by Will Jordan
‘He is dead?’ Surovsky asked. Still handcuffed to the chair, he had been unable to take part in Drake’s desperate struggle with Miranova, or to listen to Atayev’s final words.
Drake said nothing. He didn’t want to look at the old man, never mind speak with him.
‘Then it is over.’ Surovsky let out a breath, his teeth still clenched against the pain in his leg. ‘Thank God.’
Drake closed his eyes. He had no wish to earn Surovsky’s gratitude.
‘Get me out of here,’ Surovsky implored him. ‘You stopped that traitor, that insane bitch. I will make sure you’re rewarded for what you did.’
Rewarded. Drake might have laughed if the situation had been different. Drake’s only reward from this man was to have been a bullet courtesy of Miranova. Now he was trying to act as if none of that had ever happened.
Slipping the pawn into his pocket, Drake snatched up Miranova’s gun and rose slowly from behind the table. The look in his eyes was that of a predator regarding its helpless prey. Restrained and injured as he was, Surovsky could do nothing to stop him.
Christ, it would be so easy, he thought as he glanced down at the automatic. Easy, and justified. This man deserved death a hundred times over for the things he had done, and the things he might yet do. Neither Atayev nor Miranova had been able or willing to give it to him, but Drake was of a different sort.
He had learned long ago that death was the final, definitive way to stop such men. Perhaps the only way. He had hidden that lesson and the man it had turned him into beneath the facade of his new life, his new career. But it was always there beneath the surface.
It always would be.
‘You are angry,’ Surovsky went on, guessing his thoughts. ‘You have a right to be. But none of it was true. Don’t you see? I had to say something to her or she would have killed us both.’
Still Drake said nothing. He just stood there, watching the man squirm, listening to the ever-more elaborate justifications and supplications he tried to offer up.
In desperation Surovsky nodded to the camera mounted on the wall. ‘They are recording everything, Drake. Don’t be a fool. Use your head, and we can both walk away from this.’ He winced as he shifted position, the injured leg paining him. ‘Too many people have died for this already. Don’t be one of them.’
Drake thought about the pawn Atayev had pressed into his hand, the final message he had tried to give. Killing Surovsky would achieve little if his memory, his legacy, remained intact. Such things couldn’t be killed with bullets.
‘You’re right,’ Drake said, laying the gun down on the table. ‘You’re right, Viktor.’
A sudden clang followed by shouting in the corridor outside told him that the security agents upstairs had managed to break their way in. Backing away from the table, Drake raised his hands as the electronic door buzzed open and three armed men poured into the room, their weapons covering all angles before finally homing in on Drake.
‘Get down!’ one of them snarled, gesturing to the floor as if Drake’s hearing might have deserted him. ‘On your knees! Down now!’
Drake made no move to resist as he lowered himself to the floor. He watched as Surovsky was released from his cuffs and lifted from the chair by two agents, wincing in pain with every movement.
He happened to catch Drake’s eye as the two agents carried him past. His look of supplication and grovelling rationality was gone now. Despite the pain, he looked as he had during their first video conference; a man firmly in control of the situation once more, with others around to enforce his will.
The look Drake gave him in return was enough to take some of the edge off his arrogance, and he avoided eye contact as he was helped gently from the room.
Drake was afforded no such luxury. His arms were yanked behind his back and his wrists cuffed, heedless of the injuries to his neck and shoulder. He had expected as much. As far as they were concerned, he was a hostile until proven otherwise.
He looked up as another man entered the room. An older man with a craggy, careworn face and a greying beard.
Kamarov.
He surveyed Drake for a long moment, saying nothing. His expression was difficult to read, though Drake got the impression he was trying to make his mind up about something. Perhaps whether to kill him or let him live.
There wasn’t much he could do about it either way.
Finally he snapped a command to the agent who had cuffed Drake, then turned away and strode out of the room.
Chapter 69
It was the second time today that Drake had found himself restrained in a moving vehicle, with a burlap sack over his head. Somehow he doubted he’d live to have a third such experience.
After being held for an hour or so in an interrogation room at Lubyanka, he’d been cuffed, hooded and hauled out to a waiting vehicle that had quickly sped off. He had no idea where he was being taken, and after a dozen turns, starts and stops had lost all sense of direction.
All he knew was that he’d come to a halt now. This was it. This was where they were going to execute him.
He heard the door being opened and felt a rush of cold air, then a moment later strong hands seized him and pulled him outside. For the next few seconds he stood there while the wind sighed around him, waiting for the single shot that would end it.
No shot came.
The bastards were toying with him, letting him sweat, trying to make him plead.
‘If you’re going to kill me, fucking get on with it,’ he growled, now far beyond caring. ‘I’m bored of this shit.’
Then, to his surprise, he felt his wrists seized in a strong grip. There was a click, and a moment later the cuffs came away. Immediately he pulled away and tore off his hood, taking in his surroundings.
It was dark. Either he’d been held in that cell longer than he thought, or the car journey had carried him further from Lubyanka than it seemed.
