by Will Jordan
Still, she knew from experience that what these unassuming cars lacked in style, they made up for in simple durability. She’d tested this one thoroughly prior to the operation and knew the engine to be crude and rough, but nonetheless reliable. They were also plentiful in this part of the world, making it easier to blend in.
Retrieving the keys from the soft earth beneath the rear wheel, she unlocked it, jumped in and fired it up. There was a throaty roar as the engine kicked in. Anya eased the vehicle forwards, then backed up so its rear was facing the open back doors of the Tigr.
Masalsky hadn’t moved. He was smart enough to recognise that words were the only weapons at his disposal right now.
Anya had left a sports bag filled with civilian clothes on the Lada’s passenger seat. Grabbing it, she pulled herself out of the car and immediately began to strip, unbuttoning her jacket and allowing it to fall away, followed by the blouse, then finally her trousers. The duct tape she’d used to seal the cut at her hip pulled and tugged uncomfortably, though she did her best to ignore it.
Masalsky was watching her in curious silence, but she made no move to cover herself. Modesty was an indulgence she’d long since parted company with.
‘You said you were just an errand runner,’ he began, having obviously decided that now was the time to make his move. ‘Which means you’re doing this for profit, not desire. If profit is what you’re after, I can pay double whatever your employer offered.’
Anya looked at him as she pulled a pair of jeans up over her hips. ‘I was part of a terrorist attack on an FSB compound,’ she reminded him. ‘I killed two of your agents, not to mention those killed or injured by the blast. And you would make a deal with me?’
He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. ‘We all make mistakes. Don’t make another one now. We both know my people will be looking for me, and they will find me. The question is whether you want to be around when they do. I can help you get away, make sure there is no follow-up, no manhunt. And like I said, I can give you all the money you need. It’s a good deal, my friend. You should think about it.’
Anya looked at him, torn between disgust and respect. For a man pleading for his life, he was doing a fairly credible job of making it appear as though he had the upper hand.
‘If any of that were true, you wouldn’t be offering to bargain with me,’ she observed, sitting on the tailgate of the car while she laced up her boots. ‘Anyway, what I want isn’t in your power to give.’
Only Atayev could give her what she truly needed. But first, she had to give him Masalsky.
‘I have a wife,’ he said abruptly. He was looking a little less composed now, a little less sure of himself. She wasn’t the kind of person he was used to dealing with. She couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be bullied or intimidated. ‘And a son. He’s ten years old. His name is Pavel.’
Anya knew exactly what he was trying to do. She was a woman after all; it was logical to try to appeal to some kind of maternal instinct. Unfortunately for him, he’d picked the wrong woman.
‘You have no children, Ivan,’ she informed him coldly. ‘Unless one of your mistresses gave you a son. Sometimes even I find it hard to keep track.’
Leaving him in satisfyingly stunned silence, she stood up and pulled on the fur-lined leather jacket she’d saved until last, glad of the warmth it provided. She shoved the automatic down the back of her jeans and moved forwards to help Masalsky down from the back of the Tigr.
Thirty seconds later she had him secured in the hidden compartment beneath the floor of the trunk. As she’d warned, it was a tight fit for him. He was likely in for an uncomfortable journey, though not half as uncomfortable as the destination that awaited him.
Anya tried not to think too much about that as she eased the Lada out of the barn and down the rough muddy track to the main road, leaving behind the big Russian army truck with Masalsky’s clothes piled inside.
Chapter 43
The FSB compound at the west end of Grozny airport looked like a scene from the Second World War. The entire facade of the office complex had been devastated by the bomb blast, blinds and shredded curtains fluttering in jagged remains of windows. The concrete structure was scarred and pitted by shrapnel, one support beam having given way altogether to leave the floor above sagging precariously.
Nearby stood the remains of what had once been a perimeter wall, now reduced to so much broken rubble by a blast that had left a crater nearly 30 feet across. Smashed, twisted wrecks of cars caught in the explosion lay strewn about, as if some giant fist had picked them up, crumpled them and hurled them away like toys.
Police cars and ambulances were everywhere, and Drake watched in silence as shell-shocked men and women in bloodied office clothes were led away by paramedics. A pall of smoke from countless small fires lingered over the ruined complex.
‘Doesn’t look good, does it?’ Mason remarked, surveying the scene without emotion.
Drake said nothing. The very sight of it left him feeling sick to his stomach.
His gaze returned to ground level as Miranova hurried over to him with a portable radio in hand. Their earlier disagreement was still fresh in both their minds, but like Drake, she understood the value of staying professional in times of crisis.
‘How bad is it?’ Drake asked, bracing himself for the worst.
‘Casualties are not as high as we expected,’ she replied at length. ‘The building was not heavily used at this time of night.’
That made sense. They didn’t exactly keep regular office hours, but even major intelligence services couldn’t run at full capacity twenty-four hours a day. The news of lower casualties was cold comfort to him at that moment, but it was something.
‘If they’d hit this place a few hours earlier, it would have been a different story,’ Mason observed. ‘We got lucky.’
