” asked Dolov. His voice was more aggressive than before; he wanted results, and he would modify his tactics until he got them.
“Mr. Dolov, perhaps we should be honest with each other,” she said.
“I would appreciate it,” said Dolov.
Corrine turned to the guard. “You’ll leave us, please,” she told the woman.
The guard looked at Dolov, who nodded.
“There is a train of radioactive waste, heading toward Kyrgyzstan. When it left Buzuluk, there were five boxcars that were not part of the removal operation. Now there are four,” she said.
“Boxcars?”
“They must have some way of slipping one or two of the
waste casks into the other cars. The regular shipments proceed untouched. They’re heavily guarded and all accounted for.”
“How do you know?” he said. Only now was it clear to her that he was indeed interested.
“I followed it. You didn’t think I turned up in Kyrgyzstan by accident, did you?”
“From Buzuluk?”
“Near there.”
“Why would you follow the train if you’re not CIA?”
“Certain organizations are interested in what happens to the waste.”
“Such as?”
“Greenpeace, among others.”
“If I run your name against one of our databases, you won’t appear?”
“No.”
“And I suppose the aircraft that has come to meet you wasn’t hired by the CIA?”
“I have no idea. It may very well be. I daresay that the Russian government has paid for some of our arrangements as well. Radioactive waste is an important problem for all mankind.”
Dolov remained convinced that she was lying, but the missing boxcar was nonetheless a matter of great interest.
“Where did the waste go?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be leaving,” she said. “It simply disappeared soon after entering Kyrgyzstan.”
“Were Chechens involved?” he asked.
“Chechens?” She shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. I just know it’s gone.”
Dolov began rocking gently on his heels. Radiological waste was an important issue, more so because of the escape of the prisoner. The woman’s information was extremely valuable—assuming it checked out.
Corrine had given Dolov the story he needed, but she now had to give him a reason to let her go.
“What prisoner did you lose?” she asked. “And where was he lost?”
She saw the inspector’s face flicker with fear for a brief second as he connected the two events. It went from that to a blank officiousness. He was worried that she really was from Greenpeace and that he had told her too much.
And then he smiled.
“Let me make a phone call. Perhaps our misunderstanding can disappear.”