The Hunt

by Jack Arbor

  “Go. Go. Go.”

  She darted into the hallway with Max on her heels. When he saw the fog of smoke from the third grenade, he sucked in his breath and held it. No rifle fire sounded, and ten meters down the hallway, he stepped over two bodies torn apart by the grenades.

  To his right came the spit, spit, spit of the woman’s silenced rifle. Her hand gripped his arm and yanked him through a doorway, where two guards lay dead on the ground, and two more human forms lay on cots.

  Waving away the lingering smoke revealed the long inert body of Spencer White. Next to him, on a second cot, was an emaciated and gaunt Kate Shaw, her eyes closed. How are they sleeping through all this?

  The raven-haired woman slung her rifle over her back. “They’re sedated. Grab him. I’ll get her. Move. Move.”

  “Where are we”

  She flung Kate over her shoulder like she was a sack of leaves. “Go. Go. Follow me, damn it.”

  He stuck the pistol in his waistband and grabbed Spencer, lifted, staggered, and caught himself. Another heave got Spencer balanced with one hand in a fireman’s carry, and he pulled the gun with the other while following the woman into the swirling smoke.

  The SeaHunter 45 Tournament roared south east at 65 MPH on quad 400 HP Mercuries as warm water sprayed its occupants. At the helm was a shirtless olive-skinned Adonis of a man with long dark hair, his shoulder muscles rippling as he gripped the wheel with both hands. Huddled in the tiny cabin just fore of the helm were Spencer and Kate, both covered with a wool blanket, watching the horizon.

  With one hand on the canopy’s post and his pistol in a firm grip, Max surveyed the surrounding water for signs of pursuit. The raven-haired woman stood at the bow, feet braced against the gunwales, assault rifle at the ready, also watching.

  The boat’s pilot adjusted a pair of mirrored sunglasses and yelled at Max over the engines. “Good to see you again, mon ami!”

  “Likewise, Carlu. Likewise.”

  The Corsican’s hearty chuckle rose over the engine’s growl, and his hair streamed out behind him as he yelled into the wind. “Couldn’t get a cigarette boat over here, but she’ll outrun most in this chop.”

  According to the navigational charts, Ivanov’s house was situated just east of Mt. Athos on a peninsula of land sticking out into the Aegean Sea. The mountain towered behind them as they raced east. No pursuit in sight.

  He nudged Carlu and nodded at the front of the boat. “Who’s your friend?”

  The Corsican scratched his chin. “Never seen her. Thought she was part of your gang.”

  Max braced himself against a wave. “How’d you know to be here?”

  “Goshawk gave me a stack of cash and the GPS coordinates. She neglected to mention the guns.” His brow furrowed. “But when she calls, I come.” He laughed into the wind.

  And how did Goshawk know we were here?

  Letting his legs brace him against the pounding of the boat’s hull, Max made his way forward. His head throbbed, and his joints ached. A constant ringing hissed in his ears. As he walked, his hand trailed on the gunnel. While he focused his attention on the small dark woman at the bow, a large fishing trawler appeared on the horizon.

  Rising and falling in the surging ocean, the massive ship plowed in their direction, making good time.

  Max glanced back at Carlu, who gripped the wheel with two hands, his jaw set. Surely he sees it. The SeaHunter was headed right at the fishing boat.

  “Mikhail!”

  The yell from the raven-haired woman startled him, and he moved closer. “I have to thank you for rescuing us!” Max yelled.

  She shook her head.

  The trawler materialized like a hulking rusty building over her shoulder.

  “Why did you help us?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Fist clenched on the gunwale, he staggered as a wave hit the boat. “It does to me.”

  She thrust out a palm. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Carlu had the throttle wide open and the engines surged against the waves.

  “How were you tracking me?” Max asked.

  A shrug and her lip curled into a smirk.

  “At least tell me your name,” he yelled over the roar.

  Carlu put the engines in neutral, and it got quiet except for the purr of the Mercuries and the water lapping against the hull. The other vessel was a few meters away.

