18 Minutes

by Ethan Jones

  Maxim read it a couple of times, then nodded. “I’ve got it.”

  King returned the card to his pocket. “When you’re ready to receive the intel, dial the number. An automated message will give you instructions.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “Because I don’t know. Compartmentalization. You know how that works. If I’m captured and interrogated, I never had that information, so I can’t reveal it.”

  Maxim grinned. “Now, that’s interesting. Why would someone capture a ‘cultural advisor’?”

  King returned the grin. “I don’t know. Stranger things have happened. We’re done here, unless you have questions…”

  “How long is the offer valid for?”

  King shook his head.

  “You don’t know much, do you?”

  “No, and I like it that way. Now, if there’s nothing else…” King stood up, nodded at Maxim, and walked toward the back of the church.

  Maxim waited for a long moment, processing his thoughts. He didn’t like the situation that was being thrust upon him, but he also felt a sense of calmness wash over him. It was as if he held the solution in his hand. Well, in his mind, in that series of numbers. Maybe I will dial the number, and check out the file. Then he shook his head. Dealing with the CIA is like playing with fire. No, there has to be a different way. He thought hard and long, but came up with nothing.

  Eventually, he stood up and made his way to the Lada. He drove along the Moskvoretskaya Embankment, heading toward his mother’s apartment, where she was expecting him for supper. He tried to push the work worries to the back of his mind and get into the mindset to enjoy the evening with his mother. Maxim glanced at his face in the rearview mirror and nodded to himself. Yes, with or without the CIA, I will do everything I can to get my job back … even if it kills me.

  BOOKS BY ETHAN JONES

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  Justin Hall Spy Thriller Series

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  Agent Rising

  From the Max Thorne Spy Thriller Series

  Book 1

  The Story

  Max Thorne is a Russian covert operative ... or is he?

  Demoted FSB Agent Max Thorne, struggling with a troubled, unknown past and aimless future, accepts a near-impossible assignment: bring a traitor who is hiding in the United States back home to Russia.

  Max has never lost any of the high-value detainees he transports, and this mission could prove his allegiance to the agency. But he’d be working in hostile territory, with an untested new team, and his career and life are on the line.

  As the Russian team is ambushed while descending on Washington, DC, Max discovers that his fate is inescapably linked to that of the “traitor.” Now there is even more at stake … his mysterious past may tie him to the CIA.

  With no time to determine whom to trust, will he find the courage to stand between the Russian service and an innocent man? And in doing so, will Max be deemed a traitor himself?

  Prologue

  East Berlin, German Democratic Republic

  November 1989

  The man cocked his Makarov 9mm pistol and walked to the window. He held the gun equipped with a noise suppressor close to his face as he stole a glance through the blinds. The night was dark, and a gentle drizzle was pitter-pattering on the window’s glass. The crooked back alley was empty. Everything was quiet, but he knew that wasn’t going to last long. He turned to the woman kneeling by the wood-burning stove and said, “We’ve got to go. Now, or we’ll never cross the border.”

  She heaved a big sigh and tipped her head toward the large heaps of manila folders stacked on the carpet. She grabbed two handfuls, crumpled the folders as much as she could, and fed them into the mouth of the stove. “We have to burn them, Georgy. Otherwise, all these agents, all these people and their families, they’ll all be killed.”

  Georgy nodded. The CIA operative was right. The Berlin wall might have started to come down, and the East German government might have lost some of its control over the people. But the Staatssicherheitsdienst, or Stasi, as everyone called the feared State Security Service, wasn’t giving up without a fierce fight. A wounded, cornered beast, the hated intelligence agency was willing to do everything it could to prolong its life, even if only for a short time. Now that their safehouse was discovered, it was only a matter of minutes before Stasi agents would break down the door.

  Georgy brushed back his black hair with his free hand. He glanced at his wristwatch, then looked through the window. Dim headlights glowed through the low-hanging haze. He peered and recognized the box-shaped car they were expecting. “Our ride’s here.” He walked over to the woman. “We need to leave.”

  The woman straightened her body and looked at Georgy. She rubbed her hand over her bulging belly and drew in a deep breath. A weary expression spread across her oval face.

  “What is it?” Georgy asked. “You’re in pain?”

  “No, the baby kicked.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled. “He’ll be a football player.”

  “Grow up and play for the Dolphins?”

  “No, the 49ers. They’re the greatest.”

  “Come on, now.” Georgy offered the woman his arm.

  She shook her head. “We can’t—”

  The fire crackled, then popped. A couple of sparks shot out of the open door, landing on the carpet, inches away from the woman’s legs.

  She took one of the folders and swatted the sparks, although they had already burned out. A couple of black spots, however, appeared on the grayish worn-out carpet.

  That gave Georgy the idea. “Maria, stay back.”

  “Why? What—”

  “We don’t have time for this. Away from the stove.”

  She took Georgy’s hand. When she was on her feet, she stepped away and gave him a curious look. “What are you going to do?”

