by Rob Sinclair
‘That’s probably an understatement,’ Logan said, getting up and moving over to the bed.
‘So why are we here?’
‘Fleming hates the authorities. He also hates the Americans with a passion. In the end, he’ll be happy to help get one over on them.’
‘You’re playing a risky game, Carl. And it’s our lives you’re playing with.’
‘I can handle Fleming. If our being here goes awry, I’ll get us out.’
‘You really think you can take on the world, don’t you?’
‘I’ve never failed yet.’
Grainger humphed. ‘You really think so?’
Logan stared at her but made no reply to her sarcastic comment. She walked over to the bed and sat down next to him. Her shoulder brushed against his and her heart jumped in her chest.
‘Why did you come for me?’ Grainger asked.
‘I couldn’t let them kill you. And I had to know.’
‘Had to know what?’
‘I had to know how I’d feel if I saw you again.’
‘And how do you feel?’
‘I’m not sure I know the answer to that yet.’
‘How do you want to feel?’
‘I want it to feel like it did before.’ Logan looked up at Grainger, looked deep into her eyes. ‘But it just doesn’t.’
Grainger tried her best to show nothing in response to his cutting words, but she felt her bottom lip quiver. After a few seconds of fighting it, her composure returned and she gave a meek smile.
‘It might do again. I hope it does.’
‘Me too.’
‘When I was in Russia,’ Grainger said, ‘I always wondered about us. About what could have been. I expected you would come to find me, even if it was just to turn me in.’
‘Believe me, I tried to find you.’
‘You know, your knock on the door wasn’t the first unexpected visitor I had.’
Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
‘No. About four months ago, I had a visit out of the blue. Someone I really didn’t expect to see again. My ex-husband, Tom.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Logan said, a sour look on his face.
‘It’s not what you think. He’s an FBI agent too, remember. He’s good at finding people.’
‘I thought I was, but apparently not,’ Logan said, looking embarrassed, though Grainger wasn’t sure why.
‘He said he was there to help. That he wanted to be with me again. It was such a bullshit situation. Ever since we split, he’s wanted me to come back to him. This time, I felt like he was blackmailing me. That if I didn’t let him back into my life, he’d turn me over to the FBI.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He stayed a few days. I hadn’t had company from someone I knew for months. It was nice to have someone to talk to and be with. In a way, I wanted it to work. But it just didn’t. In the end, I think maybe he realised that too. He left for America, not wanting the agency to get suspicious about his whereabouts. I haven’t heard from him since.’
‘Clearly he kept true to you, though,’ Logan said. ‘I mean, you’d know if he’d given you up. Given the ploy that the CIA had to follow to get to you, it looks like they were in the dark about where you were until only a few days ago.’
‘I know,’ Grainger said, smiling. ‘There aren’t many people in the world I can trust. But it seems Tom’s one of them. He might be able to help us?’
Logan shrugged and Grainger took that as a sign that he didn’t agree. Actually, she wasn’t so sure what Tom could do now either. She was certain he would jump at the chance of coming back into her life, but could Tom really offer anything that Logan couldn’t in their current situation? More than anything, her reason for bringing up Tom’s name was to test the waters with Logan. To gauge how he would react to knowing that Tom hadn’t yet given up on her. Would it make Logan back off even further from her, or would it act as a prompt for him to show his true feelings?
There was an awkward silence for a few moments and Grainger waited it out, waiting for Logan to offer up a response.
‘Before you shot me,’ he said eventually, ‘you told me you loved me. Did you mean it?’
‘I think so.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘I think I could have done.’
‘If things hadn’t ended like they did.’
‘Exactly. Maybe we just weren’t supposed to happen.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But we did happen, Carl.’ She turned back to face him and reached out, lifting up his chin so that he was looking at her. ‘We did happen.’
Shutting away the elements of doubt in her mind, she moved closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She clung on and closed her eyes, feeling his chest move in and out against hers as he breathed slowly and calmly.
She didn’t let up – just held him tight. Eventually he moved his arms around her and squeezed, and she nestled into him further. Then they were both still for a while. And as they sat there in each other’s arms, just a sliver of the sadness and confusion that Grainger had been feeling disappeared.
PART 3
Know your enemy
Chapter 22
Moscow, Russia
He opened the door to the hospital room and quietly stepped inside. It was dark out and the curtains in the room were drawn. The bedside light was on, gently illuminating the room and casting a pleasant glow on the face of the woman lying in the solitary bed.
He closed the door softly, then looked over at her and waited a few seconds. Her eyes were shut, her face calm and content. Her arms were on top of the covers, draped alongside her body.
Satisfied that she was asleep and wasn’t stirring, he slowly and silently crept toward her. The only noise in the room came from the heart monitor that stood by her side, its blips steady. When he reached the bed, he looked down at her. He could see the small rises and falls of her chest but could hear no sound escaping her lips. The rich smell of the flowers by her bedside filled his nose. He recognised the scent but couldn’t place why. Regardless, it fired pleasant memories in his brain and, looking down at the helpless figure before him, he couldn’t help but feel the rumblings of arousal.
