by Ethan Jones
“No, it was more than that.”
“Probably.”
“So, how are you, dear Javin?” Mila asked in a voice with genuine interest.
“I’m . . . I’m alright.”
“Wonderful. Listen, I heard about your wife. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am.”
Javin shrugged. “I’m okay now, but thank you, Mila. I appreciate it. How’s life treating you?”
“Always snows in Moscow.”
Javin smiled. That was Mila’s favorite expression. She used it to mean that things in Russia never changed. Mila Kuznetsov worked as a special operative for the SVR—Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. She was smart, tough, and very resourceful, with a vast network of assets, partners, and friends that stretched from Moscow to London and beyond the Atlantic. But Mila had no illusion about the regime she served. Mila was loyal to her country, not to the government.
“I miss the snow,” Javin said in a half-joking tone.
“No, you don’t. Maybe you miss me, the fun we had, but not the snow, never the snow,” Mila’s voice rang with a certain amount of regret.
“Maybe you’re right, Mila.”
“Of course I am. But you didn’t call me to tell me you missed me, Javin, now did you?”
“You’re right, again.”
Mila sighed. “What kind of favor is this: business or personal?”
“A little of both.”
“And the kind that will get me into big trouble, right?”
Javin hesitated for only a split second. “Always, Mila.”
Mila sighed. “Why do I keep helping you, Javin?”
Because you used to love me and maybe you still do, he wanted to say, but that would not be helpful. It might even backfire. It’s also because of a string of favors I’ve already done for you. “Sometimes I ask myself that question.”
Mila did not reply right away. “Javin, this might come as a surprise to you, but things aren’t as they used to be. You can’t just call me and ask for a favor.”
“Is this because of what happened last time we met in Moscow?”
“You know it is exactly because of that. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Javin had anticipated her reply. “I also know a lot of things, damaging things about the past, your past, Mila.”
“Javin, you’re stooping so low as to threaten me?”
“It’s not a threat, Mila. I’m just reminding you of our arrangement. A favor for a favor.”
“That was before you put a gun to my head.”
“Yes, but I let you live.”
“Oh, I guess I should thank you, then, right?”
“I don’t know what to say. What can I do to make you feel better?”
“You can start by telling me the truth about that morning in Moscow.”
Javin clenched his teeth. “I . . . it’s difficult to explain on the phone, Mila.”
“Right. So tomorrow night in Moscow, drinks at the Republic Club?”
Javin’s frown deepened. “That’s extremely short notice.”
“I’m sure you can manage, and I’m sure the favor you’re asking is nothing short of a miracle.”
“You’re agreeing to help me, then?”
Mila laughed out loud. “You’re still so charming, Javin. No, I haven’t agreed to anything yet, especially since I haven’t heard what you’re looking for. But we’re negotiating, hammering out the terms of our deal—well, potential deal.”
Javin wanted to remind Mila that she owed him a favor, but he felt it was unnecessary. Mila seemed to be halfway to agreeing to help him. So he said, “Yes, that makes sense.”
A loud voice came over the public address speaker, announcing the delay of a flight, then calling the names of a couple of passengers. Javin listened for a moment, wondering if his flight would also be delayed.
Mila said, “What airport is that?”
“Frankfurt.”
“Next door to Moscow.”
“Yes, but a world away.”
“Javin, sooner or later, we have to talk about that morning. Tomorrow?”
“I don’t think I can do that, Mila. I’m in the middle of something.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“I suppose we are.”
“So, it’s set then. Come tomorrow, and we can talk about what you need.”
Javin smiled and shook his head. “No, not so fast. I can do the day after tomorrow, if I play my cards right. But I need your answer right away. This is extremely important to me.”
“Sounds more personal than business to me.”
“You can say that. And it’s a two-part job: intel-gathering and elimination.”
“Oh, a hit. You’ve already got me excited. Someone local?”
“Define local.”
“Canada.”
“No, sorry.”
“Oh, I’m disappointed, Javin. We never get to run any operations in your homeland.”
“Let’s keep it that way. This one is in Europe—London.”
“Okay, and it must be someone of note if you’re asking for my help and in such a secretive way.”
“It is. The target’s name is William Fox. He’s MI6’s Deputy Director of—”
“Yes, I know who Fox is. But, Javin, come on . . . Fox? Of all people? Who are you going to ask for next: the Queen of England? Or my president?”
“I wouldn’t have come to you, Mila, if this wasn’t important to me and next-to-impossible. It used to be one of your specialties. Or am I mistaken?”
“No, Javin, you’re not mistaken, and you’re as cunning as I remember you. Of course, my team can make Fox disappear; no doubt about it. But there’s a hefty price tag for such ‘specialty’ service.”
Javin thought about Mila’s words for a moment. “You know how I operate, Mila. And you know I’m a man of my word.”
“Just making sure we understand each other,” Mila said in an ice-cold tone. “We’re mixing pleasure and business here, so I want to get the business part taken care of, before we move on to, well, pleasure.”
“I understand.”
“So, Fox is to be eliminated. When?”
“ASAP.”
“How?”
