The Fall of Moscow Station (35 page)

The Spetsnaz officer coming out of the van put his shoulder square into her diaphragm, a football tackle that caught Kyra under her center of gravity. She had no leverage against the man, and he was at least half again her weight. He slammed her onto the grass strip in front of the brick wall that extended out from the other side of the security annex.

“American!” she yelled just before the man's body put her into the ground, driving the wind from her, and she could yell no more.

Hands grabbed both of her arms, lifting them up behind her back until she felt her shoulders begin to scream in pain. Russian shouts that she didn't understand came from all sides and a camera flash began to blind her every few seconds. A knife came out and cut the shoulder strap from the satchel, and it was pulled from her body.

Kyra closed her eyes and didn't bother to fight as her wrists were zip-tied together behind her back.

Her attackers kept her prone on the ground for almost a minute, long enough for the cold to seep up from the cement through her clothes. She heard the guard yelling in poor Russian at the men pinning her to the ground, but they held her head down. She couldn't turn to see it. Finally, they lifted her by her armpits and dragged her stumbling to the van. The U.S. guard was a Marine, she thought, given the quality of the English profanities he was dishing out to the Russians. If the Russians understood any English at all, they would know that much.

Other hands reached out of the darkness in the vehicle and took her, pulling her inside onto a seat. The last Russian turned away from the American guard, who continued to harangue him in vile terms, and crawled inside with his teammates. The side door slammed shut and the van moved away. Kyra stared out the window as she was shackled at the feet to the floor. Through the side window, she saw the United States flag waving in the light of the flood lamps and receding as the van picked up speed. Then a black hood came down over her head and the entire world disappeared.

Domodedovo International Airport

28 kilometers south of Moscow

The Russian liaison was waiting at the customs exit for Cooke and Barron. He knew the woman on sight, doubtless from the photograph of her that the FSB kept in a dossier somewhere. “Director Cooke, m
en-ya za-voot Vitaly Leontyevich Churkin. Zdras-tvooy-tyeh. Dobro pozhalovat' v Rossiyu
,” the man said.
My name is Vitaliy Churkin. Greetings and welcome to Russia.

Cooke spoke no Russian, and so let the former chief of station Moscow handle the pleasantries. “It is our honor to meet you,” Barron said in the other man's native language. “We are most grateful to Director Grigoriyev for his willingness to meet us on short notice.”

“In light of recent events, he felt that a discussion with a counterpart of Miss Cooke's stature would be most illuminating,” Churkin replied.

“I assure you, it will be,” Barron advised. “However, we need to visit our embassy here before meeting with the director. Last-minute instructions from the president, that sort of thing.”

“Of course,” Churkin agreed. “I believe your embassy has sent you a driver who is waiting for you. Of course, we will be happy to give you an escort to the embassy, and from there to Lubyanka.”

“Many thanks,” Barron told him.

“Everything okay?” Cooke asked, her voice quiet.

“Just the usual pleasantries,” Barron replied, switching back to English. “Welcome, we're going to follow you everywhere, don't be stupid and try any operational acts, that sort of thing.”

Cooke smiled. “Of course not.”

Somewhere in Moscow, Russia

The van drove for a half hour by Kyra's estimation, one violent turn after another, and she assumed that the driver wasn't obligated to obey traffic laws. The hands holding her arms never let her go and the men inside never said a word.

The van finally stopped, Kyra heard the door open, and she felt movement around her. Someone unlocked the shackles binding her legs to the van and the hands on her arms pulled hard, dragging her out. She stumbled getting out, unable to judge the distance to the ground and falling to one knee. The unseen hands pulled her up and led her roughly along.

She felt the warm air of a building on her face and the sound of men's shoes changed from a rough scrape on concrete to the softer sounds of rubber rustling across carpet to an echo inside the closed walls of an elevator. The doors closed and the car took several seconds to think about whether to move or not before finally ascending. The ride was smooth, the passengers silent, and Kyra couldn't tell how many floors they'd passed before the car stopped.

Kyra was led out and guided down another hallway, then finally into a room where her captors seated her in a chair. The zip ties binding her wrists were cut, freeing her arms at last. She wasn't foolish enough to try removing the black hood cutting off her sight. She sat still, hands in her lap, listening to the conversation around her and trying to pick out any words she recognized. That proved to be a feckless exercise.

Another five minutes passed before the hood finally came off of Kyra's head. The world appeared, blinding and bright, and Kyra squinted until her eyes could adjust. The room around her was nondescript, painted concrete walls, no other furniture than the chair on which she was sitting, nothing to give her any clue as to where she was.

The contents of Kyra's satchel were laid out on a table in front of her. Some functionary was using a Nikon camera to document the captured gear . . . a Moscow tour map, an envelope, a passport, a ziplock bag with a disguise kit sealed inside, a pair of English paperback novels, some power bars, and several stacks of euros, the paper bands removed.

Kyra's escorts took their places by the gray metal door. A photographer aimed the camera in her direction and began taking pictures.

A Russian colonel stood behind the table separating them. “Good evening,” Sokolov said. “Your name, please?” The command being in English, Kyra had no doubts that it was intended for her. She said nothing. The Russian officer looked at her for several seconds, studying her, then leaned forward, putting his face only inches from hers. “Your name?”

“I am a diplomat,” Kyra said, lying. “I'm not required to answer your question. There are rules governing the interrogation of diplomats and you know them. You will advise my embassy of my whereabouts immediately.”

“A
diplomat
,” Sokolov said. Kyra furrowed her brow. There was no venom in the Russian's voice, no sarcasm. “We know the kind of diplomacy that Americans practice with tools such as these. But I think you do not understand that diplomatic immunity does not apply right now.”

