Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  She staggered forwards and collapsed into a muddy pool of water, putting on a show of trying to get up despite her mortal injury, while Atayev closed in on her. Right on cue, he kicked her over on to her back, raised the weapon and fired a second shot into the centre of her chest.

  Fired at such close range, she felt the bruising impact more than the first shot, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out in pain. Instead she forced herself to slump back into the pool of freezing water.

  With her ‘death’ complete, she allowed her body to go limp as two of Atayev’s men hoisted her up and carried her over to the canal. She didn’t make a sound, even as their hands pressed against the fresh bruising beneath her vest. They weren’t in on this plan, so if they suspected anything was wrong, it was all for nothing.

  A single swing to build up momentum, and suddenly she was released, falling like a stone into the canal. She took a breath, bracing herself as the frigid water enveloped her like a million needles pressing into her flesh all at once.

  She did her best to push aside the pain, knowing the cold wouldn’t prove fatal. She had always been a strong swimmer, and was no stranger to freezing water. And despite the discomfort, her clothes would provide enough insulation to keep hypothermia at bay. At least for a while.

  She had made sure to include a few lead weights in her vest so that she would sink quickly beneath the surface. The water here was, she knew, murky and dark, with visibility extending only a few feet beneath the surface.

  Once she was certain she had disappeared from view, she began to kick, propelling herself beneath the surface with sure, powerful strokes towards the end of the canal where it discharged into the Moskva River. She could hold her breath underwater for a good minute or so if she was exerting herself; enough to get her away from Atayev and his men, away from the warehouse, away from Drake. And away from the FSB agents who had been tasked with hunting her down.

  She knew they wouldn’t stop until she was dead. The only way for her plan to succeed was to give them what they wanted.

  Surovsky saw a hint of a smile. ‘Illusion, Viktor. It’s the key to any game.’

  He said nothing to that. Their ‘game’ wasn’t over yet.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Only a few people on earth knew the location of his private residence. That was precisely why he’d come here, knowing he was safe from reporters, safe from investigators, safe even from his own government.

  But apparently not safe from Anya.

  Anya reached into her pocket and held up a cellphone. ‘All I needed was your private number.’

  It was all he could do to keep from sighing in frustration. The purpose of the cyber attack on the FSB’s network was all too obvious now. It hadn’t been done with the intention of compromising their systems and laying waste to the agency’s secrets, but instead to gather a single, vital piece of information.

  With his private phone number and a little resourcefulness, Anya could track him anywhere on the face of the earth. And with Moscow no longer safe for him, she had known he would retreat somewhere he believed to be safe, with only a few loyal security personnel she could easily overcome.

  It had all been a ruse, he realised now. Her cooperation with Atayev, the men she had killed, the risks she had taken; all of these things had been nothing but stepping stones on her path, each one bringing her a little closer to her goal, to the man she had been pursuing with single-minded purpose.

  All of it to bring her to this room, here and now. So she could confront the man who had twice tried to destroy her.

  ‘You did all of this to get your hands on me.’

  Anya rose from the chair, her eyes still fixed on him. ‘You went to a lot of trouble to get your hands on me in Afghanistan, and again in Iraq. Both times you made a lasting impression on me. I thought it was about time I returned the favour.’

  ‘So what now?’

  She raised her weapon. ‘Now we go for a walk, Viktor.’

  A couple of minutes later, Anya emerged from the dacha with Surovsky in front of her, his hands firmly bound behind his back. Her car was parked some distance away, beyond the building’s security perimeter. The old man had a long walk ahead of him, in sub-zero temperatures at night.

  She shoved him forwards, eager to be out of here. But she’d only covered 10 yards before she halted, catching something in her peripheral vision. After years of operating in environments where a single lapse in judgement could mean the difference between life and death, her senses were attuned to any tiny shift in her surroundings. And more than that, she had learned to trust her instincts.

  Someone was watching her.

