Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

Ariel looked at me and saw my expression. “I know I was foolish,” she said. “I stood to gain nothing, but I was so angry I wanted to take just another step, complete the information in the file and then expose the Iranian nuclear efforts as well as the Soviets who were helping them. I would give it to the media or the Mossad. I haven't made up my mind yet. Now that my father is gone and there is no need to strike a deal with the Americans, I could still give the file to the Mossad. Israel would know what to do with it.”

I wanted to put a lid on that. I'd heard enough and didn't want to sound too critical, so I moved on.

“You made travel arrangements through Oplatka Travel. Why did you choose them?”

“You know everything,” said Ariel smiling. “I found their receipt in the file my father had left me.”

“So did you meet Igor Zurbayev in Moscow?”

“I called him several times, but as much as I could understand from the woman who answered his phone in Russian, he was away. I gave her my name, but I'm not sure she understood much of what I said. So I met my scientists for one day and then just toured Moscow waiting to be contacted. Finally, I was able to speak to someone at that number who spoke a little English and I repeated my message to Igor. Today someone made contact with me while I was out on a tour, but I haven't met Igor yet.”

“How did they know where to find you?”

“They called at the hotel yesterday and asked me to take the tour today. So I did.”

Now I was getting nervous. Ariel was dipping her unprotected hand into a snake pit. It was only a question of time before she would be bitten. What she was doing was amateurish and dangerous. Any number of groups could be behind Igor: rogue Soviet scientists or members of the military. It could also be entrapment by the KGB trying to apprehend the culprits. Whichever group Igor belonged to, Ariel did not belong with him, particularly when her story was so illogical that it made me suspicious.

“By the way, did you mention to Guttmacher the file your father gave you or the second letter?”

“No. Just the first letter, why do you ask?”

“So Guttmacher didn't know you were going to Moscow to continue with your father's project?”

“I did tell him, and said I'd be at the Cosmos Hotel and that I'd be in contact with him when I returned.”

I had heard enough to realize that danger was no longer just a possibility, it was imminent.

“You're in over your head now,” I said decisively. “You must leave Moscow immediately. I'll come with you. Now! On the first flight out.”

“You're frightening me. What do you know that I don't?”

“Lots. I'm going to my room to pack my stuff, please stay here.”

I ran to my room and opened the door. Everything looked intact.

There was a knock on the door. I knew who it was. “And about time,” I thought, as I went to answer the knock. Two guys were standing outside.

“Are you Dan Gordon?” asked one of them in the most stereotypical Brooklyn accent I've ever heard.

“Who are you?” I asked, just to keep up the charade.

“Charles asked us to see if you need help. I'm Brandon and this is my partner Sean.”

“I need to leave Moscow immediately with my companion. Just let me pack up and we'll leave. She's in room 1405; let me call her first.”

I picked up the phone and called Ariel's new room.

“Ariel, I'm sending a friend of mine to bring you over to my room. I'm packing, and we should leave immediately.”

“OK,” said Ariel. “I didn't know you had friends in Moscow. Are they from the Office?” She was surprised.

“I have friends everywhere. You just need to know where to look.”

I turned to Hart's men. “One of you should go to her new room and bring her over here. There was an attempt to kidnap her today. We don't know who is responsible, and finding out who's behind it is, in fact, second priority until we leave Moscow safely. Things are getting too warm around here – even for Moscow in the fall. Please avoid all her questions; she doesn't really know who I am. Just bring her here safely.”

Sean said, “I'll go,” and left the room.

I had to call an airline for the first flight out but decided it'd be too risky to leave traces. I emptied the closets and changed my bloodstained shirt for a clean one. I put all my clothes into my duffel bag and zipped it up. Sean returned with Ariel. I looked at her face. She was pale and confused. It was all moving a bit too fast for her.

“You didn't tell me that your friend was an American,” she said in Hebrew.

“Let's go.” I said; I didn't think I had to explain any further.

“Guys,” I said at the elevator, “why don't you take our things with you and bring your car to the front. I don't want to be seen leaving the hotel with baggage. We'll leave without checking out.”

“What about the bill?” asked Ariel.

“Don't worry about that. I'll leave money with my friends here,” I said. “After we take off, they'll settle up.”

It all went smoothly. Sean and Brandon walked out, Ariel and I followed. When we saw a Pontiac Grand Am pull up, we got into the backseat and we were on the way to Sheremetyevo, with Brandon behind the wheel.

“How far are we from the airport?” asked Ariel.

“It's twenty miles to the airport,” said Sean. “With the current traffic conditions I expect that we'll be there in forty minutes or so.”

As we entered Prospekt Mira Street just outside the hotel, going northeast, I looked back. I did not like the sight. “Brandon,” I said, “we have company. Backup from the Office?” I used the code name that would let Ariel continue to think I was with the Mossad.

“No,” he answered.

“Do you recognize them?” asked Sean in a cool voice.

“No, their headlights are blinding me, but they have been behind us for about five minutes.”

“Let me see,” said Brandon and changed lanes. The car behind us did the same.

“It could be the Soviet police,” said Sean, “and in that case we have nothing to worry about.” Nonetheless the tension was palpable.

Brandon looked at the rearview mirror again. “They don't look like police to me. Soviet police can't afford to buy a black Mercedes.”

“Radio the Office and alert them to the situation,” said Brandon, and Sean pulled out a two-way radio and reported it. Brandon changed lanes again and the followers’ car was again on our tail.

“There are three of them,” said Brandon, after looking back through the side mirror. “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we are about to take off.” The Pontiac's engine roared as Brandon accelerated; we were pulled back by the velocity. Ariel squeezed my arm. I took my hand and held hers. “We'll be in the airport soon,” I said.

A red Mercedes appeared from nowhere and came dangerously close to us on our left. A man in the front seat signaled to us to pull over; his gestures and expression were not friendly. Brandon ignored him. The red Mercedes broadsided our car from the left, ramming us over to the right lane. We barely escaped colliding with a light truck.

“Son of a bitch,” said Brandon. “I'll show you what high-risk driving is” and pulled hard to the left just as the red Mercedes was trying to pass us, pushing it to the divider. The screeching metal of the collision between the metal barrier and the red Mercedes sent sparks into the air. The black Mercedes, which had been on our tail throughout, accelerated and tried to rear-end us.

“Sean, get your gun,” said Brandon, “and radio the office that we are under attack.” Sean pulled out a short barrel. 38, opened the side window, turned around, and fired one shot at the black Mercedes behind us, hitting its radiator, which immediately spewed white steam. He fired another shot, blasting their windshield into a million pieces. The noise created by the wind blowing through the open window prevented me from hearing the barrage of gunfire aimed at us. It hit the rear window, shattering it, covering me and Ariel with glass fragments. I bent down and pulled Ariel to the floor, seeking cover.