18 Minutes

by Ethan Jones

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  The Story

  What choice can he make with only 18 minutes?

  FSB Agent Max Thorne might be shy and lack confidence, but he has never lost any of the high-value detainees he transports ... yet. Assigned a daunting new mission, Max must lead a two-man team and transfer a high-profile banker to a safehouse in Moscow. Meanwhile, overwhelming opposition is determined to free the banker at any cost.

  With no safehouse, no backup, and no options, Max must make an impossible choice.

  But can he do it in only 18 minutes?

  18 MINUTES

  MAX THORNE SERIES

  PREQUEL NOVELLA

  ETHAN JONES

  To God and my family.

  Thank you for your wonderful love.

  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Agent Rising - Prologue

  Agent Rising - Chapter One

  Agent Rising - Chapter Two

  Agent Rising - Chapter Three

  What's Next: Agent Recruit - Book Two

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Two Months Ago

  FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Building

  Downtown Moscow, Russia

  FSB operative Maximillian Thornichinovich rushed up the stairs of the FSB headquarters ready for his new, as yet unknown, mission. Ten minutes ago, while he was still driving to work, he had received a cryptic note from his supervisor. It was a brief text message sent to his encrypted agency-issued phone that said: Change of assignment. My office. As soon as you get to HQ.

  So Maxim, as his friends called him, had floored the engine of his brown-gray metallic UAZ Patriot SUV, the vehicle assigned to him by the FSB, Russia’s internal intelligence agency, and had reached the headquarters in half the usual time. He worked as a “transporter,” a transport and escort agent for high-risk transfers of detainees, prisoners, and, occasionally, high-level government officials. He had spent the last three years in this high-paced, adrenaline-fueled position, which had no fixed hours, routine assignments, or regular time off. Maxim could be called at any moment, to transport anyone to any place in Russia. In his years of service, no one had ever escaped from his custody, no matter how hard they’d tried.

  The initial assignment was supposed to take him to Podolsk, a small industrial city about an hour’s drive south of Moscow. Maxim and his partner were supposed to pick up a Chechen man, who was suspected of having ties to extremists and terrorist groups operating inside Russia. However, the supervisor’s message had thrown Maxim’s plans up in the air. He couldn’t wait to learn about his new mission.

  He reached his supervisor’s floor and made his way toward the office, but the supervisor’s assistant stopped him when he reached the antechamber. She stood up from her desk and said, “Director Yezhov is in a meeting and has requested that no one bother him.”

  Maxim nodded and smiled at the middle-aged woman. He had dealt with her in the past, and the tone of her voice left no room for objections. Still, he didn’t want to disappoint his boss. So Maxim pulled out his phone and brought up Yezhov’s message. “The boss asked me to come and see him as soon as I arrived.”

  The woman gave him a grin loaded with mischievousness. “I didn’t know they made you executive director…”

  Maxim returned a puzzled look. “I … they haven’t…”

  “All right, then, since you don’t outrank our boss or the man in the meeting, and he said ‘no interruptions,’ take a seat.”

  Maxim tried very hard to keep the upbeat look on his face. “Do you know when they’ll finish?”

  “No idea. They’ll be done when they’re done.”

  He looked at the black leather sectional sofa and two armchairs across from her desk. He hated doing nothing, so he shrugged. “I’ll come back in a few minutes. They just started, right?”

  The assistant nodded. “About five minutes ago.”

  “Thanks.” Maxim returned the nod and walked toward the elevator. He had decided to return to his office and work on finalizing the report on his last assignment, transporting three detainees from a safehouse to a new location. There had been rumors of a leak, which had prompted the last-moment move. Thankfully, no one had made any attempt against Maxim’s vehicle, and the detainees were subdued and resigned to their fate. Maxim wasn’t certain if that was because of the charges of “subversion”—a softer kind of crime than terrorism or outright rebellion—or because they knew any resistance was of no use. He didn’t care; as long as they reached the new destination without a problem, his mission was accomplished.

  As he walked down the hall toward his office, he passed by the desk of Helena, one of the data analysts working on the same floor. Helena, or Lena as he imagined calling her, was twenty-five, about five years younger than him. She was a petite blonde with a gorgeous smile and great taste in clothes and hairstyles. Her hair flowed down her neck one day, was turned into stunning curls the next, and was arranged in a bun the day after that. Maxim had worked with Lena on a few assignments when he had needed analysis about buildings, routes, or people assigned to the detainees’ transport. But Maxim had never built up the courage to ask her out. She’s way out of my league, he kept telling himself, afraid of her rejection. So he was content to only steal glances whenever they’d pass one another in the halls. One of these days, one of these days… But the day hadn’t arrived yet.

  Lena wasn’t in, and he wondered if she had a day off. He shrugged and turned at the kitchen, a few doors down. The strong aroma of coffee filled the space, but when Maxim glanced at the coffee pot, there was only about a finger left, not enough for even half a cup. “Oh, come on, people, how hard is it to be kind?” He shook his head and filled the pot to the maximum twelve-cup level, and began to brew a fresh batch. He waited for a few moments, until he could enjoy the first cup, and made his way to his office on the other side of the floor.

