The other two men approached Bogdanov, each grabbing an arm. They escorted him toward the exit as a van pulled up outside the hotel. A side door slid open, shutting again once Bogdanov and the two men were inside.
Anosov looked around, presumably for Khalila, who was nowhere to be found.
“Join us at the safe house,” he said, then he jumped into the passenger seat of the van, which turned around and headed toward the main street.
Harrison searched the surroundings for Khalila, spotting her in the shadows, seated on a worn bench pushed up against the wall, bent over with her face in her hands. He started toward her, his pistol still drawn. As he approached, Khalila gave no indication she noticed. He stopped in front of her and she still didn’t acknowledge his presence. After evaluating how best to proceed, he holstered his weapon and sat beside her.
Khalila still had her face in her hands, and Harrison noticed her slow, steady breathing.
“Look at me, Khalila.”
She sat up, placing her back against the wall. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there didn’t appear to be any emotion on her face; just the glint of her eyes, focused on him.
Harrison had already decided he wasn’t going to work with Khalila again. But he needed to ensure he made it back to the U.S. alive, and without being forced to kill her along the way.
“I don’t have a beef with you, Khalila. There’s a saying, ‘What happens on travel, stays on travel.’ I intend to follow that rule while working with you. Anything I learn about you is no one else’s business. Your secrets are safe with me. In return, I need to be able to trust you; know that you’ve got my back.”
There was no visible reaction from Khalila, who said nothing as she stared at him.
“Deal?” Harrison asked, extending his hand to shake on it.
After a long moment, Khalila nodded, then stood and walked away, leaving Harrison with an outstretched hand.
He closed it into a fist.
46
SOCHI, RUSSIA
One of the safe house condominium flats had been converted into a small detention center: several single-person cells, plus two interrogation rooms, each with an observation booth along one wall, separated by a one-way mirror. Bogdanov was seated by himself in one of the interrogation rooms while Harrison and a few others had filed into the observation booth, awaiting the arrival of a CIA interrogator. They were sending the best, Anosov had said, who would arrive shortly.
Khalila entered the observation booth and sat beside Harrison as if nothing untoward had happened three hours ago. After their discussion in the gutted building, when they had made the deal, she had walked off into the darkness. Harrison had called for a ride back to the safe house, and as he made his way to the main boulevard paralleling the Black Sea shoreline, Khalila had appeared by his side. Neither spoke during the short ride to the safe house.
As he sat beside her, several emotions swirled inside; mostly anger and curiosity. What secrets was she keeping, and what kind of experiences produced someone who could kill her partner simply for having gleaned a tidbit about her? He suddenly realized that when Khalila convinced him to bring her to Sochi, it had been a setup. She’d been planning to kill him all along. In Damascus, after the jump into the Barada River, Khalila had lost her pistol. If she had retained it, he doubted he would have made it out of the culvert alive. When the trip to Sochi presented another opportunity, she had taken it.
The door to the observation booth opened and Anosov entered, accompanied by a large, barrel-chested man well over six feet tall and north of 250 pounds. Anosov made the introduction — CIA interrogator John Kaufmann — who asked everyone in the booth if they had any information about Bogdanov that might prove useful. Harrison and Khalila, plus the two men who had hauled Bogdanov into the van, were the only ones who had interacted with him, but their contact had been brief and none seemed to have anything to offer.
Kaufmann entered the interrogation room and sat across from Bogdanov at the small wooden table. He placed a leather satchel beside him, from which he pulled a manila folder. He flipped through its contents in silence, ignoring Bogdanov. The Russian was unrestrained, but he wasn’t near as large as Kaufmann, plus it was obvious the larger man was carrying a weapon: there was a slight bulge near his left shoulder beneath his sport coat.
When he finished reviewing the file, Kaufmann pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his satchel. He offered a cigarette to Bogdanov, who shook his head.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” Kaufmann said. “What were you paid 1.2 billion rubles for?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s a 1.2 billion ruble deposit to an account in your name that says otherwise.”
“That’s a lie. I don’t have that kind of money.”
Kaufmann pulled a sheet from his folder and slid it toward Bogdanov, then pointed to the first transaction. “A man named Lonnie Mixell — you probably know him as Mark Alperi — deposited 1.2 billion rubles to an account owned by Matvey Petrov.” Kaufmann pointed to the second transaction. “Petrov then withdrew ten million rubles, which was deposited on the same day into an account owned by Danil Andreyev, which is the name you’re currently using.”
“Of course it’s the name I’m currently using. It is my name.”
“We’ll go with that for now,” Kaufmann said. “So who is Matvey Petrov?”
“He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Why did he transfer ten million rubles to your account?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“That’s the thing,” Kaufmann replied. “I kinda am. Your real name is Anatoly Bogdanov, a former ordnance supervisor at Gadzhiyevo Naval Base, who is using two aliases to prevent being tracked down while you spend 1.2 billion rubles into your twilight years.”
Bogdanov didn’t immediately respond, but Harrison noticed the Russian swallowing hard.
“If you don’t want to make things more difficult for yourself, you can start by telling me what the payment from Mixell was for.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Mixell or Bogdanov, nor why Mixell paid Petrov.”
“You are in serious trouble,” Kaufmann said. “If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life behind bars, I suggest you be more forthcoming about who you are and what you were paid to do.”
“I’m done talking,” Bogdanov replied. “Either charge me with a crime and provide a lawyer, or release me.”
Kaufmann kept up the pressure, providing more evidence that the man across from him was indeed Anatoly Bogdanov, who had been paid 1.2 billion rubles by Lonnie Mixell. Bogdanov refused to acknowledge the obvious, steadfastly sticking to the story that he was Danil Andreyev.
After staring at Bogdanov for a while, Kaufmann pushed up from the table and left the interrogation room, then stepped into the observation booth. He spoke quietly with Anosov for a moment, who then left.
Kaufmann announced, “Time for plan B. Everyone into the interrogation room.”
There were several wooden chairs along the sides of the room, and Harrison and Khalila sat on one side, while the two men who had stuffed Bogdanov into the van took seats across the room. Kaufmann removed his sport coat, revealing his pistol in a shoulder harness, which immediately caught Bogdanov’s attention.
Kaufmann resumed the interrogation, bringing Harrison and Khalila into the conversation, asking Bogdanov why he had tried to evade them. Bogdanov concocted a story of how he thought they were going to mug him, and had tried to run away. Kaufmann tried several tactics, which produced the same result. Bogdanov remained resolute. He was Danil Andreyev, and had been his entire life.