Hunt for the Enemy (#3 Enemy)

by Rob Sinclair

  ‘I told you, Evans being in Kazakhstan looking for you is nothing to do with me. I thought he’d been kidnapped by the Russians just like you were.’

  ‘So Evans was the agent who met with Nikolai Medvedev?’

  ‘Yes. But clearly the whole thing was a sham.’

  ‘To kill off Medvedev.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And Lena Belenov?’

  ‘From what I gather, it certainly wasn’t the FSB who did that.’

  ‘So who’s Evans really working for? Lindegaard?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘One you can only tell me face to face.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was silence again for a few moments. Winter wanted to say more but was reluctant. As much as he needed an ally, he wasn’t sure how much he could trust Logan – even though he trusted Logan more now than he trusted just about anyone else.

  ‘I’ll be in Beijing in four days’ time,’ Logan said.

  ‘Okay. Call me when you’re there,’ Winter said, but he was talking to an empty line.

  PART 5

  The art of deception

  Chapter 44

  Moscow, Russia

  Jay Lindegaard moved slowly through the dense pine forest. There was sparse illumination coming from the near-clear sky above, the light of the full moon largely obscured by the dense foliage overhead. He’d parked his car some distance away from the house, hiding it from sight in a narrow passage that led into the forest. To get onto the sprawling housing complex where he now was, he’d had to scale an eight-foot-high perimeter fence. For a man like Lindegaard, that had been a cinch. He was now edging through the southern end of the grounds toward the agreed meeting point: next to the boathouse, which looked out onto a large man-made lake.

  After a few more steps, the gaps between the trees seemed to widen. Not long after, Lindegaard found himself at the edge of the treeline, staring at the boathouse twenty yards ahead. Though to describe it as a boathouse didn’t really do the building justice. It was the size of most deluxe mansions. But that was corrupt, super-rich Russians for you. Rarely discreet or tasteful in showing off their ill-gotten wealth.

  The house he had come to was in the Rublyovka district of Moscow. A rich man’s playground. Over just a small number of years, the suburb on the outskirts of the city had been overtaken by the newfound wealth of the few. Opulent and overly extravagant residences were springing up almost as fast as the land could be spuriously grabbed.

  Beyond the high walls of the residences lay extremes of fantasy brought to life, ranging from mock castles and palaces with balustrades, towers and flying buttresses, to space-age white mansions with endless sleek curves and contours. The owners of these monstrosities playfully, or perhaps arrogantly, referred to their homes as cottages, but they really were anything but. It made Lindegaard sick to see such brazen and tasteless displays of wealth.

  Lindegaard looked around and, happy that the coast was clear, began to trudge across the frozen grass toward the boathouse, the design of which reminded him of the wood-framed lake houses that he and his family often vacationed at in the Rocky Mountains. When he reached the building, he pressed himself up against the wooden slats of the near wall and began to creep around the outside, checking that he was alone.

  For now, it appeared he was.

  Just a few moments later, though, he heard rustling off in the opposite direction to where he had come from. He saw the outline of a figure coming through the trees. His body tensed but soon relaxed when the figure came into view and he saw who it was: Irina Tarasenko. The sleeper agent whom Sanderson had told him about. And who, Lindegaard had come to learn, had been visited very recently by Peter Winter.

  Irina was moving slowly and with unease, looking around her all the time. She had on heavy black boots but Lindegaard could see that her legs were otherwise bare, covered from the knees up by the thick coat that she had wrapped around her. Lindegaard guessed she had come out into the gardens from her bed and he wondered what she had on underneath the coat – a skimpy lace negligee perhaps or maybe nothing at all. He felt the faintest twinge of arousal in his groin at the thought.

  ‘You’re alone?’ Lindegaard said when Irina was just a couple of yards away. He spoke to Irina in English.

  ‘Yes. I think so,’ Irina said in a thick accent. ‘It’s two a.m. Everyone thinks I’m in bed.’

  ‘Your husband? Will he notice you’re gone?’

  ‘He’s not home tonight.’

  ‘Okay. Great. I’m really glad you could meet me.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I thought after the meeting with your colleague that I wouldn’t be seeing anyone else from the agency for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. But that’s actually one of the things I need to talk to you about. The meeting you had, that is.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, the look on her face changing from one of anxiousness to one more of suspicion.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ Lindegaard said, nodding to the boathouse. ‘You look freezing.’

  ‘Yes, come on. I have the key.’

  Lindegaard followed Irina to the door, which she unlocked with a key from her coat pocket, then they both went inside. Neither of them bothered to turn on the lights – there was no need to draw attention. In the dark, it was hard to make out the layout of the room properly. It appeared to Lindegaard to be some sort of large, open-plan lounge-cum-dining room.

  ‘We should do this quickly,’ Irina said. ‘The longer I’m gone, the bigger the chance of getting caught out.’

  ‘I understand. This will be quick, I promise. Tell me about the meeting you had.’

  ‘It was out of the blue. Not planned, like this. I always expected it to be more like this. He just came up to me when I was shopping.’

  ‘His name is Peter Winter. He works for me.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me his name.’

  ‘But you believed he was from the agency?’