“Incident. Nothing violent. As natural as possible. And, it goes without saying, no traces of foul play.”
“You don’t have to say it, Javin.”
“Making sure we have the business part hammered out.”
“We do. My team will start to work on Fox’s file, and come up with a couple of options. We’ll pick one when we meet.”
Javin sighed. “Republic Club. The day after tomorrow. Noon.”
“Let’s make it nine in the morning.”
Javin bit his lip. “All right, Mila. We’ll have it your way.”
“Good. Dasvidaniya, Javin.” Goodbye.
“Yes, see you in a bit.”
He drew in a deep breath, then dialed Martin’s number.
Chapter Forty-five
The Ritz Carlton Hotel
Moscow, Russia
Martin had reluctantly approved Javin’s request for three days of rest and recuperation in Vienna and Rome. His excuse was to visit old friends and get his mind off recent events. Considering Javin’s past and his recent return to active duties, Martin had conceded that a few days to let off steam would be in the best interest of not only Javin, but also the CIS.
Claudia was the one to raise her firm objection and suspicion. “Javin, don’t do something you might regret,” she said more than once. She knew him as well as he knew himself, perhaps even better. But Javin had started to go down the road of no return. Nothing Claudia could say or do was going to stop the plan he had already set in motion.
He took the next flight to Vienna, where he met with an old friend from college. He was going to be Javin’s alibi, for those two days he was planning to spend in Moscow and perhaps in London. After replacing his passport with a new one—identifying him as an
Australian citizen—Javin took a plane to St. Petersburg, then drove a rental car to Moscow.
Since Javin was able to arrive in Moscow a day early, Mila had changed their rendezvous to the Ritz Carlton Hotel, Room 517. It was the last place where Mila and Javin had met. And things had not gone well. He hoped today was going to be different.
As he entered the hotel lobby, he looked around for the usual suspects. Mila’s associates, informers, operatives from the FSB, the Russian internal security intelligence service, were known to loiter in the hotel, which was close to the Red Square. The Ritz Carlton was one of the favorites for expatriates, foreign military contractors, and security advisors. Fertile ground for rumors that might evolve into actionable intelligence.
Javin’s eye found nothing suspicious, so he proceeded toward the stairs. He climbed a couple of floors, then waited. No one followed him in the staircase. Javin had been careful to ensure he was not followed. Still, he could not shake the uneasy feeling that somehow the opposition knew he was in Moscow.
He thought about whether Mila would betray him. It was true that she was helping him, but Mila was doing her job, in a sense. The elimination of Fox would undoubtedly put her in deep trouble, but not as much as Javin.
He shrugged and continued to climb. It’s too late now.
He glanced at the small briefcase in his hand. It contained a classified report Javin hoped would help his case with Mila. If she finds it credible, that is.
Javin drew in a deep breath as he came to the room. He glanced at both sides of the hall. It was empty. He listened for a long moment, enjoying the sound of the silence. Then he fixed the collar of his black coat and knocked.
“Come in, it’s open,” Mila’s voice came from inside.
He pushed the handle and stepped inside the red-carpeted room.
Mila was sitting at the edge of the bed. She wore a short black sleeveless dress and her long strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a bun, her preferred style. Mila’s Makarov 9mm pistol equipped with a long sound suppressor was pointed at Javin. “Welcome to Moscow,” she said in a soft purr.
“Good to see you, Mila.” Javin stepped closer to her, but his eyes never left the muzzle of her gun. “Now do you mind putting that away?”
“It’s such a shame we can’t use it in this operation.” Mila stood up and walked toward Javin. She held the Makarov next to her and ready. When she was a few inches away from him, she leaned in and planted a deep, passionate kiss on his lips.
Javin did not kiss her back, but he also did not pull away. It was the price he was willing to pay for Mila’s cooperation.
Mila cocked her head. “You didn’t seem to enjoy it. Shall we try again?”
“No, I think we’re good.”
Mila shrugged. “The offer’s still on the table, when you decide to accept it.” She gestured toward the small round table and the two brown leather couches set next to the window. A laptop, a carafe and two mugs were set in the middle of the table. “Let’s sit down.”
“Sure.”
Javin sat across from Mila, who opened the laptop’s cover. He poured coffee, first in her mug, and then into his. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said after taking a sip.
“Thank the hotel staff. Now, let’s go back to that morning, when you left me tied up in that bed.” She pointed with her pistol toward the king-sized bed with a rustic four-post frame behind Javin.
He had tried to avoid looking at it. As soon as he entered the hotel, the image of Mila gagged and handcuffed to the wrought-iron headboard had appeared in his mind. He just could not erase it. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I think you know the truth.”
“I know bits and pieces, but I want to hear it from you.”
Javin shrugged. “Okay. I thought you had betrayed me, Mila. And I had good reason. A trusted source.”
“What source?”
“This one.” He picked up the briefcase, which he had set next to his feet.
“Slowly, Javin.”
“Relax, Mila. I don’t have a gun.”
“I’ve heard that too many times.”
“Not from me.”
“Still, go slowly.”