After a short wait, without so much as a stir from her, he carefully reached into the pocket of the white laboratory-style coat that he had on over his clothes and took out the still-packaged syringe. Carefully, he took the syringe from its wrapping and stuffed the paper and plastic waste into his other pocket. He then took out the vial, which contained a solution of thiopental, and stuck the needle through the lid. He slowly drew out the syringe’s plunger, taking in five millilitres of solution. For good measure, he kept going one more notch, another fifth of a millilitre.
He had never done this before, but he was performing the role with ease, each of the steps coming in succession like he had perfected the routine by rote. While he was stepping into new territory today, it wasn’t like he was completely unschooled. In fact, he knew everything there was to know about the drug he had just loaded into the syringe.
Thiopental had previously been commonly used as a general anaesthetic. In small doses, it caused unconsciousness within less than a minute. But for administration in even smaller doses, it was more widely known by another name entirely: truth serum.
Long the thing of fantasy, of fiction, thiopental’s effect as a truth serum was little different to that of alcohol, decreasing inhibitions and making subjects more likely to be caught off guard when questioned, and increasing the possibility of the subject revealing information through emotional outbursts.
Today, though, he wasn’t using thiopental for either of those purposes.
As he put the vial back into his pocket, he suddenly froze when the woman murmured and started to wriggle under the covers. He held his breath, held his pose, waiting to see whether she would wake up. She went still again after a few more seconds and he reached out and took her wrist in his hand.
Her skin was soft but clammy and cold.
He turned her arm over, then gently tapped on her forearm, trying to coax a vein. The pressure stirred her again and this time she opened her eyes. She didn’t move at first, just fixed her gaze on him, the syringe in his hand. It only took her a second to figure out what was happening. Maybe it was the unfamiliar face that tipped her off. Or maybe it was just instinct.
Regardless, there was really nothing she could do to stop him.
He gripped her arm hard – his strength easily enough to overpower her weak squirming – and thrust the needle down, piercing her skin and the throbbing vein just underneath. He pushed his body down onto the bed, putting his weight onto her to prevent her from writhing, then slowly but assuredly squeezed all of the liquid into her bloodstream. When he was done, he calmly withdrew the needle and placed the syringe back in his pocket, then cupped his hand over her mouth to muffle her pathetic cries.
Thiopental’s uses were wide and varied. But its most common application in recent years was far less salubrious than its origins as an anaesthetic. Most recently it had become the drug of choice for lethal injections. Its potent coma-inducing properties were perfect to render a subject defenceless while the cocktail of drugs injected in combination set to work inducing paralysis and then, eventually, stopping the heart.
And yet thiopental’s potency was such that it was also increasingly used for single-dose lethal injections, eliminating the need for those other drugs which, in America at least, had drawn the ire of certain public bodies for their supposed horrific effects on death row inmates.
In that sense, thiopental truly was a unique drug.
That was why when she had woken up, he hadn’t panicked. Because he knew the dose he was giving her was huge. Much greater than would be needed for analgesia alone, or even for inducing a coma. The dose coursing through her blood would take effect within seconds. Once it had, nothing could save her.
He looked deep into her eyes as the realisation of the situation dawned on her.
He had never met this woman before. Until recently, he hadn’t known about her at all. She had played an important role in events thus far. The problem for her was that there was little else she could offer now. Despite her apparent strengths, she had become a liability. She must have known that.
Thankfully, the problem had now been resolved. After just a few more seconds, she closed her eyes. He knew she would never wake up. He stood up off the bed and looked down at her unmoving body, deep in thought but entirely lacking in emotion over what he had just done.
What he had heard about her was right. She was pretty. Very pretty. But when he had looked into her dark eyes, he had seen something quite different: a devilishness that he was sure had been used to wicked effect. Certainly a great talent. In a way, it was a shame to lose her.
But needs must.
Not wanting to dwell any further, he turned to leave.
Lena Belenov was the first person he had ever killed. It wasn’t a proud moment or a sad moment. He wouldn’t celebrate tonight but he wouldn’t lose any sleep either. This was just his job.
He had many talents but he’d never seen himself as an assassin, despite having carried out the duty with such ease today. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Regardless, it was over now. One less problem to worry about.
And as he opened the door to leave, he couldn’t help but smile about that.
Chapter 23
Aktobe Province, Kazakhstan
Logan woke up when there was a sharp knock on the bedroom door. He lifted his head and pushed his torso up with his elbow, then rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost seven p.m. and was now dark outside.
He looked down at Grainger. She was still sleeping, nuzzled against his side on the single bed. They’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms without saying another word.
There was another knock on the door, louder this time. Grainger stirred and opened her eyes.
‘I’ll get it,’ Logan said as he slipped away from Grainger.
He stood up off the bed and moved to the door. Opening it, he was greeted by the guard who had brought them up to the room earlier. He was still armed, lazily holding his sub-machine gun by his side, the strap slung over his shoulder. Butler was standing behind him, an angry look on his creased face. Logan wondered whether the look was reserved only for him or whether it was just Butler’s natural demeanour now.
