by Rob Sinclair
Logan knew Fleming and Butler were likely greasing the palms of the top brass at the NSC – anyone who really mattered, in fact – in return for their turning a blind eye to his dodgy business deals. But as wrong as Logan knew that was, he was glad Fleming had the leverage to get him out of the mess he’d been in. It was a far better situation than the NSC holding on to him while they awaited the highest bidder out of the FSB, the CIA and the JIA.
‘Well, you certainly owe me one now,’ Fleming said.
After pulling away from the building – which, it turned out, was on the outskirts of Aktobe – Butler drove straight for the nearest main carriageway. Logan didn’t know where they were heading but he could tell from the city names on the road signs that they were travelling eastwards. Fleming’s house lay to the north of Aktobe so they certainly weren’t going back there.
‘Where are we going?’ Logan asked.
‘Your release wasn’t entirely unconditional,’ Fleming said.
‘So what’s the condition?’
‘You have to leave Kazakhstan. Immediately. They don’t want you here. They don’t want to admit you were ever here. They want you gone so they can wash their hands of you and get on with doing their jobs.’
By ‘doing their jobs’, Logan assumed Fleming meant taking back-handers off wealthy businessmen like himself in order to continue having momentary relapses about how they were supposed to be doing their jobs.
But just this once, Logan could live with that.
‘That sounds good to me,’ Logan said.
‘To be honest, you’re very fortunate I’m doing this for you. Other than maintaining the status quo, there’s really not much benefit in my helping you. It’s not like I’m going to see an upside.’
‘I’m grateful, I really am,’ Logan said. ‘We both are.’
He turned to Grainger, but she was facing the other way, looking out of the window at the dark expanse beyond. If she was listening at all, she didn’t show it.
‘We’re driving you to Astana,’ Fleming said. ‘It’s a long way. I’ve got four of my men following us in the Jeep, just in case. I’m not expecting any resistance from the NSC now, but you can never be too careful in these parts.
‘When we get to Astana, we’ll get you onto a freight train to China. The arrangements with the border guards on this side are already taken care of. You’ll just have to hope for the best on the other side. I’ve found they rarely do a thorough check on the cargo as long as the paperwork’s in place, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’ll take you a few days to reach Beijing, but that’s the final destination. I’m sure you can figure out what you want to do from there.’
‘It’s perfect,’ Logan said.
As far as he was concerned, China was neutral territory. The CIA, the SVR, the JIA, none of them had any real power there. It would be about as safe as he and Grainger could get while he formulated a plan.
They carried on driving for a number of hours with little conversation. Both Fleming and Grainger fell asleep intermittently but Logan was now buzzing. Finally a plan was kicking into place.
He knew the route that Fleming had chosen was ideal. Much easier to hide on a mile-long freight train than try to cross the border in a car or by plane. The main train route between China and Kazakhstan formed part of the famous Silk Road. The trade route had first been established more than two thousand years ago in response to the emerging and lucrative trade of silk from China to countries in Central Asia, the Middle East and Europe. It had been used ever since for all manner of trade and as a travel route for linking merchants, pilgrims, monks, soldiers, nomads and urban dwellers alike.
It was close to two a.m. when Butler pulled the vehicle off the carriageway and into the car park of a roadside lodge, the first rest spot Logan had seen for a number of miles. Fleming and Grainger both stirred as Butler put on the brakes and the car slowed to a stop.
‘We’ll stay here for the night,’ Butler said, turning around to Logan.
‘Ah, we’re here,’ Fleming said, rubbing his eyes and looking out of his window. ‘One of my usual stopovers. It’s not the Ritz but it’s better than a yurt, which is about the only other type of habitation you see out here. The rooms have bathrooms and running water – sheer luxury compared to other nearby offerings.’
Logan and the others got out of the car. As Logan closed his door, he turned to see the bright twin beams of the Jeep coming up behind. It pulled to a stop next to the four-by-four and the same four uniformed guards Logan had met the night before emerged. Fleming’s own mini army.
‘I’ll go and sort the rooms,’ Fleming said, then wandered off to the office.
Logan looked over at the building. It was a basic motel, a single storey with a row of about ten rooms. The structure looked to be timber. In the amber glow from the sporadic lighting in the car park, which cracked and blinked as if it were about to give out any second, the motel itself did at least appear to be in good condition. Logan noticed, though, that there were no other vehicles in the car park save for a battered old pickup truck parked near to the office.
Fleming trudged back across the empty tarmac a few minutes later, by which point Logan was really beginning to feel the chill and was cupping his hands to his mouth to try to blow some warmth onto them.
‘Three rooms,’ he said, handing one key to Bulat and another to Logan. ‘Maksat, Vassiliy, you’re on guard to start with. Switch over at five. Logan and Grainger, you can share. Just remember, I’m armed, and so are all of my men.’
Logan raised an eyebrow at Fleming’s words. He got the message loud and clear. Though he wasn’t sure why Fleming had needed to bother with the warning. It was clear that Maksat and Vassiliy were guarding not only against any potential threats to Fleming but also to make sure that Logan and Grainger didn’t try anything stupid – anything that would threaten Fleming’s understanding with the NSC.
