The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  The Russian shook his head. ‘It’s something else.’

  Victor stopped himself shifting in his seat.

  ‘One thing I know,’ Norimov said, ‘is that people like us don’t change. We adapt.’

  ‘Necessity.’

  ‘Remember when I told you about what makes you special?’ He didn’t wait for Victor to respond. ‘People like you, like me, we either take that thing inside ourselves that others don’t have and make it work for us, or we stand by and let it destroy us.’

  ‘I still believe that.’

  ‘If I do this for you, then we are even for Chechnya.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Victor agreed without hesitation.

  Norimov nodded slowly. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘You’ll need a copy of the drive.’

  Norimov smiled. ‘Why, don’t you trust me?’

  ‘No.’

  Norimov’s smile disappeared, and he stared hard at Victor.

  Victor stared back.

  Norimov looked away first and plugged the flash drive into his computer. ‘Will it allow me to copy the contents?’

  ‘The information on the drive is encrypted, not the flash drive itself.’

  It took seconds for Norimov to copy the data onto his computer. When the transfer had finished, he pulled the original out of the laptop and handed it back to Victor.

  ‘All done. I’ll copy it onto a disk and give it to my contacts. I’ll delete it from my laptop afterwards, don’t worry.’

  ‘I don’t worry,’ Victor said. ‘And it’ll be safer if we don’t meet here. Somewhere busy instead, somewhere public.’

  There was a glow in Norimov’s face. ‘Like the old days?’

  ‘Exactly like the old days.’

  ‘How do you want to do it?’

  ‘I’ll call your bar, give them a time and place for you to meet me. How long will it take?’

  Norimov stroked his beard for a long moment. He looked away. ‘If the people I know can do it, it won’t take them long.’ He looked back. There was something in his eyes Victor couldn’t read. ‘Forty-eight hours at the most.’

  Victor downed his drink and stood.

  ‘Then I’ll see you on Monday.’

  CHAPTER 39

  Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA

  Sunday

  06:05 EST

  Chambers’s expression was dour. She was perched elegantly on her chair, leaning slightly forward, elbows on the table. ‘I know it’s Sunday and I know it’s early, but I’m sure everyone appreciates the gravity of what we’re doing. Somebody we very much don’t want to see better armed could be recovering those missiles as we speak. This goes beyond arms superiority; this is about global safety. If this technology gets into the wrong hands, our ability to protect our interests as well as our capacity for peacekeeping will be critically diminished. I don’t think anyone around this table wants that to happen.’

  Procter nodded his agreement. Ferguson and Sykes gave their own solemn nods.

  ‘I know none of you need motivational speeches to pull out all the stops,’ Chambers continued. ‘We all know the clock is ticking. It’s been almost a week since Ozols was killed and the information stolen. If we’re going to crack this, it has to be soon.’ She paused and looked at Procter. ‘Are we any closer to finding Ozols’s killer?’

  Procter shook his head. ‘Alvarez is following a lead on who hired Stevenson and his crew, but we’re completely stalled on locating the assassin, I’m afraid to say. With what little we have to go on we can’t even establish whether he’s government or private sector. We have some witness statements that aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, some CCTV footage of a man but no face, no solid physical evidence. We missed him by a day in Germany. He probably went to the Czech Republic, but we haven’t heard from him since.

  ‘All departments have been involved in this. Every station has been briefed. We have people on the lookout all over Europe. We can’t find him.’

  Chambers’s brow wrinkled. ‘So he’s just vanished?’

  ‘He could be right under our noses and we wouldn’t necessarily see him. We don’t know who we’re looking for.’

  ‘We must have suspects though,’ Chambers said. ‘Which known assassins can’t be accounted for? What intelligence services are making suspicious movements?’