The woman shot him a hard look. ‘Good people were killed today. Lucky is not how I would choose to describe this, Agent Mason.’
‘What about Masalsky?’ Drake asked, eager to avoid another argument. ‘Any idea how they got to him?’
She nodded slowly. ‘Come with me.’
Drake and Mason followed as she led them into a nearby building that had escaped the worst of the blast. With much of the former base of operations now sealed off due to bomb damage, a temporary command centre had instead been set up in the accommodation block next door.
The place was a hive of activity as they made their way down the main corridor, having to squeeze past agents moving in both directions. Many sported minor injuries, their office clothes ripped and stained with blood, though few gave any sign of discomfort.
Singling out a technician who was using a laptop as a communications terminal, Miranova laid a hand on his shoulder, leaned over and spoke quietly to him.
‘Take a look,’ she said as the technician called up an image file.
Drake already had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he moved in closer to take a look. And when he saw the image, saw the static shot of Anya leaning out of the drab-coloured military vehicle to speak to the soldiers on the gate, the rising dread quickly gave way to shocked realisation.
There could be no evasion any longer; no more denials, no more excuses. Anya wasn’t just a bit player lingering on the periphery of some larger scheme – she was in this up to her neck. She had orchestrated the attack that had laid waste to the FSB’s field office.
And he had allowed it to happen. He had protected her when he could have warned them. His hands were just as bloody as hers.
‘Our kidnapper,’ Miranova said grimly. ‘She drove right in through the main gate, using a stolen vehicle and FSB identification to bluff her way past the checkpoint. The bomb was a diversion designed to create enough confusion for her to reach Masalsky and abduct him.’
‘Must have taken some balls to come in here alone and pull off an extraction like that,’ Mason remarked. Drake didn’t look at him, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him.
&
nbsp; ‘Clearly she is a trained operative,’ Miranova added. ‘We have circulated this image amongst our field teams. Whoever she is, we will find her if she dares show herself again.’
Drake swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from the image. He had to draw Miranova’s attention away from this. ‘We still need to find Masalsky.’
‘His satellite tracker stopped moving about five miles north-east of here. Our tactical teams found an abandoned military vehicle there, along with his clothes and the tracking module. Masalsky was gone.’
Drake wasn’t surprised, either that he’d had a locator module on his person, or that his captors had known to look for it. ‘If she’s half as intelligent as she seems, she’ll have changed vehicles by now.’
‘What about satellite imagery?’ Mason suggested.
The FSB agent shook her head. ‘We checked. There were none over the area at the time of the attack.’
Almost as if she knew the perfect time to make her move, Drake thought. Anya had once been one of the Agency’s best paramilitary operatives, armed with a wealth of information about both her own intelligence agency’s capabilities, and those of other countries. Clearly she’d used that information to her advantage here today.
However, her formidable knowledge was now five years out of date. She’d been off the grid for a long time, and while things might not have changed much for the FSB in that time, they certainly had for the CIA.
Maybe, just maybe, he had an edge on her.
He had to put a stop to this. He might have been able to explain away the attack in DC, but Anya had crossed a line here today. One way or another, he had to stop her.
Reaching for his phone, he quickly dialled Frost’s number. Based on her last report a couple of hours earlier, she and McKnight should be on a flight heading south from Norilsk by now.
It didn’t take long for her to answer, or to make her thoughts known. ‘Ryan, what the fuck is going on? We’re getting reports of car-bomb attacks right in your neighbourhood.’
‘Why do you think I’m calling?’ Drake replied. ‘I need you to get hold of the National Reconnaissance Office, find out if we had any assets over this area at the time of the attack. Call in any favours you have.’
‘Ryan, I—’
‘No arguments, just get it done!’ Drake cut in. ‘We have a high-value FSB leader abducted. We need to find him before he ends up like Demochev.’
Anya might have managed to escape Russia’s satellites, but there was a chance one of the Agency’s spy birds had caught her out. At the very least it was worth a shot.
‘Fine. I’ll see what I can do,’ she conceded at last.
‘Thanks.’ Signing off, he turned his attention to Miranova, who was watching him expectantly. ‘Chechnya’s a global hotspot. You think we don’t have our eyes on it?’
She said nothing to that, though he thought he saw a fleeting look of gratitude in her eyes. If somehow they managed to get to Masalsky in time, perhaps he might allow himself to feel a little better about this whole mess.
Perhaps.
Chapter 44
Ivan Masalsky blinked as the hood was yanked off his head, his eyes flooded with harsh electric light. Temporarily blinded, he could make out nothing but darkness beyond the intense corona.
He couldn’t move. His wrists and feet were still plasti-cuffed together, and as a further restraint he’d been forced into a wooden chair, bound in place with duct tape around his legs and chest.
Unable to see for the moment, he concentrated instead on his other senses. He was in an enclosed space; that much was obvious. He could feel neither wind nor rain on his skin, though the cold creeping up through his bare feet told him the room was unheated. He’d felt himself walking on rough-poured concrete when he was led in here, confirming the place had a floor. Perhaps a warehouse or some other storage space.
But wherever he was, he wasn’t alone.