  Georgy used the tip of his boot to push the stove toward the heaps of folders containing classified intelligence. The heavy metal stove did not budge, so he repeated the motion. This time, he shoved the stove harder and for longer. The stove tipped and rolled over. Some of the half-burned papers came out, and coal and wood embers spilled over the documents and the carpet. The smoke pipe became detached from the rear of the stove.

  Maria nodded at Georgy and began to toss the folders over the fire that had started to spread around the area. Gray smoke climbed toward the ceiling. Maria said, “That should do it…”

  “Soon enough the whole place will be smoldering … No one will ever use those files.”

  Maria pulled out her Heckler & Koch P7 PSP 9mm pistol. She always carried it chambered, as the gun was the safest in the world, because of its squeeze cocking action. If one tapped the trigger, nothing happened, unless the cocker was also engaged, and that took a lot of pressure. Without any safety or slide releases, the compact pistol was trim, making it easy to conceal. Georgy preferred the Russian-made Makarov, but she couldn’t blame him for being biased about something made in his homeland. That was his way of being patriotic.

  “Let’s go.” Georgy gestured toward the door.

  Maria coughed as the billowing smoke filled the room. She hurried in front of him into the hall and grabbed the gray coat by the door. Their small apartment was on the second floor and, in a few seconds, they were out in the back alley. She swiveled her head left and right, covering all the angles. Maria tried to take a series of deep breaths to calm herself. I should have taken that transfer … When the doctor said I needed rest … I should have listened… She ran her hand over the front of her coat, then held the hand over where she thought she fel
t another kick from the baby. She smiled. Yes, you’ll be a great man one day.

  She looked to her left, in the direction of the approaching car. It was a silver Volvo station wagon. Maria frowned and blinked the rain out of her eyes. She rubbed them, then flicked some of her long bangs to the side of her face. She stepped closer to Georgy and said, “I thought he was driving a Lada.”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. My contact couldn’t make it tonight. Too dangerous. Couldn’t get him to help even if I promised him the world,” he said in a dry voice full of disappointment.

  “Can we trust this guy?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He comes highly recommended, and he hasn’t betrayed us.”

  “Not yet.”

  “There’s always a first time. Be careful.”

  “As always.”

  The Volvo came to a rolling stop a couple of yards away from them. The driver turned off the headlights, and the alley sank into a dim glow, lit only by a faint streetlight right above the station wagon. The driver rolled down the window and peered at Georgy for a couple of seconds, then put the car in reverse.

  Georgy must have expected the reaction because he had already pointed his Makarov pistol at the driver. “Don’t make me kill you,” he shouted to the driver in German.

  The Volvo slowed down, then stopped. The driver stuck his head outside. He was a blond young man, around twenty-five years old, with a mullet and the matching moustache. “I was told a friend needed safe passage. They didn’t tell me it was the freaking KGB.”

  “I don’t work for the KGB,” Georgy said in a calm voice and kept the pistol trained at the driver’s head.

  “When did you quit?”

  “Do you want your money or not?”

  “Do you think I have nothing better to do at 2:30 in the morning?”

  Georgy shook his head. “I don’t know your routine, but if you want your money, you’d better open the doors.”

  The driver hesitated for a moment. “Is she coming too?” He tipped his head toward Maria.

  “Spoken like a true gentleman.” Georgy waved at her. “Come on. Front seat.”

  She kept her pistol to the side and away from the driver’s attentive eyes as she took a couple of careful steps toward the Volvo.

  The driver said, “For two people, that’s double.”

  “Fine.” Georgy shrugged.

  “In advance.”

  “You greedy little…” He reached for the side pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He tossed it to the driver. “It’s all there.”

  The driver opened the wallet with his shaky hands and counted the deutschmarks.

  Maria thought she heard police sirens in the distance. She wasn’t sure if Stasi operatives would seek the assistance of local police. If they’re truly desperate, they’ll use any measure in their arsenal…

  The driver pocketed the wallet and unlocked the doors. “Get in, quick.”

  “Oh, now you’re in a hurry,” Georgy said.

  Maria sat heavily in the small seat and struggled with the seatbelt buckle.

  The driver put the car into gear, and backed out of the alley before she had finished fastening the seatbelt. She glanced through the window, but all she could see was haze and darkness. Once in a while, distant headlights flickered softly. The police siren had disappeared, and no one seemed to be following them. But Maria couldn’t breathe easier. Not until they had crossed into the other side and had entered the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany.

  She looked at Georgy, who was sitting close to the middle of the backseat. His Makarov was pointed at the side of the driver. Georgy smiled at Maria and said, “Ten minutes. This will only take ten minutes—”

  “Not quite,” said the driver.

  “Why?” Maria said.

  “Checkpoints. The police and Stasi are checking the old crossing points. I know of a couple of new ones that just opened last night.”

  Georgy frowned. “That wasn’t the plan…”

  The driver shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. I can take you to the old spot, and you’ll get caught. It’s up to you.”

