Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  “Yes, so we need a doctor, right away.”

  “There’s one just across the wall, three blocks away,” the second man said and gestured behind them.

  “So, let’s take her there. You,” Georgy pointed at the third man, the youngest of all, “Run up ahead. Let the doctor know we’re coming.”

  The man nodded and bolted toward the next building, then around the corner.

  Georgy looked at the old man. “Do you have access to a car?”

  “No, not at such short notice.”

  “All right, then. We’ve got to transport her ourselves. Hold her now.”

  He unbuckled her seat belt, then the three men lowered Maria’s unresponsive body to the ground. They pulled her gently out of the car, then lifted her up into Georgy’s stretched arms. The first man held Maria’s head, while the other looked out for any wall watchers. He disappeared ahead of them, in the same direction the youngest one had gone before.

  Georgy and the man walked at a hurried pace and tried not to shake her too much. She moaned at one point and seemed to stir, and Georgy didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign. They came to the corner of the building, and one of the young men emerged from the darkness. “This way. It’s safe. There’s no one around.”

  He helped them carry Maria and led them down the dark alley. Georgy now saw the large breach in the wall, wide enough for a car to pass through, although the still-standing foundation and the jagged edges would make such an attempt quite difficult. They crossed the distance between the mouth of the alley and the wall without any problems. Georgy drew in a hesitant breath of relief as they stepped into the “death strip” stretching between the two concrete walls. This last section was going to be the most dangerous part of the crossing.

  He had covered over half the distance, when a bullet struck him in the shoulder.

  The force of the impact pushed him forward. He tripped but was able to stay on his feet and hold Maria up in his strong arms. A car was parked about thirty yards to his left and away from the breach in the wall. Two men were standing next to it, and Georgy recognized one of them as the youngest of the men sent to fetch a doctor. “Hold her,” he said to the men helping him. “And take her to the car.”

  Other bullets whizzed over their heads.

  When he was confident that they were able to carry her without him, Georgy let go. He rolled onto the ground and aimed his Makarov at the shooters. Muzzle flashes came from two positions near the front and the back of a car on the East German side. Georgy double-tapped his pistol, and one of the muzzle flashes went dark. He turned his aim to the second shooter and fired a few rounds.

  There was no return fire.

  He lay there on his stomach waiting for the shooter to appear.

  He never did.

  Instead, the car turned around, its tires screeching.

  Georgy squeezed off a few more rounds, but they didn’t stop the shooter. The car rounded the nearest corner and disappeared into the night.

  Only now did Georgy feel the pain zipping from the top of his shoulder. He tried to move his left arm, but it was almost impossible. Not without his letting out a string of expletives. The agony was excruciating. He climbed slowly to his feet and checked the Makarov. Three more bullets left. I hope there will be no need for them.

  He shuffled toward the car. A middle-aged man, who Georgy assumed was the doctor, was working on Maria lying in the backseat. “How is she?” Georgy asked.

  “Very weak. We’ve got to take her to a hospital. But…” The doctor shook his head.

  “And the baby?”

  “We’ll do the best to save him. But the loss of blood and the trauma…”

  “They can’t die. Don’t let them die,” Georgy shouted.

  “I’ll do the impossible.”

  The doctor’s firm voice gave Georgy the reassurance he needed. “Thank you, to all of you,” he said to the men surrounding the car. “Without you, we’d all be dead.”

  One of the men said, “May God bless you and save her.”

  Georgy nodded. “Yes, you too.”

  He climbed into the driver’s seat. The doctor took another moment, then slid into the front seat. “The hospital is this way.” He gestured with his hand toward the left.

  Georgy nodded and stepped on the gas pedal. “Stay with me, Maria, stay with me.”