  ‘Even if we assume he’s not a direct operative for a foreign-intelligence service and that he was hired for this job, of which we have no proof, we’re not starting from a good position. There are hundreds of these guys operating in Europe, maybe even thousands. We know about a tiny percentage of them, and of those we can only rule out another small percentile. That leaves a huge number of suspects, most of whom we have absolutely no information on. And this guy is good, let’s not forget. He’s a needle in a hitman haystack.’

  Chambers removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. ‘Best guess on him?’

  ‘We have a receptionist who says he spoke French like a native, and in Munich the neighbour said he sounded German. Either he’s from both France and Germany or he’s good with languages and could be from anywhere. He has used two British passports so far, so that might suggest he’s from the UK.’ Procter sat straighter. ‘We can speculate until we’re blue in the face, but I think the fact we’re dealing with a dead former Russian and Soviet naval officer who was trying to sell Russian missiles tells me the killer is probably SVR.’

  ‘If that’s the case we’ll never get that technology for ourselves,’ Chambers said. ‘Moscow would just love that.’

  He nodded. ‘It would, but it doesn’t really feel like the Russians, does it?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If this guy’s SVR, then that explains a lot, but who then hired seven guys to kill him after completing the job? Who would know the SVR was sending him there? And gunning Ozols down in an alleyway is pretty basic. No polonium in his tea. Not even a suicide. Just painlessly executing a traitor isn’t really their style.’

  Chambers pushed her hair back behind her ears. ‘I didn’t realize they had any style.’

  Procter noted Sykes’s subservient smile. He looked at Ferguson. So far the old man had barely said a word. ‘What do you think?’

  From behind his glasses Ferguson’s dark eyes met Procter’s. ‘I’m not sure, buddy.’

  The old guy never used Procter’s actual name. It was always buddy, pal, or friend. Procter found it annoying, bordering on insulting, as though Ferguson did so as a sign of disrespect, but Procter told himself he was reading too much into it. And even if he wasn’t, he sure as damnit wasn’t going to get a rep as a precious a-hole by bringing it up or insisting Ferguson call him Mr Roland Procter.

  ‘Russia is your territory, Will,’ Procter said, happy to have returned the overfamiliarity favour. Procter was quite aware Ferguson disliked his first name being shortened. ‘Are the SVR a likely suspect?’

  Ferguson looked at him and considered for a moment. ‘It’s more than a possibility for sure. This is Russian weapons technology we’re talking about, after all. Moscow will do anything it needs to do to protect its secrets.’

  ‘You think it’s their style?’ Chambers asked.

  ‘You think it isn’t?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Don’t think the KGB aren’t more than capable or willing to execute Ozols. If they’d found out what he was up to, then do you honestly think they wouldn’t try to get the information back and silence the leak? And traitors are always punished, no matter where in the world they are.’

  Procter knew Ferguson’s referral to the SVR as the KGB was heritage from his Cold War days. To him they were one and the same. Ferguson may have been something of a hero during those dark days of the twentieth century, but he had failed to upgrade and modernize his thinking. The world had moved on. East and West were no longer ideals, merely compass points.

  Procter co
ntinued, ‘But to risk the fallout-’

  ‘What fallout?’ Ferguson actually looked angry. ‘Unless we had irrefutable proof they were behind it, which of course is impossible, the most we would do these days is tell them off. What could we realistically do? And let’s face it, we would have a hard time doing that with a straight face. Remember, we were trying to steal their technology, hardly a sound moral basis for us to criticize their methods. Ozols was a traitor, don’t forget. We would have no right to rattle our sabre, and they wouldn’t care if we did.

  ‘And, may I remind you, this is technology that Moscow refused to sell to us on more than one occasion. Everyone seems to think that because of glasnost the bear has lost its claws, that fifty years of rivalry has been replaced by friendship. It’s a ridiculous notion, and one I can’t believe that America has lapped up so easily. A bear is still a fucking bear. He may be weaker now, but that only means he has to be more cunning.’