  She gripped her M1911 tighter, took a deep breath and whirled around, dropping down on one knee to make herself a smaller target as she levelled the weapon at her enemy.

  ‘Don’t,’ Kamarov warned.

  He was standing about 15 yards away, covering her with an MP-443 handgun, not flinching for an instant. His face was set and grim, muscles taut, finger tight on the trigger. He had the drop on her.

  Anya froze, her weapon still pointed at the ground. She knew that one pull of the trigger was all it would take to end her plans for revenge right here. Even if Kamarov wasn’t an excellent marksman, which she knew from experience he was, he could scarcely miss at such range.

  So she did nothing. She waited, her mind racing. She hadn’t anticipated this. She hadn’t anticipated him.

  They remained like that for a few seconds, neither moving a muscle. The tall pine trees at the edge of the clearing swayed and rustled, stirred by the cold night breeze.

  Just for a moment, a fleeting smile crossed her face. A bitter, ironic smile. Twice now this man had been pitted against her, and twice she had lost. How appropriate that he should return now, at the end.

  One last obstacle to overcome.

  ‘Remember what I said to you once, Anya?’ Surovsky remarked, a triumphant smile creasing his pockmarked old face. ‘I’ve played this game a lot longer than you. And I’ll still be playing it long after you’re gone.’ He looked over at Kamarov. ‘Kill her, Alexei. We’re done here.’

  Anya tensed, readying herself to act. Her first target would be Surovsky. Even if Kamarov killed her for it, no way would she allow that man to live.

  To her surprise, however, the FSB agent did nothing. He just stood there covering her, his finger on the trigger but no more.

  ‘I gave you an order,’ Surovsky said, a harder edge in his voice now. ‘Kill her.’

  Kamarov ignored him. His eyes, staring down the weapon’s sights, were locked with Anya’s.

  ‘We’re both getting a little old for this, don’t you think?’ he said sadly.

  Twenty years ago they had both been soldiers, both strong and fit and in the prime of their lives. Now, looking at Kamarov, she saw the toll that two decades had taken on him. His face, lit by the pale light of the crescent moon overhead, was deeply lined and creased, his cheeks hollow, his hair turning grey.

  He was right, they were both getting old.

  ‘Give this up,’ he implored her. ‘Drop your gun.’

  ‘And go back to prison?’ Anya raised her chin, defiant to the end. ‘Not this time.’

  For a moment she saw a flicker of the man he’d once been. The man who had rescued her from that prison cell in Afghanistan, who had shown mercy and compassion in a place where such things had been almost forgotten.

  The man who had saved her life.

  Afghanistan, 7 November 1988

  With her weary heart hammering in her chest and her raw, bloody wrists straining against her bonds, Anya tried to ready herself for what was coming, tried to marshal whatever feeble reserves of strength and endurance she could still call upon to meet the next onslaught.

  She could no longer resist, could no longer fight back or defend herself. Her only weapon was stoic, abiding silence.

  She closed her eyes for a moment as the key turned in the lock and the rusted cell door swung open, silently
reciting the words that had been her only source of strength.

  I will endure when all others fail. I will stand when all others retreat. Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed. I will never surrender.

  She opened her eyes, expecting big coarse hands to seize her and haul her roughly to her feet, dragging her off for another session.

  Then she froze, utterly perplexed by what she was seeing.

  The man standing in the doorway wasn’t one of the guards she’d come to know all too well during her time here. He wasn’t leering at her as an object to satiate his desire, wasn’t glaring at her with contempt or, even worse, showing no recognition at all, as if she were merely an unpleasant task to be completed as quickly as possible.

  She recognised this man. Dredged from the depths of her memory, she recalled the day they had captured her, the desperate holding action she’d fought while the rest of her team withdrew. She remembered the grim satisfaction she’d felt as her ammunition at last ran out and her enemies closed in around her.

