by Will Jordan
Chapter 65
Once again Drake found himself back in Lubyanka, the seat of power for Russia’s intelligence services for five generations. Once again he was standing in that same expansive conference room, staring out across the magnificent cityscape of central Moscow. It was late afternoon now, with the evening sun shining down from an almost cloudless sky, its rays glinting off the onion domes of St Basil’s Cathedral.
Sunlight and unseasonable warmth, after enduring near constant wind, rain, snow and hail since that evening in DC. It felt like a lifetime ago.
‘It’s a funny old world,’ Drake remarked as he took a sip of tea, served strong and black in the traditional Russian style.
Miranova, seated on the other side of the table, glanced up from the report she’d been engrossed in. ‘What was that?’
Drake smiled a little, keeping his back to her. ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.
‘Ah, you’re here at last,’ a deep, gravelly Russian voice announced. It was a voice he recognised well enough from the brief teleconference held at the Russian embassy in DC.
Steeling himself, Drake turned to face Viktor Surovsky.
He recalled his earlier surprise at the image that had presented itself on the television screen during the conference call, in stark contrast to Surovsky’s public image as a bold, determined and powerful leader. That impression was only highlighted on seeing him in the flesh.
The FSB director was a short, frail, ill-looking man, with thinning grey hair and a lined and pockmarked face prematurely aged by too much drinking, too much smoking and too many hard decisions. His suit was expensive and no doubt tailor-made, yet it seemed to hang awkwardly on his spare frame. Drake had always believed that ‘the man maketh the clothes’ rather than the other way around, and Surovsky was living proof of that.
Miranova was gracious enough to handle the introductions, and immediately rose to her feet. ‘Ryan Drake, may I introduce FSB Director Surovsky.’
Surovsky smiled and thrust out a hand. ‘Good to meet you properly, Mr Drake.’
Drake did his best to paste on a fake smile. Despite his spare frame, Surovsky’s hands were still big and square, the skin roughened by years of manual work. It seemed he was no stranger to hardship, at least in his younger days.
‘And you, sir,’ he lied.
‘It seems I have much to thank you for,’ Surovsky went on, his gaze flicking left to encompass Miranova. ‘Both of you. Thanks to you, one of the most dangerous terrorists in Russia’s history has been brought to justice.’
Drake wasn’t so sure. If Atayev was right, the most dangerous terrorist in Russia’s history was standing in this very room.
‘We did what we could,’ Drake said, trying to be diplomatic.
‘Ha!’ Chortling with amusement, Surovsky slapped him across the shoulder. Drake tried not to flinch as a wave of pain rippled outwards from the injured joint. ‘I love the British sense of modesty. But in this case, take credit where it is due, Mr Drake.’
Turning away, the FSB director walked over to an antique cabinet set against one wall. A decanter of what Drake assumed to be vodka had been set there.
‘It may seem hard to believe now, but it is worth remembering that this all started with a peaceful mission,’ Surovsky said as he removed the stopper and began to pour. ‘A chance to foster greater cooperation between our two agencies.’
Having poured three generous glasses, he returned to them and handed one each to Drake and Miranova.
‘It might not have come about exactly as intended, but perhaps we achieved our aim after all.’ He raised his glass and looked at them both. ‘To friendship.’
‘To friendship,’ Drake repeated, practically having to force the words out. He was grateful to down his drink so he didn’t have to maintain his genial expression.
One sip was enough to tell him that Surovsky had spared no expense when it came to alcohol. Drake was a whisky drinker by preference, but even he appreciated the quality of the Russian spirit.
Laying the empty glass down, Surovsky adjusted his belt as if to signal it was time to get down to business. ‘Now, Agent Miranova tells me you wanted to speak to the leader of the terrorist group?’
Drake nodded. ‘That’s right.’
Surovsky surveyed him for a long moment, his dark eyes shrewd and assessing. ‘May I ask what you want to talk to him about?’
‘I only want the truth.’
Some of the tension seemed to leave Surovsky. ‘Then I think we have something in common, Agent Drake. Two of my colleagues, both good men, are dead because of him.’
If he was expecting sympathy from Drake, it was misplaced. After a moment or two even he seemed to recognise this.
‘Come, then,’ he said, nodding towards the door. ‘You too, Agent Miranova. You have a right to be there too.’
Ten minutes later Drake was standing in an observation room, behind a bulletproof two-way mirror and a bank of computer monitors displaying security camera footage from every conceivable angle of the room opposite.
All of this technology was in place to monitor and record the interrogation room’s sole occupant. Buran Atayev was seated at a metal table in the centre of the brightly lit concrete cell, his hands and feet cuffed and chained to the floor. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit of the type worn by prisoners at Guantanamo Bay and countless other prison facilities the world over.
His face was completely serene, his eyes closed as if he were meditating. He was sitting with his back straight, his chin raised, his chained hands folded on the table in front of him.
‘He has said nothing to us since he arrived here, sir; not a single word,’ explained the guard manning the observation room, watching the prisoner as if he were an enigma that refused to be solved. ‘He has not moved a muscle. He just sits there.’
