Donetsk, early morning
Two burly men in civilian clothes drove Tolevi back to the city. They were quiet the whole way, but it didn’t take much to guess that they were Russians. The fact that they weren’t hiding their faces was a good sign, he thought: it meant they felt he had been sufficiently cowed not to be of further trouble.
It might also mean that they were going to kill him. He tried not to think about that possibility.
Whatever they were thinking, the less they knew about him, the better. The hotel key card was generic enough that it might not have been recognized; even if it had, a little misdirection might be useful. So he told the men to take him to the Ramada, which was on Shevchenka Boulevard near the reservoir. They dropped him there and took off quickly, not even bothering to wait until he entered the building.
Aside from the fact that the hotel was in eastern Ukraine—or the Donetsk People’s Republic—it was similar to every other Ramada on the planet. Tolevi went inside, nodded at the sleepy desk clerk, then walked over to the large coffeepot set up at the far end of the lobby. He filled a cup, then went out to the patio near the pool to sit, as if he were waiting for someone. He was surprised to find that his jaw, although painful as hell, was working. Maybe it wasn’t broken after all.
What he was really doing was sorting himself out. He’d lost his prepaid phone; he’d need a new one. Using either the sat phone or his regular cell, which were both back at the hotel, was now out of the question while he was in the city. The Russians used scanning technology just like the Americans; they might not be quite as sophisticated, but even they could figure out how to snag his number, location, and even conversations.
Without the documents permitting him to bring the drugs in, there was no sense contacting the men he’d planned to deal with. He’d only be putting them in danger, and at best he’d be cutting off the possibility of future deals. So that part of his trip was over.
SVR would not be happy. But they could take that up with the bearded Spetsnaz general.
More likely a colonel. Tolevi decided he would think of him as a colonel, though the man had not made his rank clear.
Were the Russians following him? The two men who’d dropped him off seemed not to care very much about him, but that could easily be a ruse.
Maybe they knew everything.
It was easy to get too paranoid, to let fear freeze you.
On the other hand, he had narrowly escaped death. The Russian operation against the loyalists had saved him.
But was that an accident? Or was that even part of a plan?
Too much thinking. Stop.
The coffee was terrible. Tolevi rose and dumped it on the concrete. He walked through the lobby and back out to the street, where he checked his watch.
Five past five.
Too early to see Fodor.
He decided he would get something to eat, then collect his luggage and ask the old man for a ride to the border. Surely he knew a way across.
Get home and regroup. He’d come up with something else for Medved.
It was a decent walk to the Donbass Hotel, a bit over twenty minutes. The air was still damp, but the predawn sky showed the clouds were breaking up; Tolevi guessed it would be a decent spring day once the sun came up. He imagined himself showing Borya Ukraine—not this Ukraine but the Ukraine of his youth.
An improbable dream now, but these idiots couldn’t stay at war forever; remove Putin and the conflict would likely evaporate. And Putin wasn’t as secure as the West believed.
Yes, but he would die before giving up power willingly? What Russian would?
Tolevi was lost in his thoughts as he neared the hotel. It was the fatigue and the calmness that came with having a plan. In a place like Donetsk—in any place really, given his profession—it was very dangerous, and he realized it as soon as he entered the lobby and saw Dan rising from a couch to confront him.
“You’re up,” said Tolevi in Russian, as matter-of-factly as he could muster. “I thought we weren’t meeting for another hour and a half.”
“Where have you been?”
“Just a walk,” said Tolevi. “Have you had breakfast?”
The other man glared at him. He had the look of someone who thought he’d been cheated, or about to be cheated.
“Come on,” added Tolevi. “Let’s get coffee and food.”
“Where?” demanded Dan.
“There’s a good place across the street,” said Tolevi. “Come.”
The café where he’d stopped the afternoon before was not yet open, but another shop farther along the block was. The owner was clearly a morning person; he greeted the two men warmly and struck up a conversation with Tolevi about how difficult it was to find good coffee anymore.
As the man went on with his complaints, Tolevi slyly eyed Dan. The driver’s anger had started to dissipate, but his body language said he didn’t trust Tolevi. That wasn’t particularly surprising, and in a way it was reassuring—he wasn’t trying to hide his feelings, which told Tolevi that he wasn’t working for the Russians at least, or probably anyone else.
But it didn’t mean Tolevi could trust him either.
He wouldn’t turn on him as long as he was expecting to be paid, Tolevi decided. After that, though . . .
Another customer came into the shop, and the owner ended the conversation.
“He talks a lot,” said Dan.
“Everyone has a story.”
“For all his complaints, you would think his coffee would be better.”
“It’s about what I had in Russia.”
“No. Russian coffee is better.”
Tolevi stirred his cup. The coffee wasn’t particularly good.
An opportunity?
“You know, driving a few suitcases of coffee over the border might be a good idea for you,” he suggested to the Russian. “You might be able to pick up some extra money.”
“Too risky.”
“No riskier than driving me across. Less.”
Dan shrugged.
“What if you had a permit?” asked Tolevi.
“Where would I get that?”
“Do you go across the borders a lot?”
“Enough.”
“Do you go west?”
“Into Ukraine? Of course.”
Just then a pair of twenty-something women entered the shop and came toward their table. Tolevi changed the subject, commenting on how pretty they looked. Dan glanced at them, then said they were nothing special.
“Maybe you’re right.” Tolevi pretended to agree. “I’m just deprived.”
“The beautiful women are in Crimea,” said Dan. “That’s the place to see them.”
“I agree with that.”
“You’ve been to Crimea recently?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Their breakfast came: rolls with mystery meat. It had a strong taste that hinted of sour anchovies; Tolevi ate anyway. He’d missed dinner and was operating on no sleep, something that always made him hungry. He hoped he wouldn’t pay for it later.
If the taste bothered Dan, it wasn’t obvious. He cleaned his plate in two gulps.
“I can get you to Crimea if you want,” offered the driver.
“It’s a long way,” said Tolevi.
“We can go directly. A few hours.”
Before the war, driving from Donetsk to the isthmus would have taken at least six hours. Now, assuming one could get across the two borders and make it through the potentially dangerous area in between, Tolevi reckoned it would be at least ten.
“How?” he asked Dan.
“I have a friend with a boat.”
“Where?”
“If you are serious, then we’ll talk about it,” said Dan. “You don’t need details. And you will have to pay.”
“No, I don’t need details. You’re right.”
“You want to leave today?”
Tolevi took a final sip of his coffee, working the small grinds that had been at the bottom of the cup around his tongue. Was the driver’s offer a trap?
“I have some things to do,” he told Dan, pulling out some rubles to pay. “Let’s see how the day goes before we decide.”