  Chapter One

  Twenty miles off the coast of Nice

  Southern France

  Present Day

  Georgy Azarov rested his arm on the starboard gunwale as the speedboat climbed atop the tall waves. The Mediterranean Sea was quite choppy, unusual for the early May day. The morning had promised to be a delight, with the temperature in the mid-sixties, with bright and warm sunrays. But the weather had turned sour around eleven, shortly before their departure. Ratimir Tupolev always liked to eat his meals at noontime. No delays, ever. As a self-made oligarch, he could afford to buy people who could cater to his habits. Punctuality was one of them.

  Georgy winced as a light pain burned through his left shoulder, then ran down the side of his body. The Berlin gunshot wound refused to heal. Perhaps it was because he didn’t attend to it right away, or perhaps the German doctors botched the surgery. Whatever it was, he never regained his left arm’s full range of motion.

  There was little room in the KGB for a covert operative who couldn’t be one hundred percent reliable in the field. Georgy was pushed to a desk job, reviewing and rubber-stamping after-action reports. The thought of providing for his wife and daughters helped him survive the soul-sucking tasks day after day. He retired five years ago and led a quiet life in his dacha, a cottage about sixty miles north of Moscow. Well, as quiet as life could be for a former KGB operative stationed in West Berlin during the Cold War.

  He drew in a deep breath, and the salty smell of the sea filled his nostrils. A big wave splashed against the hull, sending sprays of water over his face and arms. Georgy brushed back his grayish-black curls. Even at sixty-five, he had a full head of hair. He closed his brown eyes and wiped the water with the back of his hands. When he opened them, he looked at the white-and-blue yacht in the distance. They were now maybe a hundred yards or so away and approaching fast.

  “We’re almost there,” said the guard sitting across from Georgy.

  The young man standing behind the speedboat’s old-style wooden steering wheel said, “Two minutes. Get ready.”

  Georgy refused to call the young man “captain,” although he was the one giving the orders. He was more of a punk, brandishing his silver-plated Sig Sauer pistol for everyone to see. At the pier, he had been rude and obnoxious to some of the passersby, who had shown curiosity about the boat. He had shown respect to Georgy, but he suspected it was only because the punk had been ordered to do so.

  Georgy shrugged. In a twisted sort of way, he missed the Cold War. Yes, there was enmity between the West and the East, and the threat of all-out war, even nuclear. That hadn’t changed. The world wasn’t safer with only one superpower. And Russia was hard at work balancing the scales. A couple of years, five at the most, and we’ll be back to the glorious days, where the world had respect for Russia. That was what Georgy missed the most about the end of the Cold War. The respect he and his compatriots deserved and received with accolades.

  That and the certainty. Within and abroad. Russians used to be patriotic, supporting their country, giving everything they had for the motherland. And now … Now, it was every man for himself, whoever could pillage the motherland the most and transfer the riches abroad, to Europe and America, and buy luxurious houses, cars, and yachts.

  His shoulder pained him again. It did so every once in a while, mostly when he was stressed.

  Like today.

  He didn’t want to come to France and meet with the steel industry billionaire aboard his yacht. But Georgy didn’t have much of a choice. The oligarch was paying him handsomely for a couple of days’ work. Tupolev had been very polite and accommodating when t
hey had talked on the phone last week. He was seeking advice about a deal, and he wanted the “wise opinion” of a “hero.” Georgy had inquired about the value he could bring to a kingpin like Tupolev, and he had been told that the man ran his empire like a security intelligence service, so he wanted the “expert advice” of someone who had experience in the field. Reluctantly, Georgy had agreed to meet, but he knew that he was rolling the dice.

  The punk eased off the speedboat's throttle and brought the speedboat close to the stern of the two-story-high, hundred-and-fifty-foot-long yacht named Prekrasnaya, The Beautiful. Two guards in gray suits were standing at the yacht’s lower deck, holding AK rifles at the ready. Another two men dressed in what resembled white uniforms were waiting near the swim platform. The guard from the speedboat tossed a thick rope, and one of the white uniforms caught it and tied it to the nearest cleat on the side of the platform.

