Vektor (26 page)

The downside to concealing the additions to the Customs database came in the form of resource priority. Since the profiles were sanitized, containing no information beyond known aliases and photographs, they would be entered as low priority in the system. The faces would not appear at Customs terminals or be shown to Customs agents at a shift briefing. Customs required information to elevate priority and allocate limited human resources. Ardankin’s hands were tied, since the information would raise eyebrows and result in an immediate phone call to the Customs Service’s FSB liaison, exposing his sidestep. The best they could expect was a possible match through automated facial recognition sweeps of passport and Customs checkpoint photos. Frankly, Ardankin was surprised they got a hit on one of the profiles at all.

“Bureaucracy at its worst, sir. Customs is 82% sure that Richard Farrington presented an Australian passport at Kiev Zhuliany International,” Ardankin said finally.

“And he disappeared?”

“His Australian cover hasn’t been used since the airport, sir.”

“Disturbing,” Pushnoy stated.

“How do you want me to proceed?”

“This stays internal. Activate and deploy everyone at your disposal and start working Kiev. Train stations, rental car agencies, buses…I want to know where he is headed.”

“Understood. We’ll start in Kiev and expand. I’ll contact Customs and have them implement search protocols based on his Australian cover. I doubt he is alone. We may get lucky,” Ardankin said.

“Don’t count on it. I want this man in custody before he can do any damage. Contact me directly regarding your progress. I have to go.”

The line went dead, leaving Ardankin with his mouth open, ready to respond. He’d call Customs anyway. It was always better to cast a wider net, especially when they had no idea what they were looking for. He’d narrow the search parameters to males between the ages of 20-50 entering Russia with an Australian passport within the past five days. The list might be extensive, but the FIS had the manpower to sort through the names looking for anomalies. They’d find something.

He checked his email for the file promised by Customs, finding that it had arrived during his terse conversation with his director. He opened the email attachment, which generated a full-screen Customs layout comparing two pictures of Richard Farrington. The leftmost photograph had been provided to Customs by Ardankin, showing Farrington in a U.S. Army uniform. He’d found this picture in one of the SVR’s routine archival snapshots of Pentagon personnel. Unlike the old days, when pictures like these were taken by spies with 35mm cameras, Farrington’s picture came directly from the Pentagon’s database.

The rightmost picture contained the slightly altered Richard Farrington. Clearly, the Americans hadn’t gone to extensive lengths to alter his appearance, which surprised him, given the fact that one of their operatives had recently disappeared in Munich. This General Sanderson, or whoever was pulling the strings, should have known that Herr Hubner would eventually break, exposing details that could compromise their program. Then again, maybe information within the group was compartmentalized. They’d never know, since Herr Hubner managed to end his interrogation early.

Ardankin sat back and stared at the two photos. There was no doubt it was the same person. His eyebrows had been artificially thickened, which was one of the easiest, but most effective ways to alter an appearance. His cheeks looked fuller, indicating the use of an oral implant. Another subtle, yet effective way to throw off facial recognition software. His natural blue eyes were hidden behind brown contact lenses. Changing eye color was a tactic used to fool humans, but had little effect on computer recognition algorithms. Farrington wasn’t taking the chance that his photo might have been distributed to customs checkpoints. Finally, his hair appeared darker and longer. A modest hairpiece that didn’t attract attention, but significantly differed from the close-cropped military haircut in his Pentagon photo.

Surface cosmetics. Nothing that would fool sophisticated software, but not a bad effort for an operative that didn’t want to undergo minor plastic surgery…or didn’t have time to. This last thought lingered, hanging over Ardankin like a death threat. He shook his head slowly, agonizing over his reaction to the thought. There was something there, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. He closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his mind, breathing deeply. A momentary meditation to eliminate the clutter. Less than five seconds later his eyes flashed open.

