Dirty Little Wars 01: Moscow

THE CALL FOR HELP

I get the message at 4am, a steady buzz that repeats until I can't ignore it anymore. I slide the thick comforter off my shoulder and reach for the device, allowing its glow to fill the room. The content is numeric. A coded cry for help.

"Shit," I mutter, examining the string of numbers more closely. The first six numbers identify the sender—Strongman—a darknet associate who works for Yandex (Russian Google). He has never actually met me. Over the past few years, we've done a lot of business together. His information is clean, and more accurate than what I'm normally forced to sift through.

He has my full attention.

The end numbers indicate his location and status. He's gone into hiding in Moscow. It's either because he's discovered critical information, or because he's been discovered...or both. He's asking for immediate assistance.

Of course, it could be a trap.

I glance at my watch, calculating how long it will take me to arrange a trip to Moscow, even as Marek's warnings are still playing in the back of my mind.

You know the danger is real, and it's intensifying.

I scowl, conceding this, even in his absence. But... what does it matter? Strongman has called for help. I can't delay my response based on the ever-present possibility that I've been compromised.

I push the sheets aside and rise from the bed, walking down the hallway and through the shadows of the kitchen. Its tall cabinets form a shadowed niche, muted light from the penthouse windows glossing over black glass countertops and brushed silver appliances.

My laptop rests on the polished zinc surface of the dining room table with its cover open. I take a seat and skim my fingers across the pad, watching the machine wake from slumber. The Tor connection is solid, and I'm connected to a safe IP in Slovakia. It allows me to log into the email box I use for organizing trips into Moscow under a flight stewardess cover.

While I don't like to use covers, they are useful in cases where the risk of exposure is higher. I have a few verifiable passports that get me in and out of Russia without attracting a lot of attention. My favorite belongs to a redheaded Montenegrin named Zosia.

For this trip, I'm Zosia.

As for the airline...well, this is more complicated. Typically, it's difficult for international travelers to get anywhere near a commercial flight to Moscow without getting flagged by a few surveillance systems.

But anything is possible for the rich and powerful, and there is a private jet service that flies between Warsaw and Moscow for those willing to pay extra for anonymity. The charter company—Onyx International—offers specialized flights, hangar to hangar. Their clients are usually so well connected that they are virtual blackouts, moving from place to place with zero interference. The people who serve them drinks enjoy the same status because everyone gets paid off. Thus, everyone knows better than to ask questions.

Onyx flights can be official and boring, or they can be downright bacchanalian. It depends on the clients. Some want to examine spreadsheets. Others want caviar, cocaine, and strippers. No request is too outrageous.

I've seen a lot happen at 40,000 feet, but I never invest too much energy worrying about what might come my way this time. I've never had a plan go exactly the way I intended. I deal with whatever happens, and maybe there's a thrill in not knowing what to expect. Maybe I enjoy that.

My psychological profile is... complicated.

After a few messages, I'm booked for a flight leaving at midnight.