Chapter Fifteen

 

 

Federal Security Service Headquarters, Moscow, Russia

December 4, 10:05 a.m.

 

Their briefing with Alexander Derzhavin was scheduled to take place at ten o’clock in one of the FSB conference rooms. Justin, Carrie, and Becca had arrived straight from the Vnukovo Airport after their short flight earlier that morning from Vilnius. Maxim Levin, an FSB Special Agent, had met them downstairs and had escorted them to the conference room. They sat around a large, rustic wood table and waited for Deputy Director Derzhavin to join them for their meeting.

Justin ran his eyes around the room. It seemed to have been recently renovated, with new dark red hardwood flooring. A large projector was mounted to the ceiling and a roll-up projector screen was fastened over a whiteboard across from the table. Two large flat-screen TVs were set on top of a side table near one of the corners, and Justin assumed they served for a video conference connection.

Then his eyes fell on Maxim, who had insisted they call him Max. He was in his late twenties or early thirties. His face was clean-shaven and he had pale white skin with an explosion of freckles that made him look younger. He had cut his reddish-blonde hair short in a high and tight style, which defined his face and his strong jawline.

“They just finished remodeling this room along with most of the offices on this floor,” Max said, pointing to the table and the floor. “This one was handmade in St. Petersburg.” He tapped lightly on the table.

Justin ran his hand along the edge of the table, observing the detailed handiwork and wondering about its cost. It looked and felt expensive. FSB offices were generally equipped with just basic, practical furniture without much thought given to luxury. But this was a meeting place with foreign representatives and it had to reflect the image of Russia’s power and pride. Like in our offices, Justin thought, when conference rooms have all the expensive tables and electronics.

“It’s amazing,” Justin said. “And it matches so well with the rest.”

Max nodded. “That’s what they’re trying to do, keep most of the original flavor of the building, in both exterior and interior renovations.”

His English had a very slight trace of an accent that sounded like it could be from anywhere in Eastern Europe.

Max said, “You know this building is over a hundred years old. It was completed in 1900 and it hosted apartments and offices, mostly of the insurance company that owned it. The prison and other structures in the back were built later, after the government nationalized the building.”

“When did the FSB take over?” asked Carrie.

She had set her yellow notepad and her pen in front of her.

“The KGB moved here back in the eighties, I don’t remember the exact year. We came after the KGB’s dissolution.”

Justin nodded.

A tense silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by Becca’s tapping on her tablet’s keyboard. Then the door opened and a small man entered the conference room. He was dressed in a nice-fitting gray suit, white shirt, and a gray and white tie. Most of his gray hair had fallen out, leaving him with two uneven patches at the sides of his head. He had small black eyes that reflected a strong feeling of impatience mixed with anger.

Justin recognized him as Derzhavin, Deputy Director of the FSB’s Special Purpose Center. The name of his directorate was Service to Protect the Constitutional System and Combat Terrorism. In the old KGB times, there had been two directorates charged with this task. The first one was the infamous Fifth Directorate, which hunted dissidents and political enemies of the state. The second one was Directorate K, which dealt with fighting actual terrorists, their activities, and their threats. Derzhavin had worked for the latter for almost ten years, before moving up the ranks of the FSB.

“An urgent matter came up and tied my hands,” Derzhavin said in a cold, unapologetic voice as he hurriedly moved toward them. His English was flawless and there was no trace of an accent.

They all stood up and shook hands while Justin introduced Derzhavin to his team.

“How was your flight?” Derzhavin asked when they had all sat down. He had taken the seat right across from Justin.

“Excellent.” Justin straightened the front of his black jacket and his black tie.

“No turbulence?”

“No.”

“That’s rare. I always find turbulence when I travel to the United States.”

Justin was not sure if Derzhavin was referring to actual flight conditions or using a metaphor, so he just nodded and smiled.

Derzhavin took a couple of manila folders out of his briefcase, then tapped his outside jacket pockets. He grinned as he found what he was looking for and slipped out a pair of metal-framed reading glasses with double brow bar. He used only his left hand to put them on, while flipping through the first folder.

“So, Mr. Hall, we’re here to exchange intelligence on Chechen terrorists’ activities in our countries’, well, let’s say jurisdictions, since we have representatives from both Canada and the US.” He gestured toward Becca. “Why don’t you let me know what you have?”