  ‘He said he worked for Mackie. Until Mackie was killed, that is. I had no reason to doubt him.’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine. He was telling the truth.’

  ‘Then I don’t really understand why you’re here.’

  ‘What did he talk to you about?’

  Irina sighed, her shoulders slumping, as though resigned to the fact that she would have to just grin and bear the questions.

  ‘All sorts,’ she said. ‘He wanted to know about the two FSB agents who were killed: Nikolai Medvedev and Lena Belenov.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him what I know, which isn’t much. I don’t actually work for the FSB, remember. Everything I know is either from Alex or from digging into his files.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But what did you tell Winter? What do you know?’

  ‘That Medvedev wasn’t killed by the FSB. They were tracking him, but it was another surveillance unit that killed him and took the British agent. The Russians don’t have the British agent. Evans, I think your man said he was called.’

  Lindegaard nodded, his face expressionless even though inside he was seething. Winter was certainly getting closer than Lindegaard had expected. He needed to find that weasel fast.

  ‘And Lena Belenov?’

  ‘I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I have no idea who killed her, but I’m sure it wasn’t the FSB. And according to your colleague, it wasn’t Carl Logan either.’

  There was silence for a few moments. It didn’t seem like Irina was going to willingly offer any more.

  ‘What else?’ Lindegaard said.

  ‘There’s nothing else to say. I sent all of the electronic files I gathered to your colleague, Winter, just like he asked me. That’s everything I have access to right now. Honestly. I’m not sure what else you people are expecting me to say. If there’s something specific you need me to do, then just tell me.’

  Lindegaard tried his best to suppres
s his surprise at Irina’s words. Electronic files? Just what the hell had she given Winter access to? It looked like the young commander was becoming a big problem.

  He stared at Irina’s face for a good while, but she didn’t offer anything else. The dim light meant he was struggling to fully read her expression, but it seemed to have changed to exasperation. She was certainly a cool character, given the circumstances. But then Lindegaard guessed that her whole life was based on a lie, so keeping her real feelings under wraps probably wasn’t too difficult.

  ‘You’re tired of this,’ Lindegaard said.

  ‘This?’

  ‘This life. The uncertainty. I can sense it.’

  ‘I’m tired of living a lie, yes. It’s hard to get by not sure whether today might be the day that you have to betray the people you love most.’

  ‘But it is what you signed up for.’

  ‘It’s what I was signed up to. I wasn’t really given much of a choice.’

  Lindegaard chuckled. He was fully aware of how she had been drawn into the clandestine world. She’d been barely out of her teens when Mackie had begun the process of setting her up as a sleeper agent. In essence, she’d been blackmailed into that position. She had no ties or any real allegiance to the UK or the US. Yet Mackie had delivered perfectly, first ensuring she was indebted to him and then skilfully steering her toward a relationship that made her potentially one of the most powerful informants Lindegaard had ever known.

  ‘Yes, Mackie did have a rather unique manner of persuasion. Gentle was rarely his thing.’

  ‘He was nice,’ Irina said, her positive affirmation surprising Lindegaard and angering him a little. ‘I always trusted him.’

  ‘He was an honourable man,’ Lindegaard said through clenched teeth.

  The truth was, he’d hated Mackie. Hated who he was, how he operated, how he always seemed to get the upper hand in any situation. Well, not anymore. Lindegaard had always seen Mackie as a threat, largely because Lindegaard knew just how good he was at his job. It was one of the reasons that Mackie’s carefully calculated demise had been such a blessing for Lindegaard. And that would have been the end of it, if it hadn’t been for Carl Logan. If only Lena had done her job and taken care of Logan when she had the chance, it would have prevented all of the current chaos.

  ‘So are we done?’ Irina said. ‘I’ve told you what happened. You said that was what you came here for.’

  ‘You’re doing a good job here.’

  ‘I’m not so sure it’s done any good so far.’

  ‘Believe me, it’s been very useful.’

  ‘If there was a way to get out of this, I would. I do love Alex. I told your friend the same.’

  ‘There might be a way.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. I need to show you something.’

  Lindegaard took a step toward Irina and moved his hand up to his chest to reach inside his coat. As he took another step, Irina shuffled back, away from him. His fingertips were just on the inside, heading toward his pocket, when she shouted out.

  ‘Don’t you fucking think about it!’

  Lindegaard froze in position, his hand still up to his chest. In the darkness, he’d barely seen the move, but there was no doubting that the object that she had thrust toward him was a gun. Its dark metal seemed to glisten even in the dull light. Lindegaard was taken aback by her tactile move, but not in the least worried about the position he found himself in.

  ‘Move your hand slowly away,’ Irina said, her pitch raised but her tone defiant.

  ‘Irina, I think you’ve mistaken my intentions,’ Lindegaard said, taking his hand away from his coat.

  ‘Really? This is bullshit. The whole thing is bullshit.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s really not. Please, just put that away, then we can carry on talking about how to get you out.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘You won’t shoot me,’ Lindegaard said. ‘How the hell would you explain that to your guards? You’d be better off putting that gun to your own head and blowing your brains out. It would surely be a nicer death than what will happen if they find out I was here. If they find out what you really are.’

