Matthew Dunn - Sentinel

The man shook their hands, muttered a few Russian words to Roger, then asked in English, “What business takes you to Vladivostok?”

Laith looked at him sternly. “Oil.”

The man’s smile widened. “My best customers are those in the oil industry.” He beckoned toward a door marked VIP LOUNGE. “I’ll take you through. We have a fast-track process for our guests which avoids the airport’s security and baggage checks. You’ll have a very comfortable flight with us. Men like you deserve only the very best in luxury travel.”

O ne hour later, they were onboard a super-midsize Falcon 2000EX jet, traveling at an altitude of 37,000 feet. Will, Roger, and Laith were facing each other in sumptuous leather seats. Coffee and caviar were on the table between them. The seven other luxury seats in the plane were empty. A tall blond female attendant was the only other person in the passenger area; her duty was to ensure that they were given anything they wanted during the eight-hour flight across Russia to the eastern coastal city of Vladivostok.

Roger leaned forward to pick up some toast and caviar and took a mouthful of the food. “This is the most expensive civilian flight I’ve ever taken.”

“I’m not complaining.” Laith lit a Cuban Cohiba cigar, supplied to him by the hostess, examined its burning embers, and blew a thin stream of smoke from his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I could smoke on a flight.”

Will drummed his fingers on an armrest. “Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll soon be living in shit again.”

Roger smiled, taking another bite of his food. “Do you ever relax?”

Laith studied Will through narrow eyes. “Are you sure this trip is worth it? Is your plan going to work?”

“I think I can outsmart Razin and have him suspended or dismissed.” Will rubbed his face. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll succeed in rescuing Sentinel.”

“Then why the hell wouldn’t you listen to me when I told you to call it in with the Agency and let them decide what to do now?” Laith shook his head; his expression was hostile.

Will frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a man who follows rules. On the contrary, aside from Roger, I can’t think of any intelligence paramilitary officer who dislikes orders more than you.”

Laith crushed his cigar in the ashtray. “Don’t patronize me.”

Roger quickly placed an arm on Laith’s forearm, leaned toward Will, and said in a hushed, urgent voice, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a rule book for what we do. But right now I’m in agreement with my colleague. I don’t think we should be doing this alone.”

Will looked at both CIA SOG operatives. He said nothing for a while, deep in thought, but when he spoke his voice was measured and calm. “The Agency could send us a hundred operatives, but it wouldn’t make a difference. So we need to turn this on its head and work with people who can help.”

Laith frowned, then laughed. “You’re crazy.”

Will thought that Laith had a point. But he was still adamant that working with the Russians was the only way forward.

Will and Roger were stationary in an Audi A8 sedan, lent to them for a week by Platinum Business Jets, on Ulitsa Korabelnaya Naberezhnaya in Vladivostok. It was nine P.M., and the area around them was relatively quiet, with few cars passing by. Streetlamps were sporadic, snowfall was heavy, and visibility was poor. But five hundred feet behind them was the port, and moored within it were four easily visible and brightly illuminated Udaloy I destroyers.

Roger placed his cell phone on the dashboard and set it to speakerphone. “Laith, I’m moving in a few minutes.”

Laith’s response was instant. “Understood.”

Laith was in a BMW 3 Series, also gifted to him for a few days, parked close by on Ulitsa Svetlanskaya.

Roger withdrew a pen, a single sheet of paper, and an envelope from an inner jacket pocket. Placing them next to the phone on the dashboard, he wrote a person’s name and the words URGENT AND PRIVATE on the envelope using the Russian Cyrillic alphabet. He looked at Will. “Should I leave the sheet blank?”

Will shook his head. “That would look suspicious.” He thought for a moment. “Write, ‘My normal communications are compromised. I’ll call you from a pay phone at ten A.M. tomorrow morning. You must be available to receive that call. Your friend.’ ”

Roger nodded as he wrote the words on the piece of paper. He folded the sheet and inserted it into the envelope, sealed it, and placed the letter into a pocket. After donning a fur hat, a scarf that he wrapped around his lower face, and thick-rimmed glasses with false lenses, he glanced at Will. “Okay?”

Will smiled. “You look barely recognizable but normal. In this weather, everyone’s going to be covered up.”

The CIA operative was quiet for a moment before asking, “You’re sure I won’t be grabbed by the guards?”

Will shrugged. “I can’t be sure about anything.”

But he hoped that at this hour there’d be only two or three low-ranking sailors at the reception desk who wouldn’t dare to do anything to disrupt what should appear to them to be an emergency crash communication between a covert agent and his Russian handler.

Roger opened the door, allowing icy wind to enter the car. “See you soon.” He stepped out of the vehicle, thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets, and walked off with his head bent low and shoulders hunched. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the night.

Will spoke loudly. “He’s on his way.”

Laith’s voice responded, “Okay, I’m moving to get visibility of the building’s main entrance.” After forty seconds he spoke again. “I’m in position. I can see Roger walking to the building. He’s stopped. He’s checking his watch. He’s looking around. He enters the building.”

Will shivered, a mixture of fear and cold. Roger had entered the headquarters of the Russian navy’s Pacific Fleet. It was adjacent to the naval docks but not part of a military base. Instead, it looked like any other important administrative building in the city. Roger would be handing the letter to one of the guards at the reception. Will hoped that the guard would instantly recognize the act as highly unusual and therefore would not challenge Roger. But if he did, Will had told his Russian-speaking CIA colleague how to respond.

This is an intelligence matter. If you compromise me, you’ll be put in a military prison for the rest of your life.

The letter was addressed to a specific Russian intelligence officer. Will had no idea if that officer operated from the Pacific Fleet HQ, and even if he did, Will hoped that the late hour would mean that he had left for home some time before. Irrespective, he was convinced that the naval personnel receiving the letter would have protocols in place to immediately locate and call the officer and that in turn the officer would have no other choice than to go straight to the HQ to collect the message. The officer would then privately read the letter, be confused by its contents, but believe that an agent had tried to make contact and would conclude that nothing could be done until the anonymous agent made the telephone call the following morning.

That call would never happen. The letter’s only significance was to try to draw out the intelligence officer this evening so that Will and his team could identify and follow their target.

Laith spoke. “Roger’s leaving the HQ. No one’s behind him. He’s thirty feet away. He’s fifty feet away.” The line went silent. Will narrowed his eyes, totally focused on the phone. “He’s a hundred feet away. Now he’s out of my sight.”

Will looked quickly away from the cell phone, toward the direction from which Roger should be approaching the car. He saw nothing at first, only driving snowfall. Then light from one of the streetlamps briefly shone over a man before that person just as quickly disappeared into more shadows. Will knew the man was almost certainly Roger, but he pulled out his handgun just in case he was wrong. He looked around, searching for the man. The figure appeared again under a different streetlamp and disappeared again as Will tightened his grip on his QSZ-92. Will held his breath, then swung his gun rapidly toward the car door as it opened. Roger was there, bending low to enter the vehicle.