Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  A look around the fallen torture implements yielded another less sophisticated but perhaps more useful weapon. He wasn’t interested in hacksaws or power drills, but the small metal-framed hatchet he found on the far side of the collapsed table might be of more use. Running his thumb along the edge of the blade confirmed it was still sharp enough to be a viable weapon. It didn’t have the range of the PPK, but neither would it alert every gunman in the building when he used it.

  Now armed, he allowed himself to calm down a little and take stock of his situation. First impressions weren’t good. He was alone in a building whose layout was unfamiliar, inhabited by an unknown number of hostiles, all probably armed.

  Direct confrontation was a bad idea. The PPK was light on stopping power and only came with an eight-round magazine, and he’d lost one already. Hardly an arsenal worthy of the task at hand, and a hatchet wouldn’t do much to change that.

  The most pressing question was what to do next. He had to assume Miranova was still alive, for now at least. He’d seen them handcuffing her back at the foundry, presumably for transportation like himself. They wouldn’t go to that kind of trouble if they were planning to execute her straight away.

  Anya was also an unknown. Clearly her presence here wasn’t all that it seemed. She had given him the key that had saved his life, though apparently she was incapable of taking any overt action to aid him. He certainly couldn’t count on her help if it came down to a shooting match, but neither was he willing to abandon her.

  Letting out a long, slow breath, he closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the PPK’s frame. ‘Anya, what the fuck are you doing?’ he whispered.

  There was no answer for him, just as there hadn’t been since the attack in DC. Anya’s motivations and final goal remained a mystery.

  He opened his eyes, pushing those thoughts aside. Anya could look after herself – that much was obvious – and he had enough problems to contend with already.

  The room’s only door was shut, but a sliver of light was visible beneath, providing just enough illumination to move around. Creeping across the room with the weapon at the ready, he felt around until he found the handle, and turned it, edging the door open.

  Beyond lay an empty brick corridor, lit by bare bulbs strung up at intervals. He could see the cable that looped between each one, and in the distance he heard the faint rumble of an engine. He was willing to bet it was a generator, which suggested the building didn’t have a mains power supply.

  Where the generator was, he suspected he’d find Atayev as well. The question, however, was where he might find Miranova. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn’t find her by standing around.

  One way or another, he had to move. It wouldn’t be long before someone swung by this room to check on Yuri. As soon as they found the body they would know Drake had escaped, and they would waste no time hunting him down.

  Gripping the PPK tight, he pushed the door open and advanced into the corridor beyond.

  ‘I don’t care what your credentials are,’ said the weather-beaten, grey-haired man standing before McKnight. His name was Don Walters, the station chief for the US embassy in Moscow. ‘You’re not taking armed personnel on some goddamned joyride across Moscow. We get caught staging something like this, and we’ll have a fucking international incident on our hands.’

  Heads of diplomatic missions were not known for their close cooperation with Agency field teams. At best they viewed them as an annoying inconvenience to be tolerated, and at worst an outright menace. Walters, it seemed, fell into the latter category.

  ‘We’ve got a man out there, for Christ’s sake,’ Frost said, barely able to restrain her temper. ‘What do you suggest we do? Sit on our asses and let him die?’

  Walters’s baleful gaze rounded on her. He was a career veteran with thirty years’ experience of diplomatic missions behind him, and not used to being browbeaten by someone half his age.

  ‘I suggest you notify Russian security services and have them pick him up,’ he said tersely. ‘This is their city, not ours.’

  McKnight shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. They’ll kill Drake if they find him. His only chance is for us to get there first.’

  Walters was unmoved by her plea. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t sanction this. Not without authorisation from Washington, and it’s one in the morning over there.’

  McKnight had heard enough. As far as she could see, there was only one course of action still open to her. It was a gamble, and it had the potential to land them in a whole world of hurt if it didn’t pay off, but in this case she could see little choice.

  Fishing out her cellphone, she hurriedly dialled a private number and waited in anxious silence while it rang out. She was certain the recipient kept the phone on at all times; the only question was whether her plea would be answered.

  Finally the ringing stopped and a hushed voice answered: ‘Franklin.’

  ‘It’s McKnight, sir,’ she began. ‘We’ve got a problem and we need your help.’

  For the next thirty seconds Franklin listened while she poured out everything that had happened in the past couple of hours, her voice growing more strained with each passing moment.

  ‘Ryan needs our help,’ she finished. ‘We have to get to him before it’s too late.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Franklin breathed, stunned by everything he’d heard. ‘You know you’re asking a lot, McKnight. If you get caught—’

  ‘We’re running out of time, sir,’ she interrupted, unwilling to delay further. ‘If we don’t do something now, he’s as good as dead. Will you help us?’

  This was the moment when her gamble would be decided. Franklin would be well within his rights to order their arrest by embassy security after everything they had done. All McKnight could do was hope that his friendship and loyalty to Drake were stronger than that.

  The leader of Special Activities Division was silent for a long moment before finally replying: ‘Put Walters on the phone.’