‘Hello, Ivan,’ a male voice said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
He heard footsteps behind, and twisted around as a man walked into view. He was a short, modest-looking man, small and neat. The impression was enhanced by the dark blue work overalls he wore, which looked to be a couple of sizes too big for him.
Moving with unhurried patience, he circled around in front of Masalsky and into the light shining right at him. Masalsky couldn’t quite see him now, but he knew the man had taken a seat by the creak of old wood as his weight settled on a chair, probably identical to the one he himself was strapped to.
The seconds ticked by, and Masalsky felt himself growing more uncomfortable. If this man had gone to so much trouble to capture him, why was he just sitting there? What did he want?
‘Who are you?’ he asked, unable to take it any longer.
‘Who am I?’ the man repeated, apparently amused by the question. There was another creak as he leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’m no one, Ivan. Just another insignificant pawn. The man you walk past a dozen times a day without ever seeing, without ever thinking about. Who I am doesn’t matter you to. What matters is why I’m here.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I’m here to judge you for the crimes you’ve committed against the Russian people, Ivan. I’m here to make sure the people know the truth.’
Masalsky’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the ambient light now. Off to one side, he could see the distinctive outline of a camera tripod. That explained the harsh light shining right on him – he was to be recorded.
‘What are you talking about? I … I’ve committed no crimes,’ he protested.
The man reached for something on the ground at his feet. Masalsky heard the faint rasp of metal on concrete, and felt a shiver of fear run through him when he saw a set of bolt cutters gleaming in the harsh light.
‘We’ll see, my friend,’ he promised. ‘We’ll see.’
In the accommodation block, Miranova and her fellow agents were hard at work trying to piece together the sequence of events during the attack, while also following up on reports from their field teams as they continued the search for Masalsky. Hastily set-up workstations, phones and cables trailed everywhere.
Next to this hive of activity, Drake felt every inch the proverbial fifth wheel. He was also increasingly aware of his growing fatigue, and the pain from the numerous injuries he’d taken during his fight with Anya. His shoulder felt as though someone had wedged a red-hot knife in it, and his back was starting to stiffen up after his tumble down that hillside.
Despite his protests, Miranova had insisted he be examined by one of the field station’s medics, perhaps sensing that his injuries were more extensive than he was letting on. Thus, for the past five minutes he’d endured being prodded and poked by a gruff-looking man who hadn’t even bothered introducing himself.
However, even Drake was unwilling to put up with any more as the man withdrew a syringe from his kit.
‘No painkillers,’ he said, shaking his head. A shot of morphine was great for unwinding after a tough day, but he wasn’t prepared to take anything that could compromise his awareness or his decision-making ability.
The medic looked him up and down. ‘Not painkillers – antibiotics. You are cut to shit,’ he explained. ‘This will stop infection.’
Before Drake could protest further, the man jammed the needle in his forearm and depressed the plunger. Drake winced as the unusually large needle was withdrawn. He felt as though he’d just been shot with horse tranquilliser.
The man spared him only a brief, disparaging look before packing up his gear and moving on. No doubt there was plenty of work for him tonight.
No sooner had he departed than Mason arrived to take his place. He might have spoken better English, but Drake would have taken a hundred needles over a conversation with him at that moment.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said, his voice quiet but urgent. ‘Right now.’
Drake didn’t look at him. ‘This isn’t the time, Cole.’
He could guess exactly what his friend wanted to say, but this was neither the time nor the place to be having that conversation.
Suddenly he felt Mason’s hand on his shoulder, strong fingers tightening their grip to send a renewed wave of pain flooding through him. It was a silent but very effective way of getting his attention.
‘Make time, Ryan,’ he advised, the tone of his voice making it plain he wasn’t going to be put off. ‘Or we do this right here in front of your new buddies. Your call.’
Swearing under his breath, Drake looked around for somewhere that might allow some measure of privacy. One corner of the room had yet to be taken over.
Shrugging out of Mason’s grip, he retreated as far from the centre of activity as he could, then rounded on the older man. ‘Make it quick.’
‘Don’t give me that shit, Ryan,’ Mason hissed. ‘This is getting out of control. You had intel that could have prevented a major terrorist strike, and you chose to sit on your fucking hands. Do you have any idea the kind of shit this puts us in?’
‘It was my decision, Cole.’
‘Fuck you!’ Mason snapped, jabbing a finger at him. ‘You really think the FSB would make that kind of distinction? We’re both in this up to our necks. You had no right to make a decision like that on my behalf.’
‘So what would you have done?’ Drake hit back. ‘Go running to Miranova and tell her an Agency operative was behind this, but we chose to keep it to ourselves until now? Do you think for one second she wouldn’t have thrown us both in jail?’
Mason sighed and shook his head in dismay. ‘Ryan, for Christ’s sake listen to yourself. People, real people, are getting killed over this. And for what? Anya isn’t going to be saved; not by you or anyone else. She made her choice when she shot up that freeway in DC. Now she’s made herself an enemy of the FSB and the CIA. How much longer are you going to keep protecting her? How much more are you prepared to give up for her?’