  An uneasy silence hung in the air for a moment. Ferguson’s face was flushed. Procter was momentarily lost for words. So the old bastard did carry some resentment about the changing world order and his relegated place within it. Ferguson had obviously spent far too long fighting the communists to let it all go. It was quite pathetic, a shame really, but the sooner Ferguson retired the better.

  ‘So,’ Procter said eventually, ‘what do you think we should do?’

  Ferguson took a calming breath. ‘Finding out what the hell the Russians are really up to would be a good place to start.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Zhukovka, Russia

  Saturday

  21:04 MSK

  Colonel Aniskovach climbed out of the SVR limousine and nodded to the driver, who closed the door behind him. Gravel crunched beneath Aniskovach’s feet as he approached the front of the three-storey dacha. It was built before the revolution and was a huge, resplendent building protected from prying eyes by tall pine trees flecked with snow. For a building with twelve bedrooms, to Aniskovach dacha, which meant ‘cottage,’ seemed a laughably inept description.

  The town of Zhukovka was home to many such houses, owned by Russia’s powerful and wealthy figures. Some people called it the Beverly Hills of Moscow. Aniskovach had never been to Beverly Hills, but he knew enough about it to know that Zhukovka was the more tasteful of the two. A manservant had the front door open for him, and Aniskovach stepped inside from the cold and into the warmth. He unbuttoned his long coat and handed it to the servant.

  Inside, the dacha was even more impressive than outside, and Aniskovach took a moment to take in the marbled floor, panelled walls, and original oil paintings that hung from picture rails. He could hear faint voices, laughter, and soft music drifting into the room from somewhere else in the residence. It sounded like a cocktail or dinner party where the usually very boring guests had been softened up by alcohol enough to finally start having a good time. He was motioned towards a doorway and stepped into a study. The room was empty of people, and he stood in the centre, hands held behind his back, waiting. He tried to look unruffled by the setting and occasion, but he knew that he had been brought here to make an impression, and he would do well to act, at least in some way, as expected.

  A decanter of brandy was visible on a sideboard, two glasses next to it, all on a silver tray, placed for his host and him to drink while they talked. On a whim he poured himself a glass while he waited. To pour oneself a drink without invitation could be considered particularly rude, but Aniskovach believed his host would see it as a sign of strength and be impressed with his confidence.

  Most people would have been nervous if they were put in a similar position, but Aniskovach was as calm as he had ever been in his life. He checked his reflection in an oval mirror hanging above the room’s fireplace. He’d nicked himself shaving, just a tiny cut on his chin that regrettably marked his looks but, he noted, gave a certain rugged manliness to his striking features. He had a jaw set like an anvil, and with his dark, absorbing eyes he knew he was easily the best-looking man in his department — and, if he wasn’t being modest, the whole organization. He liked to imagine that most of the female employees at headquarters lusted after him.

  Aniskovach heard the footsteps in the hallway outside, but he pretended to be taken by surprise when a voice behind him said, ‘Forgive my tardiness, Gennady.’

  Aniskovach turned around and bowed his head briefly. ‘It is an honour to meet you, comrade Prudnikov.’

  The man in the doorway was tall and heavy-set and wore a well-fitting dinner jacket that shaved off at least ten pounds. He was in his late fifties but looked younger by some years. He wore a friendly smile and was by all reports very personable, but Aniskovach knew him to be quite ruthless. This was the first time he had met the head of the Sluzhba Vneshney Razyedki.

  Aniskovach placed his brandy down and approached his superior. They shook hands, Aniskovach letting Prudnikov be the one to grip harder, though only marginally.

  ‘It is to my regret that we have not had a chance to meet before, Colonel Aniskovach.’ Prudnikov’s eyes glanced at the glass of brandy and then to the decanter, and for a second Aniskovach feared he had offended him, but Prudnikov smiled. ‘You’re a drinker, then, I see — good.’ He released Aniskovach’s hand and moved to pour himself a large measure. ‘I don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink.’

