Black Ghosts (18 page)

Larry had been able to offer Edward one more resource for when he got to Moscow. “There's a guy I used to deal with occasionally, works as a staffer in the British Embassy. I was never too sure how reliable he was—hard to tell which side he's on. But he might come in handy if you need something in a hurry.” He gave Edward the man's name and number.

From the information Donoven had given to Larry over time, they knew the Black Ghosts had people working in just about every facet of Russian security, including customs and immigration at the major airports around Moscow. Given the possibility that Donoven had, before his death, given someone Edward's description—and Natalie's being on the hit list to start with—they had ruled out a regular flight into Moscow. With all that in mind, it made more sense to enter Russia by the back door.

“Alaska Air Flight 603 for Vladivostok is now ready for boarding,” announced the barely intelligible voice so unique to airports and hospitals. It varied in accent but always had the same sound and apparent echo. “Please have your boarding passes ready. People who need assistance in boarding, please notify the attendant at the gate.”

With very little pomp and ceremony, they were soon high above the Bering Sea in the McDonnell Douglas 80. The uniformly cold air made for a very smooth flight. The meal was the usual bland airline fare: The steward's description of the matter on the plate was the best way to find out what it was meant to be. Edward leafed through a magazine from the pouch in front of his seat while Natalie dozed, her head resting on his shoulder. Once again, he was struck by how she managed to make a perfectly natural action seem full of intimacy and promise. He was amazed at her ability to relax while on her way to what could very well be her doom. On every flight into battle there was always that one person who fell asleep, no matter how dangerous the mission, no matter how slim the chances of survival. Edward had often wondered whether it was stupidity or a phenomenal ability to suppress one's feelings.

“We are now crossing the Island of Sakhalin,” the pilot announced with the hint of a Southern twang, almost two hours into the flight. Edward, in the aisle seat, could barely see the land below. He was not going to wake up Natalie for that. From thirty thousand feet, most places had a tendency to look alike. Someone once told him that they blamed the map makers for all the problems this world had. If they would only separate the countries by lines and not paint each country in a different color, it wouldn't take people long to realize how stupid borders were in the first place. Even though he found that speech—which had been made with some pathos and a large amount of brandy—to be rather simplistic, it had a point.

Before long they approached mainland Russia and the administrative district of Khabarovsk. The plane veered slightly to the left, giving Edward a brief first glimpse of Russian soil. He vowed to tread very carefully until that shoreline was moving in the opposite direction. He felt like a blind man entering a bear's den and sitting himself on the bear's paw. No matter how friendly that bear may have become, it was still a bear.

The plane angled gently down and the announcement came that they were starting their decent into Vladivostok. Natalie stirred, murmured something warm and incomprehensible in Edward's ear, like a soft, purring cat. Then she awoke fully. Moving automatically, she drew a small powder case from her handbag and a lipstick, which she started to apply while staring into the small mirror in the case. With a jolt and a rumble of undercarriage, the plane touched down.

At first the sight was like that of any other insignificant airport where Edward had landed during his lengthy travels, until he saw the almost endless line of gleaming Ilyushin II-86 planes with the Russian flag painted on their tails. The big, wide-bodied aircraft looked like overstuffed Boeing 707s. Further down, Edward could see the Ilyushin II-76 transport planes. He recalled how, during the Cold War, these aircraft had been code-named “Candide” in Western intelligence reports, and getting this close to them meant you were in deep trouble. Things haven't changed much, he thought. Seeing their ominous silhouettes in the evening light, he was reminded again of the urgency of his mission. It was very possible, he thought, that because the war had not been fought and won on the battlefield but rather in the weary minds of politicians and on the backs of their own people, not everyone was aware that it was in fact over. It would take very little effort to turn the tide, making what was now an airline fleet back into an airborne armada.

Clearing customs in Vladivostok seemed to take forever. A stout bureaucrat in an unimpressive uniform examined each of their documents in turn, applying rubber stamps, initials, and signatures that probably served no real purpose except guaranteeing his children an employed parent. Unlike many of its former satellite states, Russia does not allow foreigners complete freedom of movement within its borders. Fortunately, Joe Falco had found the right person to help them, and Edward's visa and other documentation had come through very quickly. Natalie already had a visa from her stint as a reporter in Moscow, which was still not officially over.

Once the surly official was done with them, they rechecked their baggage aboard Aeroflot Flight 219 to Novosibirsk and settled once again into the uncomfortable seats to wait. There was nothing to do in that giant complex but sit and stare at the huge murals of the workers and peasants, all smiling with joy as they brought the abundant fruits of their labors to be shared by all, under the warm glowing sun and the red flag with its golden hammer and sickle. Edward couldn't shake the feeling that he was in enemy territory. And indeed, the enemy was here, although not in power—for the moment.

 

 

 

Along with several hundred other people who looked almost like refugees with all their belongings, they waited on the platform of the Novosibirsk train station at the foot of a huge bridge that spanned the Ob River. The train was late. It seemed to Edward that, over the last few days, most of his time had been spent waiting. Natalie sat on the bench beside him, reading a paperback novel. Since they had started this trip, a relaxed, silent relationship had developed between them, which Edward found so much easier than having to make conversation all the time.

In the distance, a train whistle blew. The people on the platform began to get to their feet and busy themselves with bags and bundles and the occasional suitcase that had undoubtedly seen better times. Several minutes later, the Trans-Siberian Express moved with agonizing slowness into view at the end of the long stretch of rail. The electric engine rumbled into the station, pulling behind it a motley collection of different-colored cars, like a dance troupe in perfect step but out of costume.

Natalie translated the silver Cyrillic lettering on the sides of the cars: “Moscow-Vladivostok. Here, this is ours.” She pointed to the gray car, third from the front of the train.

