by Will Jordan
Still, they were on their way. They had taken the first step. The next step would lead them to Russia, to Demochev’s killers, and hopefully to Anya.
‘I’ll be grateful when this is over,’ he said, meaning every word. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a few phone calls myself.’
Drake waited until he was outside in the embassy courtyard before firing up his cellphone. It had been returned to him, along with his other possessions, by the security staff at the gate. He wouldn’t put it past the FSB to fit a listening device within the phone’s casing, though in this case he’d left a ‘tell’ – a tiny piece of red plastic inside that would fall out the moment anyone opened it.
Satisfied that all was well, he dialled Frost’s number. Miranova might have shown a little faith in him, but he doubted the same could be said of her FSB masters.
As he’d expected, Frost picked up right away. ‘How’s it going?’
‘We’re in business,’ he replied simply.
‘Great. Not sure if I should be celebrating or shitting bricks.’
‘A little of both, I suspect,’ Drake advised. ‘Listen, I need something else from you. I need you to do some digging on two people – Viktor Surovsky and Anika Miranova.’
‘Ryan, I’m shocked. You telling me you don’t trust our Russian comrades?’
Drake glanced over his shoulder. The security agent who had escorted him into the building was watching him through the plate-glass windows of the reception area, his face impassive. ‘I don’t trust anyone, least of all the FSB. But if someone’s got you by the balls, you want to know if they’re going to squeeze.’
‘What a lovely image. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up on them.’
‘Thanks. Tell the others to meet me at the Russian embassy when you’re done. We’ve got a flight to catch.’
‘Can’t wait,’ she said, her sarcasm obvious.
Part Two
Incursion
Of the thirty-two hostage-takers at Beslan, the majority had been remanded to FSB custody for suspected terrorist activity in the months leading up to the massacre. All were subsequently released without explanation.
Chapter 19
Russian airspace, eight hours later
One thing Drake had to commend the FSB on – when it came to getting from place to place, they did it in style. No expense had been spared in the Ilyushin IL-96M executive airliner that had ferried Demochev and his team to DC only the previous day, from the luxury leather seating to the cutting-edge workstations to the fully equipped communications centre just aft of the cockpit. There was even a small drinks bar at the rear of the plane, though Drake had opted to steer clear of it so far. He had enough problems without adding alcohol to the mix.
So far at least, things seemed to be going to plan. Frost had duly produced her doctored image of the tattooed man, choosing one of the passengers on Anya’s flight to become their fake suspect. On the face of it they seemed to have a pretty solid case, and Drake’s photographic evidence combined with the revelation that another attack could be imminent had been enough to convince Miranova to split the investigation into two subgroups.
Frost and McKnight had duly been dispatched to Norilsk to follow up on the stolen explosives, while Drake and Mason, accompanied by Miranova and several other FSB agents, were en route to Grozny. All things being equal, they expected to land there about an hour ahead of Anya’s flight, giving them plenty of time to set their trap.
Drake felt a twinge of sympathy for the innocent man they had chosen, knowing he was likely to be in for a rough time when the FSB caught up with him. Still, they would hopefully realise their mistake sooner or later and send him on his way. Drake himself would be left with some serious explaining to do; he only hoped he’d accomplished his real mission by the time that happened.
He was disturbed from this dark contemplation when Miranova, seated at a small workstation near the front of the aircraft, beckoned him over. Gripping the headrests to steady himself as they hit some light turbulence, he made his way forwards and sat down opposite her, easing himself into one of the padded leather chairs. Mason joined them a moment or two later.
‘I have been going over the deployment plan at Grozny airport. You should familiarise yourselves with it,’ she began. ‘In addition to myself and the operatives on this flight, we have six agents from our regional bureau situated at various points throughout the arrivals area, ready to move in on my signal. Our best chance to find our target will be in the disembarkation area, where the terminal creates a natural choke point. Once we have a confirmed sighting, we will move in, surround the target and subdue him.’
‘And where are we supposed to be in all this?’ Drake couldn’t help asking.
‘The two of you will keep your distance,’ she said. ‘I do not want either of you directly involved in the takedown. This is to be an FSB-only operation.’
Mason frowned. ‘You realise you might learn more by tailing this guy instead of arresting him?’
‘My superiors feel it is too dangerous. If we try to follow him then we risk being compromised,’ she explained. ‘This way we guarantee a prisoner that we can question. Believe me, we will find out everything he knows.’
‘And if he doesn’t feel like talking?’ Mason asked.
Her dark eyes held a dangerous glint. ‘We can be very persuasive.’
Drake didn’t doubt it. The FSB didn’t exactly have a good track record when it came to human-rights abuses. Then again, neither did the CIA. Both sides tacitly recognised that ‘coercive interrogation’, better known as torture, was a vital weapon in the arsenal. They just preferred not to talk about it.
‘I bet you can,’ Mason added in a faintly derogatory tone.
Miranova was quick to pick up on it, and cocked her head. ‘Do you have a problem with this, Agent Mason?’
‘Let’s just call it what it is. We’re talking about torture here, based on circumstantial evidence at best.’ Mason folded his arms and met Miranova’s gaze without flinching. ‘You know this guy might actually be innocent?’
