by Will Jordan
It certainly wasn’t much to look at: a simple log cabin, constructed from rough, sawn timbers, its roof densely covered with moss. Perhaps an old hunting lodge or forestry outpost, repaired and repurposed.
As for the owner, there was no sign.
‘Anya!’ he called out, approaching the front porch. ‘It’s Marcus. I came here to talk.’
No response. It seemed she was absent.
Cain paused to consider his options, wondering whether to wait for her to return, go out looking for her or abandon his mission altogether. The second option would likely prove futile. Anya had grown up in this kind of terrain, and he was quite certain she could disappear into it without a trace if she wished.
‘You’re getting sloppy, Marcus.’
Whirling around, Cain watched as a figure emerged from the foliage, seemingly coalescing into solid reality before his eyes. A woman, her face smeared with dirt to aid concealment, dressed in woodland camo gear that blended in perfectly with her surroundings. She was holding a powerful black hunting bow, an arrow notched and the string drawn back.
A deadly weapon, trained on him.
‘You gonna use that?’ Cain asked, standing his ground.
‘I could,’ Anya reminded him. ‘Your laws give me the right to defend my property.’
She was testing him, trying to make him sweat. ‘All I want is to talk.’
Anya held him in her sights for a few seconds, the bow creaking slightly under the strain, before finally easing the string and lowering the weapon.
‘I’ve done enough hunting today,’ she decided, reaching down for the pair of dead rabbits by her feet and slinging them over her shoulder.
Cain watched as she dumped her hunting spoils on a chopping block at the side of the cabin, before laying the bow carefully aside.
‘How long were you following me?’
‘Picked up your trail about a mile back,’ she explained, unzipping her camouflage jacket. ‘You are not hard to find.’
‘You are,’ he said, giving her a meaningful look. ‘What’s going on, Anya? Why are you out here, in the middle of nowhere?’
‘I wanted to be alone. This place suits me well enough.’
Drawing her hunting knife, she used it to separate the two rabbits and went to work on the first one, gutting and skinning it with brisk, clinical efficiency.
‘And how long do you plan on keeping this up?’
‘Why do you ask?’ She didn’t look at him, her attention focussed on her grisly task.
‘Because you’re better than this,’ Cain ventured. ‘The Anya I know never backed down from a fight.’
Slamming the point of her knife into the chopping block with enough force to leave the weapon standing upright in the wood, she glared at him.
‘Is that what the psychologists at Langley told you to say? Appeal to my sense of duty? Threaten me with a wasted life?’ She gave him a wan, almost pitying smile. ‘We have both played those games long enough to know better.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ he said. ‘It’s a chance to come back.’
‘Like a good little soldier?’ she asked mockingly.
‘Like the woman I used to know.’
‘Goodbye, Marcus.’ Yanking the knife free from the chopping block, she gathered up the remains of her kill and headed for the edge of the clearing.
‘We found him.’
Those three words were enough to stop her in her tracks. Cain watched as the young woman slowly lowered her head, saw her shoulders slump as she exhaled, saw the muscles and tendons in her forearm tense as she tightened her grip on the knife.
‘Luka. He’s in Ukraine.’ Cain approached her warily. ‘He sold out your unit, in exchange for amnesty from the Soviets.’
Anya didn’t turn around right away, and Cain didn’t reach out to her. He knew she wouldn’t stand for it. Instead, he waited. Waited for her to compose herself.
Only when she trusted herself to face him did she turn.
‘You’re certain?’ she asked, looking – hoping – for any trace of doubt.
Cain nodded. ‘I read the whole dossier. He’d been in contact with them for weeks. He gave them everything: deployment patterns, radio frequencies, the works.’ Reaching into the satchel he’d brought with him, he opened the file at the surveillance picture of Anya’s former comrade and held it out to her. ‘I wish it hadn’t come to this.’
He saw the muscles in her throat tighten. ‘What are you asking of me?’
‘Luka has to answer for what he did,’ Cain said quietly. ‘One way or another, he will.’
‘You want me to kill one of my brothers?’
‘The man betrayed you.’
‘The man fought with me, trained with me, bled with me,’ she replied heatedly.
‘Look, I can’t tell you what to do. I came here to give you a choice, nothing more.’ He paused. ‘But before you decide, you should know they’re offering you command of Task Force Black.’
It wasn’t often that he saw surprise written so plainly on Anya’s face. ‘Command?’
‘The men are loyal to you, and only you. After what you did in Afghanistan, they won’t fight without you.’ Cain allowed that admission to sink in, studying her reactions carefully. He sensed the flicker of pride and emotion his words had stirred up.
That was her weakness, he knew. The devotion she felt towards the men she’d fought beside. She’d struggled so hard, given up so much to win their acceptance. The news that she now had their respect, their loyalty, weakened her resolve.
‘They need you now,’ Cain said softly. ‘And I think… maybe you need them.’
Slowly Anya reached out and took the dossier from him, her fingers leaving bloody smears on Luka’s photograph. She stared at it for a time before lifting her head to meet Cain’s expectant gaze.
