Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

McNeil nodded. “Some things never change.”

CABIN FEVER was setting in.

And there was nothing Dimitri Ravkin could do about it.

Anastasia continuously paced the room, barely sitting down long enough to catch her breath. Rina was getting depressed and barely holding together; her daughter clutched her teddy bear for dear life; and all Ravkin could do was wait for an email that would let them know that help was coming. Anastasia’s suggestion of getting fake identities and passports for them had been shot down. There was no way they’d last on the street long enough to get that done, and even if they did, transportation centers would be watched, and Ravkin knew of nobody who was free to get them out of the country.

Ravkin sat in a corner of the room on his lap top furiously typing instant messages with several contacts who had survived the round-up and still managed to do their regular jobs. Either the FSB didn’t know about them or they were under surveillance, though neither of them had reported seeing anybody following them.

Ravkin wanted to know where the government was holding Glinkov. Nobody knew. The obvious place was Lubyanka Prison, but contacts there reported nobody matching Glinkov’s description within any of the cells. Nor had any high-profile prisoners been brought in. What about their comrades? Where was everybody being held?

Or maybe they weren’t being held and instead were immediately disposed of.

Ravkin took a different line of questioning. Assuming they were still alive, they might be on the wrong trail in focusing only on where the government might take them. What about the mafia? What secret interrogation areas had sprung up that the grapevine hadn’t learned of yet? Somebody on the street should know.

Ravkin’s contacts promised to get back to him.

He left the corner and found Anastasia with her arms folding, staring at him from across the room.

“What’s on your mind?” He tried to keep the edge out of his voice.

“What did you learn?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? After all that, you know nothing?”

“We know where Glinkov isn’t ,” Ravkin said. “We don’t know where he is.”

“And what about us? We’re choking in this place.”

“Another couple of days.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rina Glinkov wandered in from down the hall; her face drawn with stress in her eyes. “Why are you arguing again?”

Anastasia said, “Because Mr. Ravkin still knows nothing and continues to insist we stay in this pill box.”

“Help is on the way,” Ravkin said.

“What does that mean?” Anastasia said.

“Our benefactors will be on touch soon.”

“We don’t have benefactors, Dimitri.”

“There is so much about this you don’t know, Anastasia. That Glinkov doesn’t know. We just have to be patient.”

The lap top let out a beep. Ravkin smiled. “And that might be the message we’re waiting for.”

Ravkin went to the lap top, conscious of Anastasia and Rina crowding over his shoulder.

He opened an email from Number One himself.

“Who is this?” Anastasia said. “Who is Number One?”

“A friend.”

Ravkin read the email twice and let out a whistle.

“Who is this Stiletto,” Anastasia said, “and why are you the one who gets to meet him?”

“I know who he is,” Rina said. “One of Vlad’s American friends.”

Ravkin sniffed.

“So the Americans are coming,” Anastasia said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“He’ll get us out of the country, Ana,” Ravkin said. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“What if he gets us all killed?”

“Then you won’t have any reason to pace the floor like a caged animal, will you?”

“G avnoyed .”

Ravkin snapped. “Go sit somewhere away from me before I shove you through the wall.”

Anastasia opened her mouth again but Rina cut her off.

“Stop this! Now! If there is help, there is hope. That is what we have to hang onto right now, not fight each other.”

Ravkin and Anastasia’s eyes remained locked; she broke contact first and moved away.

THE DC-9 wasn’t Stiletto’s first choice for transportation, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

The roar of the propellers filled the cabin but luckily he had earplugs provided by the pilot. Number One had provided the promised gear, including a parachute, replacement cash, satellite radio for emergency contacts, and ammo for his pistol. He’d also managed to provide Scott with a sketch pad and a couple of pens, but as he sat on the hard chair near a window, the occasional turbulence prevented his hand from drawing steady. Eventually he decided that his usual careful drawings could morph into fuzzy modern art for this trip, but the amusement didn’t last long and he set the sketch book aside.

The seat made his rear end numb so he got up every half hour to do squats in the aisle. He was the only person in the passenger cabin, and that novelty had quickly worn off too. He’d never been a serious practitioner of the social arts, but after so many days on the run and alone, he sure wanted some conversation.

The pilots sat up front with the cockpit door firmly shut. They didn’t want him intruding, and he understood that. It was a long flight into hostile territory and they were in as much danger as he was.

He did some more squats, challenged not just by bending his knees deeper each time, but keeping his balance as the DC-9 rocked back and forth. He dropped into a chair breathless from the effort, and when his breathing returned to normal he started checking his parachute for the umpteenth time.

He returned to sketching but gave up again just to stare out the window. The earplugs reduced the engine noise to a dull throb and after so many hours, his head hurt from the incessantly pounding noise. They were still over the ocean. He wasn’t sure where. He had no idea how long until they reached Russian airspace and the drop zone over St. Petersburg where Number One said somebody would meet him.

Scott hoped the message reached the agent on the Russian end otherwise he’d be in huge trouble.

THE POLICE car flashed by at a high rate of speed.

Sweat covered Ravkin’s neck and back despite the blasting air conditioner and the cold temperatures outside. His headlamps blazed along the highway toward St. Petersburg and his GPS said he was on time, might even arrive a little early. Ravkin didn’t know which he preferred, or if arriving late would be better, just to make sure the American was there. All he knew is that the police car had been traveling along the last few miles, not bothering him or any other car, and his mind had been filled with images of being pulled over and shot at any moment. But something more important came along. The police car sped down the road. Hopefully there wasn’t an accident that would slow Ravkin down. Hopefully the cop would take one of the next exits and have to deal with a problem on city streets.

Ravkin wiped one sweaty hand on his jeans, then the other, and took a deep breath as he settled both on the wheel and finally started to calm down.

There had been so many close shaves in his career as an FSB agent, chasing criminals and winning convictions, having a gang put a contract on his head. All of them paled in comparison to what he was doing now, putting his life on the line for a shot at a better Russia. It would have been so much easier not to bother. Then the Cabal had joined the effort, and made them feel like they were part of a bigger apparatus. Which might have been true. But that support system couldn’t keep Putin’s machine from discovering the plot.

There was probably no way to salvage the operation, Ravkin realized. All their work was for naught. But they could get out of Russia and start over somewhere else. He wasn’t sure what his future might look like, but even the unknown was better than the certain death he faced if he remained in Moscow or anywhere else in the country.