‘Five of my fellow agents are dead, plus a senior director of the FSB. Men with families, children, people who will never see them again. The group responsible didn’t have any reservations about what they did, and our evidence suggests they are planning another attack. If one man has to suffer some discomfort to put a stop to this, I can live with it.’
‘Is that the official FSB line?’
Miranova snorted with amusement. ‘If you are here to lecture me about the evils of our repressive country, maybe you should look to yourself first,’ she suggested. ‘What exactly do you think happens at Guantanamo Bay, or Abu Ghraib prison, or Parwan in Afghanistan? The CIA’s hands are just as bloody as ours, Agent Mason. They are simply better at washing it off.’
This conversation was going nowhere fast, and Drake knew it. Squabbling amongst themselves was exactly what he’d sought to avoid, and he had to fight to hold in check his mounting anger towards Mason. What the fuck was the man doing provoking Miranova?
‘Cole, why don’t you stretch your legs and grab me a coffee?’ he suggested, without looking at the man. He didn’t want Mason to see the look in his eyes.
‘You want me to help you drink it too?’ Mason asked irritably.
‘Go now, Cole.’
Mason hesitated a moment, his hostile gaze still on Miranova, then finally seemed to relent. ‘Of course,’ he said, slowly rising from his chair. ‘Not like I’ve got anything better to do.’
Miranova watched him go, waiting until he was well out of earshot before leaning back in her seat. She had remained thoroughly unruffled throughout the confrontation, as if Mason were no more than a passing irritation to be patiently endured, but Drake could see her relax a little as the man departed.
‘Interesting company you keep,’ she observed dryly.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Drake said, irritated at Mason for causing such needless friction before they were even on the ground. ‘H
e was out of order. It won’t happen again.’
‘You are not responsible for his thoughts,’ she said, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. ‘But tell me, is everyone at Langley so prejudiced against us?’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’
In truth, the FSB were seen by most as nothing but a different incarnation of the KGB; the enemy from behind the Iron Curtain that had been the Agency’s nemesis for decades. Old habits died hard in a place like Langley.
Miranova didn’t seem convinced by his words. For a moment, he caught a look of sadness, of disappointment in her dark eyes.
‘I don’t blame you, you know,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For hating us.’ She said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if it were something that both of them already knew and accepted. ‘I understand why you would feel that way. We are different to you, born from different circumstances and serving different needs. Because of that you see us as oppressors, as criminals, as torturers. But the truth is, we are what we need to be. And we do what we need to do to survive, to keep our country safe. The men we face are ruthless and focused on nothing but their final objective. If we expect to defeat them, we must be as they are. We must think as they think.’
‘Didn’t Friedrich Nietzsche say something about the dangers of fighting monsters?’ Drake said, referencing the famous quote describing the dangers of ruthlessly pursuing a goal regardless of the cost. He knew that better than anyone.
He saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes. ‘I believe he also said that fear is the mother of morality.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’ He had pretty much reached the limits of his philosophical knowledge.
‘My point is that we can leave no room for fear. Not in ourselves, or those we work with,’ she added, with a meaningful glance in Mason’s direction.
‘He’ll see this through,’ Drake promised, not sure how confident he felt. Mason certainly wasn’t afraid to face danger, but his behaviour so far had been inconsistent at best, and downright insubordinate at worst. Eighteen months of inactivity hadn’t just eroded his skills as an operative, but apparently changed his outlook on dealing with others.
‘As you say,’ Miranova conceded, though she didn’t look convinced. ‘And you? Do you have the stomach for this, Agent Drake?’
If she had met him five or six years ago, she wouldn’t have asked that question. He had been a very different man back then, fighting a very different kind of war. He wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done as a black operative, but he knew one thing for certain – they had left their mark on him for ever. The lessons he’d learned back then would never leave him.
He noticed a faint smile on Miranova’s face as her eyes met his. ‘I think I know the answer already,’ she said, suddenly intrigued by the man sitting before her. ‘Tell me, what is it you said you did for the CIA?’
Drake could feel himself tensing up. ‘I find people.’
‘But it was not always this way.’ It was delivered as a simple statement of fact.
She‘d know from his body language that she was right. There was little point in pretending otherwise.
‘We’ve all done things we’d rather leave behind.’ His tone was carefully neutral. He was still on edge, and couldn’t help wondering how much she really knew about him. ‘I imagine it’s the same for you.’
Miranova settled back in her seat, satisfied to have her theory validated. She said nothing further, though he was uncomfortably aware that her gaze remained on him, cool and assessing.
‘Forgive me,’ she said a few moments later. ‘Perhaps we could start again, Agent Drake? If we are going to be working together, I would prefer we did it amicably.’
‘It’s not “Agent”.’
She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You called me Agent Drake. I’m not an agent – that’s not how it works in the CIA,’ he explained. ‘I’m a case officer.’
‘So what should I call you? Case Officer Drake?’
‘You could start with Ryan. I never could be arsed with formalities.’
That seemed to suit her. ‘Anika,’ she said in return.