Richard Farrington hadn’t been concerned with defeating facial recognition software. He knew it would take days for the system to detect his entry, at which point he had already long abandoned the identity used to arrive in Kiev. Even after discovering his entry, it could take days or weeks to generate another lead. Best-case scenario, they’d find his next travel connection within a day or two. Add more time to prosecute leads at the end of that connection, assuming he was smart and didn’t travel directly to his final destination. Unless the American made a rookie mistake, it could take them a week to finally catch up with Farrington. He had to have known this. The American’s mission would take place within the next few days. Ardankin had no time to waste.

First, he’d activate all of their Ukrainian-based agents, augmenting the effort with additional agents from Poland, Belarus and Romania. If necessary, he could deploy more agents from Moscow, though he preferred to use Directorate S assets stationed in the field. The last thing he needed was an out-of-practice headquarters-based agent blowing his or her cover in Kiev and casting a light on the entire operation.

He opened one of the classified directories on his computer and searched for the number he needed, quickly finding it. Feliks Yeshevsky ran their Ukrainian operations, directing the efforts of five native Ukrainian field agents based out of Kiev. He’d proven extremely resourceful in tracking down Reznikov’s Stockholm address and had never failed to produce results in the past. Still, Ardankin hesitated.

Yeshevsky had a reputation for brutality that could turn into a liability during a systematic canvassing effort. His methods were better suited for a more targeted approach to acquiring intelligence. Ardankin considered the alternatives and decided that Yeshevsky represented their best hope of quickly rediscovering Farrington’s trail. He’d have to trust Yeshevsky’s judgment, which was a better option than importing less capable agents into a foreign country and starting them from scratch. He dialed the Ukrainian number, apprehensive about where all of this was headed.

Chapter 32

4:27 PM

Vokzal-Gravny Railway Station

Novosibirsk, Russian Federation

Richard Farrington stepped off the train from Yekaterinburg and examined the station, noting the odd-colored building that dominated the skyline. He wasn’t interested in the color or unique architecture of Novosibirsk’s railway station. His entry into Russia had been risky, starting in Kiev, where he stepped off a connecting flight from Rome. Despite eighteen years of sovereign independence from the Russian Federation, the Ukraine maintained close ties to their former master. Too close, in Farrington’s opinion, but his other entry options put him at even greater risk.

Kiev gave him easy access to dozens of trains that conducted regular runs to cities throughout western Russia and drew little scrutiny from Border Control guards. At most, the train would stop at the border for a rapid examination of visas and passports. Often, the outbound Kiev trains had a section on the train reserved for Border Control officials, who would take care of this formality while en route to the first Russian station. The high volume of rail passengers between the two countries had led to streamlined procedures that worked to his advantage.

His only real concern was the possible interconnectivity between Ukrainian customs at the Kiev airport and Russian intelligence agencies. Karl Berg had warned Sanderson that the two nations’ intelligence services actively and regularly shared information. Given the low-intensity conflict smoldering over Reznikov’s abduction, Berg thought it was fair to assume that the Ukrainians had been asked to carefully screen for anomalies. Farrington’s cover wouldn’t draw any immediate attention.

He’d flown from Buenos Aires to Sidney, Australia, where he picked up a new passport and the visas needed to complete the rest of his journey as an Australian tourist. His Russian language skills were good, but might not hold up during a customs inquiry, and there was no sense taking the risk. Sanderson’s new program wasn’t designed to create deep-cover “illegal” operatives. He just needed to get into Russia, where he could employ his skills to temporarily melt away into the population.

Farrington adjusted his backpack and walked through the station, constantly scanning for anyone that might have taken an unhealthy interest in his arrival. Moving through the packed station, he headed directly for the transit exit located beneath a massively wide, three-story window facing the gray city. A call placed to Viktor fifteen minutes outside of Novosibirsk had confirmed his pickup. Someone would meet him at the top of the stairs outside of the station and escort him to a waiting car. The
bratva
would take him to a secluded location, where the team would stay for the duration of the trip. Everyone agreed that moving six operatives between hotels would be cumbersome and risky if any of them attracted attention while entering Russia.

