by Will Jordan
It was Atayev who broke the silence, letting out a strangled breath that sounded almost like a sob. The cold, focused, detached self-control he had maintained all this time was at last failing him as he reached the end of his long journey. He had found the one thing he had been looking for all these lonely, empty years, driven and consumed by his need to get to the truth.
All the planning, the contingencies, the tireless work, the doubts and dangers had led to this moment, to this confession.
And now that it was over, he could finally allow himself to experience the grief and desolation he had kept locked away since the day of his daughter’s death. Drake watched as Atayev bowed his head, closed his eyes and let out a single, choking sob, tears trickling down his cheeks. Despite everything he had done, even Drake felt a twinge of sympathy for him.
Opening his eyes, Atayev let out a long, slow breath and looked at Surovsky again. ‘Thank you.’
‘You think this means anything?’ the old man spat, his teeth bared as blood flowed from the gunshot wound on his leg. ‘You think you can prove any of this? So you have your confession – what now? Even if you could escape this building, you will be a hunted man for the rest of your life. I hope this was worth it, because you just signed your own death warrant.’
At this, Atayev actually let out a chuckle of amusement. ‘Do you think I would have done any of this if I cared whether I lived or died?’ he asked. ‘I came here for you, Viktor. I did not come to kill you, but to destroy you.’
He nodded to one of the security cameras mounted in the corner of the room. The tiny LED indicator light on the side of the unit was glowing red – it had been recording the entire conversation. Miranova had enabled the cameras that Surovsky had ordered shut down.
Atayev smiled, relishing the look of growing horror on Surovsky’s face. ‘Once every news outlet with an Internet connection has access to this recording, even you will not be able to silence them. I won’t kill you, Viktor, because I won’t have to. The world will eat you alive.’
The single gunshot startled him out of his thoughts with painful, violent clarity. Drake stared at Atayev as a small cloud of red exploded from the front of his jumpsuit. Atayev himself looked down at it, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened, then slowly his legs buckled and he went down.
‘I’m sorry, Buran,’ Miranova said quietly, a wisp of smoke still trailing from the barrel of her automatic as she circled the small table to stand over him. One look was enough to confirm her shot had fatally wounded him. Frothy blood was leaking from his mouth and chest, his breathing growing laboured, his movements lacking any sense of purpose.
Reaching out, Miranova picked up the single chess piece that Drake had laid on the table earlier, turned it over thoughtfully in her hands for a moment, then dropped it on the ground beside Ayatev and brought her shoe heel down on it. There was a muted crunch as the ancient wood splintered and snapped beneath the pressure.
She surveyed the dying man with something akin to pity as the look of uncomprehending shock and disbelief in his eyes slowly faded away.
He was gone.
Chapter 68
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Surovsky demanded as Miranova bent down and snatched up Atayev’s weapon. The old man looked just as perplexed as Drake felt at this sudden turn of events. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Releasing the magazine from the weapon, she pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber, then tossed the empty gun to Drake. It landed on the floor right in front of him, though he made no move to go for it.
‘Pick it up,’ she ordered.
Drake did nothing. Even if he didn’t understand her motivation, it was obvious enough why she wanted him to take the weapon. She wanted his prints on it.
He saw a flicker of anger in her eyes now. ‘One way or another, you will pick it up. It is only a question of how much I have to hurt you.’
She allowed her aim to stray lower, to his stomach and down to his groin. He got the message. She wouldn’t kill him, yet, but she would put as many bullets in him as she had to.
Glaring at her, he reached out and closed his hand around the butt of the gun, just as she’d asked.
‘Now throw it over here.’
With no option but to comply, he slid the gun back across the floor towards her. The weapon skittered and scraped on the concrete, ending up near her feet. Wrapping a handkerchief around her hand to avoid smearing his prints, she picked the gun up and laid it on the table, then turned her dark gaze on the old man.
