‘No. I committed it to memory and wiped it. I was with Military Intelligence — I know the rules.’ He sounded offended at the implication that he’d been careless and I figured that with his kind of military background he would know more about being in a sensitive zone than most ordinary grunts.
Vokzal’na Square was a travel hub for the people of Donetsk, with trains, trams and buses all arriving in and leaving from there. The square itself, with the station at the far end, was wide open and spacious, with the road looping in and out like the eye of a needle and stops for trams and buses dotted around the outside perimeter. It boasted a handful of simple shops and eating places, and a brilliant white church with golden domes. It also had a lot of people standing around like refugees, waiting for their transport. But I spotted 24d immediately, a frail figure with a bucket-load of courage huddled under an advertising hoarding. He seemed to be alone and clear but I drove round twice before I was satisfied the area was secure.
‘This is where you get out,’ I told Travis, pulling into the side. I pointed at 24d, who had already spotted us. ‘Go with that man. He’ll hand you over to the next in line. You were briefed on the use of cut-outs. You know what their job is, right?’
He nodded. He seemed calm enough, if a little pale. But the fact was, in spite of any past military service, he was now a desk man and what he’d been through must have seemed like the beginnings of a nightmare. He hadn’t said much since I’d grilled him about the address, and I was hoping it was his training keeping his questions and emotions in check. If he was about to freak out, it was better if he did it now while I had him under my control. I wasn’t sure 24d, who had massive problems of his own ahead of him, would be able to handle that, nor could I expect him to do so.
‘Where will I be going?’ was all he said.
‘Down the line. I’ll be monitoring your progress, so just do what you’re instructed to by the cut-outs, stay off the phone, even if you think it’s safe to call, and you’ll be home in time for tea.’ It wasn’t quite as simple as that, which he would have known by now, but it seemed something nice to aim for.
‘Why can’t you take me? You’re here; we could simply head out of the country. It’s safer heading west, isn’t it? We could just drive out.’
He was right. We could do that. But if we ran into trouble we’d be sunk. Two Americans being caught up in this kind of volatile situation wasn’t something Callahan or his bosses would be able to explain away. Travis at least had the veneer of being a State Department envoy, which might give him some small measure of protection after all the arguing and political point-scoring over why he had come in was done. But my role wasn’t so easily brushed off. Worse, it would reflect badly on him.
‘We have to do it this way,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be watching your back, don’t worry.’
He didn’t look convinced, but he thanked me and got out of the car. I watched him approach 24d and shake hands. Then the two of them turned and walked over to a black battle-scarred VW Polo with a bumble-bee sticker on the rear window and climbed in.
I followed the Polo out of the square and called Langley. 24d was probably heading for the M04 road leading west to Pavlohrad, which was where Travis would be handed over to his next in line. If they didn’t run into trouble from the various separatists or Ukrainian military they should be fine, but there were never any guarantees in this game.
‘Travis is out, clear and on his way,’ I said, when the woman answered. ‘I’ll call again later.’
‘Understood, Watchman.’ She clicked off without further comment and I realized I didn’t yet know her name. Maybe now I never would.
Because I suddenly realized I was being followed.
NINETEEN
I stayed on course while checking the vehicles behind me. It’s not as easy to do as they make out in films, especially on crowded streets with shifting traffic. It’s as much a process of identifying a specific vehicle as gut feel, but I was certain I hadn’t picked up a tail after leaving Obluskva Street; the roads out of there had been too quiet and I’d have spotted a car hanging on to me for too long. But when my antennae started quivering as soon as I drove out of Vokzal’na Square and turned south, I couldn’t ignore the warning.
I must have been spotted at random; it was the only thing I could think of. And if that had come down to somebody trawling the streets for a red Toyota Land Cruiser, I figured it had to be Ivkanoy or one of his men.
You read a lot about checking a tail by making a series of turns, doubling back, varying your speed and hoping the other driver makes a mistake and blows his cover. Mostly all you do is warn your follower that you’re on to him. I didn’t want that; I wanted to identify whether they were actually interested in me or had latched on to 24d and the black Polo.
If it was me, I could handle it. It would be inconvenient but not a drama. If it was 24d they wanted, it was official. All they had to do was sit on his tail and keep radio contact with other units and they’d have Travis in the bag at their own time and place of choosing.
Either way I had to take them out in some way. It meant not being able to keep tabs on the Polo, but I knew where 24d was taking him and as long as he didn’t make a wrong turn or get lost or picked up by security police or a stray militia group, I could catch up with him later.
Losing sight of the man I was here to protect was far from ideal, but it was a risk I had to take before we went any further.
Identifying the tail was a process of elimination, discounting each vehicle as it turned off or stopped until it came down to three possibles: a dark sedan with a roof aerial, a small blue Datsun and a scrubby-looking white Isuzu with an extended cab. Any one of them could be a surveillance unit, but I had to find out which one and who they were following: me or the Polo? I slowed down, allowing the Polo to get some way ahead, then braked and hung a right at an intersection, making like an out-of-towner checking addresses and street numbers while keeping an eye on my rear-view mirror.
The sedan, Datsun and Isuzu came with me. So I was the target.
I put my money on the sedan with the aerial. Aerials mean cops or security police. Was this Toyota hot after all? Did Ivkanoy have some juice with the local police department and they’d put out an all-points watch for the car? Or was I about to be stopped by security police working on a hunch?
After a couple of turns the Datsun was gone. One down, two to go.
Two more turns and the sedan and the Isuzu were still there. The sedan had two men in the front, both stony-faced, solid, dressed in shirts and ties. To me they had the look of cops. I couldn’t make out the Isuzu but it looked as if it contained just the driver.
I headed out towards the south-western suburbs and the H15 road. The sooner I got out of Donetsk the better. Quite apart from my follower, the possibility of Ivkanoy and his cue-wielding pal being on the lookout for the car and my skin, and the risk of running into inquisitive or jumpy militiamen, was too great. I’d already seen too many light military vehicles and APCs — armoured personnel carriers — stationed at junctions, and it seemed evident that a serious situation was brewing and about ready to explode.
The H15 looped south out of the city and was an alternative route to Pavlohrad. It was a two-lane highway bordered by twin lines of trees, and had an ageing, pitted surface that forced drivers out towards the centre line. It would take longer to reach Pavlohrad than the northern M04 road, which 24d and Travis were taking, but it would allow me more time and space to watch my back and look out for trouble ahead.
And to ditch the trouble coming up behind.