The worst-case scenario involved Russian intelligence agencies detecting an anomaly in one of their profiles that warranted further investigation. Follow-on attempts to locate his operatives would quickly dead-end at various points of entry into western Russia, leaving authorities with nothing to pursue. Each operative’s trail ended at their first border entry point. Like Farrington, they immediately switched to their Russian identities for follow-on travel, strictly avoiding airports. Train or rental car transit would bring them together in Novosibirsk undetected.

Well aware that he might be on an internal Russian watch list, he took advantage of an unexpected chance to change identities in Yekaterinburg, when an apathetic ticketing agent neglected to request his identity papers. The agent asked him to spell his name, and Farrington obliged, becoming Boris Ushenko for the final leg of his journey.

The only exception to this tactic had been Erin Foley. She had arrived in Vladivostok through a series of flights originating in Australia. Since she would spend four days on a train, arriving in Novosibirsk ahead of the team, Berg didn’t think it would be wise to switch her identity. Too many prying eyes on the train, which he felt was their only discreet option to smuggle her into Novosibirsk. Berg and Sanderson accepted the possibility that one of the seven operatives would be flagged entering Russia, and they couldn’t take the chance that it would be Foley.

Unlike the rest of the team, Foley was far from nondescript and could be easily traced by investigative teams flashing her photograph on the streets. They had changed her appearance significantly, but they could do little to hide the fact that she was an attractive, confident woman that men and women alike tended to remember. Given the notoriety of her Stockholm debut, the last thing the Russian FIS would expect was for her to voluntarily set foot on Russian soil. Routing her through Vladivostok offered additional insurance, since prying eyes would be focused on Europe and western Russia.

Unfortunately, the rest of the team had to enter through the west. Novosibirsk stood as the commercial gateway to eastern Siberia, offering the only airport in Siberia with direct flights outside of Russia, and the Trans Siberian-Mongolian Railway was the only viable commercial rail option approaching from the east.

Crossing into Russia from Europe carried a higher risk of detection, but offered hundreds of options and put them in close proximity to Novosibirsk. Each operative arrived within a day or two of crossing the border. With the mission planned for Sunday evening, they had two full days to prepare, four days in Russia. Even if the Russians detected one of their entries, he couldn’t imagine any scenario that put them in a position to stop the operation.

Farrington walked through the doors and up the stairs leading to street level, immediately spotting his contact when he reached the top. A bulky man wearing a black leather jacket held a piece of tattered cardboard with a prearranged generic Russian name scribbled in black marker. The name was meaningless, one of the safeguards agreed upon earlier, and nothing that would attract attention or prove memorable to anyone at the station. He approached the gruff driver and nodded, hoping for some kind of sign that everything was all right. The thick man raised a small handheld radio to his mouth and spoke a few words, putting it to his ear for the response. Farrington noted the deep scars on his face and a trace of tattoo reaching his lower jaw, just above his gray turtleneck sweater. He dropped the radio into his pocket immediately, folding the sign in half.

“Viktor says we need to hurry if we’re going to make it to dinner on time. Let’s go,” he said, repeating another prearranged signal.

If the man had said anything different, Farrington would have kept walking, prepared to fight his way out of whatever situation presented itself. The fight would have very likely been short-lived, since he carried no weapons at this point, but he would have made every attempt possible to escape. He hadn’t expected any trouble. Everyone on his team had arrived without incident and had been ferried off to a discreet location on the outskirts of the city. Farrington started to relax a little. As far as he could tell, the first phase of the operation had been successful. His strike team had arrived intact.

He followed the
bratva
soldier across a large cement walkway to a black BMW sedan idling between two buses in the designated station pickup zone. He could see two men in the front seat. Neither of them looked in his direction as he neared the vehicle. Scarface opened the rear passenger door and nodded for him to get in. He was met by thick, noxious cigarette smoke upon entry, sliding across the back seat to the driver’s side of the car. Before Scarface could lower his hulking frame into the car, the man in the front passenger seat turned and extended his hand.