by JT Brannan
Irina Makarova was damned clever, Cole thought as he retraced his steps back toward the rear of the building; damned clever. And here Cole was, knowing everything, but not able to do anything with that information, not able to warn anybody.
Then Cole saw two young waiters beyond the fence, in the service area at the back of the mansion, and – despite the situation – he smiled.
If Makarova could do it, then so could he.
Makarova was on the floor now, working her magic around the tables – hands touching a shoulder here, fingertips drawing down the outline of a chin there, using her silk scarf to tease and caress as she sang hit after hit.
Her current rendition of the seasonally-themed Santa Baby was going down a treat, she could see, the men not able to take their eyes off her for a moment. She had started at the gaudily-decorated Christmas tree by the stage, had gone from one side of the room to the other, and was now homing in on the head table, the one that housed her ultimate target.
The slim, razor-sharp knife was hidden within the scarf, and could be in her hand within a split second. The killing would be easy.
Escape, on the other hand, would be more troublesome, which was why she wasn’t even going to try. She was simply going to kill her man, then give herself up. Part of the plan was for the identity of band-singer Rika Papanika to be as revealed as Latvian intelligence agent Kristīne Ozoliņš anyway, and so her capture would make this much easier.
She would escape later, when Latvian intelligence had been blamed, and the mission was complete. In a country where the prime minister had just jumped into bed with Russia, it was a given that such an escape would be easily achievable.
She just had to hope that the security personnel here would accept her surrender, and not shoot her by accidental reflex.
‘Think of all the fun I’ve missed,’ she crooned as she ran her a hand through the thick hair of the Greek president, the other on her microphone, watching with amusement the barely concealed glare of jealousy from his wife.
She slipped smoothly across the table, fingertips running down the cheek of Alexis Thrakos. ‘Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed,’ she sang, before bending at the waist and pretending to kiss the prime minister on the lips, strangely glad to see that his wife didn’t even try and pretend to conceal her anger.
‘Next year I could be just as good.’ As she sang, she turned again, wrapping her scarf around the neck of the American ambassador, Richard Irvine.
She touched the handle of the concealed blade, still hidden under the scarf; ignored the temptation to tense up with the anticipation, instead willed herself to relax.
She stroked the scarf around the ambassador’s neck, gave him a coquettish smile, saw his heart melt, and felt the excitement build.
It was almost time.
13
Cole watched from the table only a few feet away, where he busied himself clearing plates and glasses.
Even with the additional security, getting over the perimeter wall had been simplicity itself, taking out the two waiters smoking outside even more so. He’d dragged them inside, locked them in the nearest storage cupboard – using the quiet room to change clothes with the man whose size was the most similar – and had then reemerged, walking through the corridors, the kitchens, until he was out in the huge dining hall.
He spoke to no one, merely observed what the others were doing and set about doing the same thing. That was the joy of service jobs, he reflected – you were invisible. Some of the most industrious and successful spies in history had learned everything they needed merely by posing as an anonymous waiter around the dinner table, soaking up the unguarded chit-chat of the guests.
He moved closer as Makarova – her voice surprisingly good, not a million miles away from Eartha Kitt’s herself – moved from Thrakos to Irvine.
That scarf, the way she moved it; something about it didn’t sit right with Cole. He could even pick up on the difference in the way her body moved. It wasn’t tense; rather, it was forced relaxation, and Cole knew that she was about to make her move.
She looked up then, and Cole knew that this was her final cue to act; she was checking the area around her, making one last sweep, a classic predatory action, natural and instinctive. But then she paused – for just a fraction of a second – as her eyes met his, and he saw the recognition in an instant. It didn’t matter how unexpected his presence was, what clothes he was wearing, what he looked like; she knew who he was, just as clearly as he knew her.
And with that moment of mutual recognition, both killers moved at the same time.
Boris Manturov was beguiled by this beauty who was singing. He wasn’t a fan of the song – American sentimental Christmas schlock, the worst kind – but the singer herself was a true jewel. There was something familiar about the girl, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was almost as if he had seen her before, although that was surely impossible.
Ah, she was at Irvine now, her scarf running around the ambassador’s neck; what he wouldn’t give for an hour alone with her and that scarf . . .
‘If you’ll check off my Christmas –’
She was heading his way, but she never finished the line; the words stopped, to be replaced with a blur of action as she moved faster than he’d seen anyone move before.
Cole saw the blade leave its concealed position within her scarf, the razor-sharp edge arcing toward . . .
Manturov!
Her target wasn’t the American ambassador, it was her own prime minister!
Cole never even had the time to ask him himself why; his body was already responding of its own accord.
Makarova slashed with the knife toward the throat of Boris Manturov, the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation – and her target, as directed by Colonel Dementyev of the SVR.
