Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  “I said it was the last question, but your answer made me think of something else: If Volkov was at such a critical juncture in our intelligence system, how come he was allowed to travel to America?”

  Blokhin groaned. “I’m not sure how that happened. Knowing who he is and who he knows, it wasn’t as difficult as it seems.” His voice was loaded with frustration. “Money can buy everything these days.” He exhaled, then leaned back in his seat, indicating the meeting was over. “Mr. Thornichinovich, show us that we’ve made the right choice.” He stood up.

  “I will do that, sir.” Maxim shook the deputy director’s hand since he had offered it, then did the same with the captain.

  Blokhin said, “We need to discuss something else…” and gestured toward the door.

  Maxim said, “I can find my way out, and I will be in touch about my GRU partner.”

  Kasparova gave him a small smile. He seemed to notice something glinting in her eyes, a look that he couldn’t determine if it was mistrust or something more sinister. He shrugged it off without a second thought. Whatever it is, I will prove to them I’m up for the task. I will excel, and the traitor will be dragged back home, dead or alive.

  Chapter Four

  Washington, DC

  United States of America

  The sleek black Jaguar sedan glided through the darkness as the blonde woman in the driver’s seat turned the steering wheel and rounded the corner, completing the circle. The townhouse was still a few blocks away, but this was standard procedure to detect any surveillance. By this time, any suspicious vehicle would have made its presence known, whether it was the same or a different one. The woman had not seen anyone following her. But Volkov insisted on utmost secrecy, switching routes, changing vehicles, clothes, hairstyles, to throw off anyone who might be tailing her.

  There was no one.

  Avelina Alexandrova, or Ava, as Volkov and all her friends called her, knew what she was doing. She had served with the SVR for over two years, before being forced to retire with a dishonorable discharge. She had rejected the advances of one of her superiors and had resorted to physical violence when the brute had paid no attention to her words. The refusal had cost Ava her job, but she had left with her dignity.

  She sighed and looked in the rearview mirror. As expected, there was no one shadowing her. Still, Ava couldn’t relax, even with the soft smooth jazz playing in the background. She turned the volume up and the soothing saxophone sounds filled the cabin. She leaned back and drew in a deep breath, trying to imagine her life if she had pursued her career as a saxophonist. I definitely wouldn’t be doing this, or carrying this.

  Her hand ran over the compact MP-443 Grach 9mm pistol resting in her shoulder holster. She used armor piercing rounds, a 17-round magazine—plus one round in the chamber—and had an extra magazine in the holster’s pouch, just in case. The feeling of the steel and plastic grip of the weapon gave her the calm that the music had failed to deliver.

  Usually, she wasn’t anxious, but tonight wasn’t a usual night. That old wolf Volkov had made a change in their tactics. It wasn’t that he was tired of hiding or fighting in his own way of resistance. He had decided to up the game, bring the fight to the opposition.

  Ava glanced in the rearview mirror again, and, this time, she noticed the elusive surveillants. A dark bluish van. Really? A van? That’s what goes for unremarkable these days? Ava shrugged and drove toward the townhouse at a normal speed. For Volkov’s plan to work, it would need to appear as if they had no idea the surveillance was there. They had to go about their normal routine, as if nothing had happened.

  Until the very last moment.

  She rested her itchy hand on the front seat. Ava knew what to do and couldn’t wait to do it. But that wasn’t the plan. The plan was risky, and might even end up killing Volkov, her, or both. But she had to trust Volkov. He hadn’t come so far, reaching his early sixties, fighting against enemies of all stripes and surviving them all, by making mistakes. Volkov made calculations, he bluffed, hedged bets, but he never made mistakes. There’s always a first time, Ava thought, then shook her head. Not for Volkov.

  She stayed her course and ignored the van that was behind her. She had to admit they were doing a great job of maintaining the distance and appearing like a neighbor returning home. They’d be able to fool the untrained eye. Not Ava.

