Cold Warriors

by Rebecca Levene

  Tomas felt his fingers itching with the need to brush it away. His arms wanted to find their way around her. He folded them instead. "What did they tell you?"

  She wiped the tear away herself, a brusque swipe of her thumb against her cheek. "You weren't the only one who was shown photos. They had spies everywhere back then and one of their men was at your funeral. I saw a picture of you being lowered into the grave. And the worst thing, the absolute worst thing was, I could see that your eyes were still open."

  "I thought you were gone," Tomas said. He reached out and took her hand. "Without you... I would never have done it if I'd thought you were still alive."

  "And that's why they told you I was dead. That's why they showed you the pictures. It wasn't the KGB who faked those photos - it was Nicholson. That's how Raphael's men found out. They'd been hoping to send me back as a double agent, only they discovered that the British had already declared me dead."

  "I can't believe... Nicholson tried to talk me out of it. He said -" Tomas laughed harshly. "That it wasn't worth it to him, losing me just to find out if the magics really worked."

  Kate gave his hand a final squeeze, then released it. "He knew you too well, Tomas. He always knew how to manipulate you. When I found out what had happened, I swore I'd find him and make him pay. But he was already dead. He must have come straight home from your burial and hung himself. I'd like to think it was guilt, but we both knew Nicholson too well to believe that."

  "So you worked for Raphael instead," Tomas said.

  "Yes." There was no hint of apology in her voice. "I couldn't reach Nicholson, but I could make those bastards in the Division pay for what they'd done to you. And what they let happen to me, of course. The KGB were tipped off, that's how they found me. I'm damn sure I know who did the tipping."

  Tomas reached for her hand again, but she took a step back, out of the shelter of the baker's eaves. Raindrops instantly spattered her head, wriggling down the corkscrews of her hair to trickle into the open neck of her red blouse.

  "But Raphael tortured you," Tomas said.

  "He was doing his job, and at least he was honest about it. Wouldn't we all rather be shot in the chest than stabbed in the back? And he promised me that he'd do everything he could to find out why Nicholson betrayed us."

  "Did he?" Tomas asked. He took another step forward, and she took another one back. Distantly, he registered a commotion further down the street, a group of people he thought might be Gunter's men.

  "Yes," Kate said. "He's going to tell me the truth about what happened twenty years ago." She was at the edge of the road now, and Tomas realised for the first time that a car had drawn to a stop beside her. "There's just one more thing I have to do for him first."

  Tomas lunged for her as she flung herself inside the car. It was moving before she was seated, the momentum slamming the door shut behind her.

  "Kate!" he shouted, but she was already too far away to hear it.

  Morgan was in a church of pure white. White walls, white floor, white altar. He recognised it, though he couldn't say why. He thought perhaps he'd been here before.

  It should have been beautiful, but for some reason it wasn't. Maybe it was the statues lining each wall, staring back at him with blank white eyes. Though looking at them made him profoundly uneasy, he didn't want to look away. He was afraid that when he did, they'd start moving.

  It took him a second to realise he wasn't alone. But when he saw the figures by the altar, he gave a start of recognition, not surprise. Of course. He'd been expecting them to be here. They belonged in this place.

  The young man remained frozen, bending low over the little girl. But no, he wasn't a person, was he? He was just another statue, face moulded in white, glints of light sparkling off his narrow nose. Morgan could only see the right sight of his face, and he was very glad of that, though he wasn't quite sure why. He thought maybe the left side was the real side, and the one he could see was only a mask.

  Was the girl a statue as well?

  No. Her head was turning towards Morgan.

  "Taste it," she said.

  Morgan drifted closer, puzzled. He studied her lips. "What?"

  "Taste it." Her mouth moved in time with the words, though they didn't quite seem to be coming out of it. The sound echoed hollowly from the walls, as if it was the church itself which was speaking.

  It seemed absurd to obey, but he dropped to his knees anyway, then forward onto his hands.

  "Taste it," the girl said again, only this time the words were muffled, and it sounded as if she was saying "taste me".

