‘There are no reports so far in the national media or via any of the state security links we have access to that could be related to your presence. There was a brief reference to an attack on security members in the Kyiv’ski District, but it was dismissed as the isolated work of criminals and no arrests have been made.’
‘Nice to know that’s what I am.’
‘I have an update regarding the next cut-out. She’s been contacted and will store Travis overnight at a local hotel where she’s the deputy manager. Her husband has strong pro-Russian family links, so she feels Travis will be safer in the hotel out of the way. It’s called the Tipol, close to the river. I checked the website and the building’s big enough so he can be anonymous if he keeps his head down.’
‘Good work. Anything else?’
‘How’s your status?’ She was probably thinking about the two shooters. It was nice of her to ask, but it was standard procedure. A field operative who has specific fears he can’t or won’t express is a danger to himself and his assignment if those fears are unresolved for too long. It’s the job of the handlers to tease out any such issues. They might not be able to do much about them, but talking helps. If that fails, the extreme is intervention.
‘My status is fine. I’m staying on the move.’ If Olena Prokyeva had managed to get word to Ivkanoy about what had happened, the chances are he would be even more on my case and would have more people out looking for me. The biggest danger for me lay in new faces, especially in built-up areas; I simply might not see them coming. Out here it wouldn’t be so easy for them, but the threat was still real.
Lindsay was ahead of me. ‘I did some checking,’ she said, ‘on the man Ivkanoy. Interpol and the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs have files on him. He also shows up in their State Prison Service records. He seems not to have a first name — at least there’s nothing on record. He’s done time for numerous offences, including murder and extortion. So not a nice man.’
‘Good to know. And the shooter?’
‘Olena Prokyeva. She has an interesting history. She completed military service and was stand-by on the Russian Olympic shooting team in 1988 and again in 1992. It was reported that she should have been in their first team but lost out because she was Ukrainian and had an attitude problem.’
‘They got that right. Where did she serve in the military?’
‘Afghanistan in 1989. That was right at the end of their involvement. She appears to have gone off the rails after that and dropped off the radar. Until now.’
‘Good to know.’
‘That’s not all. Ivkanoy has extended family across southern and eastern Ukraine and over the border into Russia. One of his cousins is Yuri Beltranov, named recently as a leader of a separatist pro-Moscow group in the Luhansk district. Ivkanoy is rumoured to be one of his sponsors for political position in any new administration.’
‘You’ve been busy. Thank you.’ The last bit of information didn’t exactly add to my feeling of well-being, but it was good to know where I stood. It also explained why and how Ivkanoy was able to send two shooters after me so casually; he didn’t fear being implicated because his cousin the separatist leader would be his protector.
‘How’s the work?’ I asked, watching a long line of army trucks thudding east. They were full of troops and equipment, and had an APC at the head of the column ready to clear the way. They looked like they meant business. A military chopper was keeping station overhead, jinking back and forth to study the landscape. It all looked a little unreal, like military convoys so often do.
‘Quiet. I get to see even fewer people than you do.’ There was a smile in the voice and I guessed she was in some kind of isolated room surrounded by electronic equipment and cut off from visitors. Like being in a hospital room only without the smell of medicines. I sensed a reserve, too, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m good, thanks. Speak later?’
I signed off and got back on the road. If something was bothering her she was too professional to let it out, and I had other things to do.
I found myself in a steady stream of traffic heading west, with bunches of military vehicles and lines of trucks parked at the side of the road. It seemed as if the entire Ukrainian army was on the move, heading towards the east and the separatist militias waiting for them. The soldiers here were standing around smoking and waving encouragement to a few going the other way. None of them looked as if they were relishing the part they were going to play, but they were doing what soldiers do everywhere, which was waiting for the next list of orders from the high command.
The countryside here was flatter than I’d seen before, with gently rolling fields heading off into the distance and not much in the way of trees, other than a long line bordering a rail track heading, I guessed, to Pavlohrad.
As I was taking in the detail, I heard a car horn to my left. A military jeep loaded with armed men was sitting right alongside me. The driver didn’t have a whole lot of room, but he was flashing oncoming drivers to get them out of the way and they weren’t arguing. The front seat passenger flipped a hand for me to pull over and stop, while the rear seat passenger had a grim smile on his face and an AK-74 pointed at my head.
TWENTY-NINE
I pulled over and rolled to a stop on the grass verge. The jeep pulled over with me and stopped in front, blocking any escape. Seconds later I was out of the car and standing against the hood, with the rest of the traffic thundering by a few feet away. The two men from the back of the jeep stood guard, while the front seat passenger strutted his stuff and demanded to know who I was and where I was going.
I was worried this might be another Rambo-style vehicle check, but it quickly became obvious that there was something too efficient about the officer and his men, and that they weren’t playing at being traffic cops just for the hell of it.
I told him I was from Germany and that I had a family to feed and was looking for work. I’d heard about some kind of government hostel hiring a maintenance man in Pavlohrad and was hoping to get the position.
He nodded like he was familiar with the place and peered into the car. I held my breath. If he saw the sniper’s rifle I was in a whole world of trouble. He took an age walking round the car, tapping on the roof as if deep in thought. All the while I waited for him to open the doors and for the hammer to fall.
But he didn’t. Instead he turned back and began flipping through my papers. I relaxed a little. I knew the address was a blind and even if he had the time or inclination to check it out, it would come up good.
‘You’re a long way from home. And Germany is a rich country.’ He meant why was I wasting time looking for work in a poorer economy that was in danger of disintegrating into civil war any day now.
‘I heard things were good here for people willing to work hard. I want to set up a business, employ others.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not good right now but you have to take a chance and run with it, right?’
He grunted with scepticism and I knew why. The kind of chances the military takes bear no resemblance to those in civilian life. Guns and ammunition present a more final and binding solution than spreadsheets, order books or corporate rules, and risk for civilians is measured purely in economic terms, not life and death. ‘It sounds a good plan, but you should pay more attention to news reports. What kind of work do you do?’
‘Electrician, plumber, carpenter … whatever you want me to do, captain,’ I replied. He was a junior lieutenant but he didn’t take offence at the promotion. His mouth twitched and he handed the papers back and nodded at the rear of the Isuzu. ‘If you’re so good with your hands, get your stop light fixed — it’s flickering like a welcome sign on a Black Sea whorehouse.’