  And most of all she remembered the man who had taken her down. There had been no triumph in his victory, no lust for vengeance or desire to inflict pain and humiliation on his defeated opponent. He had been a soldier like herself, each set against the other by the decisions of their masters.

  That same man was standing before her now, saying nothing, just staring at her.

  Why was he here? Had he come here to kill her? she wondered with mingled hope and apprehension. The prospect of dying no longer held much fear for her, but as she had learned from bitter experience over the past couple of months, there were worse things to be experienced than death.

  His gaze travelled slowly across her body, taking in the filthy clothes, the bruised and cut flesh, the tangled, matted hair, the desperation in her eyes.

  ‘My God, what have they done to you?’ he whispered, his voice sounding as though it was about to break. He approached, and instinctively she tried to back away, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve seen too much of it already.’

  Anya frowned, not understanding what was happening. What she was seeing and hearing didn’t conform to the grim pattern that her life had assumed.

  And just like that, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Something that had almost burned out completely, but which had suddenly rekindled into a raging inferno. Hope. Wild and unfettered hope.

  She did something she hadn’t done since the day of her capture. She spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He sighed, and in a heartbeat her hope evaporated. ‘They’re going to execute you today.’

  Anya let out a breath, as if she’d just been punched in the chest. Of course she should have seen it coming. Sooner or later she’d known they would tire of their game, that they would eliminate her and move on to something more worthy of their time, but to hear the news delivered in such blunt, businesslike fashion was hard even for her to take.

  ‘They’re going to drive you out to the middle of nowhere and shoot you,’ he went on, much to her dismay. ‘And if you want to survive, you’re going to let them do it.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he pressed something into her hand. Something small and metallic. A key.

  ‘Listen carefully. This key will unlock your cuffs,’ he said, speaking low and fast. ‘I’ve made sure his gun is loaded with blanks. Let him shoot you, let him drive away, then unlock yourself. Head due north, through a valley between two mountains. You’ll find a small village a couple of miles away. Ask for a man named Vesh. He’ll help you get across the border to Pakistan.’

  Such was her complete shock at everything she’d heard, she was having trouble taking it all in. Her eyes were blank and staring, longing to believe him but frightened to let herself feel trust for anyone.

  Sensing this, he reached out and cupped her jaw, forcing her to look right at him. ‘Tell me you understand, child,’ he hissed. ‘I have no time to repeat it. Tell me you’ll at least try.’

  If she’d harboured doubts before, the intense, desperate look in his eyes was enough to silence them. ‘I will,’ she promised. Never had she meant anything more in her life.

  That was enough for him. Letting go of her, he stood up and made to leave.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked, still unable to comprehend his actions.

  He paused, just a moment, and looked at her. Looked at her but didn’t see her. She realised then that he was looking at himself, his thoughts turned inwards.

  ‘I’m a soldier, just like you. And you deserve life more than the men I serve.’

  Saying nothing more, he retreated from the cell, slamming the heavy door shut behind him and plunging Anya into darkness once more.

  And alone in the dark, she at last gave in and allowed the tears to come.

  ‘We’re both soldiers,’ she said, echoing his words from twenty years earlier. ‘We both fight and kill. Just remember who you’re doing it for.’

  For a moment Kamarov’s eyes flicked to Surovsky, replaying the accusations and conspiracies swirling around him, the seemingly endless toll of death and fear and suffering that was his true legacy.

  ‘Alexei, what the fuck are you doing?’ Surovsky snapped. ‘Why are you listening to her? This woman is a terrorist, a traitor, a murderer. She killed your fellow agents and she’ll kill you if you give her a chance. Shoot her! Shoot her now!’

  She saw Kamarov’s finger tighten on the trigger, saw his body tense up in preparation for the kick of the weapon. Anya held her breath, bracing herself for the impact of the first round.

  It never came.

  She watched as the gun was lowered and his posture relaxed.