  The mysterious woman in the SeaHunter’s prow eyed the fishing boat as a long rope ladder was thrown from the deck above. She swung her rifle onto her back while Carlu reversed throttle and, with precision that came from many years at sea, brought the SeaHunter’s port gunwale alongside the tall metal hull of the fishing boat with a small bump.

  A crew of orange-suited fisherman peered from the trawler’s rail. Covered with a thick beard and wool cap, the captain’s head was visible through the helm’s window.

  Before Max could react, the young woman vaulted over the SeaHunter’s gunwale and scampered up the ladder to the trawler’s deck. Carlu reversed engines and swung the bow away from the other boat.

  A Chinese woman appeared near the fishing boat’s aft deck railing, her hands shoved into the pockets of a dark wool pea coat. Her skin was pallid, and her jowls fleshy. Gray hair waved in the wind. A cigarette was clenched in her teeth. She gazed at the SeaHunter through dark wayfarer-style sunglasses.

  As the Carlu pulled their boat away, the raven-haired woman appeared next to the old woman in the pea coat. Ebony hair fluttering in the breeze, her eyes locked on Max’s and she cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, “Call me Kira.”

  He held her gaze, locking her face into his memory, before he yelled back. “Thank you, Kira!”

  Max’s last image was of the two women standing together, the older woman’s arm around Kira’s shoulder. He kept his eyes on them until the trawler disappeared over the horizon.

  Fifty-Five

  Lisbon, Portugal

  “Where is she, damn it?”

  The bellow came from Callum Baxter as he pounded across the courtyard of the Jerónimos Monastery. An icy wind singed Max’s skin, and his leather jacket did little to keep him warm. Baxter’s face was an angry rose color, and his wiry hair stuck out from a gray flannel watch cap. Several paces behind him, Cindy followed in a fashionable wool overcoat, her face unreadable.

  Max held out a gloved hand. “Stop right there, Callum.”

  The spymaster stopped, but he waved a fist. “I demand to see her!”

  The wide expanse of the Monastery’s lawn contained only three hardy tourists willing to brave the crisp temperatures. The fountains were turned off for the winter, and the grass had wilted to yellow. Cindy stood a few steps behind her boss wearing white ear muffs, her eyes sparkling.

  Max lowered his voice. “Do you need your pipe or maybe a cup of tea to calm you down?”

  His feet planted, Baxter shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. “You screwed me.”

  A shrug. “I never agreed to let you interrogate her.”

  The older man’s eyes blazed. “We’re MI6, for bollock’s sake. We don’t torture people. All I want is a debrief. Where is she?”

  Max chuckled. “I’m sorry if this didn’t go your way, Callum—”

  “We put hundreds of thousands of quid into this deal. We taxied you around the globe. We spent a fortune treating her. All you had to do—”

  Max clenched his fists in his pockets. “Your bureaucracy gets in the way. She’s safe now. No one will find her. If you’re nice, I’ll share what I learn. But you’re not starting off well.”

  After the rescue in Greece, Carlu had dropped them at Catania, a port city on the island of Sicily, where Goshawk arranged for a series of flights and overland transit that ultimately brought them to London. There Max and Spencer allowed MI6 to perform a lengthy medical examination of Kate by the Royal Army Medical Corp. She remained unresponsive throughout the evaluations, and the medical staff pronounced her malnourished and dehydr
ated, but otherwise physically healthy. Before Baxter had an opportunity to debrief her, Max and Spencer hustled Kate from the hospital under the cover of darkness and disappeared.

  “I’ll get to her one way or—”

  A dark panel van careened into the quadrangle followed by a short black limousine with tinted windows. Behind the limousine sped a second van. A phalanx of men in dark overcoats poured from the vans and spread around the edges of courtyard. The tourists disappeared, leaving Max alone with Baxter, Cindy, and a dozen security men.

