Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  Even Drake was a little out of breath by the time they halted outside a room on the top floor. The security agent glanced at him, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he swiped his card through the electronic reader. The doors clicked once as the locks disengaged, and swung inwards to reveal an expansive conference suite.

  With thick carpeted floors, a polished wooden conference table surrounded by expensive leather chairs and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a fine view of the city, it was clearly the kind of room reserved for high-level briefings and important visitors. Drake should have felt honoured, but his mind was on other matters at that moment.

  The room’s only occupant was standing by the reinforced windows, staring pensively out at the buildings of central DC beyond. Hearing the buzz of the door’s electronic locks disengaging, she turned to face him. For the first time since he’d met her, Drake took a moment to really look at Miranova.

  She was in her mid-to-late thirties, he guessed. No longer young and inexperienced, either as an operative or as a woman, but still with a certain vitality and energy about her that only youth could impart. She was of pale complexion, in stark contrast to the dark, almost black hair that he suspected was dyed. He could see the slightly artificial glint of it in the electric lights overhead.

  Her features stopped short of beautiful, at least by classic standards. Her nose was a little too long, her mouth a little too wide, her cheekbones a little too prominent. A thin scar, long since healed and faded to silvery grey, traced its way along her jawline on the left side, suggesting she’d been glassed or knifed at some point. She could have used make-up to conceal it, but hadn’t.

  And yet despite this, there was something undeniably attractive about her. Perhaps it was that same lack of perfection that made her more human, that somehow made the whole greater than the sum of its parts. Or perhaps it was the unselfconscious manner in which she bore the facial scar, knowing it was nothing to be ashamed of.

  In either case, he sensed in Miranova a tough, resourceful and confident personality. The kind of traits Drake normally found appealing.

  Like himself, she’d showered and changed into fresh clothes since last night. All in all, her appearance was much improved from the bruised, bloodied and bedraggled figure Drake had first encountered in that dimly lit storage lock-up the previous evening. Still, he was surprised to see her back on duty so soon after an ordeal like that. Clearly she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said FSB agents were expected to keep going no matter what the circumstances.

  ‘Agent Drake,’ she said, looking both surprised and relieved to see him. ‘I did not expect to see you again.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to be seen,’ he said as the door was closed behind him. ‘But things have taken a different turn since last night. I came here because I wanted to speak to you face to face.’

  She folded her arms, regarding him warily from the other side of the room. ‘About what, exactly?’

  Drake helped himself to a seat at the conference table, taking his time about it. He had to play this one cool, had to make Miranova believe he was holding all the cards.

  Once he was comfortable, he looked up at her. ‘Over the past few hours we’ve been running our own investigation into the attack,’ he said, beginning his gambit. ‘I can’t go into details yet for obvious reasons, but we’ve found evidence linking the explosives at the storage lock-up to a mining operation in Norilsk.’

  At this, her eyes opened wider. ‘In Siberia?’

  ‘That’s right. Our working theory is that they were stolen or smuggled from a storage warehouse out there. Finding the person who supplied those explosives might just give us a lead on the group behind the attack. We also have reason to believe at least one of the men behind the attack may have boarded a flight to Chechnya a short time ago. You don’t need me to tell you that both of these places are inside Russian sovereign territory. The CIA can’t send people in without the permission of your government.’

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Apparently her command of English was sufficient to convey her sarcasm.

  ‘All right, let’s be honest with each other. Things are … delicate between Russia and America after this attack. The last thing the Agency needs right now is to be caught sending covert teams into Russian territory.’ He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table, feigning frustration with the politicians who were holding him back from doing what he knew to be right. ‘The upshot is, we’re stuck. They won’t go near this thing, even though we’ve got credible intelligence to act on.’

  Miranova was neither stupid nor naive. It was obvious enough to her where this conversation was leading. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are suggesting a joint investigation, Agent Drake.’

  Drake made eye contact with her. ‘You’re not wrong.’

  Miranova said nothing to that, though he could sense her pondering the implications, the difficulties, the dangers and the possible rewards of what he was proposing.

  ‘Look, we have a team standing by and ready to go,’ he said. ‘They’re good people, and I’ve worked with all of them before. If there’s anything at all to be found, they’ll find it. All we need is your cooperation. Get us permission to enter Russia, let us do what we do best, and we’ll find these men for you.’

  ‘And what would you do with them, if you found them?’

  He shrugged. ‘Our goal is to see them punished. Who does the punishing doesn’t make much difference to us.’

  Watching him for a long moment in silence, Miranova walked away from the window, took a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Tell me, Agent Drake, do you speak for the whole of the CIA on this?’

  She was testing him, trying to make him sweat. This was where he had to concede something, had to make her think she’d rumbled him. If he tried to present her with a deal that sounded too good to be true, she’d never buy it.

  ‘Like I said, the Agency’s not prepared to make a move on this. Not officially, at least. The truth is they’d prefer to distance themselves entirely from this whole mess.’

  She cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you?’

  ‘It seems to me that stepping back isn’t helping anyone. I prefer to act, and I told my bosses as much. They’ll support me in the sense that they won’t actively stop me, but they also won’t officially acknowledge what I’m doing.’

