Betrayal

by Will Jordan

  In a flash, Drake’s earlier phone conversation with Frost leapt into his mind once more. A former KGB agent who operated in Afghanistan with brutal efficiency, who now had a vested interest in tracking down the men behind the attack in Washington. Instantly, the pieces assembled in his head like a puzzle whose solution suddenly became obvious.

  ‘Surovsky.’

  Viktor Surovsky: the golden boy in Russia’s war against terrorism and organised crime, the hard-line but nonetheless brilliant leader who had brought order from chaos, who had remade the FSB into an intelligence organisation to rival the best in the world.

  Another faint smile, this time one of grudging respect. ‘Indeed. But such a life did not suit our ambitious friend Viktor. He began looking for other ways to advance himself, until at last his attention came to rest on Chechnya. This was a place with many enemies to be overcome, just like Afghanistan. But how was a man to make a name for himself there? It is at this time in his life that a second man enters our story. A comrade of Viktor’s from the old days, a former Spetsnaz operative now working for the FSB’s counter-terrorist division.’

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  Roman Kalyuyev.

  ‘It was Kalyuyev who suggested that it was fear, not accomplishments, that brought men to power. Like St George and the dragon, he needed only to create a monster, and then slay it. Viktor, blinded by his own ambition, agreed immediately with this idea. Three separate targets were chosen to maximise civilian casualties – an apartment complex in Moscow, a pair of airliners, and last of all … a school.’

  Drake could hardly believe what he was hearing. Frost’s earlier summary of Surovsky’s career replayed in his mind.

  ‘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.’

  ‘The first two attacks were merely opening moves, designed to draw attention – Beslan was his masterstroke,’ Atayev went on. ‘Only an attack of that scale would give him the springboard he needed to launch himself into power. Using undercover agents, Viktor and Kalyuyev were able to convince Chechen militants that a major hostage crisis would be enough to bring Russia to the negotiating table. Demochev and Masalsky were bribed into cooperating. Masalsky was ordered to cease FSB surveillance of known Chechen insurgents in the weeks leading up to the attack, while Demochev made sure that the armed group was able to reach the school unchallenged.’

  ‘Demochev served as commander of a border security task force. He was in command of most of the military checkpoints in the area around the town.’

  Miranova’s words from the briefing earlier seemed like a mockery of Drake’s own incompetence now.

  ‘Masalsky was part of the FSB’s anti-terrorism directorate in the province. He was responsible for monitoring and apprehending suspected militants.’

  Demochev and Masalsky. Two men who had been mysteriously promoted to divisional leader positions instead of punished for their failures. Only now did Drake understand why. Only now did he perceive the pattern that had been in front of him the whole time.

  ‘When the crisis unfolded, Kalyuyev the anti-terrorist expert was flown in from Moscow to coordinate a rescue operation. But rescue was the last thing on his mind. His orders were to storm the school and make sure every one of the hostage-takers was killed – Viktor wanted no one left to speak out against him. And believe me, Kalyuyev executed his orders with great thoroughness.’

  Drake was appalled. Hundreds of men, women and children had died in the attack, caught in the crossfire between the two opposing forces. Had Kalyuyev really been willing to go so far?

  ‘And so we come at last to the endgame, where the true nature of Viktor’s plan is revealed. As the dust settled and the scale of the disaster became clear, the Russian people demanded action, their anger fuelled by leaked reports of police incompetence and cover-ups. Leaked by none other than Viktor himself. The government was desperate to find a scapegoat for the disaster, and quickly settled on the FSB. The existing leadership were either forced to resign or relegated to token positions, while our friend Viktor, the firefighter from Afghanistan, found himself promoted to the position of acting director. Kalyuyev meanwhile took much of the blame for the failed rescue operation and retired, several million dollars richer, of course.’

  Kalyuyev, the successful businessman living the high life in Moscow, who had left his FSB past behind with enough money to buy his way into virtually any company he chose.

  ‘Over the next few months, Viktor worked feverishly to consolidate his hold on power. Anyone who posed a threat was methodically hunted down and eliminated. Thousands were arrested and held without trial, while State control of the media was tightened, strangling the life out of Beslan. Foreign journalists and investigators who started asking too many questions were either assassinated or intimidated into silence. Just as Kalyuyev had said, fear became Viktor’s most powerful weapon. Fear of attack was what brought him to power, and fear of reprisal is what allows him to remain there unchallenged.’ He turned his head slowly look at Drake, his bespectacled eyes reflecting deep wells of grief and pain and years of pent-up fury. ‘And so ends our story, Mr Drake.’

  Drake was quite simply stunned by everything he’d heard. He never could have imagined the depth of the conspiracy they were dealing with, or the scale of the tragedy that had been allowed to play out.

  Only then did it finally occur to him that this man standing before him was no terrorist or freedom fighter, that he wasn’t driven by religious or political ideology, or a thirst for power or wealth. He had a far more personal connection to this.

  ‘If everything you’ve told me is true, then I’m not your enemy,’ Drake implored him. ‘I can help you. I can get you to America, give you protection, find a way to get your story out. You can make Surovsky answer for what he did.’