  Aniskovach smiled internally at having judged the situation so aptly. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you.’

  Prudnikov tilted his head slightly in Aniskovach’s direction. ‘Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or just because I’m your superior?’

  Aniskovach shrugged, showing nothing in his expression as he was studied. ‘A bit of both.’

  The head of the SVR turned fully and smiled. ‘I’ve been familiarizing myself with your file. Very impressive.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘There is no need to thank me for realizing what is as obvious as my waistline.’

  Aniskovach knew Prudnikov was hoping for a smile and he didn’t disappoint.

  ‘You’ve had a distinguished career,’ Prudnikov continued. ‘A pride to our organization and your country.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I can tell you are an ambitious man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want my job one day.’

  Aniskovach nodded. ‘Naturally.’

  Prudnikov smiled. ‘Ambition can be a positive trait; it makes us strive to succeed, to conquer.’ He paused. ‘But it can also be a hindrance or a danger, even, if used unwisely.’

  ‘It will be ten years before I’m in a position to have a chance at running the SVR,’ Aniskovach said. ‘I’m no threat to you now.’

  ‘But how do you know I will have retired then?’

  Reliable sources told Aniskovach that Prudnikov had a hole in his heart. He wouldn’t be alive in ten years, let alone running the SVR at the time. ‘I don’t, sir,’ Aniskovach lied. ‘Only that if you do indeed see me as a potential threat you would not have brought me here and made me aware of your concerns.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘It would have been more effective to sabotage my career and halt any chance of advancement without my knowing you were behind it. You are too shrewd not to do so.’

  Aniskovach knew he’d slipped the compliment in without it being obvious, and Prudnikov nodded slowly. ‘Very good. So why have I brought you here?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘If you were to guess?’

  ‘I don’t guess as a general rule.’ He looked around briefly. ‘But judging from the fact that we are talking at your home and not at headquarters you either need my help with something you cannot trust to those close to you or you enjoy my company. So unless my invite to your party was lost in the post I think it’s safe to say it isn’t the second option.’

  ‘My wife’s party,’ Prudnikov laughed. ‘I was right about you, I can see that already. You’re quite correct, I do want you to do something for me that I need to be compl
eted with the utmost secrecy. A delicate matter I can entrust to you alone.’

  Aniskovach took a sip of brandy and waited for Prudnikov to continue.

  ‘Something has come to my attention, something that you are particularly suited to dealing with.’ Prudnikov paused theatrically. ‘You remember the circumstances of General Banarov’s demise?’

  Aniskovach felt his pulse quicken. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they were?’

  ‘He supposedly shot himself in the head after drinking heavily.’

  ‘And you did not believe this.’

  ‘I believed he was murdered.’

  ‘Believed?’

  ‘Believe,’ Aniskovach corrected.

  ‘But you never apprehended the killer.’

  Aniskovach took a breath. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘At first it appeared to be a suicide, and no one questioned that explanation. It was only later I discovered a professional assassin was spotted in the area the week Banarov died. There was no direct evidence of his involvement, but Banarov had a habit of making enemies and was not known to be suicidal. I made some inquiries, but as it was a domestic matter, I had no authority to pursue it in depth. The FSB were not interested in my theory.’

  ‘You pursued it anyway, did you not?’

  ‘As much as I was able. I believe in being thorough.’

  ‘And ruffled many feathers while doing so.’

  ‘It just meant I was getting close to a truth someone did not care to have revealed. I’d always suspected that parties within our own intelligence services had sent the killer, either us, the FSB, or the GRU. The unknown resistance I met during my investigation confirmed this.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Prudnikov said thoughtfully. ‘The assassination of one of our former generals by one of our own has potentially huge repercussions. None of us want a return to the bad old days where we feared our own colleagues might be plotting our demise over something we have done or might one day do.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You spoke to a former acquaintance of this assassin as part of your own investigation.’