  ‘Unless you succeed.’

  He smiled a little. ‘Exactly. Then they’ll take the credit, so it’s win-win for them.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s the deal I’m offering. Let me and my team in. We’ll share our intelligence with you, work to follow up leads, and if we happen to take these men down at the end of it all, they’re all yours.’

  It seemed like a good deal on the surface, but clearly Miranova was no stranger to such games. ‘And what do you get out of this, Agent Drake?’ she asked. ‘It seems you are offering us much, and asking nothing in return.’

  He smiled, playing the part of the ruthlessly ambitious opportunist. ‘The Agency might take the credit on the surface, but behind closed doors it’ll be a different story. Especially if you make sure they understand how invaluable my help was.’

  He saw a knowing look in her eye. Taking risks to advance one’s career was apparently not a concept unique to the CIA. Now they were talking the same language.

  ‘I’m offering you my help, Agent Miranova. If I fail, you lose nothing. If I succeed, it’ll cost you nothing. You’re not likely to get a better deal, but it’s your choice.’

  For the next few seconds she was silent, her natural caution and pragmatism vying with her desire for vengeance. Then gradually he saw her expression change as one emotion began to gain control. He saw her jaw tighten, saw her chin raised a little, and in that moment he knew that he had her.

  ‘I will make some calls,’ she finally said.

  Chapter 18

  Like all of the secure conference rooms at the Russian embassy, the one now occupied by Drake and Miranova featured a sophisticated co
mmunications suite, allowing them to create high-speed encrypted data links to any computer or satellite comms array that was willing to receive them. In this case, that meant setting up a teleconference with the FSB’s central office in Moscow. Miranova’s job was to convince them that Drake’s offer was legitimate and had a reasonable chance of success.

  Drake was no expert on the Russian language, but it was obvious from the tone of her voice and the expression on her face that she was dealing with a situation of both gravity and sensitivity.

  Still, after several minutes she finally relaxed a little. Cupping a hand over her cellphone, she turned to Drake. ‘We are being transferred to the office of Viktor Surovsky, the FSB’s director. He wants to speak with us personally,’ she explained, seemingly in some doubt as to whether or not that was a good thing. ‘They are setting up the satellite link now.’

  Sure enough, the big flat-screen television mounted on the wall at the far end of the room flickered into life, displaying a test screen for several seconds while a secure link was established. And then, just like that, Drake found himself staring at the grim, unsmiling face of the FSB’s Director of Operations.

  Drake knew little of Viktor Surovsky’s history beyond the fact that he’d served in the KGB during the Cold War, but he’d seen file photographs of the man and had even watched a couple of videos of him at public events. However, the reality confronting him on the TV screen was quite different from the carefully managed public image.

  The first thing that stood out was his age. He couldn’t tell if Surovsky’s public appearances had been recorded under more forgiving lighting conditions or if he’d been wearing stage make-up, but the face on the video link clearly belonged to a man whose life had been neither short nor easy.

  His skin was lined and weathered, pockmarked and sagging visibly under his jaw. His cheeks and eyes were hollow as if he’d lost a lot of weight in a short time, his hair grey and thinning. His lips were compressed into a thin line as he stared back at them, his dark eyes surveying the almost-empty conference room.

  ‘Director Surovsky,’ Drake began, feeling as though he had to say something to break the uneasy silence. ‘It’s an honour to speak with you, sir. I’d like to say how sorry I am for the loss—’

  ‘Spare me your apologies,’ Surovsky replied impatiently. ‘Apologies will not bring dead men back to life.’

  Not one for small talk then, Drake concluded, though he couldn’t exactly blame him for being abrupt. With the death of several agents and one of his senior executive officers, Viktor Surovsky’s day had hardly got off to a good start.

  The old man’s piercing gaze switched to Miranova. At least, Drake assumed he was looking at Miranova on his own video feed. The different positions of camera and screen meant that he was staring at a point somewhere over her left shoulder.

  What followed was a minute or two of dialogue in Russian, with Surovsky doing most of the talking and Miranova somehow managing to squeeze in the odd sentence here and there. He couldn’t be sure, but Drake got the impression she was slowly starting to win the director round to whatever she was proposing. Her face remained a mask of stoic self-control throughout the discussion. Somehow Drake doubted that emotional outpourings would cut much ice with a man like Surovsky.

  Still, with some agreement apparently reached, the old man turned his attention back to Drake, as if he were a tiresome task that had been put off as long as possible. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Ryan Drake, sir. I’m a search-and-rescue specialist with the CIA.’ He certainly wasn’t going to go into details about the highly classified Shepherd programme with this man. The term ‘search-and-rescue’ seemed a lot less threatening.

  ‘Agent Miranova tells me you were useful in tracking down Deputy Director Demochev,’ he said, with the faintest nod of acknowledgement. ‘You have my thanks for this.’

  If expression and body language were anything to go by, that was a complete lie. Surovsky’s words had no more meaning than if he’d been reading from a teleprompter. Still, it was a gesture of recognition, even if it was a fake one.

