Alex Berenson - The Silent Man

More than that, Grigory didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure where they were headed, though he assumed somewhere on the Turkish coast. Yusuf wasn’t saying, and Grigory had learned the hard way not to ask.

STILL, their escape had gone smoothly so far, Grigory had to admit. When he arrived at his apartment building at 5 a.m. on the night of the theft, the sun still hours from rising, there was Yusuf, sitting in an old Nissan sedan. As soon as Grigory parked, Yusuf was at his window.

“You have them.”

“A pleasure to see you, too.”

“You have them.”

“It was more trouble than I expected.” Grigory was enjoying himself now.

“If you don’t have them, you’d better tell me now.”

“Of course.”

“Of course, you have them? Or of course you don’t? Grigory, I swear—”

“They’re in the trunk.”

To Grigory’s surprise, Yusuf clapped his hands. “Congratulations, Grigory.” Yusuf pulled the Volga’s door open and tugged Grigory out. Grigory wondered whether the little Arab planned to cut his throat. Instead, Yusuf hugged him, wrapping his arms around Grigory’s bulk like a circus clown trying to saddle an elephant.

“Ready to go?”

“My bag is upstairs.”

“Then get it.”

Grigory hadn’t found much in his apartment worth taking. In a cheap nylon bag, he’d packed a half-dozen books, two pornographic DVDs starring the American Jenna Jamison, a few shirts and sweaters and long underwear, and both of his chess sets, his good wooden one and a little magnetic travel set. He’d taken his passport, though he couldn’t see what use it would be. Soon enough he’d have a new name and nationality. Or be dead.

Grigory rode the creaking elevator downstairs for the final time and tossed the bag into the backseat of the Volga. Yusuf grabbed his arm. “Show me, Grigory.”

Grigory popped the trunk of the Volga and moved aside the junk to reveal the toolboxes. Yusuf flipped open the boxes and stood in silence over the trunk. “They don’t look like much,” he said at last.

“What did you expect? A ticking clock? Something glowing?”

“They’re real?”

Grigory laughed, a crazy giggle that set his flabby stomach bouncing. All he’d gone through, and now this.

“They don’t impress you, Yusuf? They’re real. More real than anything else in this stupid world, I’d say.”

“All right.” Yusuf snapped the boxes closed. “We’ll put them in my car, leave this heap.”

“Whatever you like.”

They shifted the bombs to the Nissan, and Grigory threw his bag in as well. “Shall I drive?” Grigory said. “Since we’re partners now?”

“You’ll drive if I’m dead. Maybe not even then.”

“I was joking, Yusuf. You’ve heard of jokes?”

“Quiet.”

Grigory slid into the Nissan, which stank of cheap air freshener. They drove to Tajid’s apartment and waited for him to arrive. Then the three of them drove out of Ozersk. Grigory craned his neck left and right as they left the city, feeling like a kid taking his first big trip. He didn’t expect to be back.

JUST OUTSIDE SAMARA, southwest of Chelyabinsk, they were filling up at a dingy petrol station when a Toyota sedan stopped in front of them. Yusuf trotted to it and slipped into the passenger seat. Grigory had always known that Yusuf couldn’t be acting alone, but this was the first proof he’d seen. He poked at his cousin, who was dozing in the backseat.

“Tajid, who’s that?” Grigory pointed to the Toyota. “Have you seen Yusuf with anyone before?”

“No questions, cousin. Don’t you understand that by now?”

When Yusuf returned, Grigory couldn’t help himself. “A new friend, Yusuf?”

Yusuf said nothing.

“Who was that, anyway?”

Yusuf backhanded Grigory across the face, hard, then tugged his ear until he thought it might tear off.

“Come on, Yusuf,” he said. “Please. Please. ”

Yusuf looked back at Tajid. “Control this overripe turd,” he said. “Or I will.” He put the car in gear as Grigory sniffed at his armpits. He didn’t smell great, it was true. Too bad the whores had taken his cologne.

West of Samara they turned south and followed the Volga River. Near Saratov, with the sun already down again, Yusuf’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment. “Nam,” he said, Arabic for “yes.” “Nam.” Without another word, he hung up. They drove into Saratov — a million-person city on the Volga — and Yusuf threaded his way through the streets unerringly, despite the dim streetlights and honking traffic. Suddenly, Grigory understood that Yusuf had taken this trip before.

These men, whoever they are, they’ve practiced, he thought. This theft had been planned for months. Maybe years. Such preparation seemed beyond Yusuf. He was dangerous, but no great thinker. For the hundredth time, Grigory wondered who was running this operation, and what the ultimate plans were. Blackmail? Or did they intend to use the bombs?

Yusuf turned left onto a narrow street fronted by an eight-story apartment building as ugly as Grigory’s own. He drove past it and parked in the courtyard of a two-story brick building covered in peeling yellow paint. “Come.” Yusuf stepped out of the car and opened the door of the apartment nearest the Nissan. He popped the Nissan’s trunk, and he and Grigory grabbed the toolboxes and hefted them into the apartment.

Inside, the apartment was filled with lime-green furniture. The television, a boxy wooden monstrosity, played silently, a game show, the Russian version of Deal or No Deal. The place was tidy but not really clean. The floral-patterned wallpaper peeled at the corners. A cheap chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, half its bulbs burned out. Grigory sensed that an old man lived here, hanging on but too tired or weak to clean the place. There were no pictures, no books or newspapers, no hints of the owner’s personality at all, aside from a prayer rug in the corner.

No one was home, but the owner, whoever he was, had left them supper, mounds of black bread, and jam and butter, and slices of grayish boiled beef. Aside from the bread and jam, it wasn’t much of a meal. Grigory didn’t care. He was famished. He hadn’t eaten since the night before. He couldn’t remember going so long without a meal. Fortunately, there was plenty of bread, and Grigory slapped jam on it until he was full, ignoring Yusuf’s dark looks. In this, at least, he would indulge himself.

AFTER DINNER, Yusuf pulled a digital video camera and tripod from his bag. He set them up in the living room, facing the chair in the corner. Grigory’s anxiety rose. He didn’t know what this nonsense was about, but it couldn’t be good.

When he was done, Yusuf tapped the chair. “Grigory,” he said. “Sit. We’re making a film.”

Grigory’s mind turned to the death videos he’d seen from Russian soldiers in Chechnya, where the hapless victims gave their names and ranks before being gutted. Yusuf clapped his hands peremptorily. “Come on. I promise it’s nothing.”

So Grigory arranged his bulk in the chair and looked at the unblinking camera eye. Yusuf handed Grigory a sheet of paper. “Memorize this and say it. And make sure your ID from the plant is visible so everyone will know it’s you.”

Grigory read the sheet. “But this isn’t true. And they’ll know it. They know they didn’t give me the codes. Why do you want me to say it if it isn’t true? I’ll be a fool.”

“When we make our demands, we’re going to include this. To increase the pressure.”

“Demands?”

“Of course we wouldn’t use the bombs. We’re selling them back. One billion euros each, two billion for both”—more than three billion dollars.