  The punk left the speedboat’s engine idling and gestured toward Georgy. “Watch your step, old man…”

  Georgy didn’t like the way the punk said the last words and thought about teaching him a lesson. Perhaps I should feint stumbling and push him into the water. Georgy shook his head. That will just make him wet, but nothing will get to his thick head…

  Georgy held onto the speedboat’s metal rail as he made his way to the stern. The vessel was bouncing over the splashing waves. He hopped over the gap and stepped onto the platform.

  “Welcome aboard The Beautiful,” said one of the uniforms with a bow.

  He gestured with his hand for Georgy to follow him. The ex-KGB agent climbed the stairs and nodded slowly when he passed the guards. None of them returned the nod, but they walked behind him as they continued along the side of the luxurious yacht. It was brand new and very clean, with polished stainless-steel handrails and large windows. Georgy looked through the glass of the salon at what resembled a large sitting area, with cream-colored armchairs and a sofa set in a semi-circle pattern around a large oval-shaped table.

  He must have slowed down his pace, because one of the gray suits almost bumped into him. “This way,” he said in a firm voice with an unmistakable hint of a threat. “Up the stairs.”

  Georgy didn’t move. “What’s that?” He pointed at the window.

  “Oh, that’s the lounge,” the white uniform replied. “But you’re meeting Mr. Tupolev on the upper level, on the deck, near the bow. Just follow me.”

  Georgy nodded and shuffled forward.

  He climbed a set of stairs, feeling a nice breeze on his face.

  When he reached the deck, he noticed it was smaller than what he had expected, considering the size of the super yacht. It was an area perhaps thirty by thirty, at the most, with six white armchairs and a couple of glass-topped coffee tables. A black leather briefcase was on the floor by one of the armchairs, and a large hot tub was to the left side. A bottle of vodka, four glasses, and a lidded ice bucket were set on one of the tables.

  Mr. Tupolev was standing at the far end, the breeze toying with his long curly hair. He was dressed in white pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt and had a glass in his hand. He turned around and gave Georgy a big toothy smile. “My friend, welcome to my humble home … well, when I’m away from home.” He spread his arms around, then walked to Georgy and shook his hand.

  The handshake was strong, and Georgy was surprised. He had seen pictures of the oligarch but had never met him in person. He looked younger than his age of forty-five, although a couple of lines had started to form on his broad forehead and along his thin lips. Tupolev’s salt-and-pepper hair matched his full beard.

  “How was the boat ride?” He pointed toward the armchairs and walked over to the one with the briefcase.

  “It was good.”

  “Any problems? Concerns?”

  Georgy shook his head. “Everything is okay.”

  “Good, that’s good.”

  Tupolev sat on the armchair and leaned toward the table. “Vodka?”

  “Sure.” Georgy sat across from him. “With some ice.”

  “On the rocks, as our American and British friends would say.” Tupolev reached for the ice tongs next to the bucket.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any American or British friends.”

  Tupolev dropped a couple of ice cubes into one of the glasses, then poured three fingers of vodka. He handed it to Georgy and said, “Yes, you’re a Cold War man. America, Great Britain, the Western world, they’re all our enemies.”

  Georgy shrugged. “Your father thought the same way…”

  “Yes, my father. He served in the army, a colonel with the 901st Air Assault Battalion out of Kirovabad. Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, but I’ve only heard good things about him.”

  “I don’t disagree with you or his sentiment about the Cold War and our enemies. I’ll explain how I feel but first a toast: To a peaceful future.”

  They clanked glasses, and Georgy sipped the vodka. He tasted a hint of cereal, but the drink was crisp on the palate. It had a good finish, and it was strong, the way he liked his vodka. He sipped it again, then smiled at Tupolev. “This is excellent. What brand is it?” He glanced at the bottle but didn’t recognize the label, a heart pierced by a sword.

  Tupolev returned the smile. “It’s a small Norwegian company that I’m considering buying and rebranding. Something Russian, perhaps to honor the fallen in our great wars … I don’t have a name yet.”

  “How about The Patriot?”