U.S. Embassy

Moscow, Russia

The Russian escort cars peeled away, blocking off the street. The security gate slid open, the embassy car pulled through into the compound, and Cooke felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. She was still a stranger in a hostile land, but there was a feeling here, a tangible spirit that hovered over this little spit of American-held territory that made it feel very much like home.

Her traveling companion had a fool's grin on his face. “Your old playground?” she teased him.

Barron nodded. “Three years, until the FSB almost killed me,” he replied. “They did kill one of mine. That stupid car accident I told you about a few years ago. The locals here always did play the surveillance game a little too rough.”

“You don't have to come with me to Lubyanka. You could stay here, preserve your cover.”

“Nope,” Barron said. “I'm almost ready to retire anyway and I want to see how this all turns out.”

•  •  •

They stared down at the monitor as the embassy security chief restarted the video from the beginning and watched the replay for a second time. The time index on the screen showed the video was two hours old now. On the screen, Kyra came sprinting into the picture, reaching for the security guard's outstretched hand as a Russian chased her down, pushed her from behind, and the young woman tumbled to the white concrete. She pushed herself up, tried to get to the gate, only to be tackled. “American!” she yelled, clearly audible on the footage. Then three men were on her, the American guard helpless to step off U.S. territory onto Russian land and do anything. The Russians pinned her arms up, zip-tied her hands, and wrestled her into a waiting van as the U.S. Marine screamed profanities at the smug Russian standing between him and their captive. Then the Russians piled into the vehicle, closed the door, and pulled away. The entire incident had taken less than one minute.

“The question is which one got her,” Barron said. “FSB or GRU? Any clues?”

“I gave a copy to some of the FBI special agents here,” the security chief replied. “It's not much to go on . . . we're trying to match the license plate or the van, but good luck with that. The FSB would have to cooperate and they won't tell us jack just on general principles. But my gut tells me they weren't FSB. Military haircuts, and there are a few frames here where it looks like one of them is carrying a Makarov pistol in his holster, but I could be wrong. And the FSB doesn't usually play it like this, but I couldn't prove anything right now if I had to.”

Cooke nodded. “That's okay. If the FSB grabbed her, they'll tell us. If they don't, we know who has her.”

“You ready to head out?” Barron asked his superior.

“Yeah. Let's get this done.”

The “Aquarium”—old GRU headquarters

“Explain, please, why you were in possession of this?” Sokolov asked, his voice loud for the recorders, waving his hand toward the table.

“I am a diplomat,” Kyra repeated. “I'm not required to answer your questions. You will advise my embassy of my whereabouts immediately.”

“That answer is tiring.” Sokolov picked up the envelope. The seal was broken, leaving no question that he already knew what was inside. Still he made the dramatic show of pulling out the letter, printed in neat Cyrillic.

Dear friend,

We were most grateful to receive your last communication. We have always valued your information and were distressed not to hear from you according to the schedule. Your help in the past has been invaluable and we do not want to lose your friendship.

We regret the actions you had to take with regard to your friend, but we concur with your decision. While he was valuable to us, you have proven yourself more so and your protection is paramount. Your security means a lot to us.

As you know, we have sent one of our friends to support the story you had to report to your superiors. This is a difficult assignment for him, as he will be a guest in your country for some months, perhaps longer than a year before his claim that he is disillusioned with life there will be credible. We ask that you assist him in every way possible without endangering your own security.

Because of the recent troubles, we have found it necessary to alter the emergency travel plans we worked out with you some time ago. In this package, you will find new travel documents and the personal kit you will need to use it. Please keep them somewhere safe.

We are very concerned with your recent demand to change the terms of our financial arrangement with you. In particular, sending home so many consular officers to demonstrate your influence was unnecessary. As your friends, we are happy to discuss additional compensation for your help and information in the future. To show our sincerity, we have deposited $250,000 in the escrow account in addition to the payment here.

We look forward to working with you again in the nearest future.

Your friends

“For who was this letter?” Sokolov asked. Kyra winced slightly at the man's stiff accent, but said nothing in response.
“We were most grateful to receive your last communication,”
he read from the page. “You are trying to reach a spy in our government, and an important one, I'm sure.” He hefted one of the stacks of euros and made a show of flipping through the bills. “A quarter million. Fine wages for a mole, but I suppose a rich country like the United States can afford to pay such amounts for traitors.” It was not a question.

Kyra held her peace. Sokolov picked up the passport and opened the cover, then shoved the front page at her face. The Russian pointed to the photograph. “Who is this? The Foreign Ministry assures me that they have issued no passport with this number, nor does the photograph match any on file.”

Kyra just looked at him. Sokolov pushed the disguise kit across the table at her. “There is no reason not to tell me. It is a very good forgery, done by a skilled artist. But the false attachments in this bag—” He held up the ziplock pouch. “They are the same as the beard and glasses and other additions to the man's face in this picture. Do you think we have no computer experts? One of our best technicians is erasing them from the picture so we can see what the man looks like without them. We will find this man. You cannot save him by refusing to answer.”

“As I told you, I'm a diplomat and not required to answer your questions,” Kyra said.

The Russian sighed in mock resignation. “You are very calm,” he observed. “I have seen many people in that chair, where you are now. Few have shown such reserve. You've had training, I think. Yes. You've been taught how to handle an interrogation. But we understand the way to drive a woman past her limits. You know that as well, I am sure, but I respect your discipline. You have done your duty and this does not need to be unfriendly. We understand the business of intelligence services. You spy on us, we spy on you. We are professionals about this, are we not? In the end, you will answer the questions, so I will not think less of you for choosing to avoid the agony.”

Nice show
, Kyra thought. “I want to speak to a representative from my embassy,” she said.