by Will Jordan
In any case, he wasn’t going to waste time talking now. All his attention was focused on the passengers making their way out through the automatic doors, some in groups, others as couples and some travelling alone. Each one was rapidly analysed, compared with the memory of the woman he knew, and discarded.
On some level he was aware that his intense stare would catch the attention of anyone looking his way, but he couldn’t help himself. This might be his one chance to find Anya before things escalated out of control. It had to work.
His radio crackled. ‘We see nothing yet,’ Miranova reported, her voice showing the strain for the first time. ‘Anything at your end, Ryan?’
Keeping his eyes glued to the crowds, Drake reached down, felt around and pressed his transmit button. ‘Nothing yet. Stand by.’
‘Copy that.’
He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. His mouth was dry, his palms coated with a faint sheen of sweat. The thump of the bad music in the overhead speakers was matched by the pounding of his pulse as his silent, strained vigil continued.
An old man and woman holding hands, neither of them the right height or age for Anya. No good.
Behind them, a middle-aged woman with long greying hair, overweight and matronly. Move on.
Then he spotted her.
Partially hidden behind a group of men in expensive but unfashionably cut suits was a tall slender woman with blonde hair, dressed in a dark coat and jeans. The same sort of coat he’d seen Anya wearing in DC. She walked with the long, purposeful strides of one used to exercise and exertion, and who was in a hurry to get somewhere.
‘Look sharp, mate,’ he whispered, tensing up, preparing to move. ‘Behind the three businessmen. Dark overcoat.’
‘I see her,’ Mason confirmed. ‘You got positive ID?’
Drake peered closer, trying to get a proper look. One of the businessmen, taller than his two companions, was partly blocking Drake’s view. Her head was turned down, either because she was absorbed in something or because she was trying to avoid being spotted on security cameras. Either way, strands of blonde hair had fallen in front of her face.
‘Almost,’ he hissed, eyes locked on her as she strode towards them, sidestepping the slower businessmen. ‘Stand by.’
Slowly he eased his chair back from the table. He didn’t want anything getting in his way when he went for her. It had to be perfect.
In his mind he imagined Mason barking into his radio that he’d spotted the target, jumping up from his seat and rushing towards some unsuspecting traveller while the rest of the undercover FSB agents scrambled to get there first. At the same moment, and with everyone’s attention focused on the spectacle of armed officials tackling a man to the ground, Drake imagined himself moving in on Anya.
She wouldn’t be panicking at that moment. He couldn’t imagine her ever panicking. But she would have gone into survival mode, her keen mind quickly assessing the situation and the threats facing her before deciding on a course of action. Whether that course of action involved trying to slip unobtrusively away or killing anyone in her path, only time would tell.
But she would see him long before he reached her – of that much he was certain. She was always aware of her surroundings, and she knew him well enough to recognise him in a crowd. A great deal would depend on what happened in the second or two after she spotted him – whether she turned and ran, or trusted him enough to let him approach.
He could only hope she knew he wouldn’t betray her to anyone.
Drake tensed the muscles in his legs, planting his feet firmly on the ground in preparation for his move as Anya moved out from behind the group of businessmen and glanced up at the overhead signs.
But it wasn’t Anya, he realised as he got his first proper look at her. The woman in question was easily a decade younger, with a rounded, soft-featured face and eyes that had seen none of the hardships Anya had endured.
It wasn’t her. He’d been wrong.
‘Stand down,’ Drake said, letting out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He was torn between relief, crushing disappointment and dismay that it had been a false alarm.
‘Shit, that was close,’ he heard Mason gasp.
‘Ryan, we have no contact here,’ Miranova’s voice buzzed in his ear. ‘Repeat, no sign of target.’
The traffic from the arrivals gate was thinning now as the last of the passengers wandered out, and Anya wasn’t amongst them.
‘I don’t get it. This was the right flight,’ Mason said, equally perplexed. ‘Where the fuck is she, Ryan?’
Drake had no answer for him.
Chapter 24
Tbilisi, Georgia
The weather had abated a little by the time the automatic doors parted and Anya strode outside, taking her first breath of real air in what felt like days. It was still chilly, but the rain had eased off and, looking up, she even saw tantalising glimpses of blue sky through tears in the patchy clouds.
Not bad for December in Georgia.
It would have been foolish in the extreme to have flown under the same identity she’d used to rent the car that had got her out of DC. It would have been all too easy for a skilled and dedicated signals technician to use such a digital trail to track her down.
The real Olga Vorontsova whose identity she had borrowed for the car rental had indeed flown from Montreal to Moscow. Anya had no idea what the woman, chosen because she bore a passing resemblance to herself, had done after that, nor did she care. Olga had served her purpose of misdirecting Anya’s pursuers and buying her some time.
Anya meanwhile had taken a different flight under a different name that had no possible connection to the sniper attack in DC, and which she had no fear of being compromised. A transatlantic flight from Montreal to Amsterdam had been followed by a relatively short hop to Georgia, a former Soviet republic lying on the south-western border of Russia.
And now, after almost twenty-four hours and several thousand miles of travelling, she was close to her rendezvous.