Surovsky nodded, unfazed. ‘Mr Drake here wants to speak with the prisoner.’
The guard hesitated a moment before complying. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked at Drake. ‘The prisoner is secured, but two armed agents will accompany you.’
Drake got the message. They weren’t there to protect Drake from Atayev; they were there to protect Atayev from Drake.
Surovsky folded his arms and looked at him. ‘Ready, Mr Drake?’
He took a breath and raised his chin a little. ‘I am.’
Roman Kalyuyev pushed himself away from his desk, having decided to finish work early today. What the hell – it was Christmas Eve after all. Most of the other executives were clocking off early themselves, and after everything he’d been through in the past couple of days, he felt he’d earned it.
His mysterious blackmailer had never shown up for her rendezvous on Poklonnaya Hill. Kalyuyev had waited a full hour past the deadline before finally deciding to cut his losses and leave. Either the whole thing had been a hoax designed simply to intimidate him, or she had got cold feet and wisely decided he wasn’t a man to fuck with.
In either case, it had saved him the trouble of having to kill her and dispose of the body. It had been a long time since he’d had to do anything like that, and if he was honest with himself, he was getting a little old for such nonsense.
That was part of the reason he’d retired from FSB service in the first place, taking Surovsky’s generous retirement package as a farewell gift and using it to invest heavily in a small but growing engineering firm. Spying and counter-terrorism was a young man’s game. If you stayed in too long, sooner or later your luck ran out.
Now perhaps he could put it behind him. Perhaps he could look forward to a better future, free from the secrets and mistakes of the past.
With those thoughts fresh in his mind he snatched his coat off the peg, closed his briefcase and left the office, remembering to lock the door behind him.
Atayev opened his eyes as the electronically locked door buzzed open and Drake entered the room, with a pair of armed agents following cl
ose behind. He was forced to squint to see, his glasses having been removed in case he tried to harm himself with them.
‘Agent Drake,’ he said, bowing his head a little in acknowledgement. ‘You will forgive me if I don’t stand to greet you.’ He held up his manacled hands as if to apologise.
A chair was sitting opposite him. Saying nothing, Drake pulled it out and lowered himself into it, staring at the man on the other side of the table the whole time. Atayev met his gaze without flinching. He was waiting for Drake to make his move.
After a long moment, Drake reached into his pocket. The two agents in the room tensed a little, their hands moving slightly closer to the weapons they carried within their suit jackets.
However, they relaxed when Drake gently laid a single white chess pawn down on the metal table. The same pawn Atayev had left with him earlier in the day.
A flicker of amusement showed in Atayev’s grey eyes. ‘If you wish to play against me, I’m afraid you will need more than that.’
‘I didn’t come here to play games,’ Drake said. His tone was calm and even, but his eyes reflected something else entirely.
‘Then why did you come here?’ Atayev asked. ‘To gloat? To rant and scream at me?’ He leaned forward a little, his tone conspiratorial. ‘To kill me?’
Beneath the table, Drake’s hands clenched into fists. ‘Would you like that?’
Atayev tilted his head a little, pondering the question. ‘Since I am at your mercy, what I would like or dislike is not important. The more relevant question, Mr Drake, is whether you are prepared to face the consequences of killing me. A trained man like you could snap my neck with his bare hands if he chose, but then the two agents stationed in this room to protect me would either kill or incapacitate you, in which case you would die or spend the rest of your life in prison.’ He nodded to the pawn on the table. ‘Like in chess, every decision has its risks and its rewards, and every victory requires sacrifices. A man’s potential is limited only by the sacrifices he is prepared to make. Since I have nothing to lose, I am perfectly free of limitations. Can you say the same?’
‘You’re the one in handcuffs, facing life in prison,’ Drake pointed out. ‘How free do you feel now?’
Atayev glanced down at the cuffs and smiled. ‘Handcuffs can be removed. Prisons can be breached. But fear and doubt are restraints you can never escape from.’ He leaned back in his chair, surveying Drake for a long moment. ‘So, you did not come here to kill me. And you do not seem like the kind of man to gloat. So I ask you again, why are you here, Ryan Drake?’
They had come down to it at last – the endgame. Drake had only one move to make. The only thing he had come here to do.
In his mind he imagined himself making the move; like a coiled spring suddenly unleashed. He imagined himself leaping to his feet, reaching out and gripping Atayev’s head, and slamming it down on to the table, aiming for the pawn he’d positioned with such care. He imagined the polished wooden point, hardened by the long years, shattering his skull and carving its way into the delicate brain tissue within.
He imagined the brief moment of satisfaction, knowing he’d killed the man who had ended Anya’s life. The grim triumph that would be his before the guards moved in.
But before he acted, he had to know the truth.
‘Why?’ he asked, the pain in his voice impossible to hide. ‘Why did you kill her?’
Atayev said nothing for a long time. He just sat staring at his opponent across the table. The grandmaster preparing to reveal the final decisive moves of his strategy.
And then, at last, it came.
