Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  She would never again be the soldier she had once been.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as warm tears carved little tracks down her grimy cheeks. She had come down to it at last. The end of the line.

  She was going to die here in this filthy, windowless prison cell. Cowed, beaten, broken down. This wasn’t the end she had imagined for herself; the glorious last stand where she could at least meet her death with honour and courage. Where she could die as a soldier should.

  Not this. Not here. Not now.

  Drawing her knees up to her chest, she at last gave in to the quiet sobs that she had been holding back all day as absolute, crushing despair pressed down on her like a physical weight.

  Then suddenly she gasped, stirred from her grief by the horrible grating clang of a door being thrown open further down the block. She knew with terrible certainty what that sound meant.

  They were coming for her again.

  She felt her weary heart beat faster. Even now her broken and exhausted body was trying to help her survive, readying itself for the ancient, primal response to danger – fight or flight.

  She could do neither thing. Her hands were bound behind her back, and even if they weren’t she doubted she had the strength to put up much resistance now. She was helpless, utterly vulnerable.

  She could do nothing but lie there and wait for the end to come.

  Moscow, 24 December 2008

  Moving with the subtle grace born from long practice, Anya slowly lowered herself to the ground until she was kneeling on the cool earth. She reached out with both hands, allowing her fingers to gently brush the dew-covered grass stalks that swayed all around her, then bent down and wiped her hands across her face.

  The touch of the morning dew was cool and refreshing, helping to focus her mind and sharpen her thoughts, to prepare herself for what was coming today.

  She had performed this ritual many times in her life. It was one of the few things she had learned from her mother that she could still remember; some lingering vestige of the ancient beliefs that she kept alive.

  In her heart she knew that she no longer understood its context or purpose, that in her ignorance she was just blindly following a half-forgotten memory long devoid of meaning, but she did it anyway. Just for a moment or two it recalled some wispy shadow of the woman who had brought her into this world.

  Anya had often caught herself wondering what her mother would have thought of such a ritual being used before going into battle, whether she ever could have foreseen the future that lay ahead for her young daughter all those years ago.

  She had lost count of the number of actions she had fought, the number of men she had killed, the number of times she should have died but hadn’t. Almost everyone she had ever cared about, everyone she had trusted and tried to protect, was gone now. But somehow she remained in this life. Old, damaged and worn down, she defiantly stood when all the others had fallen.

  And once again she was going into the fray, risking her life to fight enemies she didn’t hate, serving a master she didn’t love. She had killed innocent men, betrayed those who trusted her, made herself a criminal and a terrorist. But it would be worth it, she told herself. To reach her final goal, it would all be worth it.

  The ritual complete, she lifted her head up, opened her eyes and took her first breath of the chill morning air. She was renewed, reborn, ready.

  ‘Forgive me,’ a soft voice said. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’

  Anya glanced over her shoulder to see Atayev standing a short distance away. She had been aware of a presence nearby, had heard the soft rustle of footsteps in the grass and known someone was watching her, but she had allowed it to pass.

  She had also known it would be him. This was their prearranged meeting spot, and at this early hour the chances of a random encounter were practically nil.

  ‘I’m finished,’ she said, rising up from the ground.

  The man looked uncharacteristically subdued and pensive, as if her actions had awoken a long-buried memory in him. ‘Who do you pray to?’

  To a casual observer it must have seemed as if she were praying, prostrating herself before the God of Islam or some other deity. Anya had never known such faith, and certainly had no need of it now.

  ‘I don’t,’ she replied flatly. ‘We live or we die. Prayer won’t change that.’

  ‘Spoken like a true soldier,’ he remarked, then paused for a moment as if considering his next words. ‘I used to pray to Him, every night. Can you believe that? Asking God to keep my wife and child safe, to give me the strength to protect them and provide for them. I used to believe that would be enough.’ She saw the flicker of a grim smile cross his face. ‘When I realised how wrong I was, when I realised He didn’t care about me or anyone else, it was the most … liberating moment of my life. It freed me, to do what I had to without fear, without conscience or remorse.’

  As he spoke, a change seemed to come over him. She saw that same cold, hard, remorseless look in his eyes that she’d seen when he emerged from Masalsky’s torture room. It was the same look she had seen in the eyes of many soldiers over the years – men who had witnessed such suffering and horror that it simply ceased to make an impression.

  The man standing before her, small and overweight and untrained, no longer cared about living or dying. And that made him more powerful and dangerous than the men he had pitted himself against.

  ‘When this is over and I’m dead, what do you suppose they’ll say about me?’ he asked. ‘That I was a murderer, a terrorist … a sadist?’

  He wasn’t asking for reassurance, for justification or comfort. His was a question born from idle curiosity; a man contemplating the end of his life and how it would be weighed up in the final analysis.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ Anya replied. ‘What people say about you won’t change what you did, or why you did it. That’s what is important.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded. ‘Is it the same for you?’

  Anya met his searching gaze without hesitation. Perhaps more than anyone she’d ever met, she felt as if she could be honest with him. He wouldn’t judge her, no matter what she said. ‘We each do what we have to, Buran. I can live with the choices I’ve made. That’s all I have to say.’