‘You are in trouble, Viktor. If you want to survive this, you will pay very close attention to what I say in the next few seconds,’ she advised, her tone now clinical and detached. ‘Here is what you are going to do. After this is over you will publicly declare me a hero for bringing Atayev to justice and saving your life when he tried to escape, and announce my promotion to Demochev’s old position as head of counter-terrorism. A year from now you will again promote me to the position of deputy director of the FSB, making it known that you intend for me to succeed you. Within six months you will announce your retirement due to ill health, and publicly endorse me as the new director. If you do this, I will make sure that your confession, and those of Masalsky and Demochev, never see the light of day. You will get to live out the rest of your life, such as it is, in peace.’
Drake felt sick to his stomach. Only now did he see Miranova’s actions for what they truly were. She had no interest in Atayev’s cause, in finding justice for those who had died for Surovsky’s greed. She had taken part in this whole thing, had gone through all of it, just to get herself a bargaining chip for the biggest game of all.
Surovsky eyed her shrewdly, the pain of his injured leg forgotten for the moment as he applied his ruthless, calculating intellect to the deal she was proposing.
‘What guarantee do I have that you will honour this agreement?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘None. But you can be sure of one thing – if you do not take my deal or you try to betray me, all of your confessions will be the top item on every news broadcast around the world. Even killing me won’t stop it.’
The old man said nothing. His mind was still whirring, contemplating options, other courses of action, seeking a way out of this. A beaten player desperately trying to find his way out of checkmate.
His eyes flicked to Drake. ‘And what about him?’
Miranova glanced at him, and just for a moment he saw a hint of regret in her eyes. But it was quickly pushed away, replaced by the avarice and expectation of one now close to realising a long-cherished dream.
‘He was killed trying to break Atayev out of FSB custody,’ she said. ‘He has been working against us the whole time. He even tried to take you hostage, but I took him down first.’
‘You piece of shit,’ Drake snarled, disgusted by what he was hearing. Only now did he clearly perceive her role in all of this. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who sent me that text message in Washington. You wanted me around when that sniper attack happened, because you knew I’d get involved.’
She shrugged, seeing no need to deny it now. ‘We each had our parts to play in this, Ryan. Your role was to be here at this moment, to witness this … and to take the blame.’
‘And all of it so you could land a fucking promotion.’
‘Wake up,’ she hissed, rounding on him. ‘This is about more than personal ambition. Atayev thought only about revenge, of destroying Surovsky’s legacy. But what then? What is the point in removing one criminal only for another to take his place? I will stop that, for ever. Don’t you see? Once I am director, I can make real changes in Russia, bring real freedom to our people. Even if it has to be done by playing Viktor at his own game, that is worth fighting for, worth killing for.’
She seemed to change before his eyes then, the passion and belief behind her words somehow burning through the cold facade she had adopted. Drake saw a glimpse of the perverted idealism and warped sense of ju
stice that had driven her to commit such a callous act of betrayal.
He almost felt sorry for her at that moment, talking about ‘real change’ and bringing freedom to the masses. Even if she believed them, even if she believed she could make them real, they were nothing but flimsy words used by every dictator and tyrant, every terrorist and butcher throughout history. Wishing to prevent another criminal stepping in to fill Surovsky’s shoes, she was simply becoming the very thing she despised.
‘And all those people at Beslan who died because of him?’ Drake asked, gesturing to Surovsky. ‘What about them?’
Miranova hesitated, the muscles in her throat tightening as she saw a momentary glimpse of her bold, brilliant scheme through the eyes of another. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so justifiable, quite so easy to rationalise as a necessary evil.
Saying nothing, she instead turned her attention to Surovsky. ‘Time is ticking, Viktor. Soon the agents upstairs will realise something is wrong. So, what will it be?’
The old man had been outmanoeuvred and they both knew it. Miranova was offering him a way out. A humiliating, dishonourable way out perhaps, but a way out all the same. The alternative was to be tried before an international court for crimes against humanity and spend the rest of his life in rooms just like this one.
There was no choice to make.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘Kill Drake. Then we’ll talk.’
Miranova let out a breath. It had worked. Her plan, everything she had risked her career and her life for; it had all paid off.