‘We’ll give you a knock in the morning when it’s time to go,’ Fleming added. ‘If you need me before then, just tell one of the guys.’
And with that, everyone dispersed. Butler and Fleming headed off to the second of the lodge’s rooms, near the office. Grainger and Logan were two doors down; Bulat and Ilya were in the next room.
Logan pushed the door open for Grainger, who walked past him into the room and turned the light on. As Logan followed behind, Grainger halted, looking at the double bed that took up the majority of the small space. Logan felt awkwardness emanating from her as he closed the door.
‘I’ll sleep on the floor if you want,’ he said.
‘That’s not what I was thinking at all,’ she said, spinning around and shooting him a glare.
‘Then what’s up?’
‘Nothing,’ she said.
She went over and sat down on the bed.
Logan scanned the room. It was clearly a new-build motel and everything was in good order, but the furniture, fittings and fixtures were neutral and basic and lacking in any kind of creative design. It was just bland. Logan could see why it suited Fleming.
‘What did the NSC say to you?’ Grainger said.
‘That I’m a wanted man in Russia,’ Logan answered, closing the thin curtains.
‘I guess you knew that already.’
‘Except now I’m being set up for things I didn’t even do.’
Logan turned around, away from the window. Grainger put her head in her hands.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Logan said.
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ Grainger responded, looking up again. But the resolve on her face quickly evaporated. ‘I mean, it wasn’t bad – they didn’t hurt me or anything like that. But I was scared, Carl.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t say a word. Even if I’d known what they were talking about, I wouldn’t have done. I get the impression that you’re used to dealing with this, with running from your enemies, with being locked up, with being questioned and interrogated. But I’m just not. I’ve
had training, sure, but this?’
‘It’ll soon be over,’ Logan reassured her.
‘How do you figure that? They’re not going to stop coming after us.’
‘We’ll stop them.’
Grainger shook her head. ‘The woman who was murdered–’
‘Lena Belenov,’ Logan said.
‘Who was she? They showed me a picture of her. She was beautiful.’
Logan felt his cheeks blush; he wasn’t entirely sure why. Did Grainger think that he and Lena had been an item? That couldn’t have been further from the truth.
‘She was a snake. She deserved to die,’ Logan said. ‘My only regret is that I wasn’t the one to end her days.’ He saw just a sliver of colour return to Grainger’s face at his words.
‘I thought that … maybe–’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
‘I thought that’s why they were trying to pin her death on you. To rub salt into open wounds.’
‘No. I’ll not mourn her death for a second. She used me to have Mackie killed.’
‘Oh,’ was Grainger’s simple response. Logan could tell she was wondering whether or not to carry on down that line of questioning. In the end, she didn’t. ‘And what about the other agent?’ she said.
‘Nikolai Medvedev. I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Just what is happening, Carl?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t smell right, though. Agents on all sides lost their lives in me tracking you down. But there’s been no public announcement about any of that. Then all of a sudden this?’
‘The Russians are setting you up.’
‘I know. And not for the first time.’
‘But the biggest question is: why were Belenov and Medvedev killed at all?’
‘And by whom?’
‘Exactly.’
Logan took off his boots and went over and sat down on the bed next to Grainger. He looked over at her tired face and felt a pang in his heart.
‘What did the Russians do to you?’ she asked him. ‘You haven’t told me.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Logan said. ‘I was a prisoner for three months.’
‘But you got out?’
‘I escaped. To find that my own people, Mackie included, didn’t trust me anymore. Then the Russians had him killed, making it look like I did it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Carl.’
‘Yeah. Me too. It’s done with now. Whatever chaos there is to wade through, it’s better than being held prisoner in that place. I’m never going back to that.’
‘And yet I bet that’s exactly what you thought was happening when the NSC took us.’
She was right. It was. Logan had told himself he would never be taken prisoner again – he couldn’t go back to the torture and abuse he’d suffered at the hands of the Russians, at the hands of Lena. And yet he’d barely put up a fight when the NSC had taken him in. He knew the answer to that one, though. Grainger. He’d been trying to protect Grainger. If he’d fought back against the NSC outside Fleming’s home, there was a very real chance they would have shot her.
‘Angela, when I came for you, it was because I had to know.’
‘Not this again,’ Grainger said.
Logan ignored her.
‘When you left me, back in America, I was in turmoil. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to kill you or love you. I was bitter and I wanted to get my own back on you.’
‘Carl, this really isn’t the time.’
‘Yes, it is. Because I’m only doing this because when I heard what was going to happen to you, how the CIA were planning to kill you, I knew I had to stop it. I don’t want to think about whether it’s right or wrong. It’s just the way it is.’
‘I should never have shot you,’ Grainger said, turning away from him. ‘I should have shot myself. Ended it there and then. Then none of this would ever have happened. The damage was already done. By shooting you and going on the run, all I’ve done is prolong my misery. And yours.’
Logan felt a gnawing sorrow at her heartfelt words.
‘What I’m trying to say,’ he added, ‘is that I’m only doing this if we’re in it together. This is me and you versus everyone else. But I need you to believe it too. I need to see the real you again. Because that Angela would do whatever it takes to get through this.’