‘We’ve cooked some food,’ Butler said. ‘We thought you might want some.’
He spun around and marched across the landing toward the stairs without waiting for a response.
‘Sounds good,’ Logan shouted after him.
He turned around and saw Grainger standing up groggily.
‘What time is it?’ she groaned.
‘Just gone seven.’
‘Really? I thought it would be later. I think I could have slept right through the night.’
‘Yeah, I’m pretty whacked too. They’re having dinner downstairs. The food will do us good.’
‘I guess so. I’ll just go and freshen up. I’ll see you down there.’
‘Okay,’ he said, smiling at her. She reciprocated and he felt his own smile broaden.
Grainger headed over to the bathroom and Logan turned and walked out of the room and made his way down to the kitchen. The smell of food – cooked meat and vegetables – got stronger with each step he took. By the time he reached the kitchen, his belly was growling and his mouth was watering.
‘Ah, glad you could join us,’ Fleming beamed with over-the-top niceness. ‘Where’s your friend?’
‘She’s coming,’ Logan said, sitting down at the rustic oak dining table. Logan didn’t think it was deliberately rustic, just old and worn.
‘You two have some fun up there?’ Fleming gibed.
‘Of course,’ Logan said. ‘A real party.’
Fleming laughed and shook his head. Logan raised an eyebrow at Fleming’s unusually upbeat manner. It wasn’t the Fleming he’d come to know and it made him nervous.
Fleming was sitting at the head of the table, Butler to his right. Two guards sat at the table too, the one who had taken Logan and Grainger to their room earlier and the taller guard. A third guard stood over by the stove, spooning out what looked like some sort of meat stew. No sign of the one who had been at the hut outside the gates. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to come in for dinner.
‘Help yourself to bread and wine,’ Fleming said, pointing at the sliced French stick on the table and giant carafe of red wine.
Logan reached over and took the carafe, then poured wine into his glass right up to the brim. He took a large chunk of bread, half of which he stuffed straight into his mouth.
Grainger came into the room a few moments later.
‘Hello, Angela,’ Fleming purred. ‘Glad you could join us. Please, take a seat.’
Grainger didn’t respond but sat next to Logan, at the opposite head of the table to Fleming.
‘Now that we’re all present and accounted for, I’ll do some intros,’ Fleming said. ‘Obviously you know me and Butler. We also have six men working shifts at the house through the day and night. This here is Maksat.’
Fleming tapped the big man to his right on the shoulder. Maksat looked over at Logan and nodded.
‘Ex-Republican Guard,’ Fleming said. ‘Not one to be messed with.’
Maksat shrugged and took a piece of bread from the bowl on the table.
‘This here,’ Fleming said, standing up and putting an arm around the neck of the man serving dinner, taking him by surprise and almost causing him to lose his balance, ‘is Vassiliy. His father was a general in the Russian army. Vassiliy is an excellent chef, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Fleming sat back down at the table and pointed over to the last guard.
‘And this guy is Bulat. If you don’t know him, you don’t know anything. Bulat won a bronze medal at the Olympics when he was only seventeen. After that, he broke two world records in his wei
ght class. One of the best weightlifters this proud nation ever produced.’
Fleming spoke with genuine pride, as though each of the men in the room were his son. It left even more bitterness in Logan’s mouth to know that this man, who quite clearly cared for his workers, had passed up the opportunity to coach and mentor Logan all those years ago. Instead, he had chosen to bully and humiliate him, and ultimately leave him for dead.
What did these men have that Logan didn’t?
‘Quite a crew you’ve got,’ Logan said.
‘They really are the cream of the crop,’ Fleming responded.
‘What about the guy outside. By the gates? Is he not part of the A Team?’
‘Of course he is. They all are. Every single guy who works here is the A Team. But everyone has to put their shift in too. It’s his turn to guard the gate tonight. Simple as that. His name’s Ilya.’
‘So what’s his tagline?’ Logan asked.
Fleming raised an eyebrow as if offended by Logan’s nonchalant question.
‘He was special forces,’ Fleming said. ‘All of the men are here because they’re the best, one way or another. I have the utmost respect for all of them. They deserve it.’
Logan knew that Fleming’s final comment was a gibe at him. Fleming had never had any respect for Logan. That was clear. Though Logan knew it wouldn’t have mattered how good he was at his job or the exercises he was put on with the SAS squad twenty years ago – for some reason, Fleming had taken a dislike to him and that was that.
‘Please, Angela, help yourself,’ Fleming said, pointing to the bread and wine.
‘No. I’m fine, thanks,’ she said.
Vassiliy began to hand out large, plain white bowls that were filled to the brim with piping hot stew. The intense smell as the bowl was placed in front of Logan made his belly grumble even more loudly and he saw Grainger smirk at the noise. He took a spoonful of the brown soupy mixture and chewed a large chunk of meat that he guessed was beef but could equally have been horse or some other kind of large animal. Either way, it tasted good and was tender and sweet.