  She parked in the small driveway and hurried to the entrance. She wasn’t expecting the SVR agents to take shots at her or try to approach her at first sight, but she wasn’t certain about their specific orders. Volkov’s contact inside the SVR had been able to give them only the date when the team was going to carry out the operation. All other details were unclear.

  Ava knew they were going to be unclear until the very last moment. She knew the drill; she had been here before and had carried out such operations over a dozen times. The strike team could hit at any moment; each breath she took could be her last.

  So she glanced around as she always did, doing her best not to pay too much attention to the van sliding down the street. She keyed in the code on the electronic lock-pad, and the main door clanged open. She shut it quickly behind her, and, at the same moment, pulled out her pistol. “Volkov, it’s happening.”

  “Are they here?” Volkov said from the kitchen near the back of the house.

  “Driving outside. Dark blue van.” Ava had already walked to the window and peeked through the blinds. “Rounding the corner. And stopped.”

  “How many?”

  “Unconfirmed. I’m assuming six.”

  “I’ll be disappointed if it’s less than that.”

  He appeared from around the corner brandishing his favorite weapon, the dependable AK-74 he had loved when in the field. He flipped the safety lever off and racked the slide. There was now a round in the rifle’s chamber, and twenty-nine in the banana-shaped magazine. “Try not to kill anyone.” His thin lips formed a mischievous grin.

  “That’ll be very difficult.”

  “I’m sure you can manage it.”

  “Two men have jumped out. And a third.”

  Volkov stood on the other side of the window. He lowered his thin silver-rimmed glasses and peered at the van. “Maybe they dropped off a pair before driving here. Once they figured out the house’s location…”

  “I saw no one.”

  “I’ll take the back. Kill no one, unless you’re certain they’re about to kill you.”

  “You said they’re not here to kill us, but take us alive.”

  “They’re Russians. You never know…” He flashed her an enigmatic smile.

  “All right, and be careful with that thing … old man.” She smiled back.

  Volkov nodded and turned around. “The old man and the gun…” he said in a firm voice.

  Ava drew in a deep breath. She trusted Volkov, her mentor, to death, but she didn’t trust this new breed of SVR operatives. She used to be one of them, stubborn when executing orders, interpreting them in the most convenient way. If the intelligence was true, the team was coming in to detain Volkov alive. He was useless if dead. But how would they handle resistance? In Volkov’s words, their resistance had to appear real, unstaged. They couldn’t let the team suspect that Volkov and Ava knew exactly the moment of the strike. Fragile ground, very fragile.

  She ran her hand over her maroon blouse. No bulletproof vest, otherwise the SVR team would put two and two together. Ava smiled to herself. The secret: Don’t get shot.

  She peered through the blinds again, this time from the side. Two silhouettes were running toward the house. They were bent at the waist and had their weapons ready. Compact pistols with sound suppressors. The point man had already reached a streetlight post about thirty yards to her left.

  The living room light was off, but there was a glow coming from the kitchen. They’d soon see her, whether she was crouched there or standing. Let’s surprise these boys playing men… She stood up and finished screwing the suppressor to her pistol’s muz
zle. Then she stepped closer to the door and pushed it wide open with the tip of her boot.

  Her move caught the assault team by surprise. They were halfway crossing the street, with no place to hide. She aimed her pistol and double-tapped the trigger. In a normal operation, she would have fired center mass. Her bullets would have pierced the two men, and depending on how they went down, she’d fire a third round at each one’s head.

  Since she had aimed low, her bullets cut through the SVR agents’ legs. One was hit in the thigh, but she missed his crotch on purpose. He fell to his side, groaning in pain. The other agent was not so lucky. Ava’s bullets must have shattered one of his knees, judging by his screams. Like a little girl, she thought as the man reeled in pain.

  Two bullets struck the door, about a foot above her head. Gunfire erupted from the back of the house—the loud hollow report of the AK rifle.

  She flinched and almost instinctively swung her pistol around. The third man was hiding behind the black decorative post. He had made himself a smaller target, but not impossible to hit.