She turned back to face him. Her face was teary, but in her bloodshot eyes he saw a certain resolve still there, a strength. The real Angela. The one he’d fallen for.
She moved toward him, taking him completely by surprise, and planted her soft lips onto his. It took a few seconds for his stiff body to relax, but when it did, he slowly began to kiss her back. After a few moments, they both fell back onto the bed, each gripping the other tightly.
‘I’m in this with you,’ Grainger said, pulling away from him for just a second.
‘Then let’s finish this together,’ he said.
Chapter 32
London, England
From the comfort of the sumptuous white leather sofa, Lindegaard inspected John Sanderson’s handsome drawing room. At least that was what Sanderson had called this room. To Lindegaard, it was simply a lounge. There were no drawing implements in there at all. Even if there were, Lindegaard would have simply called the room a studio. What the hell was a drawing room?
Sanderson, a lifelong MI6 agent and fellow member of the JIA committee, had invited Lindegaard over to his extravagant Georgian townhouse to discuss various matters before a planned committee meeting the following day. Though both men knew there was one matter that would likely dominate proceedings in the morning: Carl Logan.
It wasn’t the first time Lindegaard had been to Sanderson’s home, and on each visit he couldn’t help but feel a puerile envy of his counterpart. Sanderson was close to fifteen years older than Lindegaard, but with his wrinkled features, wispy, balding head and out-of-shape body, he probably looked twenty-five years older. Lindegaard liked to keep himself in shape; he got extreme satisfaction from knowing that he looked and felt as strong and fit as he had at thirty. But although Lindegaard knew he was a far more impressive specimen of a man physically, he was insanely jealous of Sanderson’s home.
Sanderson had fifteen years of additional wealth on Lindegaard, but even his extra years couldn’t explain the money that was surely required to buy and furnish such a top-end London property. Lindegaard knew Sanderson had come from a well-to-do family and some of his wealth had been passed down to him, but he also had the sneaking suspicion that Sanderson was much better remunerated for his services to MI6 and the JIA than Lindegaard was likewise for his services to the CIA and the JIA. And that really irked him.
Sure, Lindegaard had a comfortable life. He owned two properties – one a modern apartment in Washington that was commutable to the CIA headquarters in nearby Langley, and the other the family home that was set in three acres of land in rural Georgia. But he doubted those two properties combined were worth even half of what Sanderson had paid for his London home.
Sanderson came back over from the mahogany dresser carrying two tumblers of Scotch, one neat, the other for Lindegaard with ice.
‘Is the lovely Susan not here tonight?’ Lindegaard said as Sanderson took a seat on the matching armchair adjacent to where Lindegaard was sitting.
‘No. She’s staying with my son and his wife for a few days at our place in the Cotswolds.’
Lindegaard breathed out into his whisky glass, trying to suppress his reaction. The fumes of the spirit caught in his nose and made his eyes water. Sanderson having just the townhouse had been enough to get Lindegaard’s envy racing, but he had never known Sanderson had more than one home.
‘I really love what you’ve done with the place,’ Lindegaard lied, referring to the fact that Sanderson had recently redecorated the room they were in and most of the downstairs. It was gaudy and monstrously over the top as far as Lindegaard was concerned.
‘Thanks. It’s Susan’s work, really. I just pay for it.’
&
nbsp; ‘Ha, yeah, I know how that feels.’
The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Despite working together closely, they had little in common. Although Sanderson had invited Lindegaard to his home, there was as ever only brief chat between the two stalwarts. Lindegaard really had very little to say to the man.
‘Shall we get down to business?’ Sanderson said, breaking the increasingly awkward silence.
‘We probably should.’
‘So what’s the latest?’
‘I’ve been keeping on top of Winter,’ Lindegaard said. ‘If you ask me, he’s too far out of his depth now.’
‘I’m starting to come to that conclusion too. Putting him in charge of Mackie’s agents was a necessary step, but it was only intended to be temporary. It’s not too late to move him back down a rung to where he was.’
‘Well, I definitely agree he should be removed from a commander position,’ Lindegaard agreed. ‘My concern, though, is whether he’s even suitable for an assistant role now, given everything that’s happened.’
Sanderson frowned and stared over at Lindegaard. ‘He’s an excellent prospect, Jay. Probably the best up-and-coming commander we have. I just think it’s too soon for him. Get rid of him altogether? Are you sure?’
Lindegaard huffed. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep that one on the back-burner. We can come back to it.’
‘Fair enough. So what about our two missing agents, Logan and Evans? Is there any news at all?’
‘Nothing that I’ve been made aware of.’
‘Logan I can understand. He was trained to live off the grid, after all. But Evans? Why haven’t the Russians made contact? I’ve never known a foreign agent be captured before and a deal not be offered, or at the very least an acknowledgment from the other side as to what’s happened.’
‘It’s a worry for Evans. That’s for sure. But I don’t think we should underestimate just how much damage Logan’s escapade has done to relations.’
‘Maybe you’re right. What we need is to get access to someone on the inside, at the FSB, to see whether we can find out what’s really happening.’
