The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

  Victor hoisted him backwards, swung him around, and threw the man into a cubicle. He rushed in after him, flung the door closed, and locked it.

  The man was on his knees, groaning, trying to push himself to his feet. Victor positioned himself behind him, feet on either side of the man’s own. He wedged his left arm under the man’s jaw, and pushed into his throat with the edge of his forearm. With his right hand, Victor grabbed the back of the man’s head and kept him steady.

  The man struggled desperately, but he was on his knees, Victor over him, and the concussion made him weak. He lost consciousness and Victor released him. Another minute and he would be dead, but since Victor was going to take his clothes, it was the least he could do to pay him back with his life.

  When he was changed Victor dressed the unconscious man in his old clothes as best as he could before emptying the bottle of vodka over him. When he came round and started babbling about being attacked he would be ignored as a drunk. At least long enough for Victor to get a head start.

  He exited the restroom. He kept his head down, but not too low, as he left the service station. The man’s clothes gave him good protection from the weather, but the wind was still painful on his exposed face. He hurried across the parking lot towards the highway, where a group of people waited in a bus shelter.

  ‘Excuse me, when is the next bus to town?’

  The old woman he asked thought for a moment. ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He was exhausted, in desperate need of rest, but he couldn’t stop yet. From Kohtla-Järve he could get transportation to Estonia’s capital, Tallinn. Then the first flight out of the country.

  To the broker.

  Victor hoped she had been more successful.

  CHAPTER 47

  Paris, France

  Monday

  19:54 CET

  Rain splashed against the phone booth and ran down the glass in front of Victor. Headlights glimmered in the raindrops. He lifted the receiver and punched in the number with the knuckle of his index finger. He was glad when the line connected after three rings, glad when he heard her voice.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  The broker replied, ‘I know it is.’

  He was glad again at hearing those four words, the code for everything being fine. Just a single word difference and he’d have known she’d been compromised. There was no stress in her voice to indicate she was speaking under coercion.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Back in Paris. I’ll see you in one hour.’

  He replaced the payphone receiver and exited the booth. Twenty minutes later he rang the broker’s buzzer.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said when she answered.

  He didn’t respond. Of course he would arrive before he’d said. He climbed the stairs to her apartment and knocked on the door. He saw the spy-hole glass darken a second before the door unlocked and she took the chain off. Neither of which would stop a kill team, but maybe it helped her sleep better.

  When the door was open she stepped aside to let Victor in, and he walked through the doorway, body half-turned so he didn’t give her his back. She closed the door behind him, locked it and put the chain back in place.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked.

  She was dressed in black jeans and a burgundy sweater that clung to the contours of her stomach and breasts. Her dark hair was loose and long, framing her face, making her seem softer, more vulnerable than when they had first met, even if her eyes were harder. Victor pulled his gaze from her and checked the apartment.

  Aside from the new computer and printer and a few extra items in the cupboards and fridge, it was no different than how he’d left it two days ago. He touched the screw heads on the electrical sockets and air vents. None were rough. In the lounge the lamp shade was still angled as he’d left it, and he was pleased she hadn’t corrected it.

  He found her in the kitchen fixing herself a cup of coffee. There was a second tall cup on the work surface that she filled.

  ‘You didn’t answer,’ she said. ‘But I made you one anyway.’

  Victor said nothing.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You should rest.’

  ‘Later.’

  He picked up the cup and walked back into the lounge. He placed it down near her computers with no intention of even tasting it. He didn’t seriously believe she would poison him, but as he hadn’t seen her fix it, some habits just couldn’t be broken so easily. She followed him, sipping at her cup.

  ‘How was your trip?’ she asked.

  ‘Unsuccessful.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ve had some luck.’

  ‘With the bank or the encrypted file?’

  ‘Both.’

  Victor moved over to the window, stood with his shoulder to the wall, adjusted the drapes an inch to the side, and peered out. The street outside was empty. On the other side of the window he did the same to check farther down the street, where he hadn’t been able to see. He looked back to see the broker standing expectantly.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’

  ‘Maybe you should tell me what you’ve found out before patting yourself on the back.’

  She gave him a quick smile. ‘You’ll be the one patting me on the back.’ She moved to her computers and put her coffee down. ‘It’s really good,’ she said. ‘Columbian. Drink it while it’s hot.’

  Victor nodded.

  The broker sat down in front of her computer and tapped the touch pad to bring it out of sleep mode.

  Victor stood back and watched her work. Her fingers moved fluidly over the keyboard. Programs loaded. Commands were typed. She double-clicked the file and the password screen appeared. She typed something in. Ten asterisks appeared. She hit enter.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I’m in.’

  On the monitor the file was extracting itself into a series of other files.

  ‘You told me it could take days,’ Victor said.

  ‘It did,’ the broker replied. ‘Two days, to be exact. We’re actually unlucky it took that long. Ozols only used low-end encryption. We should have realized, at least I should have. It’s obvious with hindsight. The guy was a retired naval officer, right? He wasn’t even retired intelligence. He had no access to advanced encryption software – hell, he probably doesn’t even know the difference between low- and high-end cyphers. It wasn’t like he was trying to make the drive spy proof. Remember, he had it with him to deliver. He probably only wanted a password in case he left the damn thing on a bus.’

