Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

What was in the tote bag? Maybe that was what the fuss was about.

All Winkler knew as he sat in the back seat was that he’d have a big bruise on his arm and his belly hurt and he’d need a new baton. Luckily the kicks hadn’t been as hard as Stiletto could have delivered them. He wasn’t trying to hurt anybody, just get away.

But why?

Moscow

IT WASN’T so much a safe house as it was a basement.

Anastasia Dubinina paced the concrete floor as a corner television, the sound low, filled the room with a flickering glow. The news was on and none of it good; however, Anastasia wasn’t sure how much she should believe. It was Russia, after all. The news readers talked of arrests and forthcoming statements by the Kremlin. A speech by Putin, live. They showed no pictures of those arrested and only spoke in generalities regarding the “alleged coup” but the words cut through her bones.

And she kept waiting for the door to open.

The basement had the common room she paced in and down a short hallway, a trio of bedrooms with bunks. It was a crude set-up. There was electricity and running water and one cramped bathroom. It had all been shoe-horned into the space never intended for occupation more than a few days, or even hours. As Anastasia waited for the door to open, she wondered how long they’d be there.

Finally, the door did open on quiet hinges and Dimitri Ravkin led two frightened females into the room. One was Rina Glinkov, her skin pasty white; the other, her daughter Xenia. The little girl clutched a brown teddy bear. Of course she would. Anastasia’s heart broke.

“I thought you’d never get back,” Anastasia said.

“Streets are crawling with army,” Ravkin reported. He pulled the door shut, locked it, and pressed two buttons on a wall panel beside the door. A monitor on the wall flickered to life and offered a few of an alley behind the building.

Anastasia introduced herself to Mrs. Glinkov, who shook her hand weakly. Xenia was equally unresponsive, even when Anastasia complimented the teddy bear.

Ravkin showed the Glinkov women to one of the bedrooms. Anastasia prepared coffee in the small nook that served as the kitchen that contained a microwave, the coffee maker, and two hot plates on top of a cabinet that held other necessary items.

“What’s on the news?” Ravkin said. He turned on an overhead light which drowned out the flickering glow and made Anastasia feel almost like she was home. Maybe she should have turned them on earlier.

“Apparently we’ve all been arrested and Putin will speak soon,” she said.

Ravkin found a seat on the couch to watch the news readers. Still they showed no pictures of any arrests. Ravkin pointed that out. “If they had as much as they say, they’d be showing pictures. They’d be gloating.”

“Nobody’s checked in, either, Dimitri. And I can’t reach anyone, either.”

Ravkin let out a breath.

Rina slowly entered the room. “I think she’ll sleep a while but I expect her to wake up through the night. Do I smell coffee?”

Anastasia rushed to serve the woman a steaming mug and Ravkin made room for her on the couch.

“This is all so scary,” Glinkov’s wife said. “The way the broke into my home—” She stifled a cry and covered her mouth.

Anastasia rubbed Rina’s back. There was no point in making any false promises or offering platitudes. Glinkov was probably already dead. And they’d find out for sure, soon enough, if the government tracked them down and brought them to the same place, most likely Lubyanka prison, and the execution yard. The four-walled box of death, where so many traitors to the Motherland had been killed with a bullet to the back of the head. The last thing you saw was the blood spatter on the gray bricks of the wall in front of you from the last person shot, and sometimes the blood was still wet.

All thoughts left her mind when the symbol of the Kremlin flashed on the television.

Ravkin turned up the volume.

Putin appeared behind a podium with two of his usual advisors, who stood in front of a covered table while Putin outlined the story of the attempted coup and the rounding up of suspects. When he made a show of removing the cover from the table, he revealed explosives and weapons he claimed were found amongst the arrested coup plotters. The camera made a slow crawl over the items. Semtex explosives, Kalashnikov weapons. Anastasia tapped her lips with her stomach in knots. Rina Glinkov watched stoically. Ravkin was pale.

Putin remarked that there were still some outstanding suspects but they would be captured soon enough, putting an end to what might have been a nightmare for the Russian people. The Kremlin symbol appeared again and then a commercial for Nurofen Lady, featuring a woman complaining about her abdominal cramping, came on.

It was all too much for Anastasia. She lunged at the T.V. and turned it off.

“Impossible,” Ravkin said. “Those weapons were stashed in the countryside. No way they got there so fast.”

“Not unless Vlad talked,” Anastasia said.

Rina gasped.

“Or,” she added, “they’ve known more about us than we realized this whole time.”

The three of them looked at each other. Anastasia wondered which of them was in charge, her or Ravkin. Since he wasn’t talking, she spoke up, taking the lead.

“We are no good to anybody all riled up,” she said. “Let’s get some rest and see what happens in the morning.”

Ravkin raised an eyebrow. “No. One of us needs to be up at all times. I’ll take the first watch. The two of you try and rest.”

Anastasia didn’t argue. She and Rina went down the hall. Ten minutes later, Anastasia lay on her bunk, still dressed, and staring at the ceiling. She didn’t see any way out of their predicament, but they owed it to the rest of the team to try and escape and tell the world why they did what they did. Maybe the weapons cache had been raided, but what about the money they’d hidden? They could get passports created, adopt mild disguises, and find a way out of Russia.

It was their only hope.

Virginia

GENERAL IKE Fleming made room on the bench for another man in a Brooks Brothers suit and offered him a bite from his box of fish-n-chips. The new arrival waved off the offer.

“So?” Fleming said.

Charlie Devlin of the D.C. office of the F.B.I. folded his arms. “It took some arm twisting to get the warrant, but we checked the safe deposit box. Some cash and two passports.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup. Your office should have the passport information shortly.”

“Won’t do us any good,” Fleming said, biting a piece of fish. “Those passports will be in names not associated with Scott’s file.”

“He’s going off grid?”

“Precisely.”

“Is it time to call our friends?”

“I think so. He’ll need some help.”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Devlin said. Fleming wiped his hand on a napkin, shook with the G-man, and watched him walk away.

Joggers passed; kids played somewhere behind him. Fleming finished his lunch and set the box aside. Taking out his cell phone, he made a call to an international number and stayed on the line for ten minutes.

DAVID McNEIL, Fleming’s chief-of-staff, entered Stiletto’s home using a spare key Scott had left at the office. Every agent provided the office with access to their homes in case of an emergency. Such as the one they faced now.

He closed the door. The alarm system was on and McNeil punched in the deactivation code. Then he moved through the quiet house quickly and efficiently, checking rooms first out of habit, and then starting a thorough search.

There were obvious clues right away.