  ‘If she is a terrorist, a traitor and a murderer, then she’s in good company tonight, Viktor,’ he remarked, his look one of absolute contempt.

  ‘You’ll die for this, you piece of shit,’ Surovsky spat. ‘It’s over for you.’

  ‘All of us deserve death for what we’ve done, and what we’ve allowed others to do. This won’t erase my mistakes, but perhaps I’ll sleep a little easier now.’ With nothing more to say to his former boss, he turned his eyes on Anya once more. ‘Answer me one question. Will you come after me when this is over?’

  Anya shook her head. ‘You saved my life once already. I’d say that makes us even.’

  Kamarov sighed and nodded, satisfied with that. Her word meant more to him than Surovsky’s ever had.

  ‘Then I hope we won’t meet again,’ he said.

  ‘We won’t,’ she promised, watching as he holstered his gun, turned away from her and walked off towards his car. He was a man approaching the end of his career now, prematurely aged by years of care and regret, yet he appeared lighter somehow, as if he’d discarded a heavy burden that had long been weighing him down.

  She looked at Surovsky again. She had a burden of her own to discard tonight.

  Chapter 72

  Pakistan, 28 December 1988

  Light. Bright light everywhere.

  She blinked, opened her eyes a crack, then squeezed them shut again. The light burned her eyes.

  Her next attempt was a little less painful, and as she opened them a little further, she began to make sense of her surroundings.

  She was in a hospital. She knew that much from the stinging smell of antiseptic and the faint beep of a heart monitor that was coming from somewhere to her left, slow and regular.

  ‘Anya,’ a voice gasped. A voice she knew well.

  She opened her eyes again, forcing them open despite the pain. She watched as a face swam into bleary focus in front of her. A youthful, handsome face now darkened by worry, as if he had aged many years in just a few months.

  Marcus Cain.

  ‘Shh. It’s all right, Anya. It’s all right,’ he said, his voice soft and soothing. ‘Just relax. You’re safe now.’

  ‘Marcus,’ she managed to rasp. He
r throat felt like sandpaper.

  ‘Yes. It’s Marcus. I’m here now. I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Where …?’ she began. Her head hurt; it was difficult to speak.

  ‘You’re in a hospital in Peshawar. Don’t worry, you’re safe,’ he promised her. ‘I don’t know how you made it out of there, but you’re safe now. It’s over.’

  Like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle tumbling on to the floor, a disorganised mess of images and memories began to flash through her mind. She remembered the months of torture and interrogation she had endured, remembered her stubborn, almost childish refusal to give in. She saw her execution at the hands of Surovsky, saw her escape and the desperate, freezing journey on foot through the mountainous border region with Pakistan.

  ‘I didn’t give you up,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘No matter what they did, I didn’t betray you.’

  She reached out to take his hand, though even this simple act required a great effort. Only then did she notice how thin her arms were; veins and stringy muscle standing out hard against her pale skin. Her body, once fit and strong and in the prime of life, had withered and deteriorated after months of abuse and starvation.

  Cain’s face seemed to crumple before her eyes at her feeble effort to reach out to him, though he made no effort to return the gesture. He bowed his head, and she saw tears falling into the bedcovers.

  ‘Just concentrate on getting better,’ he said, unable to look her in the eye. ‘We’ll do everything we can. I’ll make sure you get the best treatment available.’

  Anya frowned, confused. It was an effort just to focus on him. Her head was pounding, and she felt a rising tide of nausea threatening to overwhelm her. ‘What do you mean, treatment?’

  ‘I don’t pretend to know what happened to you in there, but the doctors found evidence of … assault.’ He swallowed and looked down, unwilling to meet her gaze. ‘There are … complications that we need to deal with.’

  It was too much. Leaning over the side of the bed, Anya curled into a ball and was violently sick across the tiled floor. Cain was there with a basin, several seconds too late. The sad, grief-stricken look in his eyes was more obvious than ever.