  Victor remained silent. The broker had succeeded and he hadn’t. He thought about Norimov and what the Russian security services could be doing to him to make him talk in a room without windows. He could be held for years without charge. Or maybe he was dead already, shot in the back of the head, revenge for the agents Victor had killed.

  Victor made a promise to himself. To repay Norimov if he was still alive or find him if he had joined the ranks of Russia’s invisibles. If Norimov was dead, then Victor would ensure Norimov’s daughter wanted for nothing. He pictured a man’s face. Around forty, pale skin, dark eyes, square jaw, authoritative. The man who had escaped the van before it exploded. He would know Norimov’s fate.

  He noticed the broker was staring at him.

  He ignored her gaze and stepped closer. She opened one of the files and moved aside to let Victor see the monitor more clearly.

  The broker said, ‘It took me forever until I figured out what I was looking at.’

  There was a picture filling the screen, some kind of computer-generated image, mostly blue with a grid, lots of numbers. A pixellated form lay in the centre. The broker clicked a button and another appeared. Victor stepped toward it tentatively, the light from the computer reflecting in his eyes.

  ‘What are they?’

  CHAPTER 48

  Moscow, Russia

  Monday


  23:05 MSK

  ‘They’re sonar pictures,’ Colonel Aniskovach answered.

  He stood before Prudnikov’s ridiculously large and phallic-enhancing desk. It was big enough for several computer terminals, but aside from the photographs, a modest-sized monitor, keyboard, and mouse, the desk was empty. Prudnikov sat behind the desk in an ergonomic leather chair.

  They were in Prudnikov’s office at the headquarters of the SVR. The building was the high-tech replacement to the KGB’s former Lubyanka headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square in central Moscow, now home to the FSB. The SVR headquarters was located in Yasenevo, on the outskirts of the city, and its passing resemblance to the CIA’s Langley headquarters was no mere coincidence.

  Aniskovach disliked the tasteless CIA-cloned headquarters at Yasenevo and would have preferred to spend his time at Dzerzhinsky Square. The old building was a masterpiece of beautiful Russian architecture that before the revolution housed an insurance company, of all things.

  The head of the SVR studied the photographs for a moment. ‘And what are they showing me?’ he asked.

  The tone of his voice lacked in patience. It was late to be working, even for spies.

  Aniskovach wore his best suit, his tie razor straight, shoes polished to a mirrored shine. Every hair on his head was faultlessly combed. The horrid wound on his face couldn’t be bettered, but at least the dressing covered it, and it showed his life had been endangered – even if now it meant he hated to look in the mirror when once he had revelled in it. He had already consulted with a cosmetic surgeon, and planned to see others in the coming weeks.

  ‘The pictures show a sunken ship,’ Aniskovach answered. ‘From what my people tell me it has the dimensions of a frigate, a missile destroyer to be more precise.’

  Prudnikov shifted through the images and didn’t look up. ‘Why am I looking at it?’

  ‘Because the frigate is one of ours.’

  That made Prudnikov look up.

  Aniskovach was a strong believer in the importance of the dramatic arts when delivering reports and especially when making requests. Simply telling and asking were usually enough to achieve the necessary goal of the discussion, but the outcome of almost any conversation could be improved with the proper implementation of timing and delivery. Aniskovach was very much aware he needed both working for him faultlessly if he was going to salvage his career.

  The fiasco in St Petersburg had made the headlines in the evening papers and was the biggest news story on Russian television, despite the SVR’s best attempts to limit the damage. Dead bodies and exploding vehicles in broad daylight tended to get noticed. In one day Aniskovach had been responsible for the loss of five lives and the hospitalization of another three. He felt it grossly unfair that he should receive any blame, considering the circumstances. The operation wasn’t officially sanctioned, and it had been a personal favour for Prudnikov. Which was the only fact saving Aniskovach.

  The head of the SVR had even more to lose if the true motive behind the operation became known, and as such Aniskovach knew Prudnikov would do everything in his power to keep Aniskovach’s head off the block.

  How long that would last, Aniskovach didn’t like to think about, but he knew it wouldn’t be indefinite. Then the wolves baying for Aniskovach’s blood would circle around him with teeth bared. He had fantasized about heading the organization on a number of occasions. Once it had seemed that one day his dream could realistically become a reality, but that was before he had got men killed, so many so publicly. If he didn’t fight for it, his reputation would be forever stained. He needed a victory and he needed one fast.

  The only way he could hope to counteract the damage already done was with Prudnikov still on his side, but any alliance was tenuous at best and would quickly unravel the closer Prudnikov came to retiring. Unless he admitted his own role in the failed mission and exonerated Aniskovach in the process, Aniskovach knew his career was on borrowed time.

  Once Prudnikov stopped protecting him and Aniskovach had to fend for himself, the best scenario he could hope for was to spend the rest of his SVR career sitting behind a desk doing mind-numbing analysis and pencil-pushing duties. He didn’t want to think about the worst scenario.