  She knew now why he had sought her out this morning, why he wanted to speak privately with her. He had come to say goodbye, in his own way. In all likelihood they would never see each other after today.

  ‘The others are waiting for us,’ he said, assuming a more businesslike air now. ‘All except Goran. I haven’t heard from him since last night.’

  ‘You won’t,’ Anya promised him. ‘He turned against us. I had to deal with him.’

  ‘I see.’ There was no emotion, no regret over the man’s death. And no question over how it had come about. ‘Do you think he has compromised us?’

  She had asked herself the same question many times since last night. Unfortunately, they would only find out for sure when they put their plan into effect. ‘Would it make any difference?’

  Atayev shook his head. Like her, he was committed now. The only choice for either of them was to see this through.

  ‘We should leave. We don’t have much time.’

  Anya nodded, rallying herself for this last effort. One more move, and her part in the game would be over. Her only hope was that Drake wouldn’t cross her path again.

  Chapter 51

  Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow,

  24 December 2008

  Christmas Eve in Moscow’s main airport was about as far removed as it was possible to be from the world of war-torn cities and abandoned airfields that Drake had found himself in for the past few days. Everywhere he looked he saw cheerful decorations, robotic Santas, Christmas trees festooned with lights, expensive retailers selling last-minute gifts for frazzled travellers, and restaurants and coffee shops packed with customers.

  The atmosphere of excitement, expectation and relie
f was the sort that one could only find in an airport on Christmas Eve. Most of the people here were on the final leg of long journeys home to spend the holiday period with their families.

  For Drake too this airport represented the last leg of a journey that had carried him from Washington to Chechnya, and finally here to the Russian capital. Unfortunately for him, there was no family gathering or roast turkey waiting at the end of it.

  The flight from Chechnya to the Russian capital had lasted scarcely more than four hours – a short hop compared to the transatlantic flight from DC. For him it had felt like a lifetime, not helped by the tense, brooding silence between himself and Mason. Miranova had been quick to pick up on it, but wise enough not to press either man on the source of their disagreement.

  ‘What’s the set-up?’ Drake asked as they strode through the arrivals area, doing his best to get his head back in the game.

  There was no messing around with passports or immigration control here. This was the FSB’s home turf, and Miranova had seen to it that they passed straight through airport security with little more than a wave of her badge. Tourists and stressed-out businessmen waiting in long lines watched them with a mixture of suspicion and envy.

  ‘We report to FSB headquarters at Lubyanka for our final briefing, then deploy at the rendezvous site and wait for Kalyuyev,’ she explained. ‘Our field teams have him under surveillance. The moment he makes a move, we will know.’

  ‘How long do we have?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Just over three hours.’

  Three hours, Drake thought. He couldn’t help wondering what Anya was doing at that moment, how she was preparing herself for the rendezvous. He didn’t imagine she was nervous or frightened. He couldn’t envisage her ever feeling such emotions.

  But then, she didn’t know what was waiting for her.

  No sooner had they reached the main concourse than a man in a suit and heavy overcoat strode over from a nearby seating area. Straight away Drake knew two things – he was FSB, and he was here to deliver bad news.

  He was a thoroughly average man, neither tall nor short, neither slender nor overweight. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, with greying brown hair of medium length, side parted, and a neatly trimmed grey beard that somehow made him look like a living propaganda picture of the Revolution. His face, craggy and gaunt, was lined and hardened in the way that comes from living life that’s neither short nor easy.

  He shook hands with Miranova, ignoring her two companions for now.

  ‘Agent Miranova,’ he began, his voice deep but smooth, in stark contrast to his rugged appearance. He spoke English, probably for Drake’s benefit. ‘My name is Alexei Kamarov, Internal Security Directorate.’

  That was enough to grab the attention of both Drake and Miranova. The Internal Security Directorate was an elite subunit of the FSB, effectively acting as a special police force within the vast organisation. Each applicant had to be personally approved by the director himself, and they were only deployed in the most critical of situations.

  ‘I’m here to take over operational command of this investigation.’

  Miranova’s face paled visibly at this. She had requested an assault team to help with the takedown, not a new agent to head up the entire operation.

  ‘There must be some mistake, Kamarov,’ she protested. ‘This is my operation.’

  ‘Not any more.’ Reaching into his overcoat, he handed her a printed document. ‘Orders from Director Surovsky. He’s no longer confident you have the necessary … expertise for this. My team is taking over, effective immediately.’

  Drake met Miranova’s gaze, seeing the disbelief at this sudden switch in command structure. She was being sidelined, brushed aside and replaced with someone more reliable. Why this change had happened mere hours before a crucial operation, he had no idea.

  ‘So why did we fly all this way?’ Drake asked, making no effort to hide his frustration. ‘What do you expect us to do now?’

  Kamarov’s piercing gaze switched to him. ‘You must be—’

  ‘Tired and in no mood for power plays,’ Drake said before he could stop himself. ‘We had a deal with Surovsky. This was a joint investigation.’