  The blinking red light on the fixed-line phone indicated there was at least one message waiting for him. He checked it and smiled as he heard the warm voice of his adoptive mother. She reminded him of the opera performance they were scheduled to enjoy the next evening. His mother also promised that the charming comedy Le Comte d’Ory by Rossini would have him laughing throughout the show. Maxim doubted it, but still smiled. He couldn’t stand operas, ballets, or live theater performances in general. But his mother loved them, so he went along with her.

  The second message was from one of his best friends, Sasha. He used to work for the FSB, but, about a year ago, had transferred to the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence service. They knew each other from childhood, having grown up together in the same neighborhood, in the eastern part of Moscow. Sasha had been the one to encourage Maxim to join the FSB, not only for the badge of status, the symbol of authority and power that it represented. Maxim needed some direction at that time in his life, and Sasha had been there at all times.

  When he moved to the SVR, Sasha had hoped he’d be involved in field operations in the role of a covert agent, but he had ended up in a position similar to Maxim’s. Sasha’s message was all business. He had heard about Maxim�
�s new assignment and wanted to compare notes. How did he hear about this, and what more does he know? Maxim frowned as he sipped his coffee, then dialed Sasha’s office number.

  He waited for a long moment, and the phone rang and rang, then came a click and Sasha answered, “Maxim, I didn’t think you’d call…” He sounded distant, and his voice was weak, with background noises that suggested Sasha was in traffic.

  “Are you driving?”

  “Yes, I’m coming over to the FSB HQ.”

  “What for?”

  “Our assignment, what else?”

  “Our assignment … What is that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I haven’t talked to Yezhov yet.”

  “Well, in that case, I can’t tell you much—”

  “Come on, Sasha. You’re better than that…”

  Sasha groaned. “And you know how Yezhov is … He doesn’t like anyone stealing his thunder, and you’re not good at keeping a poker face.”

  Maxim nodded. Sasha had worked for Yezhov for a short time while he was at the FSB. Their relationship had gotten worse, since Yezhov had a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes he’d assign or reassign his subordinates to menial tasks or assignments they weren’t trained or prepared for, then use them as scapegoats to cover his own wastefulness and incompetence. He had been a great field agent, but just wasn’t manager material.

  So Maxim sighed and said, “Have you talked to him?”

  “No, but he talked to my director, who briefed me first thing this morning.”

  “Well, you’ve already told me we’re working together—”

  “And that’s all I’m going to say. Sorry, Maxim, I just don’t want any trouble…”

  Maxim nodded. He understood Sasha’s situation. Plus, they were having a conversation on an open line. Although safe and encrypted, considering he was calling from his FSB headquarters office phone, one could never be certain who might be listening. There were always rumors that calls were routinely monitored, and several FSB employees had been fired or demoted, in part, as a result of their phone conversation “indiscretions.”

  Maxim said, “All right, then. Drive safe, and we’ll talk when you get here.”

  “Should be in ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “See you.”

  He placed down the phone and thought about what Sasha hadn’t said. He didn’t sound concerned or excited, so this must be a run-of-the-mill assignment. But why bring in the SVR? If this is a normal transfer of one or a few detainees, why do we need someone from outside the agency? Maxim shrugged, but he had no more time to think about the assignment, because his phone beeped with a text message. It was Yezhov: Meeting’s over. Where are you?!!!

  Maxim frowned. He never liked exclamation points, especially when there were three of them in a row and when they were being used by Yezhov. He stood up and dashed through the hall, rushing toward his boss’s office.

  As he reached the antechamber, the assistant lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose. She made a tsk-tsk-tsk sound of disapproval and shook her head. “You should have taken a seat.” Her voice dripped with self-satisfaction.

  Yes, and you should learn some manners, Maxim thought. Instead, he said, “Is the boss in?”

  “Yes, and he’s furious.”

  “I gathered that from the message.” Maxim waved his phone at her. “But thanks.” He headed toward the brown wood panel office door.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Maxim knocked on the door and walked in when Yezhov called for him.

  “Good morning, boss,” Maxim said in a sincerely apologetic tone. “Sorry about the wait. I didn’t want to sit there and waste time—”

  “Waiting for my orders is never, never a waste of time…” Yezhov’s face was full of wrinkles, and his eyes gave Maxim a harsh gaze. He shook his large head and ran his hand over his thin combed-over gray hair.

  Maxim nodded. “I … yes, yes, sir.”

  “Sit down.” Yezhov pointed at a brown wooden chair across from his desk of the same color. His office was spacious, but crammed full of metal filing cabinets, and shelves and boxes. “They’re transferring me to a new office, just across the hall. Thus, the mess.” He waved his hand around. “But let’s talk about your new assignment.”

  Maxim nodded, but said nothing. He had learned that with Yezhov, the fewer words he said, the better off he was.