  The older man folded his arms and regarded Drake with quizzical amusement. ‘Why would I need your help?’

  ‘Don’t you get it? They’re on to you now. You managed to kill Masalsky and Demochev because they didn’t understand what you were doing, but Surovsky will be ready for you. You can’t beat someone like that with bombs and guns. And even if you could get to him, killing him would only make him into a martyr. If you want to bring him down, you have to do it the right way. Get me out of here and I’ll help you destroy the fucker.’

  At this, his captor merely shook his head. ‘You could be telling the truth. In which case you are a better man than I thought. But I already have all the help I need.’

  Glancing over Drake’s shoulder, he nodded to someone who had apparently been standing there, silent and unnoticed, throughout the whole conversation.

  Drake heard the soft thump of boots on the concrete floor and looked around as a woman walked into view. Tall, athletically built, with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Anya.

  Chapter 56

  ‘Goddamn it, Ryan. Pick up!’ McKnight seethed, pacing the small office while her cellphone rang out uselessly.

  Mason watched her in uneasy silence, wishing he could say or do something that would help. Unfortunately he had little to offer except bad news.

  True to his word, he had made excuses to his FSB minders and arranged an escort to the US embassy in Moscow – a big, square, seven-storey office block located in the Presnensky District less than a mile from the Kremlin. Constructed of steel and mirrored glass and concrete, its appearance more closely resembled a corporate headquarters than a diplomatic mission.

  That, however, was where the similarities ended. This particular corporate headquarters was surrounded by imposing perimeter walls and watchtowers, every inch of its property monitored by security cameras and guarded night and day by armed Marines.

  The Chief of Mission there had greeted his arrival with the same enthusiasm most men felt for a piece of dog shit stuck to their shoe. Still, a little negoti
ation on his part had granted him entry, and less than ten minutes later he had found himself reunited with Frost and McKnight, both of whom were eager for news on Drake.

  Neither had been impressed by the admission that he’d willingly left Drake to carry out his ill-conceived plan, and McKnight had wasted no time trying to raise him by phone. Thus far, however, she’d had no luck.

  ‘Fuck,’ McKnight hissed, abandoning her attempt. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘He won’t answer,’ Mason said gently. ‘He’ll know why you’re calling.’

  McKnight’s hazel eyes flicked to him, filled with concern and anger, though the latter seemed to be winning through. ‘And for good reason. Christ, the stupid son of a bitch is going to get himself killed.’

  ‘And you let him go through with it,’ Frost added with an accusing look at Mason.

  He avoided her gaze. ‘It was his call.’

  He heard her footsteps on the carpet, and turned around just as she squared up to him, having to tilt her head back to make eye contact.

  ‘And that’d be just fine with you, right, Cole?’ she snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. ‘Why should you give a shit now that Ryan’s got your crippled ass back on the books?’

  Batting her hand away with such force that even she was caught off guard, he took a step towards her with his fists clenched. ‘Fuck you, Keira. If you were a man, I swear to God I’d hammer you into the floor.’

  After everything he’d gone through, everything he’d lost since that disastrous night last year, how dare she even think to question his loyalty?

  Another person might have backed off, might have been intimidated by his rage, but not her. She stood her ground, flashing a fierce grimace that might have been called a smile.

  ‘Don’t let that stop you,’ she said. ‘Come on, champ. Take a shot, see where it gets you.’

  ‘Both of you, stop this!’ McKnight shouted, forcing herself between the two. ‘You’re field operatives, so start acting like it.’

  Mason let out a breath, calming a little.

  ‘We all want to help Ryan. Knocking the shit out of each other isn’t going to cut it.’ McKnight lowered her arms, keeping her eye on Mason who she no doubt considered the bigger danger. ‘Keira, go get some air.’

  The young woman’s eyes lit up, no doubt feeling like she was being singled out as the perpetrator. ‘There’s plenty of air in here.’

  ‘That wasn’t a suggestion,’ McKnight said without turning around. ‘Come back when you’ve got a clear head.’

  Both McKnight and Frost were feeling the strain of having been isolated from unfolding events for so long. The frustration at being unable to directly help their teammates had taken its toll on both of them, but this wasn’t the way to deal with it.

  Glowering at Mason a moment longer, Frost turned away and strode out of the room, making sure to slam the door shut behind her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mason said, relaxing a little.

  ‘Save it,’ the woman advised. ‘You fucked up by letting Ryan go through with this. But pointing the finger and yelling won’t undo it.’

  Mason said nothing to that. He admired her pragmatism, if not her manners.

  She was just raising her phone again when suddenly the door flew open and one of the embassy staff hurried in. Mid-forties, bespectacled and with his shirt straining to contain his overhanging beer gut, it was obvious he wasn’t part of the security detail here.

  He was a signals technician, responsible for monitoring and reporting on the vast amount of data and communications that the embassy was able to intercept each day. This might have been a diplomatic mission on the outside, but like any embassy in the world it was also an intelligence-gathering hub.

  ‘We have a problem,’ he began, out of breath having run here from wherever his own office was. ‘NSA just intercepted a flash warning across the Russian radio net. Looks like one of their field units was hit.’