However, a glance upwards at the vast obelisk rising into the night sky told him he hadn’t travelled far at all. He was standing in the great open-air memorial at the summit of Poklonnaya Hill, the scene of the aborted sting operation earlier in the day, and only a couple of miles from where he’d started. Below, the bright lights of the thriving city shone like beacons in the darkness.
Life in Moscow went on as if nothing at all had happened.
‘I hope you appreciate the view,’ a deep voice remarked.
Spinning around, Drake found himself standing face to face with Alexei Kamarov. The older man was wrapped up in a heavy overcoat, his head covered by a black fur hat. In his gloved hand he held an automatic.
‘Is this supposed to be a parting gift?’ Drake asked, glancing at the weapon.
A trace of amusement showed on his craggy face. ‘There are men in this country who want you dead, Mr Drake. Fortunately for you I’m not one of them.’
‘Very comforting. So what are we doing here?’
Placing the automatic inside his jacket, Kamarov fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and calmly lit one, taking a long thoughtful draw before he went on.
‘I would offer you one, but you don’t smoke,’ he explained, noting Drake’s look.
Drake frowned. He’d said it as if it were a solid, verified fact. Kamarov had known him for less than a day.
‘You gave up in your early twenties, when you started training to become a boxer,’ he went on, watching Drake closely. ‘I know a great deal about you, Ryan Drake, because I make it my business to know things about people. For example, I know that a year ago, you were tasked by your CIA masters to break into a secure facility in Siberia and rescue an inmate known by her code name Maras.’
Drake felt a shiver run through him that had nothing to do with the cold.
How could Kamarov know all this? More importantly, how could he have known all this time and done nothing about it? By any standards, Drake should be a wanted man in Russia. His actions the previous year must have earned him several life sentences, if n
ot a summary execution.
The older man smiled, apparently amused by his discomfort. ‘You did not seriously think you could get away with something of that scale, did you? One thing you will learn is that in this world, every action has consequences. How and when those consequences make themselves known is simply a matter of time.’
Drake had a feeling he might soon be making a return to that Siberian prison under rather different circumstances. ‘Is this your way of saying time’s up?’
‘Not quite. You are just a soldier; you follow orders. It is the men giving those orders who interest me. More importantly, I was interested in why those men would go to such trouble to rescue a traitor.’
Drake blinked, wondering if he’d heard him right. ‘What do you mean?’
Kamarov took another pull on his cigarette.
‘You asked what we are doing here,’ he said at length. ‘I brought you here to tell you a story. The kind of story that has no place within Lubyanka’s walls.’
‘I’ve heard a lot of stories today.’
‘You will find this one interesting, I think,’ Kamarov assured him. ‘It begins in the Soviet Union in the early 1980s, with a young woman locked away in juvenile prison. Both of her parents are dead and she has no one left who cares about her. She is forgotten, abandoned, alone. And above all, she is angry. Angry at the State, angry at the system that imprisoned her, angry at the life that has failed her. Her future looks bleak indeed, until one day she is visited by a man offering her a way out.’
Kaunas Correctional Facility, Lithuania, 8 March 1983
Anya sat at the interview table with her hands in her lap, her back straight and her chin up, staring straight ahead without seeing anything. It was the same posture of respectful deference she had long ago learned to adopt for such meetings.
Inside, however, she was curious, even a little unnerved by her unexpected summons.
Her review meetings were held twice a year, in January and July, during which her conduct, progress and personal development were scrutinised in depth. For sixty minutes she would sit in a hard plastic chair before a panel of three officials, giving bland answers to bland questions, telling them exactly what they wanted to hear.
Each time she would pray that this meeting was the last, that the assessment board would be satisfied with her conduct and authorise her release. And each time her hopes were dashed, and she returned to the boring routine of prison life with growing bitterness.
But it wasn’t just a desire to return to the outside world that motivated her. In a few months she would turn eighteen. She would be an adult, and therefore by law she could no longer remain here in a young offender’s institution. If she hadn’t secured her release by then, she would be transferred to an adult prison.
She might have carved out a niche here, but in a place like that she would be a very small fish in a very large pond. She had no desire to fight her way up from the bottom again.
She looked up as the door opened and a man walked into the room. He wasn’t one of the three men who sat on her assessment panel. Indeed, she couldn’t recall ever having seen him before.
She guessed he was in his mid-forties; not old yet but seasoned and experienced, with the tanned and slightly weather-beaten complexion of a man who had spent much time outdoors. His features were strong and ruggedly handsome, his dark hair swept back from a high forehead, his grey eyes clear and focused.
He wasn’t a tall man; perhaps an inch or so shorter than her. But despite his modest stature, he carried himself with the understated confidence of a man used to being in control of a situation. There was no swagger or bravado about him, but rather a quiet self-assurance that she found both intriguing and strangely appealing.
He was holding a large folder under his left arm that she was quite certain contained her review notes from the past three years. She recognised the worn and creased cover.
He approached and held out his free hand, his grey eyes focused on her.