‘Good to meet you, Anika.’ He reached over the table and shook her hand; a gesture which she apparently found quite amusing.
‘And you, Ryan.’
Deciding to leave while the conversation was on a high, Drake gestured to the galley at the rear of the plane. ‘I’d better see how that coffee’s doing,’ he said, excusing himself.
In truth, he was eager to have a word with Mason. Drake might have managed to salvage something from the earlier disagreement, but that didn’t change the fact that Mason had very nearly dropped them both in the shit.
‘Hey, buddy,’ Mason said nonchalantly as he approached, holding out the coffee he’d just finished making. His earlier anger and belligerence had inexplicably vanished. ‘Milk and no sugar, right?’
‘What the fuck was that, Cole?’ Drake demanded, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard. Only his eyes betrayed the depth of his anger. ‘Do you actually want us to fail?’
‘It’s called running interference,’ his friend said, laying the cup down. ‘You just scored a touchdown because of me.’
‘Do I look like a football fan?’
‘Look, I gave you what you both needed – a common enemy. I took a pop at her, you stood up for her, now she trusts you a little more than she did before. She’ll be willing to listen to you, and take you at your word. You’re welcome, by the way.’
Drake hesitated, briefly daunted by Mason’s casual rationale. It was the clichéd good-cop, bad-cop routine employed in movie interrogation scenes.
‘You could have warned me,’ he said, still angry that Mason had taken such a gamble without bothering to discuss it. ‘That could have gone a lot worse.’
Mason shrugged, apparently unconcerned. ‘Wouldn’t have been authentic then. Anyway, I know you better than that. You’re good with people. Especially the ladies, though Christ knows what they see in you. I knew you’d win her round.’
Drake was in no mood for flattery. ‘I’m not in the mood for games, Cole.’
‘Neither am I. I’m helping you win their trust, and it’s working. So relax, would you? You should know me by now.’
He wasn’t so sure about that.
‘Look, things have changed since we last worked together,’ Drake said, forcing calm into his voice. ‘You have no idea the kind of danger we live in every day. If you did, then believe me you wouldn’t be so eager to get back into the Agency. Either way, next time you have an idea like this, do me a favour – don’t do it.’
Just for a moment, Drake saw the same rippling undercurrent of anger and resentment he’d seen when Frost questioned his injury. It was a mere glimpse, but it was there all the same.
‘Fair enough, Ryan. We’ll do it your way,’ he said, his voice oddly calm. He glanced down at the cup still resting on the shelf beside him. ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’
He moved past Drake, heading for his seat.
Drake watched him in brooding silence, wishing he knew what was going on in the man’s head. The situation was delicate enough without him rocking the boat.
He was about to rejoin Miranova when his phone went off. It was Frost.
‘Yeah, Keira?’
‘Can you talk freely?’ the young woman began.
Drake glanced over at Miranova, seated on the other side of the conference table. She had been watching the interplay between himself and Mason with some interest, but had now returned to her work.
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. I’ve done some digging on your buddy Surovsky. The Agency keeps a detailed dossier on him, so most of my work was done for me.’
‘Can you give me the short version?’
‘He’s not a man to fuck with,’ she said simply. ‘He’s old-school KGB, did a lot of counter-insurgency work back in the eighties, especially in Afghanistan. Apparen
tly he had a reputation for brutality, especially when it came to interrogation. The Agency even gave him the code name Sickle. Anyway, he transitioned into the FSB after the Cold War and went quiet for a few years, mostly moving through different admin positions. It wasn’t until 2003 that he popped up again.’
‘So what happened?’ Drake asked.
‘Russia got hit by a bunch of terrorist attacks from Chechen separatists. They blew up an apartment complex in Moscow, downed a couple of airliners and shot up a school in Beslan. Needless to say, the boys in the Kremlin weren’t pleased with the FSB. The hardliners in Moscow were demanding action, so Surovsky was shoehorned in as interim leader. He must have done something right, because domestic terrorism was all but wiped out after that. Even organised crime’s taken a big hit. And most important, Surovsky’s still in power five years later. Not bad for an interim leader, huh?’
Drake could guess that Surovsky’s crackdown had been orchestrated with the same brutal efficiency he’d learned in places like Afghanistan. No wonder he’d been so angered by the attack in DC – his reputation had just taken a serious hit.
‘He doesn’t seem like the sort to step down voluntarily,’ Drake agreed. ‘What about the other search?’
‘Miranova? Not much. She’s been with the FSB since the late nineties, started out working undercover against organised crime – stakeouts, drugs busts, that kind of thing. In 2005 she moved into anti-terrorism. She was a senior advisor to Anton Demochev.’
Drake rubbed his jaw. Russian organised crime had flourished in the wake of the USSR’s collapse. Now it was a world unto itself, the brutality and ruthlessness of its rank and file members making the Mafia look like children’s entertainers by comparison. Working undercover against such people must have taken nerves of steel.
Miranova had just gone up a little in his estimation.
‘Good work, Keira. Thanks.’
‘No problem. I’ve got nothing else to do on this flight,’ she admitted. ‘Just answer me one thing, Ryan. What’s our situation?’
‘SNAFU.’