  She hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding hard in her chest. What if he fires and kills me? She had heard stories that at life’s end, moments from your memories flash in front of your eyes. But she saw nothing but the man keeping his gun pointed at her. Perhaps it’s not my time…

  “Drop the pistol, Avelina Alexandrova. Make this easy on yourself—”

  “On you and the other pigs…”

  “Drop it, and I won’t kill you.”

  She said nothing for a moment.

  “I won’t ask again…”

  She swallowed hard. I have to go through with this. “Do I have your word?”

  “You do. Throw it away, and you’ll live.”

  I hope so. She shrugged and uncocked the weapon. She tossed it away on the street, and the gun made a clunking sound as it hit the asphalt. Ava stepped forward with her arms up in the air and to the sides. “There … I’m unarmed now. Don’t shoot.”

  The man stepped around the post. “On your knees, then put your face on the grass…”

  Ava nodded. “I’m doing it. Don’t shoot.”

  She did as the man demanded and soon enough felt his rough hands cuffing her. He twisted her arms unnecessarily hard, but she bit her lip and made no sound. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of making her cry in pain. He pulled her up to her knees, then one of the other two men—the one she had shot near the crotch—who had limped to them, grabbed her forcefully, dragging her to her feet. I should have finished them both.

  She sighed as the men hauled her to their van, which the driver had brought as close to the house as he could. As she was thrown into the third row of seats, a fourth man placed a crude blindfold—a black pillowcase—over her head.

  “Don’t make a sound, or I’ll blow your brains out,” someone said.

  Ava wondered about how Volkov had faired, but only for a few seconds. Someone was tossed in the backseat next to her. “Volkov,” she whispered.

  “Yes, how are you?”

  His voice was warm and calm, although she noticed a tinge of impatience, as if he couldn’t wait until this entire ordeal was over.

  Ava breathed easier—well, as easy as the blindfold would allow her. Volkov’s voice gave her all the reassurance she needed at this moment. “I’m better, now.”

  “Hey, what did I say about keeping your mouth shut?” said the gruff voice.

  Ava felt a blunt object pressed against the top of her head. Even through the pillowcase fabric she knew it was the muzzle of a gun.

  “You’ll regret doing that,” Volkov said in a firm voice.

  “Why? What will you do, old man?”

  A crack followed like the sound of a snapping twig.

  Ava felt Volkov’s body lunge forward, then a couple of elbows hit her side. Volkov was scuffling with the gunman. She leaned forward, but the blindfold veiled everything. The only thing visible was a small blinking light.

  Ava had just lifted her body off the seat when something hard struck her face. She fell backwards and to the side. Her head hit the glass, and she felt blood dripping down from her forehead.

  Then everything around her went black—deep dark black.

  Chapter Five

  Maxim’s Apartment, Sokol District

  Moscow, Russia

  Maxim spent most of the evening poring over the classified files he had received from the SVR. The bottom of each page was stamped Of Special Importance. He felt the significance of this operation weighing on his shoulders. He had to bring in the traitor and end the killings of fellow operatives and the leak of sensitive intelligence. But what is causing this man to do this?

  He stared at the picture of Valery Volkov for a long time. The file noted the man’s age as sixty-two, but he looked younger by perhaps ten years. The receding hairline had stopped near the top of his head, and only a few wrinkles creased his broad face. Volkov’s small brown eyes seemed to study Maxim and inquire why he was paying so much attention to the former spy. The man’s nose was crooked, a sign that it had been broken one too many times. He had thin lips, and small lines were formed around their corners. Volkov’s clean-shaven face had a stern yet magnetic look that held Maxim’s interest.

  “Why?” He found himself asking the question out loud.

  He was dissatisfied with Blokhin’s and the captain’s explanations. In Maxim’s experience, senior officials rushed to interpret everything as treason, from the very first suspicion. Maybe there’s another angle to this story. What if Volkov had a personal reason? What if he’s seeking revenge for some reason still unknown to us? He can’t get to someone in a high position of power, so he’s eliminating the lower rungs? Or perhaps he’s trying to send a message? But to whom?