  Morgan didn't want to do it, but the girl was so insistent. He sighed, then flicked his tongue out, a quick brush against the white floor of the church. Then he did it again, a longer, wetter swipe this time. Because that couldn't be right, could it? Why would the floor of the church be covered in salt?

  He leaned forward to lick for a third time - only to rear back, shocked, as a roar of protest surged through him, so loud the sound felt like a physical force. There were no words in it, just a fierce denial. He looked up, around, searching for the source. In an instant, he'd found it. The altar. The young man. The little girl.

  The girl looked calm, almost sad. The young man...

  From this angle, Morgan could see his face in its entirety. The perfectly smooth handsome right side. And the left side, scarred and melted, mouth open in a roar of outrage, eyes blazing with malice, and Morgan opened his mouth to scream too -

  - only to jerk, sweating and shaking, into the waking world. But even here the sound followed him, the scream of protest. Now it was higher, sharper, and after a second he realised it was Anya. That she was sitting beside him, face turned towards him, terrified.

  Morgan couldn't figure out where he was, why she was so frightened. What this thing in his hands was that was trying so hard to twist out of his grip.

  "Morgan!" Anya screamed again, and he realised that he was in a car, that the thing in his hand was the steering wheel. The whole vehicle jolted and rattled as it rolled over the narrow strip of gravel at the side of the road and into the deep grass.

  Beyond the grass was deep, dense forest. The first tree was only twenty feet from the car's bonnet.

  Morgan wrenched the steering wheel round desperately. It fought him, happier to carry on the course he'd already set it. The shadow of the trees fell over them.

  "Stop!" Anya yelled, as if Morgan might not have noticed he was about to total the car and them with it. But he knew if he stamped on the brake the wheels would lock and he'd have lost all hope of control. He pumped his foot instead and kept on pulling at the wheel, throwing the whole weight of his body against it.

  They missed the first tree by an inch. Morgan heard the screech of wood against metal as a branch buckled Anya's door. She yelled and flung herself away from it, crushing Morgan against his side of the car.

  The car jumped and bucked, Anya's weight pushed against him, and for a second Morgan's hands slipped from the wheel. It instantly spun round to the centre, dragging them back towards the trees. Morgan fumbled clumsily to turn it back, but his fingers were sweating and he couldn't get a grip. And now the next tree was looming ahead of them, a massive oak buttressed with thick, knotty roots.

  There was no way they were missing it. Morgan gave up on steering, stamping his foot down frantically on the brake instead. The car growled in protest and the wheels locked, and then Morgan didn't have time to do anything except wrap his arms around his head and brace for the impact.

  The force of it jarred all the way up his spine. His head thumped against the steering wheel hard enough that he thought he was going to lose consciousness. His vision blacked and then greyed and finally snapped back to a blinding white that jabbed into his brain between his eyes.

  Anya let out a pained whimper beside him. Morgan wanted to check that she was okay, but for a long moment all he could do was rest his head against the wheel and wait for the world to stop spinning. When he fi
nally managed to lift his head and turn it to her, he saw that she'd cut her forehead, the blood running down in a sheet towards her eyes. But at least she was still moving. His friendship hadn't killed her yet.

  The car was another story. Morgan pulled open his door, stumbling over the wiry, clinging undergrowth as he walked round to inspect the damage. Not good. The tree trunk had sunk a good foot into the crumpled bonnet and steam was hissing out all around it. The chassis might be bent back into shape, but the engine was clearly a write-off. There was no way they'd be driving away from here.

  Anya had walked over to the other side of the hood. She looked down at it a moment longer, then up at him. Steam from the car wreathed her blood-streaked face, making her look like a pantomime villain.

  "Sorry," Morgan said. "I fell asleep."

  She laughed. After a second he joined in, both of them gasping for breath, bent over their knees. He knew it was the shock, but it felt good to let it out.

  When it was over he straightened and studied Anya. Her face was still creased in a wide smile as she let out helpless little aftershocks of laughter.

