CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 29) IGOR BATAMIROV

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

59.

Vladimir Batamirov, a senior officer with the FSB in Russia’s Paris embassy, was most surprised, not to mention annoyed, that a colonel from the SVR had arrived in town to muscle in on an important FSB operation.  His operation. Since when did the FSB surrender its turf to the SVR?

But orders were orders, and a terse cable from his own headquarters confirmed the arrangement: You will obey instructions from Igor Kuntevich.

The two men were introduced.  Kunty did not confide in Batamirov the true nature of his presence:  To assassinate a double-agent.  Only that he required an emergency meeting with Batamirov’s very special French agent.

The FSB officer tried to explain that his agent was abroad more often than in Paris, traveling regularly through Teheran and Baghdad and elsewhere in the Middle East, and quite often in Africa.  Furthermore, they had a strict protocol with regard to communication. The agent initiated contact only from Paris, with a special cell phone, a Norwegian number routed through Skype. 

“Call it,” Kuntevich instructed.  “Leave an urgent message that you must meet as soon as possible, even if it means cutting a trip short.”

Batamirov could not be certain his agent even took the special phone with him on his travels, and said so.

“You will try,” Kuntevich hissed, barely able to conceal his contempt with the traitor, suspecting willful obstruction.  “Right now.”

“I have my own special phone for this.”

“Where?”

 “In the office safe.”

 “Get it.”

Batamirov needed a second officer, each with a separate code, to open the large FSB safe.  Fortunately, his female colleague was present and together they gained access.  Inside:  a number of dossiers and stacks of worn banknotes in different currencies.  Batamirov plucked the phone from a shelf and turned to face Kuntevich, who had followed him.  Next, they entered a secure room.

The FSB officer touched one key, and listened.

 “Oui?” a voice answered.

 Batamirov’s eyes lit up, surprised to hear a real voice.  “We must meet.”

 “I am at Charles de Gaulle, about to fly.”

Standing next to Batamirov, listening to every word, Kuntevich whispered into the FSB officer’s ear.

“It is very important,” said Batamirov.  “Can you delay your flight?”

 “Impossible.” (A Frenchman’s favorite word.)

Pressed further, the French agent conceded that he had reached the airport early to work in the first-class lounge.  He still had two hours before having to board.  If Batamirov could somehow beat traffic and get to the airport within an hour, he would return to the pre-security part of the terminal to rendezvous at a coffee kiosk.

Kuntevich grinned.  Such a scenario worked hugely to his advantage. Once poisoned, the French double agent would fly to some foreign country, get sick, and die outside of France. An unforeseen but highly desirable result.

Kuntevich did not want to take a taxi, and did not want to ride in a car with Russian diplomatic plates.  Nor did he want to mess with the Metro, trains or buses. Fortunately, the embassy had, as part of its fleet, a couple of cars with French tags—along with several bogus tags it used on surveillance missions.

Batamirov ordered one of these.

“We usually deploy counter-surveillance before using one of these vehicles,” said Batamirov.

Kuntevich shook his head.  “We don’t have time.”

Instead, the two men dashed around the corner to rue Dufrenoy; a car and driver awaited them.

“Watch for watchers,” Batamirov tersely instructed the driver.  “And lose them.”