  Tupolev nodded. “The Patriot … Yes, good choice, obvious, but strong.” He finished the last of his drink, then refilled his glass. He leaned back in his armchair. “I was saying about the strong feeling you and my father held about our country’s relationship with the rest of the world. One of the great things about the Cold War was its clear lines. The East on this side, and the West there.” Tupolev gestured with his glass-holding hand. “If you were with us, you were against them, and the other way around. Everyone knew and played their role.”

  “For the most part.”

  “Of course, of course. There were traitors, and there was punishment for their betrayal. Now … Well, now things are different. The waters are muddied. We can’t ever know who’s on our side and who is playing for the enemy, or who even the enemy is. Countries and governments are here one day and gone the next. Instability … insecurity … irregularity … these are all bad for business.” Tupolev sipped his vodka.

  Georgy nodded and brought his glass to his lips. He wasn’t clear where the billionaire was going with his line of reasoning.

  “I’m a businessman, Mr. Azarov, and I like to avoid uncertainty. I came to where I am, to have what I have,” he waved his arms around him, “because I show the utmost care in detecting and avoiding such uncertainty. And this brings us to the purpose of our meeting.”

  Georgy nodded. I’m glad it does.

  Tupolev reached for the briefcase. He typed a code into the electronic keypad on the front, and the lid popped open. He retrieved a two-inch-thick folder and spread it across his lap.

  Georgy glanced at the old-looking documents, but from his angle, he couldn’t see the contents.

  Tupolev browsed through the materials, then found what he was looking for. “Here, I wanted to show you this. Tell me what you think it is.”

  Georgy felt his heart drumming faster as he picked up the brown folder. It was discolored with the passing of time and some of the stamps on the top had faded. The writing was still clear. Georgy recognized the cover of the folder used for only the most classified materials of the KGB. This should have never left the archive room, let alone the KGB headquarters. What is it doing here?

  His hands began to tremble as he flipped through the dog-eared pages. They were authentic; he had no doubt about it. The handwriting, the ink used, the language, the words. They were all real. Then he turned the page, and his heart almost stopped when he read the title of the report. It said: Operation Codename: The Faithful.

  Georgy
needed to read no further. He knew the details of the report and not only because he had seen it before. He had been there, when the operation had taken place in Berlin. He closed the folder with all the calm he could muster, then looked at Tupolev, “How did this end up in your hands?”

  Tupolev did not reply but sat back in his seat, “Your tone makes it sound like I’ve committed a crime…”

  Georgy caught himself before saying something he might regret. “It’s unlawful to remove top secret material from the KGB archives—”

  Tupolev stopped him with a raised hand. “You’ll have to take it up with the man who handed me this. But you’re telling me this is real?”

  “It is.”

  “A true original, unaltered by forgeries?”

  Georgy shrugged. “I’m not an expert in authenticating Cold War documents, and I’ve only spent a few seconds—”

  “Well, take your time, Mr. Azarov. There’s no rush, as we have a few more minutes until lunch.” Tupolev glanced at the gold-plated Rolex sparkling on his wrist.

  Georgy kept his hands together over the closed folder. “I thought you brought me here because you wanted some business advice, not—”

  “Then you were mistaken. I called you because I want your expert advice, because you worked in the field. Were you stationed in Berlin at the time of this operation?”

  Georgy nodded. There was no point in lying about obvious information that was in the file.

  Tupolev said, “What can you tell me about The Faithful?”

  Georgy didn’t respond for a long time. “The Faithful” was the codename of Maria Walker, one of the CIA operatives that were stationed in East Berlin back in 1988. It fit with her name, and her strong religious beliefs. Until she had decided to switch sides and work for the KGB. The codename, however, had stuck. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s not in the file.”

  “I don’t know what’s—”

  “Of course you do. You’ve read the report. Your signature is at the end, page ten. But even more importantly, you were there. You were The Faithful’s handler. I want to know what didn’t make it into the file. What happened after you and the American spy crossed into West Berlin.”