  Mason felt an icy knot of fear twist his stomach. ‘Where?’

  ‘Kutuzovsky Prospekt, near Poklonnaya Hill. They’re scrambling tact teams in the area.’ He paused for a moment, taking a breath. ‘There’s talk of agents missing in action.’

  McKnight let out a breath, paling visibly at the news.

  ‘Ryan.’

  Chapter 57

  Anya surveyed the bruised and bloodied man handcuffed to the chair before her with cold, clinical detachment. Ryan Drake, the man who had freed her from the hell she’d been imprisoned in for four long years, who had given her back her life, who had helped her regain some vestige of humanity.

  Only she had the power to liberate him now.

  ‘As I said, I owe you my thanks,’ Atayev said. ‘Without you, this woman never would have found me. And without her, none of this would have been possible.’

  Drake paid no heed to Atayev’s words now. All his attention was focused on Anya.

  ‘Why, Anya?’ he demanded, his voice icy cold despite the fire in his eyes. ‘Just answer me that. Why?’

  He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t understand. How could he?

  ‘You should have taken my advice, Ryan,’ she admonished him. ‘I warned you what would happen if you tried to stop me. Why couldn’t you have listened?’

  She saw him waver just a little, saw the doubt growing within him as another piece of his faith and trust crumbled away. But still he held on, still he refused to believe it.

  ‘Anya, this isn’t you,’ he implored her. ‘I know you. You’re better than this.’

  Anya shook her head, looking at him with pity in her eyes. ‘You don’t know me. You never did. You only saw what you wanted to see, what you needed to see.’ She spread her arms, gesturing at their surroundings. ‘Tell me, what do you see now?’

  It was too much for him. He had clung to the belief that there was something to this whole thing he wasn’t seeing, some deeper truth that would justify her actions. Only now did he realise it didn’t exist. Only now did the knowledge settle on him that he had put his faith in something that was never real.

  ‘I protected you. I risked my life for you,’ he spat, straining against the cuffs that held him securely in place. ‘Keira was right all along. We should have left you to rot in prison.’

  He was livid with rage, his muscles trembling with barely suppressed fury, his green eyes boring into her. But beneath it all Anya sensed something far worse – pain. The pain of betrayal.

  Anya knew better than most how it felt to put faith and belief in someone, to risk her life for them only to realise it was all for nothing. And here she was visiting that same betrayal on a man who had shown her nothing but loyalty.

  She couldn’t carry on this conversation, couldn’t see her actions reflected in him any longer. Taking a step forwards, she drew back her fist and slammed it into Drake’s face, snapping his head back with the force of the impact. He opened his eyes slowly, struggling to focus as blood dripped from his mouth.

  ‘There’s something … you need to know,’ he whispered. ‘It’s important.’

  Anya leaned forward a little. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You hit like a girl,’ he said, forcing a bloody smile.

  That was all the incentive she needed.

  Moving with slow and deliberate care, Anya circled around behind him. Bound to the chair and unable to turn, he was forced to remain there, heart pounding against the walls of his chest. She could almost feel his fear. He had no idea what she was about to do, but he sensed it was going to hurt.

  His suspicion was proved horribly correct a moment later as she seized the little finger of his left hand.

  ‘You’re still a good man, Ryan,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘In a bad world.’

  As Anya began to bend his finger backwards, he closed his eyes and braced himself, knowing what was coming. The joint held for a moment against the pressure, bone and sinew strained beyond their limits. Then suddenly there was an audible pop, and a starburst of agony exploded through Drake’s brain as the joi
nt finally gave way. He gritted his teeth, groaning in anguish but stubbornly refusing to cry out.

  He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

  Anya had done what she had to do here. Standing up, she backed away and glanced at Atayev. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll see you outside.’

  Drake couldn’t see Anya leave, but he heard the creak of a door being opened, followed by a harsh metallic clang as it slammed shut behind her. His mind was racing as his captor rose from the table and drew himself up to his full, if modest, height.

  ‘It seems we are finished, Mr Drake. I don’t imagine we will see each other after today.’ He took a step towards the door, then paused as if he’d just remembered something. ‘By the way, I have a gift for you.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he carefully lifted out a single white chess pawn and laid it on the table. Drake had seen two pieces already, one on Demochev and the other on Masalsky, and recognised the style well enough – this one belonged to the same set.

  ‘Think on this, my friend,’ he said, placing a hand on Drake’s shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture.

  Then a moment later he was gone, and Drake was alone.

  Chapter 58

  ‘Satellite tracking has locked down his location!’ Pushkin said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engine as their black Mercedes-Benz E-Class wove in and out of slower-moving traffic, its blue light flashing. Two more such vehicles were close behind, each packed with armed agents. ‘It is a heavy goods truck, moving east on the M7.’

  ‘How far?’ Kamarov asked.

  ‘Six miles.’

  ‘I want constant coverage of that truck. Have them launch a drone if we’re going to lose the satellite. And advise all police units in the area to be on standby.’

  ‘We’re on it, sir.’