‘These don’t sound like your words, Marcus.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Freya.’ The young woman sighed. ‘She sent you here, didn’t she?’
Cain knew that any attempt at deception now would be unwise, perhaps even lethal. ‘She helped me when no one else would. The men she works for… they could help us make a real difference, just like we always wanted.’
Anya didn’t answer him right away. But she gave him a look of sadness, almost pity, as if his words were a delusion that only she could see through. As if she could already see the path that lay ahead.
‘You still don’t see it, do you? They will use us until there is nothing left,’ Anya said. ‘They will be the end of you… and me.’
Despite the hot afternoon sun, Cain felt a chill of foreboding run through him. Anya’s words weren’t spoken in anger or frustration, but instead with a kind of weary acceptance, as if she’d already resigned herself to the dark future that lay ahead.
‘I won’t let that happen,’ he argued defiantly. ‘Ever.’
She handed him back the dossier, now marked by her bloody fingerprints.
‘I’ll come back, Marcus,’ she said quietly. But when he tried to take it, she held on firmly. ‘Not for you, or for her, but for my brothers. They are all that matters to me now.’
Cain held her gaze. The fire was back, burning fiercely behind those icy blue eyes of hers. A fire that had no warmth left for him.
Tel Aviv, Israel – April 24th, 2011
It was a warm, balmy evening in Tel Aviv, the heat of the day lingering long after the sun had set. A meagre offshore breeze sighed in from the Mediterranean, stirring the palm fronds that lined the roads as the pace of the city slowed for the night.
Chanan Russo certainly felt like slowing down as he pulled to a stop outside his home, waiting while the building’s security gate trundled open.
An unassuming man of sixty-five years, he was reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that time was running against him. He felt stiff and weary when he rose each morning, waking often during the night to use the bathroom. His body, once lean and fit during his days in the Israeli Defence
Force, was growing soft and weak.
He was, as much as he hated the fact, growing old.
And yet, he still had responsibilities. As a senior case officer for the Mossad – Israel’s elite and much-feared intelligence agency – the demands of his work did not relent. His country had many enemies, both at home and abroad, and they had no regard for an old man nearing the end of his career.
Parking in the car port at the side of his house, he killed the engine and stepped out into the warm evening air. He inhaled, smelling the scent of juniper trees from his neighbour’s garden. He’d always found the smell strangely comforting.
The house was in darkness as he entered, silent and empty since his wife’s death nine years earlier. He didn’t think he would ever quite get used to it.
This time, though, something was different. Tonight, the house wasn’t quite as still as it should be. Tonight, it wasn’t empty.
Instinctively, his hand went to the 9mm IWI Jericho pistol holstered at his hip.
‘Stop.’
Russo froze, struck not just by the command, but by the voice that had delivered it. A woman’s voice.
A switch was flicked, and suddenly the hallway blazed with light, revealing his assailant. A woman holding a silenced automatic trained on his centre mass. A woman he recognised.
Russo let out a sigh then. He had been waiting for this day for four years.
‘I imagined you would find your way here,’ he said, speaking English. He knew she understood Hebrew, but was not fluent enough in the language to properly converse.
Ignoring his words, Anya gestured to the weapon he had come so close to drawing. ‘Take the gun out and place it on the floor. Then slide it towards me.’
Russo did as she asked, laying the Jericho on the tiled floor and giving it a kick with his foot to slide it towards her.
‘Now close the front door,’ she instructed. ‘Don’t even think about running.’
Russo might have laughed under other circumstances. At his age, he wasn’t exactly quick on his feet.
Again, he did as she asked, closing the door to the outside world. As he did so, he caught the scent of juniper bushes before turning to face her once more.
She had aged since the last time they’d met. Still a strikingly beautiful woman, it was nonetheless obvious that the past eight years left their mark on her. There were lines around her mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before, a hardness to her features, a light of vengeance in her eyes.
Yes, Chanan Russo knew exactly why Anya was here tonight.
Bending down, she picked up his weapon, then gestured to the living room off the main hall. ‘In there. On the couch. Keep your hands where I can see them.’
He knew better than to do anything except comply, stepping through the arched doorway and settling himself on the couch. Anya lowered herself into a chair opposite, keeping him covered.
‘I am unarmed,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you want.’
He saw a flicker of something behind those blue eyes of hers then. Anger, fury, pain.
‘What I want,’ she repeated, before taking a long, slow breath. ‘In 2003, you brokered a meeting between myself and an Iraqi defector who identified himself by the code name Typhoon.’
She was speaking coldly, clinically, as if delivering an official debriefing.
‘I did.’
Anya nodded slowly. ‘En route to that meeting, I was ambushed and captured by a Russian assault team.’ She paused before continuing. ‘Someone told them where I would be. Neither myself nor Typhoon wanted the meeting to fail. That leaves only one possibility, Chanan.’
Russo closed his eyes and sighed. In addition to her lethal assassination skills, he was well aware of Anya’s uncanny ability to detect deception in others. The little cues and tics that went unnoticed by most people were as clear as day to her. Even trained intelligence agents had struggled to defeat it.
‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘It was me.’
Anya didn’t react to his admission at all. Her expression was cold, emotionless, utterly focussed on him.
‘Go on.’
‘I was approached by a group of men who knew I’d been in contact with you. They knew you had used me as a broker for the meeting, and they wanted to know where it was happening.’
‘Russians?’
Russo shook his head. ‘No. Pakistani intelligence agents.’
That was when her mask began to slip. He heard an exhalation of breath, saw her focus waver for a moment as his revelation sank in.
‘You’re lying,’ she spat.
‘Am I?’ he asked. ‘Look at me, Anya. You tell me if I’m lying.’
‘It makes no sense.’
‘And yet it is the truth.’
Her tension was almost palpable now. ‘Whose orders were they acting on?’
Russo couldn’t help but feel a touch of sympathy for this woman, who had given up so much for men who appreciated it so little.
‘I don’t know.’
There was a flash from the silenced weapon, a muted thump, and an explosion of wood fragments and tattered cloth beside him. Russo flinched instinctively, feeling the sting of splinters in his arm and neck.
‘Think hard.’
‘I think I heard one of them mention a name. Vizur.’
The sudden widening of her eyes told him this name was familiar to her. ‘You are certain of this?’
‘As certain as I can be.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Who is he?’
Anya didn’t respond. There was a haunted, devastated look in her eyes.
Russo felt compelled to offer her something. ‘I know how little this will mean to you, but… I am sorry for what happened.’
‘You’re sorry,’ she repeated distantly. ‘I spent four years in solitary confinement, Chanan. A place so far from the light that I forgot what it even felt like. The things they did to me…’
She trailed off, perhaps not trusting herself to say more. It was painfully clear to him that she had been broken in ways that could never be fixed.
Russo chewed his lip, deciding she was owed an explanation. ‘The day those men paid a visit to me, they brought a laptop computer with them. They sat me down where you are sitting right now, and they showed me a live video feed of my daughter and grandson in the park. They made it clear that if I didn’t give them what they wanted, my family would be dead within an hour. They would make it last the full sixty minutes, and they would make me watch every moment.’
He closed his eyes, thinking back to that terrible afternoon. The fear, the horror, the impotent rage.
‘So I did it. I gave up your life to save theirs, Anya. And I did it without regret or hesitation. Because they deserved to live. They are good people, and we are not. We made the choice to be what we are.’
‘I was good once,’ she said in a small, pensive voice.
Russo didn’t respond. He just watched as she rose slowly from the chair; the same chair from which he had betrayed her.
‘You know what has to happen.’
Swallowing, Russo looked her in the eye and nodded. He’d known from the first moment he laid eyes on her. Perhaps he’d known since the news reached him that she had escaped from Russian custody.
‘You know they will come after you,’ he warned her. ‘Mossad will not rest until you are dead.’
‘I know.’
Standing up, Russo calmly straightened his tie. He couldn’t really say why he did it, but it felt appropriate somehow. To die on his feet, facing it down as a man should.
‘I’m ready.’
There was no formality, no final words of forgiveness or apology from her. Just two quick flashes, two heavy thuds as the rounds slammed into his chest. He went down, falling backwards onto the couch, his blood soaking into the fabric.
The last thing he saw as his vision faded was Anya, lowering the weapon and turning away. He caught himself wondering, in a distant sort of way, where she would go next, what she would do with this knowled
ge, and how many more men would die before she was finished.
Then those thoughts vanished, and Russo knew no more.
Chapter 7
Oxford – April 25th
It had been a fruitless and largely frustrating couple of months for Drake, chasing leads that ultimately went nowhere, and accomplishing little except to waste time and resources. Frost’s worldwide search for Anya had yielded only occasional scraps of information; tiny hints to her movements that arrived far too late for him to act on. She was a ghost, moving across the world unseen and unheard.
But she was alive. That much was certain. And knowing her as he did, it was unlikely she’d walk away from whatever she was planning. It was only a matter of time before she made her move.
The call came through on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, while Drake was jogging along a path beside the River Thames as it wound its way through the heart of the ancient city. A call from Frost.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, trying to quieten his breathing.
Straight away Frost’s tone made it clear this was different. Something had happened. Something big.
‘A Mossad agent was assassinated in Tel Aviv last night,’ she began. ‘Intelligence services are shitting themselves over it, blaming everyone from the Palestinians to the Iranians. But witnesses reported seeing a woman leaving the scene around the time of the killing. A woman with blonde hair.’
A chill ran through him then, quickening his already pumping heart. ‘What was the agent’s name?’
‘Russo. Chanan Russo.’
In an instant, Drake’s mind flashed back to a conversation with Anya four years earlier, as they’d tried to piece together the circumstances that had led to her imprisonment in a Russian jail.
‘I made contact with him through a broker, and after that we communicated through anonymous email accounts.’
‘Who was the broker?’ Drake asked.
‘An Israeli Mossad agent named Russo. I had worked with him before, and he had contacts throughout the Iraqi government.’ She shook her head. ‘But I will not approach him again. He has close ties with the Agency.’