They had been lucky to get a berth on the train, luckier still that it was a first-class cabin with twin bunks and a shower. Taking the train had been Natalie's suggestion: Although their visas were good, the rest of the extensive travel documentation needed for the trip might not stand up to close scrutiny, and security on the train was lax. Unless you looked or sounded like a Chechen or someone from the Caucasus, she explained, no one bothered you.

With some people still on the platform loading their baggage into the crowded cars, the heavy iron wheels clinked on the tracks and the train began to move forward.

Edward lay on his bunk. Within a few minutes the rocking motion of the train had lulled him into a gentle sleep, which came as a sweet relief after the hours of waiting.

On the bunk below, Natalie lay awake, looking out the window as the taiga, the endless forest of the Russian hinterland, slipped by. This train, she felt, was like Russia itself, hurtling forward into the night, guided by the immutable, inexorable steel rails of destiny, taking its passengers whither it would, callously indifferent to their own wishes and hopes for what lay in store at journey's end.

The clinking of the wheels and the rhythmic movement of the car echoed her thoughts with every mile the train covered. At last she sighed, resting her head on the pillow, and she, too, slept.

By 7 a.m. the train had reached Sverdlovsk. They had decided to stay on board, even though the stop was to last three hours. Many of the passengers who could barely afford the ride and could not bear the cost of meals on board got off to purchase food. They saw them coming back an hour or two later with a few pieces of fruit or loaves of bread.

At 10 sharp, after almost two full minutes of deafening whistle blowing, the train continued westward toward Perm and Kirov. Edward and Natalie spent their time watching the monotonous view, reading and sitting in the train's modest dining car, eating food that made Edward sorry he hadn't finished his meal on the plane. There was no coffee, so they made do with lukewarm, diluted hot chocolate. With the help of the phrase book, Natalie also gave Edward some coaching in Russian.

By the end of the first day, their conversation started taking on a much more personal tone. Being alone in the crowd, and she his only link short of hand signals, seemed to strengthen a bond between them. She told him more about her life and gently questioned him about his.

She had been born in St. Petersburg when it was still called Leningrad. When she was four, her father, a diplomat, received a posting to Washington. A few months after they arrived, he was called back to Moscow. Natalie stayed behind with her mother who, as was the case with most Soviet diplomats' families, also had a job at the embassy. They didn't hear from him for a few weeks. Then her mother was informed that her father had a medical problem and that the family should return to Russia. Suspecting the reason her husband had been called back and not heard from since was that he had been involved with an American woman who was working for a U.S. intelligence agency, Natalie's mother knew she would be returning to a very unsure future, both for herself and her daughter. After they had packed all their meager belongings, and less than an hour before the car from the embassy was to pick them up and drive them to the airport, Natalie's mother, leaving everything behind, called a cab. Then, from a pay phone across the street from the White House, she contacted the State Department and requested assistance to defect.

After more than a month spent in a hotel in Miami, where the mother was extensively debriefed, the State Department finalized their status and helped them relocate to Nebraska.

“Years later,” she said, her voice quavering, her eyes filled with moisture, “we found out that he was imprisoned, interrogated, and executed within a few days of arriving back in Moscow. When they told us to go back, my father was already dead.” She looked away through the window. The Ural Mountains slid past, indifferent to the train and its cargo. Edward moved closer and gently took her hand. After a short pause, she continued her story.

Her mother remarried, allying herself with a wealthy cattle rancher. Natalie was sent to a private school in New Hampshire and later to Columbia University, where she studied journalism. After graduating, she had gone back to Omaha for a while, gathering experience working on a local paper, doing odd jobs. She wanted to get a job on her own merit and not have one bought for her with her stepfather's name and money. But that turned out to be more difficult than she had expected. She had the talent; all she needed was a break. As she had never exchanged a word of English with her mother, even though they both spoke it fluently, her Russian was flawless.

Edward listened with increasing fascination. In the forced intimacy of their shared quarters, they had at first been excessively polite and circumspect. Then they had broken that barrier and developed a cheerful, almost boisterous camaraderie that alleviated the boredom of the journey. Looking at her now, in her long, oversized T-shirt and dark blue jeans, Edward gradually became acutely aware of how much he desired her. He wondered idly how this would affect their operational effectiveness.

 

 

 

Natalie was asleep on the lower bunk when the train pulled into Kirov. Edward knew there would be a four-hour stopover here. The fact that she was asleep worked to his advantage as he wanted to pay someone a visit, alone. He moved about very quietly. Since they had spent most of the night talking, she was not likely to wake up yet. He left a note on the washstand before leaving, saying he should be back shortly.

Joe Falco had given him the address. There was no phone number—this was strictly face-to-face business. The address was of a Russian veteran of Afghanistan, a counterpart to the Vietnam vets in the States. Joe had gotten in touch with him through a friend who used to fly for Air America in its heyday, when it was the semi-official airline of the CIA. The pilot had been flying supplies in to the Mujahedeen rebels fighting the Soviet-backed puppet government in Kabul.

The pilot had introduced Falco to some Soviets who were searching for their “Missing In Action,” or MIAs for short, very much the same way the Americans were looking for their MIAs in Vietnam. The two organizations—if the Russian one could be regarded as an organization—provided each other with any assistance they could.

Joe had tried to help some American families trace their vanished sons by putting them in touch with Vietnamese agencies through his new Russian friends, even if such actions were regarded as unpatriotic. A Russian veteran living in Kirov, introduced to Joe through his pilot friend, had been doing the same type of work with the Mujahedeen. The man, known only as Gregor, had been eager to make contacts in the West—not for the good of mother Russia, but because he saw a distinct possibility of economic gain for himself, in addition to helping some lost soul find better permanent accommodation.