Page 118 of The Collector
Ingrid shot a glance over her shoulder, but there was nothing to see; the rear window was covered with snow and grime. “Surely they’re not going to let us simplydriveacross the border.”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“How do you suppose they were able to get us out?”
“Knowing the Russians, I’m sure the deal involved money.”
“Nikolai Petrov’s.”
Magnus nodded. “Gennady must have moved it offshore. I assume he’ll return it once we’re across the border.”
“And then?”
“Gennady will suffer a mysterious fall from the top of TverBank Tower.”
They spotted a second patrol car parked outside a used tire shop in the hamlet of Kondratevo, and a third outside the dreary Motel Medved. Once again, there was no attempt by any of the officers to prevent them from reaching an international border that had been effectively closed and militarized for many months.
Magnus negotiated a final series of gentle curves, and the enormous Torfyanovka crossing point emerged suddenly from behind a veil of falling snow. Before the onset of the war, two million cars and trucks had passed through the facility annually. Now it was deserted save for a few military-style Border Service vehicles and about twenty uniformed men standing on the brilliantly illuminated tarmac in front of the inspection station.
The Russian border guards, with shouts and hand gestures, instructed Magnus to stop, then quickly surrounded the Range Rover. One of the men leered at Ingrid through her window, but she stared straight ahead—toward the distant lights of the Finnish border complex at Vaalimaa.
Yes, she thought anxiously, they were definitely expected.
In the Finnish command post four kilometers to the west, Gabriel watched the video images of the impasse on the Russian side of the border with increasing alarm. One of the Russians was pacing the tarmac, a radio to his jaw. The others were standing like statuary around the motionless Range Rover. Esko Nurmi was right; they were no ordinary passport stampers.
“Looks like there’s a snag,” remarked the Finn.
“There usually is when Russians are involved.”
They watched the video transmission for another minute.
“Maybe we should run down the hill to the substation,” said Nurmi. “Just to be on the safe side.”
“It might be a good idea to bring along Person B as well,” said Gabriel. “Just for good measure.”
The one with the radio appeared to be in charge. Eventually, he moved to the driver’s-side door of the Range Rover and gave the window two firm raps with the side of his gloved hand.
Magnus lowered the window a centimeter or two. “What seems to be the problem? We were given assurances by friends in Moscow that we would be allowed to cross the border.”
The remarks provoked a tirade from the Russian on the other side of the glass. Magnus provided a simultaneous Danish translation for Ingrid.
“He says that no one in Moscow could have given us such assurances because the border crossing is closed. He says we have entered a restricted military zone and are now subject to arrest.”
“Try showing him your passport.”
Magnus slid his dark red Danish passport through the narrow breach. “My name is Magnus Larsen. I am the CEO of DanskOil.”
The Russian accepted the passport and with his heavy gloves turned clumsily through the pages. Then he handed the document to a colleague and said something to Magnus in Russian. He translated the instructions for Ingrid.
“He wants to see your passport as well.”
Ingrid handed it over, and Magnus in turn slid it through the opening. The Russian’s inspection of the passport was brief. Then he stepped away from the door and spoke a few more words in terseRussian. They required no translation. The border guard wanted Magnus to get out of the Range Rover.
“Don’t even think about opening that door,” said Ingrid. “If you do, you’re dead.”
And then they would kill her as well. But only after they’d had a little fun with her. She reckoned the one standing at her window would be the first in line. He was pulling at the latch, trying to open her door. Ingrid ignored him. She was watching a pair of headlights moving down the slope of the hill on the Finnish side of the border.
She removed the Genesis phone from her handbag and reconnected it to the MTS cellular network—all while the man at the window was screaming at her in Russian.