  Maxim sighed and stood up. He walked out of his small living room and into the even smaller kitchen. Half of his supper lay on the counter, untouched. He smiled as he looked at the solyanka his mother had made. She was the best cook, and she loved making solyanka, and Maxim loved eating it. The thick soup had pork sausages and beef, as well as cabbage, potatoes, and carrots. Maxim’s mother had made so much soup, and, regardless of Maxim’s objections, she had insisted that he couldn’t leave her home until he took the entire pot with him. Maxim had eaten solyanka for the last two days, and there were at least two more servings. He shrugged. A mom’s got to do what a mom’s got to do.

  He put the bowl in the microwave to warm it up. Then he walked to the window and thought about the GRU crew. He was undecided between two men. One of them was about Maxim’s age, and he was turning thirty in a few months. The agent was experienced, but he had operated in America for less than three weeks. He was skilled with weapons and evasive techniques and was great at orienteering. All valuable capabilities for a remote operation, more fit for the deserts of Syria or Iraq.

  The second agent was older, in his forties. He had been stationed in Canada for over six months, then had been transferred to America about two months ago. Maxim wasn’t sure how instrumental this second agent had been in finding Volkov’s female associate. Her name wasn’t in the file Maxim had received, and he wondered about her identity and the secrecy around it. Even if this agent had nothing to do with the discovery, he’ll be a better asset. He spoke English fluently, like Maxim, but unlike Maxim, the agent was a better marksman. That will come in handy. But will he be a good fit?

  Maxim looked at his reflection in the dark window. Almost certainly the GRU agent would try to assert his supremacy in this operation. Because of his familiarity with the operation, his seniority in the GRU and his age, the operative would want to be the team leader. Maxim shook his head. That’s not going to happen. I’ll have to show everyone that it’s my time; this is my operation; this is my detainee. He nodded. Yes, I’ll pick this one, Mr. Feliks Katin.

  The constant annoying beep of the microwave interrupted his thoughts. Maxim took another moment to look at the constant stream of people heading toward the Sok
ol subway station on Leningradsky Avenue. The city had enjoyed a break from the thick snow that had blanketed everything last week. Now, only small sections of snow remained near the edges of the sidewalk or where city workers or store owners had piled up the snow in small mounds. Maxim shrugged. What’s the weather like in Washington, DC?

  He took his bowl and returned to his desk. The soup was too hot, so he found Captain Kasparova’s number. He hesitated for a moment before dialing it. Should I tell her about my thoughts on whether Volkov is playing a personal game? He thought about it for a long moment, then shook his head. No, if they had considered it, they would have told me. Maybe they looked at it and found nothing. But I’ll do my own digging.

  He didn’t know anyone in the GRU to whom he could reach out for assistance. But he wasn’t going to give up that easily. Volkov had served in the KGB and SVR. Sasha might be able to secure some of the old files. Maybe Maxim could find something, anything that might give him a hint on whether Volkov had a personal motive for what looked like revenge killings.

  Maxim smiled but decided to shelve that thought for the moment. Let’s deal with the captain first. Sasha, I can call him at any time. He dialed her office number, and the captain answered after the second ring. “Captain Kasparova talking…”

  “Good evening, Captain, this is Maximillian Thornichinovich. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing quite well, Agent Thornichinovich. How about yourself?”

  “Things are okay. I’m reviewing the operation’s files, and I’ve made a decision about my GRU partner.”

  “Who will that be?”

  “Feliks Katin.”

  “Katin, he’s a great choice. I’ll inform him, so that he can get ready for your arrival.”

  “Good.” Maxim sat back in his chair. “Now, is Agent Katin aware that he’s not going to be in charge of this operation?”

  The captain didn’t respond right away. “Katin knows he’ll provide support to accomplish this task. It’s up to you to decide who leads the team and how it operates, Agent Thornichinovich.”