Threat Vector

“Shut the door,” came a voice from the dark. The interior lights of the backseat were off, and a smoked-glass partition separated the rear from the front seat. Kovalenko saw a figure against the far door, almost facing him. The man was big and broad, but otherwise Valentin could not make out any of the man’s features. He had been hoping to find a friendly face, but he felt certain almost immediately that he did not know this person.

Kovalenko closed the door, and the sedan rolled forward slowly.

A faint red light came on now, its origins difficult to determine, and Kovalenko saw the man back here with him a little better. He was much older than Valentin; he had a thick, almost square head and sunken eyes. He also had the look of toughness and importance that was common among the upper levels of Russian organized crime.

Kovalenko was disappointed. He’d hoped a former colleague or a government official sympathetic to his plight had sprung him from the prison, but instead, all indications now were that his savior was the mafia.

The two men just looked at each other.

Kovalenko got tired of the staring contest. “I don’t recognize you, so I do not know what I should say. Should I say ‘Thank you,’ or should I say ‘Oh, God, not you’?”

“I am no one important, Valentin Olegovich.”

Kovalenko picked up the accent as being from Saint Petersburg. He felt even more certain this man was organized crime, as Saint Petersburg was a hotbed of criminal activity.

The man continued, “I represent interests that have just spent a great deal of treasure, both financial and otherwise, to have you removed from your obligations to the state.”

The BMW 7 Series headed south, this Valentin could tell from the street signs that passed. He said, “Thank you. And thank your associates. Am I free to go?” He presumed he was not, but he wanted to get the dialogue moving a little faster so that he could get answers.

“You are only free to go back to prison.” The man shrugged. “Or to go to work for your new benefactor. You were not released from jail, you just escaped.”

“I gathered that when you killed the other prisoner.”

“He was not a prisoner. He was some drunk picked up at the rail yard. There will be no autopsy. It will be registered as you who died in the infirmary, from a heart attack, but you can’t very well return to your previous life.”

“So… I am implicated in this crime?”

“Yes. But don’t feel like this will affect your criminal case. There was no case. You had two possible futures. You were either going to be sent to the gulag, or you were going to be killed right there in the infirmary. Trust me, you would not be the first man to be executed in secret at Matrosskaya Tishina.”

“What about my family?”

“Your family?”

Kovalenko cocked his head. “Yes. Lyudmila and my boys.”

The man with the square head said, “Ah, you are speaking of the family of Valentin Olegovich Kovalenko. He was a prisoner who died of a heart attack in Matrosskaya Tishina prison. You, sir, have no family. No friends. Nothing but your new benefactor. Your allegiance to him for saving your life is your only reason to exist now.”

So his family was gone, and the mob was his new family? No. Kovalenko brought his chin up and his shoulders back. “Ida na hui,” he said. It was a Russian vulgarity, untranslatable into English but akin to “Fuck you.”

The mobster rapped his knuckles on the partition to the front seat, then he asked, “Do you think that somehow the bitch that left you and took your kids would react pleasantly to you showing up at her door, a man on the run from the police for murder, a man who had been targeted for termination by the Kremlin? She will be happy to learn of your death tomorrow. She won’t have the continued embarrassment of a husband in prison.”

The BMW came to a slow halt. Valentin looked out the window, wondering where they were, and he saw the long yellow-and-white walls of Matrosskaya Tishina prison once again.

“This is where you can get out. I know who you used to be, a bright young star of Russian intelligence, but that is no more. You are no longer someone who can say ‘Ida na hui’ to me. You are a local criminal and an international outlaw. I’ll tell my employer that you said ‘Ida na hui,’ and he will leave you to fend for yourself. Or, if you prefer, I will deliver you to the train station; you can go home to your whore wife, and she will turn you in.”

The door to the BMW opened and the driver stood by it.

With the thought of returning to prison, Kovalenko felt a new cold sweat on his neck and back. After several seconds of silence, Valentin shrugged. “You make a compelling argument. Let’s get out of here.”

The man with the square head just stared at him. His face perfectly impassive. Finally he looked out to the driver. “Let’s go.”

The back door closed, the driver’s door opened and shut, and then, for the second time in the past five minutes, Valentin Kovalenko was driven away from the detention facility.

He looked out the window for a moment, trying to get hold of himself so that he could take control of this conversation and positively affect his destiny.

“I will need to leave Russia.”

“Yes. That has been arranged. Your employer is abroad, and you will serve outside of Russia as well. You will see a doctor about your health, and then you will continue your career in the intelligence work, after a fashion, but not in the same location as your employer. You will be recruiting and running agents, executing your benefactor’s directives. You will be remunerated much better than you had been while working for the Russian intelligence service, but you will, essentially, work alone.”

“Are you saying I will not meet my employer?”

The burly man said, “I have worked for him for almost two years, and I have never met him. I do not even know if he is a he.”

Kovalenko raised his eyebrows. “You are not speaking of a national actor. So this is not a foreign state. This is… some sort of illegal enterprise?” He knew that it was; he was only feigning surprise to show his distaste.

His answer came in the form of a short nod.

Valentin’s shoulders slumped a little. He was tired from his sickness and the adrenaline waning in his blood after the murder of the man and his own thoughts of death. After several seconds he said, “I suppose I have no choice but to join your band of merry criminals.”

“It’s not my band, and they are not merry. That is not how this operation is run. We… you, me, others… we get orders via Cryptogram.”

“What is Cryptogram?”

“Secure instant messaging. A system of communication that can’t be read, can’t be hacked, and immediately erases itself.”

“On the computer?”

“Yes.”

Valentin realized he’d have to get a computer. “So you are not my handler?”

The Russian just shook his head. “My job is done. We’re done. I suppose you will never see me again as long as you live.”

“Okay.”

“You will be taken to a house where documents and instructions will be delivered to you by courier. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later. Then my people will get you out of the city. Out of the country.”

Kovalenko looked back out the window, and he saw they were heading into central Moscow.

“I will give a warning, Valentin Olegovich. Your employer — I should say our mutual employer — has people everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“If you attempt to flee your duties, to renege on your compact, his people will find you, and they will not hesitate to hold you to account. They know everything, and they see everything.”

“I get it.”

For the first time, the square-headed man chuckled. “No. You do not get it. You cannot possibly get it at this point. But trust me. Cross them in any way at any time, and you will instantly come to know their omniscience. They are like gods.”