‘Anya, isn’t it?’ he asked.
Anya was taken aback. No one had ever shaken hands with her before. She couldn’t recall anyone even making such a gesture. That was something men did.
Hesitating a moment, she reached out and took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, the skin on his palms slightly roughened by physical labour.
‘May I sit here?’ he asked, gesturing to a chair opposite.
Again she felt caught off guard. No one had asked her permission to do anything before. Her wishes and desires were not important to them.
But this man had taken the time to ask.
‘Yes,’ she said after a few moments.
Smiling, he lowered himself into the chair and sat with one leg folded on top of the other, the dossier resting on his lap. He surveyed her in silence for a few moments, taking in her rigid posture, her raised chin and clasped hands.
‘You can relax a little,’ he said, a hint of amusement in his eyes. ‘I’m not a drill sergeant. I won’t shout at you.’
Anya frowned. No one had ever told her to relax either. Feeling oddly self-conscious now, she leaned back a little in her chair and watched as the new arrival opened her review folder, his eyes scanning the pages.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of reading your file on my way here,’ he explained without looking up. ‘According to the review board, you’re a model inmate, Anya. You’re respectful to the staff here, you spend most of your day in the library and you haven’t been cited for disciplinary action in the past two years.’
And yet I’m still an inmate here, she thought.
‘The file also says you’re more than capable of defending yourself in a fight,’ he added, glancing up at her. ‘Is this true?’
Anya felt a deep blush rising to her face. Fights were a way of life in a place like this, where only the strong and ruthless earned respect. Anya had been involved in more than her share over the past three years, though she was careful never to be seen as the instigator. She might not start the fights, but she always finished them.
And as much as she tried not to acknowledge it, they provided some sense of release from the frustrations and disappointments of her life here.
‘That … I mean, I only act to defend myself,’ she stammered.
Again she saw that flicker of amusement. ‘It wasn’t a criticism, Anya,’ he promised her. ‘You should never be ashamed of standing up for yourself. Never. After all, who else can you depend on?’
Anya found herself warming to this man. Armed as she was with the inherent ability to sense deception and hidden motives in others, she detected none in him. He meant what he said, and when she looked at him she saw warmth, and even respect.
‘Can I ask a question?’ she said.
He laid down the folder and looked at her. ‘Of course.’
Anya swallowed, almost afraid of what the answer might be but desperate to know at the same time. ‘Why are you here?’
He smiled, looking like a father who has just watched his child take her first tentative steps. ‘Based on everything I’ve read, I think you’re a remarkable young woman, Anya. And I think you could do remarkable things if you were only given the opportunity.’ He leaned forwards in his chair, his grey eyes intense, his entire being focused on her. ‘I want to give you that chance, if you’ll let me. Will you listen to what I have to say?’
Such was the intensity and sheer magnetism of his presence that Anya felt captivated, entranced. Never had anyone looked at her like this. Never had she been made to feel that she was actually worth something.
There was no other answer to give him.
‘I will.’
‘He told her everything she wished to hear – that she was special, that she was capable of great things, and that her country needed a young woman with her potential. He showed her the first true kindness she had known in years, and it was not long before she started to warm to him. Once he had established her trust, he offered her a deal – early release from pr
ison, money, a new life, whatever she wanted. All he asked for in return was her obedience, and above all her loyalty.’
‘Obedience at what?’ Drake asked.
‘Spying, of course. She was intelligent, beautiful and resourceful enough to survive in prison. Most importantly, she had a talent for spotting liars – a valuable skill which he believed he could use.
‘Of all the agents he recruited, she was his favourite,’ Kamarov went on. ‘The longer he spent with her, the more he grew to trust and care for her. In time, he decided to use her for a very special project he had in mind. He wanted her to defect to the United States, to work her way into the CIA and become one of his key assets within the US intelligence community. Naturally she agreed to his plan.’
Drake was aghast. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Anya had told him the grim story of her early years: the loss of her parents and her struggle to survive in the State care system, her arrival in America, her induction into the Agency and her close relationship with Cain. She had spoken with absolute conviction, and she had made him believe every word.
‘Imagine then the pain and betrayal he felt when she severed all contact with her handlers and disappeared, only to show up again in Afghanistan as part of a paramilitary group, assassinating Russian officers and causing huge damage to the war effort. Surovsky flew into a rage and vowed to have her brought back in chains, even drafting in an entire Spetsnaz unit to hunt her down.’
Drake saw a momentary flicker in his otherwise impassive eyes, saw the shadow of an old memory being replayed. It didn’t take a genius to work out what he was thinking.
‘You,’ he said. ‘He brought you in.’
The older man nodded. ‘We were handed intelligence that Anya and her group were leaving Afghanistan, and that they intended to cross the Pakistani border through a remote mountain valley. That was where we sprang our trap. But even outnumbered and surrounded, they fought like nothing I had ever seen. In the end we took only one prisoner – Anya. She had sacrificed herself, holding us off until the others could escape.’ He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. ‘Brave but foolish. If only she had known what was waiting for her.’
