Harper had tasked him with getting Abram Bukolov safely out of Russia and to the United States. How exactly he accomplished that was his decision.
And he preferred it that way.
With Kane on a leash, he walked the mile to the rental car office and picked up the vehicle, a Range Rover of questionable age, but the engine purred and the heater worked.
Tucker took it and left Novosibirsk at midday, heading west down the highway to Omskaya. Three hours later, he pulled off the highway and drove six miles north to his true destination, Kuybyshev.
It never hurt to employ his own countermeasures.
Following the pictograph signs, he pulled into the local airport. Using a map and a smattering of Russian, he booked a flight to Perm.
Sixteen hours after he left Novosibirsk, his flight touched down at Perm’s Bolshoye Savino Airport. He waited in cargo claim for Kane to emerge from the belly of the plane, then another hour for immigration to clear them both.
Minutes later, he and Kane were in another rental vehicle—this one a Volvo—and headed into the city proper.
From the car, he called Sigma for an update.
“Still no blips on immigration or customs,” Harper informed him. “If they’re still actively hunting you, they’re not doing it that way.”
Or they’re giving me enough time to get to Bukolov before snapping shut the trap.
“Is this safe house I’m heading to manned?” he asked, intending to collect the provisions he had requested without delay.
“It won’t be. It’s an apartment. Call the number I gave you, let it ring three times, then again twice, then wait ten minutes. The door will be unlocked. Five minutes inside, no more.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Simplicity works, Tucker, and this is a lot simpler than meeting someone on a park bench with a flower in your lapel and your shoelace untied.”
Tucker realized this made sense. In fact, one of the acronyms soldiers lived by was KISS—Keep It Simple, Stupid.
“Fair enough,” Tucker said, but he gave voice to another troubling matter. “It’s South Carolina, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“Your accent.”
She sighed heavily, giving him his answer.
Wrong.
“Tucker, the details for your meeting tonight will also be in the safe house.”
“And my contact?”
“His name and description are included in the dossier you’ll find there. He’s hard to miss.”
“I’ll call you after it’s done.”
“Keep out of trouble,” she said.
“Are you talking about both of us, or just Kane?”
“Kane would be much harder to replace.”
Tucker glanced to his partner. “Can’t argue with that,” he said and signed off.
Now came the hard part—grabbing Abram Bukolov without getting caught.
13
March 12, 8:55 A.M.
Perm, Russia
His visit to the safe house was thankfully anticlimactic. He left with four new passports—two for him and two for Bukolov—along with a roll of cash, a pair of credit cards, a second satellite phone, and the location of his meeting with Sigma’s contact, the one who was supposed to lead Tucker to Bukolov.
This mysterious contact was also high on his list of suspects as the source of the intelligence leak that almost got him killed. The man’s dossier rested on the seat next to him. He planned on studying it in great detail.
Next, Tucker took advantage of a list of local suppliers left at the safe house. He traveled to a bakery whose basement doubled as an armory. The baker asked no questions but simply waited for Tucker to make his weapon selections from a floor-to-ceiling pegboard. He then wrote down the price on a piece of paper, which he handed to Tucker with a gravelly, “No negotiate.”
The next supplier, the owner of a car lot, was equally taciturn and effective. Through Harper, Tucker had preordered a black Marussia F2 SUV. Of Russian manufacture, it had a front end that only a mother could love, but it was a brute of a vehicle, often modified for use by first responders or as a mobile command center.
After paying, Tucker told the owner where to leave the vehicle—and when.
With six hours still to spare before he was supposed to meet with his contact, Tucker proceeded to the neighborhood in question: the Leninsky District on the northern side of the Kama River. Once there, he parked the Volvo and began walking. In between scouting locations and routes, he was able to relax and take in the sights.
Straddling the banks of the Kama and within the shadow of the snow-topped Ural Mountains, Perm was home to a million people. While the city had its share of Soviet-gray architecture, the older Leninsky District continued to maintain its original European charm. It was a cozy neighborhood of tree-lined streets and secluded garden courtyards, spattered with small cafés, butchers, and bakeries. To top it off, the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky, a rare sight of late.
As he strolled, no one seemed to pay much attention to him: just a man walking his dog. He wasn’t alone in that regard. Much of Perm was taking advantage of the handsome day. Kane took particular interest in a pair of leashed dachshunds that passed by on the sidewalk, all three dogs doing the customary greeting of sniffing and tail wagging. Tucker didn’t mind, as attached to the other end of the leash was a buxom, young beauty in a tight sweater.
The day certainly had brightened.
Eventually, as they crossed the half-mile-long bridge spanning the Kama, he abruptly found himself in a different world. On this side of the river, it was distinctly seedier and less populated. The area was mostly forest, with roads that were either dirt or deeply potholed. The few inhabitants he encountered stared at the pair as though they were alien invaders.
Luckily, where he was supposed to meet his mysterious contact was only a quarter mile from the river. He studied it from a distance, getting the lay of the land. It was a bus stop shelter across from a sullen cluster of businesses: a grocery store, a strip club, and a body shop.
Tucker finished his reconnoiter, then gladly crossed back over the bridge.
He and Kane returned to the Volvo, found a nondescript hotel in the area, checked in, and took a fast nap. Tucker knew that once he had Bukolov in hand, he might not get a chance to sleep again until he delivered the man across the border.
That is, if he ever reached the border.
In the end, he didn’t sleep well at all.
8:12 P.M.
By nightfall, Tucker found himself parked in an elementary-school lot on the wrong side of the tracks—or in this case, the wrong side of the river. The school had boarded-up windows with a playground full of rusty, broken equipment that looked perfect for spreading tetanus.