She didn’t know what that man was doing here, the American covert agent she’d met in Britain when he’d been pretending to be ‘Mark White’ of the FBI. Who he really was, and who he really worked for, she didn’t know, nor did she care; she just knew the blade had to sever Manturov’s windpipe before the American could move, before he could stop her.
She whipped the blade faster, saw the terror in Manturov’s eyes.
There was no stopping it now.
Manturov only realized what she was doing at the last moment, when the sharp knife edge was only fractions of an inch from his throat.
What on earth . . .?
He fell to the ground, his chair toppled over, his hands going for his neck, checking for the wound, the cut that would end his life.
But there was no wound there.
Damn the bastard!
Makarova’s knife had been knocked to the side by the silver tray thrown by the American agent, making her miss her target by the smallest of margins.
But she still had the weapon in her hand, and she saw the prime minister on the floor, squirming around on his hands and knees, and she lashed the blade down at him again.
She had never failed in a mission, and – despite the threat of the armed security guards all around her – she wasn’t going to start now.
Cole saw the security teams reacting – the Secret Service, the Presidential Security Service, even the Greek police – but he moved faster, scooping up a steak knife from the table he was clearing and hurling it through the air just instants after the tray he’d used to deflect her initial strike.
He watched with bated breath as the knife flew across the room; saw that Makarova hadn’t seen it, was too intent on hacking down at the prime minister with her own blade to observe anything else; saw her blade strike Manturov in the shoulder, slicing through suit jacket, through flesh; watched as his own knife hit her in the side of her beautiful, perfect face, piercing the cheek until only the handle could be seen, jutting out awkwardly from the bloody hole.
He was running forward at the same time as the security guards; the PSS team were there fast, pulling Manturov out of the way, shoulder dripping blood
across the linen table top as they dragged him to his feet; the Secret Service were there too, shielding Irvine from attacks, dragging him to safety; he also saw the indecision in Makarova’s eyes as she contemplated going after Manturov again, saw the desire to succeed, to win.
And he was almost there to stop her when she made her mind up, stopped moving and – dropping the blood-streaked knife to the floor – put her hands high in the air in surrender, the knife still sticking out of her face like a bad Hallowe’en prop.
Cole, rushing to the scene with another steak knife in his hand, ready to protect Manturov, didn’t realize in time how his movement might be perceived, how the security guards would see him.
But then he felt the impact in his side, felt the air rush out of him in one horrific gasp, and watched the world turn sideways as he fell to the ground.
And then he felt nothing, and saw nothing, at all.
Makarova had failed – for the first time in her professional career, she had failed – but she watched in satisfaction as a Greek cop, chaos leading to bad decisions, drew his Beretta 9mm pistol and shot the waiter that he saw running toward the head table, knife in hand.
Makarova herself was bundled to the ground, crushed, turned over, punched and kicked and handcuffed before finally being hauled to her feet. By the time she was trussed up and ready, Manturov, Thrakos and Andreou had all been rapidly and professionally moved from the room, along with a whole host of others.
The American agent, meanwhile, was on the ground, eyes shut, blood pooling around his body from the gunshot wound in his side.
But as she saw him there, helpless on the ground, the satisfaction turned to . . .
What?
She didn’t know, and perhaps never would.
It would probably never matter anyway, she considered as the PSS agents violently bundled her out of the room.
Because the American agent was almost certainly dead.
14
She was cold . . . so cold.
They’d been moving through the woods for hours now, and Barrington had no idea how much ground they’d covered.
Navarone was walking by himself now, stumbling and staggering through the snow, He was slow, but at least it meant that she could help Drake with Hejms, who was awake now and in great pain. But, like the warrior he was, he refused to be carried, and Barrington and Drake instead supported him between them as they carried on through the freezing, endless night.
The two little girls were quiet – after all, their mother had been one of the dead bodies that had been left on the bus – but determined, and Barrington was amazed at how hardy they were, how able to accept the demands of their forced march. The pace was slow because of Navarone and Hejms, but she was still impressed with the girls’ endurance.
She had no idea where they were, or where they were going; nobody’s cellphones worked in this area, for calls or the internet, and the team’s radio equipment had been ruined back at the battleground. There was no chance of astral navigation either – even if the branches of the trees hadn’t covered most of the sky, the snow and cloud cover would have been enough to entirely hinder that method anyway. For all she knew, they could be walking in circles and – at sunup – would be right back where they started, ready to be caught and killed.
But Barrington wasn’t a complete stranger to navigation in such circumstances, and knew what to look for. She stopped regularly to check the trees, knowing that their shape would be heavier toward the southern side as they grew toward the direction the sun came from the longest. It was hard in the forest – such details were easier to identify with single trees standing along – but, alongside an examination of moss growth on the trunks, and the direction of the wind – it gave her some idea of the vague direction they were heading in, and gave her confidence that they were heading further and further away from the crash zone.