“Sure, thank you.” Justin opened one of his folders and passed a document to Derzhavin and a copy to Max. “This is an intelligence report on terrorists’ recent activities in the United States. As you can see from the first and the second pages, a few arrests have been made and some people are being questioned as we speak.”

Derzhavin glanced at the document. He took a moment to underline a couple of things on the first page, then moved on to the second page.

“The report is accurate as of yesterday morning,” Justin continued. “We’ll receive another update later on today, which we will share with you, of course. The CIA and the CIS are fully committed to cooperating in exchanging all intelligence on our common enemy.” Justin underlined “all” more than was necessary.

Derzhavin seemed to have missed the added emphasis. He scratched his round jaw, then said, “Save me some time and give me the specifics of these reports, and tell me something I don’t know. We are already familiar with these arrests in Los Angeles and with general plans to attack our airports. Has there been any progress in your interrogations of these suspects?”

Justin looked over at Becca and nodded at her.

“One of the construction workers is Vahit Tagirov. He gave the police false IDs, so it took a while to find out his true identity. Our understanding is that Tagirov fought in the Second Chechen War and is wanted for organizing a few ambushes against Russian troops during mopping-up operations in southern Chechnya. It is still unclear how Tagirov made his way into the US but we’re looking into that. We would be more than happy to extradite Tagirov to Russia so he can face justice.”

Derzhavin nodded but there was no hint of satisfaction in his small, reddish face. He was obviously expecting more.

Becca said, “The second construction worker, Omar Al Yami, is a Saudi who fought alongside Chechen rebels in the First and the Second Chechen Wars. Both these men have admitted to an impending attack within the United States, but we still don’t have the location. Our officers are searching for a third suspect who fled from his apartment.”

“That’s it?” Derzhavin sounded utterly disappointed. He removed his glasses and tossed them over the folder. Without waiting for their reply he added, “If we were interrogating them, the results would have been more satisfactory.”

Becca nodded. “Maybe. As I said earlier, we can extradite both suspects to you, if you submit an extradition request. But that’s going to take some time.”

Derzhavin snorted. “The CIA’s rendition flights are full? Why don’t you throw these two terrorists into a plane, fly them to a black site, and waterboard them until they give you some intelligence that is worthy of my time?”

Justin’s face stayed calm and emotionless, as if he were anticipating Derzhavin’s sarcastic remarks. He said, “That wouldn’t be necessary, sir. We already have a detainee at a black site who has given us some intelligence. Why don’t you have a quick look at this file?”

Justin slid across the table a copy of the report containing the transcription of Zamir’s interrogation. He waited until Derzhavin had put on his glasses, then said, “On page one, paragraph three, according to a mid-ranking member of the Islamic Devotion Movement, terrorists are plotting to hijack a plane and fly it into the Pulkovo International Airport, St. Petersburg. According to our source, it will be either a charter plane or a plane flown from an Arab country, and it will hit Terminal 2, targeting international travelers. Near the bottom of page two, there are names of some members of the Movement and locations where you may find them.”

Derzhavin was absorbing Justin’s words and the information in the file. He was nodding slightly, while putting asterisks next to the relevant sections Justin was bringing to his attention.

Max was jittery, swiveling in his chair. “Do you have another copy?” he asked.

“Sorry, I only brought one,” Justin replied.

“When’s this attack planned for?” Derzhavin asked, his eyes still glued to the report.

“We were told around Christmas, but that may change as a result of your crackdown on the militants’ activities,” Justin said. “We hear you’re crushing them.”

Derzhavin looked up. “Obviously not all of them. Who is your source? How trustworthy is this intelligence?” He moved the report along to Max, who began to skim through it.

Justin said, “Unfortunately, at this point, I can’t disclose the source’s name or the location where he is being held. That may change in the future. We have checked some of the intel and it’s genuine.”

“This is very significant,” Max said, tapping the report with his hand.

Derzhavin cast a scolding look in Max’s direction. I decide what is significant and what is not, Justin translated the meaning of that look.

“What else do you have, Mr. Hall?” Derzhavin said in a tired voice, as if all this work of reading reports was exhausting him.

Justin loosened his tie and pulled at his shirt collar. He leaned forward and placed both his hands on the table. “Our contact informed us that a certain man called Bashir Sardalov is a courier for the Islamic Devotion Movement. He should be in possession of information about the acts being plotted against the United States.”