Spying signs for the taxi rank, she hurried onwards and selected the first vehicle she came across, not caring whether the rates were competitive. The driver, an overweight man with a thatch of wiry grey hair that reminded her of a bird’s nest, certainly seemed grateful for her business as she approached.
‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked, speaking his native Georgian with the slight wariness of one used to dealing with clueless foreigners.
‘Central Tbilisi,’ Anya said, settling herself in the back seat. The cab looked surprisingly clean, but smelled of cigarette smoke and other less savoury odours that she suspected belonged to the driver rather than the vehicle. ‘Freedom Square.’
‘No problem.’
Chapter 25
Norilsk, Siberia
McKnight, along with Stav and the floor manager, were crowded on to a massive freight elevator with a dozen other miners as it slowly descended the main shaft of Norilsk nickel mine into the bowels of the earth. More than a few curious and sometimes leering glances had been thrown her way, but the presence of Stav had been enough to deter further interest.
Frost, much to her chagrin, had been left behind in the manager’s office to trawl through his computer and printed records in search of any evidence of tampering on Umarov’s part. McKnight knew she would much rather be here in the thick of the action, but her task was an equally important one. If they brought Umarov in and he wasn’t inclined to talk, they needed evidence to confront him with.
As a passing nod to safety, she had been forced into over-sized protective gear, with a bulky helmet, eye goggles and a portable air-filtration unit slung over her shoulder like a rucksack.
‘Every unit has an electronic tag in it,’ the manager had explained. ‘So we know who enters and leaves the mine. But it is dangerous down here. If something happens to you, I am not responsible.’
She’d understood him well enough. He was taking no blame if she was killed by falling roc
ks or crushed by a loader.
The minutes ticked by and still they kept descending. McKnight felt herself growing more uncomfortable by the moment. She’d never had much of a problem with enclosed spaces, but by now she was acutely aware of the thousands of tons of rock above her head. It was not a pleasant thought.
‘How deep is this mine?’ she asked, hoping her unease was lost in translation.
‘One thousand three hundred metres. Some of the shafts go much deeper.’
Almost a mile below the earth’s surface. Great, she thought as the elevator continued its slow, measured descent.
‘You don’t like underground, yes?’ Stav prompted.
‘You could say that.’
‘It is same for me.’
She glanced at him. His face betrayed not a hint of apprehension or unease.
‘Really?’
‘Da. When I was kid, I got lost in caves near my home. Six hours I was stuck there in the dark before my father find me. He took me home and calmed me down. Then he beat the shit out of me for being stupid and careless.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘I did not get lost again after that.’
What a wonderful childhood that must have been, she thought.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the huge lift bumped to a halt. The steel gates keeping them penned in were opened by a soot-stained worker on the other side, and the miners shuffled forwards to clock in and begin their shift.
Emerging from the main shaft, McKnight found herself staring at a maze of galleries, tunnels, cross-shafts and smaller access passageways that confronted her, all of them thronging with miners moving to and from the loading areas. In stark contrast to the frigid Arctic environment above ground, down here the air was warm and stifling. Harsh electric lights shone bravely through the dust and fumes.
She was grateful for the goggles and air purifier she’d been given. She couldn’t imagine spending any length of time in such conditions without them.
The shift manager started speaking and pointing off into the distance.
‘He says the foreman’s office is that way!’ Stav translated, having to yell to be heard as a massive-wheeled loading truck trundled past, its bulldozer-like bucket piled high with rocks waiting to be deposited in one of several ore chutes nearby. ‘This is fucking dangerous place, man. Stay close to me, and watch where you walk!’
With little option but to obey, McKnight hurried after him down one of the main tunnels, skirting groups of workers as they went. Easily thirty feet wide and liberally illuminated by electric lamps, the shaft reminded her more of a subway tunnel than a mining area. The scale of the operation here was staggering.
Stav was beside her. A solid, menacing but strangely reassuring presence in that confusing and dangerous underground world. Coming as she did from a military background, Samantha wasn’t the sort to be easily intimidated, but even she appreciated having someone to back her up. Especially a mile below the surface of a foreign country.
‘Most of these guys haven’t seen a woman in weeks,’ Stav remarked, guessing her thoughts. ‘You would be very popular here, I think.’
‘Can’t see myself changing careers any time soon,’ she replied, not altogether comfortable with the direction his humour was going.
He laughed out loud at that. ‘Don’t be so sure. These crazy guys make more money than either of us. They stay a few years, make their fortune then move on. Some die, but what the fuck, right? We all do.’
She didn’t quite share his fatalistic appraisal of the situation. Still, she wasn’t inclined to pursue the matter, especially when the shift manager pointed further down the tunnel and started talking.
‘Foreman’s office is up ahead,’ Stav announced.
Squinting through the dusty air, Samantha could make out the square shape of a Portakabin-like structure about 30 yards away. Several men were gathered near the entrance. One in particular, with a walkie-talkie in one hand and a flashlight in the other, was in the midst of issuing orders to the group.
The foreman pointed to him and shouted something in Russian that Stav didn’t bother to translate.