‘Do you know the secret to chess, Mr Drake?’ he asked, gently reaching for the pawn and lifting it up, turning it slowly in his hand. ‘Illusion. Not what you do, not what you could do, not what you will do … but what you make your opponent believe. You present him with threats; threats which must be dealt with. Threats which he becomes so consumed with eliminating that your true purpose, your true goal, is kept hidden from him.’
In the observation room, Viktor Surovsky leaned forwards, his hands resting on the desk in front of him as he watched the conversation play out.
Despite everything, despite the security and the guns and the bulletproof glass and the cameras everywhere, he felt a momentary twinge of uncertainty. Eternally paranoid as men in his profession often were, he caught himself wondering if his position, so strong and unassailable only moments ago, was quite as dominant as it had seemed.
He was tempted to order Drake removed from the room so the true interrogation could begin. The only reason he had even allowed Drake in there was in the hopes he or Atayev might inadvertently reveal something that Surovsky could later use to his advantage.
However, sheer curiosity compelled him to keep watching. What harm could it do, after all? Drake and Atayev would both be dealt with once this was over. He’d prefer to spare Miranova’s life, though it might be necessary to eliminate her as well before he was finished.
For now, though, he waited.
‘Once you make your opponent believe that a threat is real, you need only justify that belief,’ Atayev went on. ‘You give up those pieces which are no longer useful, allowing his confidence to grow with each sacrifice, allowing him to come closer and closer to victory while always keeping it just beyond his grasp. And all the while you carefully position your truly important pieces; the ones which seem so harmless and insignificant throughout the whole game, just waiting for the right time to make your move.’
He reached up to scratch the tip of his nose before going on.
‘And at that moment, even as your opponent reaches out to seize victory, you strike.’
As usual, Kalyuyev’s car had been brought round to the main entrance in preparation for his departure, the engine ticking over smoothly, the twin exhausts billowing small clouds of steam into the chill December air.
Tossing his coat into the back seat, he gratefully entered the vehicle’s warm interior with the heaters already working hard. Just for a moment, he closed his eyes and let out a faint sigh of relief. Relief mingled with weariness.
It had been a trying couple of days, but it was over now.
Opening his eyes, he reached out and hit the play button on the car’s CD player. But instead of the soothing tones of Beethoven, he instead found himself assailed by the dramatic, intense immolation scene from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung.
He frowned, confused. He certainly didn’t recall putting that CD in. Perhaps one of the men charged with moving his car had decided to play a prank on him, or had taken his expensive car for a little cruise while he was working. In either case, he wasn’t amused.
He was just reaching out to eject the disc when suddenly something inexplicable happened. The car’s central-locking system engaged, all four doors clicking shut.
‘What the fuck …?’ he mumbled irritably, pressing the unlock button on his key fob. There was no response. The doors remained locked.
The entire central-locking system must have failed.
Feeling a twinge of unease now, Kalyuyev tried to open the door manually, only to meet with the same result. He was trapped inside his own car. What a ridiculous end to an already difficult couple of days. Now he would have to suffer the indignity of calling for help.
Twisting around in his seat, he reached for his coat and the cellphone he’d left in the inside pocket.
That was when he saw it, gleaming and black on the rear parcel shelf. A small, intricately carved bishop from a chess set.
Suddenly a muted boom shook the car’s chassis from below, startling him. What the hell could have caused that? Had the engine failed as well?
It was only when he smelled smoke that he looked down and saw wisps of it starting to filter through the vents. More of it was drifting by outside his windows, and as he glanced out the windshield, he saw flames licking from beneath the bonnet.
The car was on fire!
Panicking now, he frantically grabbed at the do
or handle, trying to wrench it open, but still it wouldn’t budge. He tried to hammer on the window, but the toughened glass intended to deflect bullets firmly resisted his efforts.
‘Help!’ he yelled as the first flicker of orange flames began to appear below. The air was thick with acrid smoke now, stinging his eyes and searing his throat. ‘Somebody help!’
He could see movement outside, could see the panicked faces of the men he walked past so nonchalantly every day. He heard the faint thump as they hammered on the windows, trying to break them, trying to reach him.
And all the while, the piercing strains of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung continued to resound through the car.
Coughing, trying to draw breath from the searing, choking black smoke now filling the car, he desperately tried to clamber between the front seats, only to find himself stuck there.
The flames were growing fast now, greedily licking upwards to consume the upholstery, the carpets, and the fabric of his trousers.
Blinded by the smoke, and able to hear nothing now but the final tortured strains of Wagner’s last opera, Kalyuyev let out an agonised scream as the flames surged upwards to consume him.
No sooner had Atayev finished speaking than the electronic door buzzed open, signalling a new entry to the interrogation room.
Drake glanced over, wondering if Surovsky had heard enough and ordered Drake removed from the room. To his surprise, however, it was Miranova standing in the doorway.
He hesitated a moment, wondering what she had come to tell him.
But his surprise and curiosity immediately gave way to shocked disbelief as the woman raised her side arm, levelled it at the two agents standing behind Atayev and pulled the trigger.
The first agent went down instantly, the well-aimed round blasting out the back of his head to leave a bloody smear on the white concrete behind. The second barely had time to go for his weapon before a second shot reverberated around the room and he too crumpled and fell.