“Oh, now the truth comes out.” Derzhavin fell back in his seat. “You’re giving me information so we can help you with your problem.”

Justin tilted his head. I thought that was obvious, since this is an intelligence exchange. He produced a small smile and tried to think of something positive. He said, “Our problem, our problem. These terrorists know no borders, no nationalities. To them, all infidels are fair game. They don’t even spare Muslims they consider expendable, or worry about collateral damage. They are not just the enemy of America, or Canada, or Russia. They are everyone’s enemy.”

“Very impressive,” Derzhavin said with a tiny hint of a smile on his face. A moment later, his face froze in a menacing grimace. “When did these Chechens become America’s enemy, Mr. Hall? We’ve been fighting them on and off for the last thirty years. We did it all on our own, without any help, any manpower, or any piece of intelligence from America. But now that they are active in the US, threatening their way of life and their democracy, now they are our common enemy. The US didn’t care about the waves of Chechen terrorism until it hit its shores.”

Justin remained silent. There was some truth in Derzhavin’s words but this was not the place or the time to debate policy decisions of the past.

Carrie gave a polite cough. Justin took the hint, looked in her direction, and motioned for her to speak. “Mr. Derzhavin, four Russians died at the Las Vegas casino explosion. Two of them were from Moscow, just visiting the US. While mistakes were made in the past, we cannot go back and fix them. But we can prevent such mistakes from happening again. We can work together to fight these terrorists both here in Russia and elsewhere in the world.”

Max opened his mouth, but Derzhavin cut him off with a headshake. “Do you have the location of this courier?”

“No, but we thought—”

“You thought a few more Russians could die to save your American citizens,” Derzhavin replied abruptly. “It’s not going to happen.”

Justin felt his patience was drawing near its end. He tried to keep calm and carry on, but he was finding it increasingly difficult because of the FSB Deputy Director’s dismissive attitude. His words were reinforcing Justin’s belief that they were not going to get any cooperation from the FSB. Justin struggled to find a shred of positivity in Derzhavin’s position, but he found none.

“Mr. Hall, what are you thinking about?”

Derzhavin’s voice brought him back from his deep thoughts. He frowned, swallowed hard, and said, “This is Russia, your land, your home. You have sole authority over operations hunting terrorists. But if you need any assistance, we would be more than—”

“That’s not going to happen either.” Derzhavin’s headshake emphasized his refusal. “No CIA or CIS agents are going on a covert or overt operation in my country.”

“And the courier and his intelligence?” Becca asked without waiting for a gesture from Justin.

“If and when we find this courier and if and when we find any valuable intelligence from him, we will handle it appropriately at the right time,” Derzhavin replied and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“So you’re not going to help us?” Becca said and looked at Derzhavin. Then her eyes moved on to Max and lingered on his face a moment longer than necessary, as if she was pleading for his assistance. “Even after we gave you all this intelligence?”

“This is a very unbalanced cooperation, Ms. Lewis. You’re bringing me some unverified confessions of a tortured man and in turn you’re asking for a wide operation to capture a suspected terrorist. I’m not going to put my men in harm’s way, and the risks overcome the benefits in this case. And we have nothing valuable to share with you at this moment.”

Becca’s face showed clearly her disappointment. Her lips were drawn back and her eyes had lost their hopeful glare. She tapped her tablet’s screen harder than necessary, then flipped its plastic cover shut with a loud, protesting thud.

Justin looked over at Carrie, who gave him a slight headshake. Then his eyes met Derzhavin’s. Their meeting was over.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Deputy Director,” Justin said and stood up. “We hope to hear from you very soon.” The words almost choked on the way out but Justin managed to say them, albeit without any conviction.

“My pleasure, Mr. Hall.” Derzhavin stood up and shook Justin’s hand. “We will contact the CIA as soon as it is possible. And one final word of caution: please do not interfere with our investigations. I know the CIA has this bad habit of meddling in the domestic affairs of other nations, and I hope they have not infected their Canadian partners.”

“Rest assured, sir, that they haven’t,” Justin said. He nodded, but the frown stayed on his face. They would not hear from Derzhavin or anyone else at the FSB until it was too late, until after the terrorists had launched their strike in the United States.

Justin was determined not to let that happen on his watch.