She considered stopping to rest, but knew it wouldn’t be a good idea; in subzero temperatures, they would be forced to light a fire to keep warm if they stopped moving, and she knew this would give them away.
She didn’t know if they were being followed, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
Her aim was to keep heading roughly east, until they came to a road or a farm, where they might be able to steal a vehicle. She knew that the woodland wouldn’t last forever – this wasn’t the vast Taiga region, it was a mixture of woodblocks and farmland – and she hoped that their opportunity would come soon.
It was just after three o’clock in the morning according to her watch, the night still cold and dark, when she heard the dogs.
Her heart went even colder than her frozen hands and feet as she realized what it meant – tracking units had been sent into the woods after them.
She couldn’t tell how far behind they were, but she knew they would be moving much faster than her own group could manage.
‘Come on,’ she urged, gripping Hejms tighter and pulling him faster through the trees. The girls started to sob weakly, but they started to move faster too; it was clear that they understood the threat of the dogs just as well as she.
On the other side, Navarone was moving easier now, and although he was still silent, he was able to keep up.
But as they raced between the trees, through the thick snow, Barrington could hear the stifled moans of pain coming from Hejms, could feel the warm blood of his wound reopening, spilling down her side.
‘Come on,’ she pleaded, but Drake looked across at her, shaking his head. The pace was killing the man, that look said; they would have to slow down, or Hejms would never make it.
‘Leave me,’ Hejms said.
‘No,’ Barrington answered firmly, keeping him gripped to her as she dragged him along beside her.
Hejms wrestled free, dropped painfully to the ground, black blood spilling around him. ‘Leave me,’ he growled at her, and he winced from the effort of speaking. ‘Otherwise . . .,’ he gasped, ‘you’ll all get caught. You . . . might stand a chance without me . . . slowing you down.’
Barrington paused, thinking, the dogs growing louder all the time, and she knew she didn’t have time to think, there was only time to act.
But what should she do? Hejms was right, of course; but could she leave him here, alone?
On the other hand, she had a responsibility to the group as a whole – and five out of six of them making it was better than none.
In the end, she nodded, and handed him her weapon.
Hejms took the MP7 with a look of thanks, regret and resignation; and as his hands tightened on the submachine gun, a look of determination.
He nodded his head toward the group. ‘Good luck,’ he managed to mumble, then turned on his heel and started heading in a different direction through the woods, blood dripping from his wounded gut into the snow.
‘You too,’ Barrington whispered, knowing that – even if the snow which was still falling managed to cover that blood – the dogs would still sniff it out.
But her friend had given their small group a chance, and she wasn’t going to waste it.
‘Come on,’ she said after Hejms had disappeared completely into the dark. ‘Let’s go.’
Another hour passed before Barrington finally found what she had been looking for all this time – the tree-line, the edge of the wood block.
She edged cautiously forward, hoping it wouldn’t let out back onto the E105; was grateful when she saw that it was a road, but not the highway. This was a minor road, at this time in the morning perhaps deserted; and yet as soon as she got there, she heard the sound of a passing truck, moved into the shadow away from its lights as it barreled past her.
Was it a military vehicle?
It was hard to tell in the dark, but she didn’t think so; it looked more agricultural.
But it proved the road was used, and she called for the others to come down to the roadside and wait with her.
Now they had stopped moving, just for a couple of minutes, the cold started to really aff
ect them, and soon the whole group started shaking uncontrollably.
Barrington hoped they didn’t have to wait long.
In the end, it was only ten minutes; but it was one of the worst ten minutes of her life, the group forced to huddle together for warmth, and even then, she could see the toll it was taking on the girls, how they suffered.
But eventually another farm truck was seen traveling down the road, and Barrington and Drake went out to meet it, Barrington flagging it down while Drake came in fast from the side, ripping open the door as it stopped and pointing the handgun in at the elderly man behind the wheel.
Drake got in beside the old man, while Barrington got into the covered rear with Navarone and the girls, still huddled together for warmth.
And that’s when they heard it, coming from far away.
Shots, single shots fired from a 9mm weapon; Hejms, trying to pick off the trackers as they got nearer.
Then there was the fearsome noise of dogs, growling and barking, the feral, terrifying noise of the pack attacking en masse, followed moments later by another shot, another, and then . . .
The noise of Kurt Hejms screaming pierced the cold night air with horrific clarity; the dogs, the screams, the dogs, the screams.
And then there was the sound of automatic gunfire – one burst, two, three – and the screams finally stopped.
Barrington felt appalled, wanted to be physically sick, right there in the back of the truck.
But she knew she didn’t have the time to waste, knew that if they didn’t escape, then Hejms’ sacrifice would have been wasted.
And she could never allow that.
She reached forward and banged on the wall of the truck’s front cab. ‘Let’s go,’ she called and – a moment later – she felt relief flood through her as the truck lurched into motion.