  She'd changed, Morgan realised. The dour woman he'd met in Budapest would never have found that funny. Even her body language had been transformed, loose-limbed and relaxed where it had been stiff and careful. "I guess we'll have to hitch-hike," he said.

  Anya nodded. "Unless you happen to be a qualified mechanic. With a spare engine in your pocket."

  Morgan took one last look at the wreckage of the car, then pulled his bag from the back seat and tramped back towards the road.

  He thought they'd have to wait a while, but in the end it was less than an hour before they saw something heading in their direction, a beaten-up brown Lada. Morgan stayed in the undergrowth by the side of the road while Anya stuck out her thumb, a trick she said she'd learned when she was a student.

  Sure enough, the car drew to a halt beside her, belching black smoke out of its exhaust. The driver was in his forties, balding and paunchy. He eyed Anya appreciatively, quite blatantly looking at her breasts before he took in her face. Anya smiled sweetly - and beckoned Morgan to join her. The man's face fell, but by then he'd stopped and it was too late to turn them down.

  "Thank you," Morgan said as he slid into the backseat, allowing Anya to take the front. It seemed only fair to at least let the man ogle her while he drove. Besides, in the back it was easier to avoid looking in the rear-view mirror.

  "You're welcome," the man said grudgingly, in thickly accented English. "So, where is it you are going?"

  "A church," Morgan said. Anya turned round to stare at him, but he ignored her. "A church that's made out of salt."

  The man nodded. "You mean the cathedral in the salt mines. Yes, a good place to visit - amazing, really. I will drop you in Krakow and you will take a bus from there."

  Morgan could sense Anya staring at him incredulously, but he avoided her eyes. Part of him felt relief that his wild guess had been proven right. But a bigger part of him was just scared. Because although he didn't want to believe it, he thought he knew who'd be waiting for him in the church made out of salt.

  Anya was fuming when she caught up with Tomas. He'd expected nothing less.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing!" she raged.

  Tomas didn't reply. He couldn't stop staring at the road, uselessly hoping that he'd see Kate's car turn round and come back to him.

  "I'm talking to you!" Anya grabbed his arm and spun him to face her. Three of Gunter's men were behind her, out of breath and equally pissed off. The little crowd of them blocked the pavement.

  "She was supposed to be dead," Tomas said.

  Anya frowned. "That woman? You knew her?"

  "I worked with her." I loved her, he thought, but that was none of Anya's damn business.

  "And that was reason enough to fuck up the mission?"

  Tomas jerked his arm out of Anya's grasp, but when she turned and stalked down the pavement, he followed. "It was blown anyway. She knew who I was - she must have known it was a set-up. Heinrich sold us down the river."

  "Did he?" Anya sounded a little calmer, but no less angry. "Well, you can ask him yourself. That woman might have got away, but they obviously didn't care too much about protecting Heinrich."

  A moment later they found the old man, waiting between two beefy agents by the van Gunter's men had parked in a quiet side street. He'd been caught, and he ought to have looked cowed. Instead he smiled victoriously at Tomas.

  Tomas grabbed him by his collar and shoved him up against the side of the van. His feet dangled a foot off the ground and he was gasping for breath against the constriction around his throat, but he kept on smiling.

  "You set us up," Tomas grated.

  Heinrich opened his mouth to speak, but only a choked gasp came out. Tomas reluctantly loosened his hold, allowing him to slide down the side of the van to his feet.

  "How much did they pay you?" Tomas asked. "You'll have years in prison to consider whether it was really worth it."

  "Years?" Heinrich laughed, a laugh that turned into a hacking cough. "I haven't got years. I've got months. Weeks, if I'm lucky and the end is quick. I'll be dead before they can ever try me."

  Tomas ran his hand against his jeans to brush off the feel of the other man's skin. "You're trying to tell me you're sick?"

  "Terminal." Heinrich's smile widened, as if this was the biggest joke of them all. "And for your information, Raphael paid me nothing. He didn't need to - I told him I'd happily fuck you over for free." He took a step forward, aggressive suddenly, and Tomas took an involuntary step back from the malice in the old man's grey face.