  ‘I’m only sorry we couldn’t recover him alive,’ Drake replied.

  ‘As am I,’ the director confirmed, his voice heavy with implied threat. ‘Mr Drake, you can assume I was not pleased to learn that one of my best men, along with his protective detail that I sent to your country on a peaceful mission, was attacked and killed just minutes after touching down. You can also assume that I want the cowards responsible for this to answer for what they did.’

  If Drake had been wearing a tie at that moment, he’d have been sorely tempted to reach up and loosen it. ‘We’re already pursuing a number of leads, sir.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ His contempt was thinly veiled at best. ‘But you will pardon me if I don’t entrust the entire investigation to the CIA. I have already dispatched an investigative team of my own. Once they land at Andrews Air Force Base I will expect you to turn over to them all information relating to this attack.’

  Drake knew right away that such a proposal wasn’t going to wash. The idea of allowing a Russian intelligence group free rein to operate in central DC was absurd. The idea of turning the entire investigation over to them was even worse. Surovsky was pushing, seeing how far he would go before he drew the line. He had to bring this man around to his way of thinking, and he had to do it fast.

  ‘You’ve spoken very candidly, sir. So I’ll do the same,’ he said, going on the assumption that Surovsky wasn’t one for diplomatic bullshit. ‘It’s no coincidence that this attack was launched on American soil, while your people were on their way to broker a deal between our two agencies. It seems logical to assume at least part of the goal was to split us apart and make us waste time throwing blame around. If we start fighting over who has jurisdiction here, we’re giving them exactly what they want.’

  ‘I assume you have an alternative?’ the FSB director prompted.

  ‘We’ve both lost people. We both know the CIA has to conduct its own investigation, regardless of what the FSB does. The question you have to ask yourself is what you want to do now. You want to sit on your hands for the next ten hours while your own team flies here? Fine. You want our two agencies to be working against each other and duplicating each other’s efforts? I can’t stop you. But it seems to me it would make a lot more sense for us to work together.’

  Surovsky said nothing. He just sat there waiting for Drake to go on. At least he hadn’t shouted him down, or even worse, killed the video link right away. The older man’s lack of objection encouraged him to go on.

  ‘Our evidence trail seems to be leading us back to Russia, and if we follow it quickly then we might have a chance of stopping the group behind this, but we can’t do it without you. My proposal is a joint operation, using my investigative team and overseen by Agent Miranova. You’ll be kept in the loop on everything we’re doing, and you’ll have equal access to any intel we recover.’ He kept his eyes locked with Surovsky’s, trying not to let his nerves show. ‘We both want to find the men who did this, so let’s go after them together.’

  Surovsky leaned back in his chair, surveying Drake for a long moment in thoughtful silence. Drake said nothing further. He’d made his case as best he could; now it was up to the FSB director to decide whether he was prepared to buy what Drake was selling.

  ‘Assuming I agreed to this, I would want your guarantee that if we catch these criminals, they will be remanded to FSB custody,’ he said after a long moment.

  As far as Drake was concerned, Surovsky could do whatever the hell he wanted with Demochev’s killers – he had no sympathy for them. Anya, however, was another matter. No way was he letting this man get his hands on her.

  Somehow he had to get to her before the FSB did, had to find a way to reach out to her, to work out why she was involved in this and what she was trying to achieve. And more important than that, he had to stop her before she made the situation even worse.

  He
had no idea how he was going to accomplish any of those things at that moment, but he would cross those bridges when he came to them. Right now the priority was getting the FSB on his side, and convincing them he was on theirs.

  ‘You have it,’ he said without hesitation.

  The FSB director nodded slowly, his expression one of grudging agreement. ‘Then I accept your proposal. For now.’

  Whatever rush of relief Drake felt was soon dispelled as the FSB director’s expression darkened and he leaned forward, staring right into the camera.

  ‘But consider yourself warned. If you withhold information from us, if you try to manipulate this arrangement for your own benefit, or if I or Agent Miranova suspect you are serving another agenda, there will be serious repercussions between our two countries. And for you, Mr Drake. Do I make myself clear?’

  It didn’t take a genius to see what he was hinting at. If Drake tried to play games with them, they had a game of their own – How many years must you spend in a gulag before you learn not to play games?

  ‘You do,’ Drake assured him.

  Surovsky nodded. ‘Agent Miranova, I will expect daily reports from you on this investigation. I also expect to see some tangible progress within forty-eight hours. Good luck.’

  Reaching out, he pressed a button to kill the link. The screen went blank, and for several seconds the conference room was silent. It felt like the aftermath of a hurricane; stunned survivors crawling out of their basements to survey the damage.

  ‘Must be a great guy to work for,’ Drake remarked.

  Miranova gave him a disapproving look. ‘Director Surovsky has had much to deal with since yesterday. You should be grateful he even agreed to speak with you.’

  Drake didn’t feel particularly grateful at that moment. An awful lot of things had to go right for him to achieve the result he desired. And all it took to ruin everything was for a single thing to go wrong.