‘Leave this to me,’ he said. ‘I will scare the shit out of him, then we take him in.’
A moment later she saw him stride past her, heading straight for the group. Instinctively she picked up the pace, wanting to be close by when they lifted him.
The group had noticed Stav now and were watching him as he approached, curious but not yet wary. This was a big mine with lots of employees, and he was dressed just as they were.
‘Borz Umarov?’ he demanded, his tone making it clear this was no casual enquiry.
‘Da,’ the man with the walkie-talkie replied. His face was partially hidden by the respirator, but even Samantha could sense his unease.
Stav barked out another stream of Russian, she assumed to tell him he was to come with them and answer some questions. He was holding himself ready in case Umarov tried to run, but otherwise looked as if he had little to fear from the smaller and older man.
Umarov stood his ground, seemingly torn about what to do.
It happened fast. Realising his subject needed some persuasion, Stav reached inside his overalls for the automatic he’d insisted on taking with him. Umarov, however, was able to bring a far more primitive but equally effective weapon into play.
Unhooking the long metal flashlight from his tool belt, he swung it around like a shortened baseball bat and caught the FSB agent on the left temple, just below the edge of his work helmet. There was a muted thump, a crunch of broken glass as the flashlight shattered, and a groan of pain as Stav staggered sideways and collapsed.
‘Shit!’ McKnight cried, rushing forwards to his aid even as Umarov dropped the improvised weapon and retreated down the main tunnel.
Skidding to a halt beside the downed agent, she leaned in close. ‘Stav, can you hear me? Stav!’
Through the cracked safety goggles she could see that his eyes were glassy and unfocused like a punch-drunk boxer, but they did slowly move around towards her.
‘Da,’ he managed to say, his voice thick and heavy. He might have been suffering from a concussion after the sharp blow, but he was alive.
Umarov was the priority now. Reaching into Stav’s overalls, she felt around until her fingers closed on the butt of the automatic he hadn’t quite been able to draw, then yanked the weapon free.
‘Get him to a doctor!’ she shouted to the workers who had gathered around, hoping they understood her intent if not her actual words. ‘Doctor!’
Rising to her feet, she pulled back the slide on top of the weapon. A brass cartridge flew out of the ejection port, telling her a round had already been chambered, but it was better safe than sorry. The last thing she needed was to pull the trigger only to hear the ping of a firing pin striking an empty chamber.
Gripping the weapon tight in her gloved hands, she rushed down the main passage in pursuit of her target. Her air filter was struggling to keep up with her lungs as they greedily sucked in more oxygen, feeding the urgent demands of her body.
She had no idea where the passage led. Umarov would know these tunnels like the back of his hand and might well try to double back somehow, making for the elevator. McKnight’s only option was to keep going and hope she could chase him down before he vanished.
Rounding a wide curve, she suddenly found herself faced with three separate tunnels, all leading in different directions. Umarov could have taken any one of them. There was no way of tracking him.
Spotting two men working on the engine of a nearby loading vehicle, she sprinted over, waving the gun to get their attention. ‘Hey! You seen a guy come running down here?’
Both men stared at her with a mixture of fear, incomprehension and anger. No doubt they were less than pleased to be confronted with a woman waving a gun and jabbering in a language they didn’t understand.
‘Umarov!’ she shouted, then pointed to the tunnels up ahead. ‘Borz Umarov!’
The brighter a
nd more cooperative of the two seemed to get what she was after, and pointed to the left tunnel while also spouting off a stream of Russian that she suspected was less than complimentary.
She ignored it. She had what she needed now.
With her flashlight beam haphazardly lighting a path ahead of her, she rushed down the left passage. This one wasn’t as well illuminated as the others, with only a couple of dim bulbs still functioning. Perhaps it was an older tunnel that had since been abandoned; she imagined there were lots of passages like that in a mine of this size and complexity.
She hadn’t gone far before the noise of the mining operation had faded into a dull echo, and the ambient light diminished to the point where she was forced to rely on her own flashlight to see. The ground beneath her feet was rough and uneven, and covered with loose rocks that had fallen from the roof over the years.
‘There’s nowhere to go, Borz,’ she called out, having no idea whether it was true or not. There could be a dozen elevator shafts leading back to the surface for all she knew. ‘We’ve sealed the mine off. You might as well give yourself up.’
Even if he spoke English she doubted he’d be inclined to believe her, but she had to give him the chance to surrender. In any case, there was no response to her offer. The tunnel remained eerily quiet compared to the roaring activity behind her.
She slowed her pace, straining to see, straining to hear anything above the thunder of her own heartbeat and the dry tinny rasp of her respirator unit.
She couldn’t go any further like this. Knowing the air purifier would limit her awareness of her surroundings, she pulled it off and laid it on the ground, taking her first experimental breath. Straight away the dry dusty air attacked her nose and throat, and unable to help herself, she coughed and retched several times before regaining control.
Spitting to try to rid herself of the acrid taste, she rose up and continued onwards.
‘All I want to know is who you sold those explosives to,’ she promised, her eyes eagerly scanning the darkened tunnel. ‘We can make a deal. We’ll protect you.’
