I was taken to an interview room by a guard and after a few moments, a very tired looking Arkadin came in with a cup of coffee in his hands. His five o’clock shadow was coming in well. He looked like he had been sleeping at his desk.
“I’ve asked the guard to bring you a sandwich and a Coke,” Arkadin muttered warmly, quite out of character. I thanked him.
“Peter, I don’t like it when I get called at ten o’clock at night and I’m told that there has been a good old fashioned international incident outside my embassy gates. Nobody here witnessed a thing and further nobody can put the pieces together to make any sense of it. The Russian’s foreign minister is saying it is an internal affair and is being tight lipped about it. What they don’t know is that you emerged from the crossfire without warning. Now, why would a bunch of Russian cops start shooting each other up outside the American embassy gates, and how the hell did you get in the middle of it all? I don’t think it was coincidence. Please, I’m all ears,” he slowly sipped on his mug of steaming black coffee, but then stopped and added, “and please, Peter, don’t shovel me any bullshit. It’s too late, or too early for that. Just tell me everything I want to know.”
“The police officers outside your gates tonight were from two different divisions. I saw six agents from the FSB. They were after me and the major from the FSO who had just grabbed me from the TsKB in a raid with guns and speeding cars. Major Dobrynin was the officer in charge of investigating the shooting at the Tretyakov Gallery on Wednesday, where I, as you know, was shot. I know that three FSB agents were shot and killed by Major Dobrynin. As we didn’t hear any more shots fired after I got inside the compound gates, I don’t think anybody else was killed,” I explained.
“Peter?” Arkadin said from inside his coffee mug and gave me a look that said ‘go on’.
“Major Dobrynin had started an informal investigation regarding the missing data disc that you are also looking for, which Sanning stole from a now dead mafia boss in Nizhniy Novgorod. After that discussion with his superior officer, the FSB tried to run him and his driver into the Moscow river. He then came straight to the hospital to get me because he rightfully feared that the corrupt agents at the FSB would try to get to me at the hospital with help from his own chain of command in the FSO.” I paused and looked at Arkadin to see if it was enough yet.
“Can you tell me why the FSB has your name. Should I be worried about your allegiance, Mr. Turner?” Arkadin remarked with a raised eyebrow.
“The FSB kidnapped me from Nizhniy, thinking as you do, that I know how to contact Sanning after he made off with the disc that they were wanting to lift from the middle man. They brought me to Moscow after I had set up the meeting that your team photographed on the Arbat street,” I confessed.
“Do you have the disc?” he asked more alert this time.
“No, sir. Sanning said he destroyed it. He used the gallery meeting to bluff the Chechens. Make them think it was a real drop. He was very careful to make sure the FSB agents were able to follow us easily. I figure he knew that when he passed the claim tab from the wardrobe to the Chechens at the gallery that the FSB would go after them, leaving me to walk away. Instead, everybody got killed, Sanning disappeared, I went to hospital and have been in police custody since,” I finished with a deep breath.
“And you have been cooperating with the FSO, Major Dobrynin?” he queried with some irritation in his voice.
“I had no choice, sir. He already had so much circumstantial evidence on me that I couldn’t not tell him the whole story. It was that or be treated as a suspect,” I pleaded.
“So, you would happily cooperate with a Russian intelligence officer instead of aiding representatives from your own country? Is that how we should understand this?” he poised his questions so loaded that only one answer was possible to keep on the good side the line. I did not answer his questions immediately but thought pensively for a moment.
“Mr. Arkadin, sir, do you know what is on that data disc that you are searching for?” I asked suspecting they weren’t sure why they wanted it.
“We have our suspicions,” he replied evasively.
“The technology on the disc was developed by Ivan Sergeyevich S., an aviation engineer from the Sokol research and development plant in Nizhniy Novgorod. It is the state property of the Russian Federation. It is not, nor ever has been, property of the United States of America. If I was to help you find this disc and export it to the USA, I would then be a co-conspirator in espionage against the Russian state, and then they could lock me up. At this point, I have still done nothing against the law for which I could be legally detained. Helping the Russian police establish motive for mass murder in a public place of innocent tourists and six state security agents by giving a statement to the investigating police is not a crime punishable by our laws either. I have been caught up in this involuntarily and plan to keep my hands clean,” I declared.
“Fair enough. Fair enough.” Arkadin conceded, “What more can you tell me about the technology we’re looking for?”
“While I’m still in Russia? Absolutely not another word,” I admitted.
Arkadin chewed on his lower lip for a moment in thought and then spoke again, “We were not able to retrieve the backpack you said you had checked in the museum’s left luggage area. Our contact told us that it had already been seized as evidence. Information about the disc without any connection to Santander leaves you in a poor position for withholding any information, Mr. Turner.”
“I have been able to recover the telephone number with the help of the FSO. Dobrynin returned my address book to me on the ride over here.” I reached in my front pants pocket and laid it on the table. Arkadin looked at it, picked it up and flipped through the pages and the tossed it back to me.
“Would we even know if we called the right number if we called every number in that book?” he asked the right question.
“Nope!” I looked at him with a slight gloating in my face, but handed him immediately an olive branch, “As soon as you have me back in the USA, out of the reach of the Russian police and FSB, I will provide you with a full description of the technology that is on the disc and I will even help you to recover it using my connections with Sanning.”
Arkadin stood up slowly from the table and stretched his legs and then grumbled to me, “Go get some sleep, kid. It’s a long flight back to Washington. I’ll make the arrangements for tomorrow afternoon. The nurse has prepared a cot for you in the infirmary.” And with that, he turned and shuffled out of the room.
“Good night, sir,” I called after him.
He answered with just a tired wave above his head as the door closed behind him. He knew he’d been checkmated.
35. Two Years Later
For the last few days my hands had been shaking with nerves and my heart raced every time I turned the small, thin key of my mailbox. I had waited already what seemed like an eternity to receive the evaluation of my thesis defense. Today, my heart stopped for a few beats and legs fell slightly weak as the first envelope I pulled from my post box bore the university logo in two bold letters: GW. This was not a tuition bill as it was from the Elliot School of International Affairs.
I had no patience to wait and open this in ceremonial fashion with my family and my girlfriend in an upscale restaurant with drinks and hors d’oeuvres. With my hands visibly shaking and my heart now beating in my ears, I ripped the envelope open with the blunt notches of my apartment key. I had envisioned the moment already many times behind my desk where I had written the thesis, with a sharp letter opener and wearing white gloves. Nobody in the room would be allowed to breathe. Instead I stood there in the stairwell of the Washington DC apartment building struggling to pull a one-page letter from a paper envelope, cursing under my breath as I dropped my keys on the floor. The letter finally unfolded, I turned to the dim light in the entryway. My eyes quickly scanned the letter, skipping the niceties and greetings of a formal letter. Had I been successful?