  Georgy glanced at Maria.

  She said, “It’s your call.”

  Georgy nodded. “We’ll stick with the old plan.”

  The driver shrugged. “You’re making a mistake, but it’s your neck on the line.”

  “We’ll take our chances…”

  The driver shrugged again, and this time said nothing.

  He kept driving through back alleys and narrow streets. Maria recognized perhaps the most famous landmark of East Berlin, the Brandenburg Gate, where a few days ago, on November 9, Berliners on both sides of the divided city scaled the wall, killing their fears. This area was still crawling with soldiers and Stasi agents. So, Maria’s and Georgy’s initial escape plan was to cross through a breach in the wall south of Leipziger Strasse. Although no one really guarded the wall any more, there had been rumors of rogue agents and resentful vigilantes taking shots at people trying to cross onto West Berlin.

  Maria drew in a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder.

  Georgy was also looking intently at a set of headlights glimmering about thirty yards behind them.

  Maria said, “Are they following us?”

  “Don’t know. They just appeared, maybe—”

  A bullet pierced the rear window shattering the glass.

  Georgy shouted, “Down, get down.” He aimed his pistol at the headlights.

  Before he could fire, Maria said, “Georgy, watch out.”

  He lowered his head, and she squeezed off a couple of rounds. She thought she hit the car’s windshield but not the driver, since the car kept coming at them.

  Georgy leaned against the door as he turned into his seat. His ears were ringing because of Maria’s gunshots, as if he had stood too close to a church bell. He fired a quick burst, and one of the headlights went dark.

  The car didn’t stop.

  “Faster, faster,” Maria shouted at their driver.

  Another bullet lifted sparks from the Volvo’s trunk and a couple more struck the side of the car as the driver made a left turn. He was quite fast, and the car began to fishtail. It climbed onto the sidewalk and went straight for the wall.

  “Turn, turn,” Maria shouted.

  She shook the driver, but his head flopped against the bullet-pierced window.

  The back of the Volvo crashed against the wall.

  Maria was thrown against the door. “Ah,” she moaned as a sharp pain shot through her side. “The baby…” She looked at the driver’s lifeless eyes. A trickle of blood oozed out of his mouth and more spurted from a wound in his neck.

  Georgy cursed the turn of events and stepped outside the Volvo. Thankfully, they were beyond the shooters’ direct line of sight. But that was going to change at any second.

  He opened the driver’s door and dragged the body outside. “How are you?” he asked Maria.

  She replied with a loud moan.

  “Hold on,” Georgy said. “Things are about to get worse.”

  He buckled his seatbelt and steered the Volvo back onto the street.

  More bullets pounded the back of the car. Georgy yanked the wheel left, then right, making the car a harder target. He stepped on the gas, and the Volvo barreled down the empty Leipziger Strasse. They were heading deeper into East Berlin but driving parallel to the wall.

  “Where are we going?” Maria said.

  “We need to lose them and find another breach in the wall.” He gestured to his right.

  Maria picked up her pistol, which had fallen onto the floor. She opened up, squeezing off round after round. She doubted she hit anyone in the pursuing car, but sparks came from its hood. When she heard the hollow click of the empty gun, she tossed it onto the floor.

  Georgy handed her his Makarov. “Here, use this one.”


  Maria gripped the pistol in her hand and aimed it.

  She didn’t get a chance to use it. A round must have hit the Volvo’s right tire. The car sank on that side. Georgy turned the wheel, maneuvering to keep the car straight. Then a bullet drilled through the window and into his left arm.

  Georgy cursed and lost control of the car.

  It was but for a second, but that was a second too long.

  The Volvo flipped over and rolled once. Then another time. It was going to keep rolling, but it hit a streetlight and rested on its roof.

  Georgy glanced at Maria. Blood was coming from a deep cut in the left side of her face. Her eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. “Maria, Maria, no, don’t die on me.”

  He groped for the pistol and found it next to his head. He unhooked the seatbelt and dropped onto the ceiling of the upside-down Volvo. He landed hard on his back, and a sharp metal piece stabbed him between the shoulder blades. Georgy bit his lips, stretched his hand toward the nearing car, and double-tapped the Makarov.

  Perhaps it was divine intervention, but his bullets must have found the mark. The car veered to the left for a moment, then to the right, before turning again to the left and flipping over, as if it had hit an invisible ramp. It shot upwards and sideways and came crashing down hard. It rolled once, then a second time.

  Fuel spilled out of the mangled car. Georgy wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, or if it was real, but he kept firing at the sliding car. One of the bullets struck the fuel tank, and the car exploded into a large fireball. Tall orange flames leapt up at the sky, while fiery fragments hailed down over a large area. A couple of the metal pieces struck against the Volvo, but none entered the car.

  Georgy drew in a deep breath, then glanced at Maria. Her eyes were still shut, and she showed no sign of life. He reached with his hand and touched her carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but still there. “Stay with me, Maria. Come on.”