Page 117 of The Collector
“In that case, I’m Person A.”
“Does A happen to stand for Allon?”
“It might, yes.”
The Finn’s contemptuous expression changed to one of admiration. “It’s an honor to have you here in Vaalimaa, Director Allon. Follow me, please.”
They entered the command post, where an officer in a smart-looking sweater sat before a bank of video monitors. They were fedby an array of surveillance cameras pointed toward the Torfyanovka complex on the Russian side of the border. One of the cameras was focused on an assemblage of Russian Border Service vehicles parked on the tarmac in front of the inspection lanes.
“They arrived about an hour ago,” explained Nurmi. “They’re not the typical passport inspectors we used to see when the border was still open. They’re members of a special tactical unit. And quite well armed.”
“How far are we from the actual border?”
“About a kilometer and a half.” The Finn walked Gabriel over to a nearby window and pointed toward a couple of yellow lights burning in the distance. “We have a substation about a hundred fifty meters from the border.”
“Anyone on duty?”
“A single officer.”
“I’d like to join him, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry, Director Allon. This is as close as you go.”
They returned to the control room. The situation on the Russian side of the border was unchanged. Esko Nurmi checked the time on his wristwatch. “According to my calculation, your two agents should be about fifteen minutes away.”
Gabriel glanced at Eli Lavon, who nodded his head in agreement.
“Is he Person B or C?” asked Esko Nurmi.
“He’s C, I think.”
The Finn looked at Mikhail. “Person B looks like trouble.”
“Definitely.”
“Is he armed?”
“Right-front coat pocket.”
“You?”
Gabriel gently patted his lower back.
“How did you get it into the country?”
“I’m not in the country.”
“Did you enjoy your stay?”
Gabriel stared at the Russian trucks waiting on the tarmac on the opposite side of the border. “I’ll let you know in fifteen minutes.”
58
Torfyanovka
The village of Chulkovo was the last place they saw a pair of oncoming headlights. A half kilometer to the west, they came upon a Russian Border Service patrol car parked along the tree-lined verge, its wipers beating a lazy rhythm, running lights aglow. The officer behind the wheel was on his radio. He made no attempt to impede their progress.
“An encouraging sign,” said Magnus. “They’re clearly expecting us.”