  Chapter 60

  Afghanistan, 7 November 1988

  Anya looked up, struggling to focus with her one remaining good eye. The other was swollen shut from the beating she had taken. Her whole body ached, covered in cuts and bruises where her captors had punched and kicked their bound and helpless captive without mercy, slowly breaking her down over the past six weeks.

  A chill wind blew across the rocky, desolate landscape, whipping dry snowflakes and locks of tangled, matted blonde hair into her face. With her body wasted away after weeks of near-starvation, the cold penetrated through to her very core, starting her shivering right away.

  She ignored this, however, as she stared at the towering mountains around them, their caps mantled with snow, and the wide open plains beyond. After looking at nothing but bare concrete walls for so long, she was almost moved to tears by the stark, raw beauty of the scene.

  ‘A good place to do this, don’t you think?’ a taunting voice asked.

  She glanced left as Viktor Surovsky walked into view, wrapped in a heavy fur coat and hat to ward off the winter chill. Unlike her, he was still robust and healthy, his ruggedly handsome Slavic features just as striking as the day she’d first met him.

  Further back, near the vehicle that had brought them out here, stood another man. Surovsky’s bodyguard, his expression betraying no emotion as he stared back at her. She imagined men like him were used to seeing all kinds of things without really seeing them.

  ‘I wanted to give this to you, Anya,’ he explained. ‘You put up such a brave fight, it seemed only right that you be rewarded for it.’

  Anya stared back at him, saying nothing. Defiant to the end.

  And this certainly was the end. She was under no illusions about why she’d been brought out here to this remote mountain pass.

  ‘Such a shame it was all for nothing.’ He sounded almost sympathetic as he said this; the victor offering comfort and consolation to the vanquished. ‘How do you think I was a
ble to find you that day, after you’d evaded me for so long?’

  Anya was desperately trying not to listen, trying not to acknowledge his words, trying to ignore the twisting knot of fear that was tightening in her stomach with every passing moment.

  ‘Your new friends betrayed you, Anya. The Americans, the ones you fought so long and hard for – they gave you up to me willingly. Because they had no more use for you.’ Surovsky gestured to the mountains that surrounded them. ‘This war is ending, we’re leaving Afghanistan. The Americans have their little victory. And now that you’ve served your purpose, they want rid of you.’ He took another drink and smiled. ‘Lucky for me.’

  His words broke through the last barriers of inner strength and self-control she had desperately clung to. Just for a moment, her eyes wavered and shone wet with tears, soon whipped away by the chill wind.

  Surovsky could barely contain his triumph. After weeks of painstaking effort, it wasn’t the torture that had finally broken her – it was a simple admission.

  ‘Come on, now. You knew how this was going to end. Everyone outlives their usefulness sooner or later.’

  She glared at him, wrists straining against the rope bonds. And for the first time since this whole ordeal began, she spoke. ‘And what will you do when you outlive yours, Viktor?’

  The look of absolute, undying hatred in her eyes was such that even he paused for a moment, daunted by its intensity. Even broken and defeated, she still had the power to unsettle him.

  But not for much longer, he thought as he reached into his coat and drew out a Makarov pistol. She didn’t even flinch as he took aim.

  ‘You won’t be there to find out,’ he promised, then pulled the trigger.

  The wide open space and gusting wind carried the sharp crack of the shot away. Anya jerked as the round slammed into her chest, then slumped backwards into a shallow ditch. A few moments of feeble writhing was all she could muster before at last her life slipped away.

  Surovsky handed the weapon to his bodyguard, hardly believing how easy it had been. ‘Get the car started,’ he instructed.

  He spared the young woman a final glance, still mystified as to why she had turned against him, why she had fought so hard to resist, for what cause she had been willing to sacrifice herself. He’d seen such potential in her, such untapped ability. They could have achieved so much together if only she’d stayed loyal to him.

  He shook his head, dismissing the notion. As with so many things in life, he supposed he would never know.

  He shivered as another chilly gust whipped down from the nearby mountains. He’d lingered here long enough. Turning away, he started walking back to where the jeep was waiting. Nobody would ever find her in such a remote area. Anyway, a traitor like that didn’t deserve a decent burial. Better to let the scavengers pick at her remains.

  The engine started up as he approached. Climbing inside, he closed the door, grateful to be warm once more. He withdrew the hip flask of vodka from his coat pocket and took a generous pull, relishing the fire it lit in his stomach.

  ‘Let’s go, Alexei. We’re done here.’

  In his office at FSB headquarters in Lubyanka Square, Viktor Surovsky sat at his desk, anxiously waiting for news on the operation to intercept Anya. Ground units were closing in on the truck she was trying to escape in with Drake, and air assets had been vectored in at his insistence. He wanted nothing left to chance.

  Twenty years ago he had made a mistake. He had assumed Anya to be dead, had walked away and left her lying in an uncovered grave, yet somehow she had survived. Somehow she had crawled out of that hole in the ground. Broken, injured and starving, she had clung tenaciously on to life and somehow made it to safety.

  The little bitch was nothing if not determined.