  Yezhov found a thin manila folder at the top of a pile of documents. “Your initial assignment is scrapped. The police will escort that detainee. You need to focus on this operation.” He tapped the folder, but didn’t hand it over to Maxim.

  Maxim nodded.

  Yezhov said, “This needs your utmost attention and all your skills. It’s top secret. An extremely high-value detainee. And he’s coming from abroad.”

  “Where?”

  “London, UK. He’s a banker, a loser who thought he could betray his country.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Embezzled money. He’s being brought back for trial, to answer for his crimes.” Yezhov’s voice had an almost solemn tone, as if he were the judge rendering a guilty verdict about the banker.

  Maxim wanted to ask about the SVR’s involvement in general and Sasha’s participation in this operation in particular, but didn’t want to tip his hand. So he said, “Where do I pick him up?”

  “Before we get to that, let me explain something about this operation. Some very important people have an extreme vested interest in this man, this banker. This operation is highly classified, and only a handful of people know about the banker’s arrival.” Yezhov held Maxim’s gaze for a long moment and continued, “However, not everyone’s happy with the banker’s homecoming. He knows a lot of secrets that can bury many people. Some violent opposition is to be expected, but hopefully not before he’s been taken to the safehouse.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I know we have the talent and the resources to handle this in house, but the folks from the SVR insist that we have someone from their agency working with us. SVR agents uncovered the embezzlement, then connected the banker to the missing money. They want the credit.”

  “Naturally.”

  “But the SVR also wants discretion. Against my better judgment—and I’m certain yours as well—the SVR is dispatching only one agent. He used to work for us and is a good friend of yours. Sasha Nikonov. The two of you will pick up the banker at the Sheremetyevo Airport, then take him to a safehouse. The address and all other details are in the folder.” He slid it across the desk.

  Maxim picked it up, but didn’t look at it. He said, “I agree that we need a larger crew. But if the order, your order, is to get this done with just two people, we’ll get it done.”

  “You will get it done.” Yezhov pointed his finger at Maxim. “Your job is on the line, along with the reputation of our agency, if this operation goes haywire.”

  And yours, of course. Maxim nodded and offered a small smile. “As always, I will do my best.”

  “That you’ll do. Now, talk to Nikonov and update him on the assignment. His director should have briefed him already, but we’re the ones that have the files and are the lead on this operation.”

  “Right away.”

  “We still don’t know the time of the airplane’s arrival. The SVR is keeping things under wraps. Once they call me, I’ll let you know, and you can head to the airport.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Yezhov nodded, then waved his hand toward the door. The meeting was over.

  When Maxim walked into the antechamber, he flipped open the folder, not only to avoid the sarcastic look of Yezhov’s assistant, but also to begin studying the file. Usually, the first page was a sheet of information about the detainee, along with his picture. The name of the banker was there, but his picture was missing. Maxim heaved a deep sigh as he rounded the corner. No picture of the detainee. Unknown opposition. Rushed preps and just a two-man crew. What else can g
o wrong?

  Chapter Two

  Outside the FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Building

  Downtown Moscow, Russia

  Maxim walked at a brisk pace toward the meeting point with Sasha, which was a small café on Zlatoustinskiy Bol’shoy Street. It was about ten minutes from the FSB headquarters, which made it the perfect location for those situations in which Maxim didn’t want to run into anyone from the office. Few of his colleagues would venture this far for just a cup of coffee or sandwiches, which, truth be told, were just above average. Besides, winter had arrived in Moscow as it usually did: without a warning and with a vengeance. Maxim was still in denial and was wearing only a white t-shirt, gray cargo pants, and a gray windbreaker. He still wore his black aviator shades even though a thick and depressing grayish layer of clouds had blanketed the city, hovering just above the tip of the skyscrapers.

  When he came to the intersection across from the café, Maxim lowered his sunglasses to the tip of his nose. He had a nose that belonged in a Rembrandt painting, the one that showed Jesus with long flowing hair and a long narrow nose. Unlike Jesus, though, Maximillian had short, clean-cut brown hair. The sharp wind gusts were toying with his hair, so he brushed it back.

  Then he fixed the collar of his jacket and glanced at the mirror-like glass of the nearby store, pretending he was window-shopping. In fact, he was checking over his shoulder. He had noticed a couple of men who seemed to be following him as soon as he left the headquarters. He could be mistaken, because this was a busy street. Perhaps they were simply going about their own business, which was taking them in his direction. Or perhaps they were after him, surveillance from the opposition, whoever that might be: the CIA, MI6, or a host of agents from other foreign intelligence agencies operating in Moscow.

  There were two types of surveillance: covert—where the objective was to stealthily follow the subject and gather as much intelligence as possible, like where he was going, what was he doing, or who he was meeting with—and overt—where the objective was to make known their presence and unnerve the subject, spooking them into irrational actions. They might decide to make a phone call, which could be intercepted and monitored, or call in for backup, with damning consequences.