  Irina said nothing in response but Lindegaard could see the confidence in her stance melting away. She seemed to shrink down and her outstretched arm began to quiver.

  ‘Just lower the gun and then we can carry on talking.’

  Hoping to calm the tension further, Lindegaard raised both his hands into the air.

  ‘Come on, Irina. You have to trust me. Like you trusted Mackie. I’m the only one who can get you out of this mess now. If that’s what you really want.’

  ‘No. There is no way out,’ Irina said, lowering the gun and bowing her head. ‘I realise that now. There is no way out for me. I can’t leave Alex. I love him too much. And it means that I’ll always have to live with this. With what I am.’

  ‘Irina, believe me. There is a way out. If that’s what you want.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Yes. I do. But how?’

  Lindegaard lunged forward and grabbed her. He spun her around into a choke hold, an arm wrapped around her neck. With his free arm, he seized her wrist and smashed her hand off the wall behind. She writhed and cried out.

  Lindegaard squeezed harder on her neck, stifling her screams. After another smack, she dropped the gun and he released her hand. He then swiftly brought his free hand up to her neck, a large hunting blade extending from his closed fist.

  ‘Shhh, Irina. Come on. You don’t want to wake the guards.’

  She continued to writhe and coil but it was no use. Lindegaard’s thick, muscular arm had her trapped.

  ‘I told you there was a way out,’ he snarled, pressing the tip of the knife into her skin, eliciting a desperate, strangled murmur. ‘I’m a man of my word, Irina. Just like Mackie. You can trust me. You can trust me when I say that I can get you out of this.’

  Slowly, meticulously, Lindegaard pushed the knife into the side of Irina’s neck as she fought with all her strength to free herself. The razor-sharp blade sliced through her flesh with ease, piercing her windpipe as Lindegaard pushed the knife as far as it would go. Irina rasped and her body spasmed.

  Lindegaard paused for just a second, savouring the moment, then thrust the knife outwards, cutting right through and out to the front of her neck. A spray of blood hissed out of the wound. Lindegaard lowered the weapon and threw her body down onto the floor, discarding her like the piece of rubbish she was.

  Irina lay on the floor, eyes wide in panic, her body twitching as the life drained from her. Lindegaard listened intently as she gargled for breath, choking on the blood that was flowing fiercely, filling her mouth and lungs. Not long after, when her heart ceased beating, the gargling stopped and the noise of the blood fizzing from the open wound began to die down.

  After a few moments more, there was only silence.

  ‘And now,’ Lindegaard said, smiling broadly, ‘you’re free.’

  Chapter 45

  Beijing, China

  From the safety of the car, Logan had a near-unobstructed view of the hotel’s expansive glass-fronted lobby. He was parked on the opposite side of the street to the hotel, in the Dongcheng district of Beijing, where the meeting with Peter Winter was due to take place.

  Logan and Grainger had arrived some two hours before the planned meet. Largely because Logan was caught in two minds about Winter still. Either Winter was playing Logan, in which case he wouldn’t be coming to this meeting alone. Or Winter really was trying to help Logan. That was clearly the lesser of two evils. But even if that were the case, Logan reckoned Winter was probably now being tracked by the enemy, just like he was, and caution was undoubtedly still required.

  The near-four-day train ride from Astana had been long and dull but had given Logan and Grainger a chance to rest and talk. In the end, boarding the freight train had been simple. When they had arrived at Astana, they had sold the virtually new Land Cruiser to
a car salesman who ran a second-hand garage on a main road in the city. He had given them five thousand US dollars in cash for the car, no questions asked. Logan reckoned the dealer would probably sell the four-by-four for close to ten times that amount, but that wasn’t a problem. The man thought he’d got a good deal – which he had – but was clearly aware of the risk to himself in purchasing a vehicle of dubious origins. In any case, as far as Logan was concerned, five thousand dollars was enough to get them everything they needed.

  After that, all it had taken was some gentle persuasion from Grainger, who’d used all her skills and feminine charm – and the obligatory palm-greasing, of course – and they had been able to stow away in an empty wooden container for the duration of the train journey into China and on to Beijing. Along the way, there had been no hint of disturbance, neither at the border crossing into China nor at the two rest and refill stops en route.

  From there, the money had allowed them to hire a clapped-out micro car from a dodgy rental company in Beijing and buy cheap mobile phone handsets and provisions. It had also put them up in a rundown but discreet hotel the previous night. And they still had more than half the money left.

  The journey had given Logan and Grainger plenty of time to talk. To grow closer to each other once more. Coming away from the failed exchange with Fleming and Evans, the mood between Logan and Grainger had been tense, but they’d both mellowed over the following days. Despite their predicament, the intense attraction that Logan had first felt for Grainger in Paris was back. And it was a good feeling. One he had long wondered whether he would ever have again. Although they were still far from in the clear, Grainger seemed to be filling up with life bit by bit too. It changed her expression, her mannerisms and her outlook. This was the old Grainger. The one he’d hoped he would find again.

  ‘I’ll go and wait inside,’ Grainger said when it was two thirty – half an hour before the rendezvous.