  He had recaptured her fifteen years later at great personal expense, intending to use her as insurance to guarantee cooperation from his friends on the other side of the Atlantic. But again she had given him the slip, and ever since her escape he had been living in fear, consumed by the threat she now posed to him.

  Anya alone possessed the ability to destroy everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. She had to be stopped for good.

  Today he had a chance – a chance to end this, to rid himself of her once and for all. There would be no thought of imprisoning or interrogating her now. He wanted her dead, plain and simple.

  He had his best man heading up the operation. Kamarov, always the loyal soldier, had never failed him in his two decades of service. Surovsky knew he wouldn’t let him down now.

  He reached for the glass of vodka on his desk and gulped a mouthful, tensing as his body rebelled against it. His doctor had warned him that another stomach ulcer was brewing, that he should stay away from alcohol. But he needed it today.

  All of it. All the years of struggle, of fear and doubt and betrayal; it all came down to what happened in the next few minutes.

  Chapter 61

  With blood still oozing from the wound at his neck, Drake picked his way down a narrow corridor. Heavy steel doors ran along both sides at regular intervals, and the ceiling was low and vaulted, the brick walls showing signs of damp and decay. There were no windows, no natural light at all in fact. Two bare light bulbs hastily strung up with duct tape cast his surroundings in an eerie half-light that provided just enough illumination to move around.

  What the hell was this place? It looked like a wine cellar or an underground storage space, though clearly it hadn’t been in use for some time. The damp, heavy, musty air suggested he was underground and close to the water table.

  Much like the room he’d just left, the place was completely dilapidated. The floor was covered with broken glass, yellowed and burned sheets of paper, chunks of masonry, and cables and steel pipes that had either fallen or been ripped down from the ceiling. Cyrillic writing had been crudely scrawled across one wall with white paint, though Drake had no idea what the slogan meant.

  Some of the doors were standing open, their rusted frames protruding out into the corridor, but one or two were still latched shut. Edging closer to the nearest one, Drake reached out and tried the bolt holding it closed. It was rusted solid, and a few experimental tugs failed to dislodge it. A good hard blow with the hammer would probably be enough to free it up, though he saw little point. Clearly it hadn’t been used in a long time.

  The sound of voices behind drew his thoughts back to the present, and as he whirled around he saw a pair of shadows dancing across the floor at the far end of the corridor; figures moving past one of the electric lights. At least two of them coming his way.

  Drake backed up into one of the empty storage rooms, clutching the PPK. Hidden behind the doorway as he was, it was unlikely he’d be spotted unless his new friends entered the room. Still, if they were headed for the torture chamber, they’d spot Yuri’s body and know right away what had happened.

  They were getting close now. Drake strained to hear them above the thumping of his own heart. They were speaking in Russian as he’d expected so the content of their conversation was unknown. Their voices were fast and urgent, but not necessarily alarmed. They sounded more like men gearing up for something, working against a tight schedule.

  He had to act now. He couldn’t afford to let them find Yuri, or to have a go at torturing Miranova. His only choice was to go at them.

  He withdrew the hatchet from his jeans and tested the grip, trying to get a feel for the weight. The PPK was in his left hand. He wasn’t a great shot left-handed, and the broken finger wouldn’t help matters, but if things worked out the way he intended then it wouldn’t matter. However, he needed the hatchet in his undamaged right hand.

  What he had in mind was risky, messy and violent, but sometimes all three things were needed in his line of work.

  He held his breath as the footsteps drew level with the door, closed his eyes for a moment and tried to focus his thoughts, tried to imagine the correct sequence of events playing out in his mind. Tried to ima
gine himself not getting killed.

  The two men carried on past without breaking stride.

  This was it. Gripping the hatchet, he rounded the doorway and advanced into the corridor beyond. As he’d thought, there were two of them, both dressed in civilian clothes; one in a leather jacket and jeans, the other in dark trousers and a fur-lined overcoat. Both were big men, about Drake’s height, and heavier than him, judging by their bulked-out frames. Heavier usually meant stronger, which wasn’t good news in his current condition.

  Still, there was no time to contemplate this now. Picking the man on the right, Drake took two steps towards him and swung the hatchet in a fast, hard strike, aiming for the base of his skull. His aim was good, and the keen steel edge easily cut through the collar of his jacket, and the skin and muscle beneath, to shatter the vertebrae of his neck and sever his spinal cord.

  An injury like that doesn’t leave much margin for error. He jerked once as if stunned by an electric shock, then his legs buckled beneath him and he fell without a sound. If he hadn’t been killed outright by such a violent blow to the head, he’d be dead from blood loss within a matter of minutes.

  Drake immediately forced any thoughts of compassion or mercy from his mind as he yanked the hatchet free. It was a rotten way to kill a man, but this was not a situation in which fair play would be rewarded. He couldn’t control two prisoners by himself. At least now the odds were even.

  Alerted by the crunch of axe meeting skull, his companion whirled around, drawing a pistol from inside his leather jacket. Drake was half a second ahead of him, getting in close and smacking his forearm hard with the flat of the hatchet. He didn’t want to sever the limb – he needed the man alive for now – but he had to take that weapon out of play before it became a threat.