  ‘And so it is. You will remain part of the investigation until this matter is concluded, Agent Drake,’ Kamarov said. It might have been seen as a conciliatory gesture, but his eyes told a different story. ‘But make no mistake, we’re in command here. The woman from Grozny is responsible for the deaths of two of our senior commanders – she will answer for this.’

  Neither Drake nor Miranova said anything.

  ‘Will this be a problem, Agent Miranova?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Her expression, however, told a different story.

  The older man nodded, the matter apparently decided. Not that there had been much to decide, Drake thought.

  ‘Good. Then I suggest we get moving.’

  The automatic doors opened ahead of them. Emerging into a world of blue skies and crisp white snow, they found themselves confronted by a pair of big silver BMW 3-Series saloons, gleaming and immaculate in the winter sun. The vehicles were a stark contrast to the yellow Lada taxis that littered the road.

  ‘Get in,’ Kamarov said, gesturing to the lead vehicle. ‘Time is short.’

  More than any other city on earth, the changing social and political winds of the past few centuries had left their mark on Moscow. Medieval churches and castles sat side by side with industrial factories, wide boulevards flanked by towering buildings of Stalinist architecture, blocks of high-rise concrete flats from the sixties and seventies, and ultra-modern steel-and-glass office and hotel complexes.

  And everywhere there was evidence of Russia’s new-found economic resurgence.

  Bentleys, Mercs, Aston Martins … everywhere Drake looked there were expensive luxury cars being driven by thick-necked bodyguards, ferrying rich men and beautiful young women to the Bolshoi or wherever the well-to-do hung out in Moscow.

  New skyscrapers, hotels, shopping centres and office blocks were flying up everywhere. Construction cranes, gantries and steel frames were visible from almost every street. Whoever had been smart enough to buy up property in Moscow after the Soviet Union fell apart must have been laughing all the way to the bank now.

  The city’s road system was designed like the spokes of a wheel, with motorways radiating outwards in all directions and a concentric series of ring roads circling the Kremlin – the spiritual and literal heart of the city. Their course south-east from the airport took them more or less right past the walls of the ancient fortress.

  When they stopped for a moment at the intersection of Tverskaya and Okhotny, Drake was just able to make out the vast sweep of Red Square backed by the Kremlin’s towering outer walls. The place was packed with tourists, most of them in big coach groups with guides busy spouting off about the history of the place. Others were milling around Lenin’s Mausoleum, probably annoyed that they had missed the brief period each day when it opened its doors to the public.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Miranova remarked.

  Drake didn’t reply. Thirty years ago this would have been considered the enemy’s back yard, and here he was about to walk through their front door.

  After fighting its way through traffic for another fifteen minutes, the big BMW at last rumbled to a halt at Lubyanka Square, the headquarters of the Federal Security Bureau.

  One thing Drake had to commend the Russians on – when it came to government offices, they really knew how to do things with flair. A massive, rectangular, yellow-bricked building fashioned in the neo-baroque style, it dominated a vast cobbled square the size of several football pitches.

  Now more than a century old, it had started life as the headquarters of an insurance company of all things. After the Revolution, the Bolsheviks had taken a liking to it and requisitioned it as the headquarters of the Cheka, the secret police back in the day. Since then it had been occupied by the NKVD, the KGB and
most recently the FSB.

  The name of its owners might have changed over the years, but its basic purpose hadn’t. Countless political dissidents, criminals and plain unlucky civilians had disappeared into its warren of underground cells and interrogation rooms, most of them ending up dead or deported to a gulag, never to return. There was even an old joke, told with typically grim Russian humour, about Lubyanka being the tallest building in Russia because you could see Siberia from its basement.

  Drake, however, soon found himself in a far more welcoming part of the building as he exited the official car and made his way in through the main entrance. The decor was lavish and sophisticated, reminding him more of a museum or art gallery than a working office complex. He was particularly impressed by the gigantic mural stretching across the tiled floor, depicting the FSB’s emblem of a two-headed eagle backed by a sword and shield.

  Another agent was waiting to receive them, and exchanged a few hushed words with Miranova as they hurried over to a bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby. Stony-faced security guards with automatic weapons watched them every step of the way.

  Arriving at the nearest elevator, Kamarov hit the call button, and a few seconds later the doors slid open with barely a sound.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Mason remarked as they whirred their way up. Beyond the elevator’s glass walls, the inner courtyard of the building stretched out beneath them.

  These days it held nothing more interesting than storage warehouses and a couple of delivery trucks, but back in Stalin’s day it had been the site of almost daily executions. To cover up the sound of gunshots, car engines had been run and allowed to backfire.

  The female FSB agent nodded agreement. ‘Lubyanka has a long history, a long memory. Like Russia herself.’

  Kamarov said nothing to this, and it was hard to tell what was going on behind the craggy, impassive mask of his face.

  A few minutes later all four of them, along with several other FSB field agents who would be on site during the operation, were gathered in one of the building’s richly furnished meeting rooms.