Javin turned the briefcase around, so that Mila could see his moves. He snapped the latches open and pointed at the folder. “It’s the report I received that morning. Redacted, but you can still understand my perspective.”
Mila skimmed through the folder containing a single one-page report. She shrugged, then tossed it back into the folder. “And you trusted that scumbag over me?”
“That scumbag was an agency asset.”
“And I? What was I?”
“You were and still are a good, no, a great partner, Mila. But I had to make a choice. I now admit, it was the wrong one.”
“You’re not just saying that because you need a favor?”
“No. The report is clear about where the source got his intel. I followed up after the operation was over. It was all lies and deception.”
“Why didn’t you call me and explain?”
Javin gave her a cockeyed glance. “And would you have listened? You were screaming that you were going to have my head. What were your exact words? Yes, ‘I’m going to blow your thick head off.’”
Mila grinned. “Looking back, it wasn’t such a bad idea.”
Javin groaned. “Mila, we both know what happened. It wasn’t our finest day, for either of us.”
“I did nothing wrong, Javin, but I was treated like garbage, deemed a traitor.”
“I’m sorry, very sorry, Mila.” Javin’s voice rang with true regret, and he looked away through the large floor-to-ceiling windows.
Mila’s eyes searched Javin’s face for a long moment. Then she nodded and began to unscrew the sound suppressor from the Makarov’s muzzle. “I believe you, Javin. And you do the same, believe me, would you?”
Javin nodded slowly. “Innocent until proven otherwise.”
“I’d like that chance, yes.”
“Fresh start?”
Mila smiled. “For us, but not for Fox.”
“What have you heard about him?”
“One of our boys found his medical records. A few interesting things.”
“Can you be specific?”
“Sure. In a moment.”
She stood up and leaned over Javin. “We didn’t get this right the first time. How about we try it again?” Mila kissed Javin again.
This time he kissed her back, reluctantly at first, but then more passionately. It had been a long time since he had kissed a woman. He had not thought it was going to be Mila. They had had a love or hate history that he was not keen on repeating. But at this moment, he liked the kiss and the warmth of a woman’s body next to his.
Chapter Forty-six
Two blocks away from MI6 Headquarters
London, England
A frustrated William Fox stepped out of his silver Land Rover and walked at a brisk pace through the ice-cold weather toward the Starbucks coffeehouse across the street. They had been stuck in traffic for over twenty minutes because of a traffic accident that had bottlenecked the Vauxhall Bridge. Now he was late for his morning routine: enjoying his espresso and browsing the news before starting his day.
At least, the queue was short, very unusual at this hour. Fox glanced around the coffeehouse as he flattened his thin hair tousled by the sharp wind. His driver, who was part of his security detail, was standing near the door, his attentive eyes studying the faces of the handful of patrons in the queue and about half a dozen or so sitting around the coffeehouse. Fox recognized a few of the regulars, businessmen who worked in an office block north of MI6 headquarters. There were also a few young men and women, working on their laptops or typing on their phones.
Fox shrugged and thought about checking his phone, but decided against it. No, this is my time. No work. Not yet. He looked out the window at a car racing by, whose squealing bra
kes and screeching tires caught his attention. He was not afraid—no, far from it. There was not even a shred of worry or anxiety in his mind. But he did not want to be caught unprepared. If Javin or someone else from the CIS came for him, they would be met in the right way.
He tapped the front of his navy blue pinstriped jacket as if checking for his phone or wallet. But Fox’s hand was feeling for his Walther PPK pistol resting in its holster. It was still there. He drew in a deep breath as the queue moved along.
In a matter of minutes, it was his turn. The barista nodded at Fox, then asked, “The usual, sir?” referring to Fox’s flat white drink.
Fox gave her a curious glance. The barista was a young woman he had never seen before. “You’re new here, right?”
“Just started, sir.”
“And where’s that accent from?”
“Oh, it’s Ukrainian.”
“Ukraine? It’s a beautiful country.”
The young woman nodded. “It is. So, flat white?
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Right away, then. And you’d like to sit?”
Fox thought about it. “Of course.” Perhaps for about five minutes.
The young barista turned around and began to prepare his flat white.
Moments later, he picked up his cup and glanced around for a table. His favorite one on the right side overlooking River Thames was occupied by a middle-aged man in a brown overcoat and a black suit. I should have worn my coat. The weather will turn ugly around noon. His mind went to his schedule, but he could not remember if the noontime meeting was taking place in MI6 headquarters or at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on King Charles Street.
Fox picked up a copy of The Telegraph from the newspaper rack and settled for a table near the middle of the coffeehouse. He was still a few feet from the nearest patrons, but had no river view. He shrugged. I’m only going to be here a few minutes.
He took a sip of his drink. The rich, velvety steamed milk had mixed well with the double espresso. He enjoyed the strong coffee, and immediately felt the caffeine kick. Fox wiped his lips with a napkin and swallowed another sip.
Then he moved the tongue around his mouth. There seemed to be a strange aftertaste. Is the coffee bad? Fox looked at the bar counter, but he could not see the barista because of the people waiting for their drinks. Or something is mucking up my taste buds?
