Chapter Nineteen
Moscow, Russia
December 4, 11:40 a.m.
Max told them they were going to an FSB safe house so they could interrogate a member of the Islamic Devotion Movement. Bashir Sardalov—one of the Movement’s couriers—had been detained a few days ago, along with three accomplices. He was the man whose name Zakir had mentioned as a potential intelligence source.
“Why did Derzhavin lie to us about Bashir?” asked Justin. “Was he trying to drive a hard bargain or did he truly have no intention of helping us?”
“I’m not sure.” Max shook his head. “Given the current state of our relations, the coldest since the Cold War, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the latter.”
“But these terrorists, all terrorists, they target Russia as much as any Western country and even more because of Russia’s unique position. It’s in the interests of the US, Canada, and Russia to fight terrorism everywhere, all the time,” Becca said.
“I agree,” Max said. “But Derzhavin is old school. The school that taught us to hate Americans, who were our greatest enemy.” He grinned.
“What has Bashir given you so far?” asked Justin.
“The names of some members and their hideouts in Russia and Chechnya. We’ve made several arrests based on his information.”
“What about the terrorists’ plans to attack America?” asked Becca.
“He hasn’t volunteered anything and we haven’t interrogated him about that. We had only a general idea something was in the works but no details. Hopefully, he’ll have the information you need to disrupt their plans.”
“What sort of deal has the FSB made with Bashir?” Becca asked.
“A deal?”
“Yes. What have you promised him in return?”
Max smiled. “We’ve promised him nothing. You know, we Russians and you Americans and Canadians are not very different.”
Justin said, “You’ve tortured him?”
Max raised his left eyebrow. “I’m offended by the question,” he said in a low voice. “The detainee has cooperated of his own free will. Well, we may have used some ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ to give him a little bit of an incentive.” He grinned.
Becca shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’re no different,” she said with a sigh.
Max stayed on Leninsky Prospect for the next few minutes as they drove toward the south. Justin could not see Fyodor’s silver Nissan in the rearview mirror, or any other car that seemed to be following them. He wondered for a moment if Fyodor had fallen behind, then dismissed that thought with a headshake. Fyodor could shadow a target without being noticed and had proven to be a very good agent.
“How far until the safe house?” Justin asked.
“It’s not too far away. A couple of intersections, then three blocks to the right,” Max said. His left hand was on the steering wheel while he was checking his iPhone with the other hand.
Justin squinted but could not see the tiny letters on the iPhone screen. He wished Max would pay more attention to the vehicles on the road than to his one-handed texting. Cars, trucks, and vans were swerving left and right, in and out of their lane, vying to gain a few seconds, coming dangerously close to their front bumper. Regardless of the four lanes in each direction, the road was packed and the traffic moved at a slow pace, especially when they came to major intersections.
Justin looked out the window at the rows of Communist-era apartment complexes lining both sides of this section of the avenue. They were drab, gray, and sad, like the overall mood of the city.
Leninsky Prospect carried the name of one of the leaders of the October Revolution of 1917 and the founder of the Soviet state. Lenin was also one of the main people responsible for the creation of the first Soviet secret service shortly after the revolution—the notorious Cheka or Extraordinary Commission of the Bolshevik government—and the ensuing Red Terror against their enemies as a response to a failed assassination against Lenin in August 1918. The memorable phrase, “A good Communist is also a good Chekist,” summed up Lenin’s opinion about the secret service and its position in the new Soviet society. Justin had the feeling the opinion lived on, albeit in a slightly different shape: a good politician is one who has good ties to the FSB.
The Audi crossed over into a newly-developed section with tall apartment and office towers, some of which were thirty or more stories high. A McDonald’s fast food restaurant sat next to a construction site surrounded by heavy machinery and a host of construction workers buzzing around like worker bees. The new masters of Moscow, oil oligarchs, and their ever-expanding businesses, were at the top of their capitalism game, proudly displaying their expensive glass and marble towers right on Leninsky Prospect. Lenin must be rolling over in his grave, Justin thought.
“We’re right behind there.” Max pointed to the left, then slammed on the brakes and pushed down on the horn as a black van cut in front of them from the right lane. “What a stupid jerk!”
“Why is Bashir held in a safe house and not a prison?” Carrie asked.
“Good question. I guess my best answer would be that we’re not the only ones who know Bashir has been arrested.”
Justin met Max’s look in the rearview mirror. There was a glint of uneasiness in the man’s blue eyes.
“You’re worried Chechen terrorists will try to break him out?” Justin asked.
Max tightened his grip around the steering wheel. “I’m not worried,” he said calmly, “and those Chechen cockroaches will not make a move. Not now, not in the middle of Moscow.”