  What was Baxter trying to pull? “You can torture me all you want.” Max crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know where she is. Simple precaution in case you tried something like this.”

  The MI6 agent’s face drained of its color, and his shoulders slumped as he regarded the motorcade. “When are you going to get it through your thick skull? We’re not the KGB. We don’t torture people for information.”

  The rear door of the limousine opened, and a man stepped out. He wore a dark overcoat similar to his bodyguards, but his head was bare except for a neatly trimmed rim of white hair. A long and pinched face held spectacles perched on a hawk-like nose. An electric-blue silk tie peeked from under the overcoat. The man pointed to the interior of the sedan with a bony finger.

  Baxter pivoted and marched in the direction of the limo while he yelled over his shoulder. “Bad idea to keep C waiting.”

  After a moment, Max followed and surrendered his pistol to a pink-faced bodyguard, and followed his MI6 partner into the limousine. Cindy remained outside, stomping her feet to stay warm, while Max and Callum sat opposite the head of Great Britain’s secret intelligence service.

  C offered Max a bony hand with a grip of iron. “Been meaning to meet you for a long time, Mr. Asimov. Our country owes you a great debt for your help in locating the West Brompton bomber.”

  Max nodded once. “More than happy to help, sir.”

  Baxter brushed lint from his lapel.

  “Callum and Cindy have kept me appraised of your recent progress,” C said. “Let me offer you the warmest condolences on the suffering of your friend Kate Shaw. What she endured, first at the hands of the Americans and then in the custody of Mr. Dedov, is reprehensible. I hope and pray she can make a suitable recovery and regain some semblance of normal life.”

  Max bowed his head. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. It will be a long road, but she’s tough.”

  “So I’ve heard.” C formed a steeple with both hands. “Callum here speaks highly of your abilities. Don’t you, Callum?”

  Baxter typed furiously on his Blackberry and didn’t speak.

  A glint of mirth appeared in C’s eyes. “Success heals many wounds. Despite your…eh…unconventional methods, Callum has assured me that our relationship is mutually beneficial. Tit for tat, as the Americans say. Do you agree, Mr. Asimov?”

  “I’d like to think so, sir.”

  The head of Britain’s intelligence agency rearranged his long limbs on the leather seat. “Splendid. In which case I’m sure you’d appreciate some background on our friend Nikita Ivanov and your consortium?”

  Max leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees. “Have they recovered his body?”

  C shook his narrow head. “He was either incinerated by the blast or carried away by the tides.” He thought a minute. “Your report was silent on the explosion. Do we have any intelligence on where the bomb came from? Who placed it there?”

  Max sat back. How much do I reveal? “We think someone planted it who worked for Ivanov and had access to Dedov’s wheelchair while in captivity. Maybe someone trying to take out all three of us. There is a divide in the consortium after all. It’s speculation at this point. We may never know.”

  “Indeed.” C adjusted the crisp pleat on his wool trousers while his gaze lingered on Max. “Before you arrived on the scene, we knew some of Mr. Ivanov’s activities but never connected him to the odd and mysterious machinations of what you call the consortium. The man himself is also quite the mystery. This may surprise you, but the West actually knows very little about what went on behind the iron curtain. What we do know we’ve pieced together from dubious accounts from defectors, a few successful spy operations, and by applying computer algorithms to vast quantities of intercepted data in the hopes we may find patterns. Callum has explained what we believe about the consortium?”

  A nod from Max. “Some of it.”

  “What Callum didn’t tell you—” A moment between the MI6 men elicited a brief shrug from Baxter before the director continued. “Right. While we don’t know much about Ivanov himself, we have made some educated guesses about the nature of the consortium. Cindy gave you the background on the chekists?”

  Max played back Cindy’s briefing in the Lear when Baxter cut off her update. Max nodded.

  “There has long been the belief among some corners of the intelligence world,” C said, “bolstered by lesser known academics, that the Russian president is simply a figurehead acting out the directives of a shadow government. While perceived as an authoritarian ruler by the rest of the world, some very intelligent and learned people believe that he can’t hold this kind of power without the support of what were once the chekists.”