  "Did you enjoy meeting up with your girlfriend, Tomas?" he said. "Was it a tearful reunion? I must say, I very much enjoyed seeing her again. It brought back all those lovely memories. I remember how she used to beg for more when I buried myself in that juicy pussy of hers -"

  His words cut off in a shower of blood and slivers of enamel. Tomas pulled back to punch him again, aiming for the nose this time. He'd break that too, and then he'd get to work on the kidneys. But a hand grabbed his arm and two more pulled him back, dragging him away from the old man's huddled body.

  Tomas fought them for a second, then sagged. His mouth filled with a bitter taste as he realised that Heinrich had enjoyed two victories today, and no doubt the sweeter had been seeing Tomas losing his control. He scrubbed his hands over his face, turning away from the German in a final, contemptuous dismissal. "It's okay, it's okay, I'm done. No point getting worked up over this, anyway. All the old bastard's wasted is our time."

  Then he saw Anya's expression and froze. "What? What's happened?"

  Anya's face was white with shock, or maybe anger. "It's Belle. She never reported back in. We think they've taken her."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The air in the underground office was thick with unspoken recriminations. Gunter was big and loud and smiling as ever, but his eyes were as accusing as everyone else's.

  "Belle is definitely gone," he said, as they all took their seats. "Her colleagues in the CIA confirmed it."

  "That's what the whole meeting was about," Tomas said bitterly. "Distract me so they could snatch her."

  Anya nodded. "We questioned Heinrich, but he didn't have anything helpful to tell us."

  Gunter rested his chin on a meaty fist. "What do you think he could tell us, if given the right incentive?"

  "Nothing," Tomas said. "He was perfectly open about what he did, but he was never part of Raphael's organisation. He just saw an opportunity to screw me over and took it - phoned Raphael's contact after I'd been to visit and then did exactly what they told him. He said he didn't know they were going to take Belle, and I believe him."

  "He actually seemed quite upset about it, claimed he wouldn't have helped if he'd known they were after the little girl," Anya added.

  She looked disgusted, but Tomas didn't have the energy to be angry with the old man - he was too busy be
ing furious with himself.

  "Well," Gunter said. "Well, obviously we need to get her back. We can't let the CIA think we're incapable of organising a piss-up in a brewery. Even though the evidence would suggest that is, in fact, the case."

  "The airports have all been alerted," Anya said. "There's no way he can get her out of the country by plane."

  "If that's what he's trying to do." Tomas didn't want to think of the other uses a man like Raphael might have for Belle. The demon inside her was what he'd care about; the small child who contained it would be no more than an inconvenience.

  Tomas shook his head to dispel the ugly thought, and realised that Gunter's eyes were on him, bright blue and troublingly perceptive.

  "Who was that woman, Tomas?" the big German asked. "She must have been pretty important, for you to throw the whole operation for her sake."

  Tomas didn't address the rebuke in the statement. It was too true to deny. "She was important to me," he told Gunter. "But she wasn't important in the great scheme of things, just another agent in the Division. She doesn't know anything about the Ragnarok artefacts, if that's what you're thinking. I'm certain of it."

  "Really? Because apparently you were also certain she was dead."

  Tomas's hands clenched into tight fists under the table. "You're right. I'm not sure about anything any more."

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment, a test of wills, but Tomas didn't intend to tell Gunter any more than he already had. If Raphael had used his past against him, it was the outcome which mattered, not the personal agony of the details.

  The silence was broken by a commotion at the door, someone trying to push his way in and those nearby trying to keep him out.

  "Not now," Tomas heard one of the agents say, but the man at the door barged through anyway, his thin face pinched with worry. He was clutching a phone in his hand, a cordless.

  "It's for Mr Len," the newcomer said.

  Tomas looked at Gunter and then Anya, but Gunter shrugged and Anya shook her head. It could be headquarters in London, he supposed, but he'd already reported the failure of the operation to them and explained that he'd call back when he knew more. He took the proffered phone.