“So who are these other people?” Becca asked.
Max looked at her for a few moments. She had turned sideways toward him, her face just a few inches away from his. Max sighed, then said, “It’s the GRU, the Main Intel—”
“Intelligence Directorate, the military intel agency,” said Justin.
“Why would the GRU want Bashir?” asked Carrie.
“They suffered many casualties in Chechnya during the wars and even more recently. The Minister of Defense was assassinated by the Movement, so the GRU is out for revenge. They believe Bashir can help them track the people who planned that assassination,” Max said.
Justin nodded. He was familiar with the ever-present rivalry between the GRU and other Russian secret services. The GRU had always been independent from the rest of the intelligence community.
“But if the FSB hands over Bashir, you will not see him anymore, right?” Justin asked.
“Right. The GRU is extremely powerful, very well connected, and with a wide network of operatives inside and outside the country. It survived the transition from the Soviet Union to the Russian Federation, unlike the KGB. Its chief has strong ties to the President.”
Justin nodded. A slight frown appeared on his face. He did not want to be caught in the middle of this war of elephants.
Max continued, “The GRU is concerned about its own personal issues, but we at the FSB are looking at the big picture. We’re watching out for the security of the entire country, not just of its military or high officials.”
“And no one at the GRU knows about Bashir or this safe house?” Carrie asked with a hint of suspicion.
Max shook his head. “If they did, the piranhas from the aquarium would be tearing him apart alive.”
Justin nodded. He understood the “aquarium” reference to the GRU headquarters. The agency had moved to a new, modern building a few years back, but still many people called the agency by its old headquarters’ name.
Max switched on the turn signal and made a left turn at the next intersection. They left Leninsky Prospect behind and turned into a narrow road. They passed a gas station followed by a strip mall and Max went around the next apartment building, an old, unimposing six-story Communist relic. He parked on the street corner, a block away from the apartment’s entrance, next to a Toyota and an old Ford.
“We’re on the second floor, but the windows are on the other side.” Max pointed to the left as they walked through the half-full parking lot.
Justin took in all the surrounding details, familiarizing himself with the area and calculating a possible escape route in case of an emergency. There were two entrances on this side of the apartment building. A small pathway led to the back toward a children’s park and another higher residential tower. On the other side, a similar pathway headed toward the street and the intersection.
Two young women were leaving the parking lot in a blue Mazda. One of them—the brunette in the passenger seat—glanced in their direction and seemed to give him a playful wink. A middle-aged man wrapped in a gray coat was walking toward the apartment building, carrying two large grocery bags. An old woman was scraping some of the snow from the sidewalk in front of the entrance with a shovel. She stopped, straightened up her feeble frame, and greeted them. Max and Justin greeted her back, while Carrie and Becca just nodded.
Max unlocked the entrance gate while Justin threw a last sweeping gaze at the area. He did not see Fyodor’s car but hoped Fyodor had not lost the shining Audi and at this very moment was staring at them from somewhere across the parking lot.
“Everything’s okay?” Max asked.
“Yes, let’s go,” Justin replied.
They climbed the stairs. The hall was dark, dingy, and narrow, with concrete stairs that had some missing chunks. It stank of alcohol and garlic.
They stopped in front of a solid metal door. It had been painted white, but some of the paint had chipped away, especially around the doorknob and the deadbolt. Max lifted his hand to knock, but Justin stopped him.
“Wait, who’s inside?” he whispered.
“My partner Ilia and Bashir.”
“And Ilia knows we’re coming with you?”
Max stepped away from the apartment door and closer to Justin. “Look, Ilia doesn’t know of my special relation with the CIA. He’s expecting me to bring three American colleagues so we can share some intelligence with them, as we have done in the past. He’s not aware Derzhavin or anyone else in the FSB has not approved of this visit.”
“And he will not double-check?” Carrie asked in a hushed voice.
“No, he won’t. He got this job because of me and I give him orders. He trusts me and I trust him to keep his mouth shut.”
Justin hesitated for a moment. He always got tense when people used the word “trust.” He needed evidence, not the word of an FSB agent he had just met. Becca was vouching for him, but Justin was not completely sure about her loyalty either.
“This is not a trap, Justin,” Becca said. “Bashir has some valuable intel. We go in, we collect it, we get out.”
It’s never that easy, Justin thought, but did not say a word. I should go with my gut feeling and get out of here. But what Bashir may tell us could save a lot of lives.
He glanced at the door. “Fine. We’ve got ten minutes. The FSB knows we’ve shaken their surveillance and they may suspect we’ve come here.”
Max began to open his mouth, but shook his head and shrugged. “Let’s go,” he said.
Justin followed right behind him, feeling like he was walking into a minefield.