  “Cindy alluded to that,” Max said.

  “What she didn’t tell you is our hypothesis about Russia’s shadow government.”

  Max glanced out the window. Cindy was talking animatedly to one of the guards, a young man with red hair.

  The director raised a bony hand. “Shadow governments are hard to pin down. They exist more because of an ingrained set of cultural beliefs than an overt set of charters or dictates. They are hundreds, maybe thousands of people, all with similar aims, working to subvert goals counter to their own, sometimes by tacit agreement, sometimes in alignment with one another, sometimes opposed to each other. There are, however, some common threads. They are often ultra-nationalist in nature, anti-democratic, anti-worker, and secularist.”

  Max shrugged. “Sounds familiar.”

  C nodded. “Other characteristics include a heavy military influence with deep state leaders coming from various positions at the heads of the nations’ armed forces. There is sometimes a mafia-like influence, autocratic cliques, and high levels of corruption. There is often a pervasive threat of government overthrow by the right-wing military, what’s called a Putsch threat after the failed coup in Germany after World War I. Most of these deep states exist to serve an ideological agenda, and as such, there isn’t a tangible form to put your finger on.”

  Max sat back. “No one to shoot.”

  “So to speak.” C spread his hands. “Our hypothesis is that the deep state in Russia is different. Where most of these other regimes are really just different ideologies working to undermine the established government—natural in any ecosystem made up of conflicting beliefs—we think there is a formal organizational system that administers the inner-workings of this Russian deep state, and that maintains a facade of false democracy.”

  Max felt in his pockets for his cigarettes, glanced around the pristine interior of the car, and put them back. “Doesn’t that seem far-fetched?”

  A shrug from C. “Not at all. It’s happened before. Russia has a long history of maintaining puppet regimes in countries like Poland and Hungary, and the United States did it in Panama.”

  Baxter chimed in from behind his Blackberry. “Britain’s never done it.”

  C pushed his glasses up on his nose. “As Cindy mentioned, our capable friends in the GCHQ are whizzes with the data. I ran spies in Russia when computers still used punch cards, so sometimes I have to suspend disbelief and listen to what my analysts tell me.”

  Max crossed his arms. “Let me guess. They’ve reached a conclusion about the consortium?”

  C shook his head. “Merely a hypothesis.”

  The only sound in the car was the faint clicking of Baxter’s fingers on his Blackberry.

  Max spread his arms. “And
?”

  The director glanced at Baxter. “I’m assured there is a decent likelihood their analysis is correct. In fact, I saw a report on my way here where the head of the GCHQ is increasing the odds of their assertions being correct by ten percent.”

  Baxter snorted. “We went from one percent to eleven percent.”

  C kept his gaze fixed on Max. “Callum has many qualities. Tact is not one of them.”

  Max made a show of looking at his watch.

  The director peered at his own watch. “Indeed. Before I share the theory with you, consider one question. How is it possible the current Russian president, a man who held a mid-level position in the KGB before mysteriously being appointed president by Boris Yeltsin not long after the fall of the Soviet Union, has systematically consolidated and held power this long?”

  Max shrugged. “The will of the Russian people?”

  A guffaw from Baxter.

  “Here’s the working hypothesis,” C said. “The consortium, as you call it, is merely one division of a more elaborate infrastructure buried deep within the Russian military and government. This infrastructure, or set of councils, governs Russia from the shadows with the president as a figurehead.”

  Max’s eyebrows lowered. “You mean there might be more of these consortiums?”

  “Consider. Your consortium exists to help control oil and gas production, prices, and distribution. This fits because such a large portion of the Russian economy—and the hardliner’s wealth—is based on oil and gas. If oil prices plummet, the Russian economy tanks, the populace gets restless. The fake government keeps improving the citizen’s quality of life, which keeps the people placid.”