  ‘The frigate,’ Aniskovach began after an appropriate pause, ‘named Lev, was a missile destroyer built in 1984 that sank two years ago, not long after a joint naval demonstration with the Chinese. Her crew all lost their lives when she sank.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The Lev was carrying eight Oniks antiship missiles.’

  There was a long wait before Prudnikov spoke again. ‘What happened to the ship?’

  ‘A distress call was transmitted before she sank, wherein the captain stated there had been a catastrophic engine malfunction.’

  ‘This was confirmed by a recovery team?’

  ‘There never was a recovery team.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A rescue team was sent, but it was reported that the destroyer had sunk in deep water, and recovery of the vessel and its armaments would not have been possible.’

  Prudnikov took off his reading glasses and placed them carefully on the desk. ‘The tone of your voice suggests you are unconvinced by that analysis.’

  ‘The captain of the rescue vessel that responded to the Lev’s distress call was an officer by the name of Andris Ozols.’

  ‘That name means nothing to me.’

  ‘Ozols, who was retired, was murdered in Paris a week ago. He was carrying a portable hard drive that contained the pictures you’re now looking at.’

  Prudnikov was looking at him attentively now, hanging off his every word. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  Timing and delivery, Aniskovach told himself. ‘The killer who met with Norimov and whom we attempted to apprehend, was in possession of the drive. He has the original. Those pictures were taken from a copy that our people decrypted.’

  ‘What exactly are you telling me?’

  ‘I would say that Ozols was planning to sell the information when he was killed.’

  ‘But what value does this information have if the ship is unrecoverable?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So why are we having this discussion?’

  ‘Because Ozols lied in the original report. The destroyer sank on a continental shelf, according to the coordinates shown in those sonar pictures. Off the coast of Tanzania in the Indian Ocean. It appears that Ozols fabricated the initial report so a recovery team would never be sent, allowing the missiles to remain on the seabed until he was ready to sell the ship’s location to the highest bidder. Most nations would pay a fortune for those missiles and the technology they contain.’

  Prudnikov’s eyes were as big as Aniskovach had ever seen them.

  Aniskovach continued. ‘On the day Ozols was killed a mass killing also took place. Some eight people died in addition to Ozols. According to Norimov the assassin was himself attacked by a team of other killers.’

  ‘What is the relevance of that?’

  ‘I believe the killer was hired to retrieve the information but was targeted after completing the job by the same people who hired him. The motive for such an attack would likely be to keep the identities of those who employed him anonymous. This would be of particular benefit if those employers were, say, members of the CIA.’ He paused for effect. ‘The Americans would then be able to recover the Oniks and add the technology to their own inferior missiles. At the same time they would be able to deny any part in Ozols’s death once we became aware of his identity and what he was up to. My sources in Paris inform me there has been much activity at the US embassy this last week. Without the flash drive they won’t know where to look for the missiles, but if they find the assassin first …’

  ‘I need to pass on this information to the GRU straight away.’ Prudnikov sat back in his chair. ‘I will make sure your name is mentioned when I do. You may leave now.’

  Prudnikov reached for his phone. Aniskovach remained standing. />
  ‘Did you not hear me, Gennady?’

  Aniskovach, ever the showman, stayed silent for a few moments. ‘There is another possible course of action.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We recover the missiles ourselves.’

  Prudnikov’s brow furrowed and he picked up the phone. ‘I have no need of the credit.’

  ‘I do.’

  The head of the SVR shook his head. ‘I gave you your moment to be a hero and you let the chance slip through your fingers. And got many good men killed in the process. What makes you think I would give you a second opportunity?’

  ‘Those men were killed on a mission you personally requested.’

  ‘Be careful of your tongue, Gennady.’ Prudnikov’s eyes were dangerous. ‘Do I need to remind you of the stain to my reputation I’m taking in defending you?’

  ‘I only remind you because I know you are risking a lot to help me survive the backlash.’ Aniskovach missed out the important fact that Prudnikov had done so only to help himself in the process.

  Prudnikov nodded. ‘I’m only doing what is right.’

  Aniskovach wanted to smile. Appealing to Prudnikov’s deluded sense of duty and honour was a good tactic. ‘And I thank you for all you have done, sir.’

  Prudnikov accepted the thanks without his expression changing. ‘What are you asking?’

  ‘Let me recover the missiles myself.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  Translated to, ‘what’s in it for me?’ Aniskovach thought. ‘Exposing Ozols’s plans, recovering the missiles, and stopping the Americans from getting hold of them will help repair my reputation within our fine organization.’

  Prudnikov, unconvinced, started punching numbers on the phone. ‘If I were you I should not be so concerned with what’s left of my reputation. I would be glad to have escaped incarceration and still have a career after such a disastrous mess.’

  Aniskovach continued as if Prudnikov had never spoken. ‘And by recovering the missiles and keeping them from the hands of our enemies I will have done enough so that I no longer require your protection. You would be able to distance yourself from my failing without fearing I will betray your hand in what happened.’