‘Atayev was right about one thing, Ryan,’ she conceded grimly as she raised her weapon. She might have shown a brief moment of regret, but even Drake could see the avarice and burning ambition in her eyes. ‘Every victory requires sacrifices.’
He tensed up, bracing himself for the first tearing impact. This would be no neat execution with a single round to the head. She would have to make it look as though he had gone down fighting. His death, when it came, would be neither fast nor painless.
Suddenly the woman stiffened and cried out in pain and shock, her finger tightening involuntarily on the trigger as she squeezed off a shot that zipped past Drake’s shoulder, burying itself in the wall behind him.
Caught off guard, Miranova looked down at the source of her sudden, unexpected pain. The base of the ruined chess pawn protruded from her leg, the jagged and broken tip buried in the fleshy part of her right calf. And clutching it in a desperate grip, jamming it in deeper with every ounce of his waning strength, was Atayev.
Somehow the stubborn bastard was still conscious, still clinging on to life.
Another twist, another agonising jolt of pain as the wooden chess piece tore through muscle tissue, threatening to drop her to her knees. She had to do something. Reacting instinctively, she trained her weapon downwards, aiming for his head.
On the other side of the room, Drake had watched this bizarre spectacle unfolding, watched as the dying man used the only weapon available to him to lash out at the woman who had betrayed him. The injury was little more than a flesh wound, almost comical in comparison to the death she could deal out with the automatic in her hands.
But at that moment, it was enough.
Knowing he had to act now, Drake planted his right foot firmly on the ground, tensed the muscles in his legs and leapt forward like a sprinter off the starting blocks.
He saw Miranova register the sudden movement, saw her eyes come up and the weapon follow them a heartbeat later. It didn’t matter now. He was in a race for his very life. Propelling himself forwards, he managed to take two good strides, building speed and momentum before throwing his shoulders down and launching himself across the metal table.
Drake weighed a good 190 pounds, maybe a little less after several days without proper food or sleep, but every ounce of it was now directed at Miranova. It was simple physics – mass multiplied by velocity equalled momentum, and he had more of both on his side.
He impacted hard, tackling her around the waist like a rugby player and knocking her into the wall opposite with bruising force. He heard her grunt of pain as the side of her face collided with the wall, and tried to drive his shoulder in harder, looking to crush the air from her lungs.
All thoughts of compassion and restraint had vanished now, driven away by the desperate nature of his situation. Only one of them was coming out of this alive.
Miranova might have been surprised by his sudden attack, but she was a trained operative just like him, and she knew how to handle herself in a fight. An elbow to the side of his head caused an explosion of light more powerful than the flashbang grenade that had blinded him earlier in the day, while a knee to his stomach almost doubled him over. He tasted the harsh burn of bile in his throat.
Miranova wasn’t stupid. She knew that the pistol gave her the advantage, but in a close-quarters struggle like this it was also a liability. Drake was all over her, too close to get a decent shot.
But she could still use the weapon in other ways.
He saw Miranova bring the butt of the pistol down like a club, striking the recently repaired wound at his shoulder joint. Pain more intense than even he could have anticipated rippled outwards from the point of impact, and travelled all the way down his arm to leave his fingers numb and tingling.
They were both hurting now; it was just a question of who could take more.
Through blurred vision he searched frantically for the gun, knowing he had to keep it out of play. He saw the barrel rising up towards him as she tried to put a round in his stomach. Any injury there would certainly drop him.
Then suddenly an idea came to him; a memory of something he had seen Anya do in a similar situation. Reaching out, he grasped the weapon by its slide and jammed it back hard just as Miranova pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened; not even a click. The retracted slide was now blocking the firing pin, preventing it from striking the round in the chamber.
Stalemate, at least for the next few seconds.
Looking down at her right leg, he saw the bloody wound where Atayev had struck her, and in the centre of it a faint gleam of white wood. The pawn, still embedded in her flesh as she hadn’t yet had a chance to remove it.
Even as she tried to wrench the weapon free of his grip, Drake raised his foot and slammed it downwards against her leg, managing to catch the protruding object perfectly.
The effect was not unlike pulling open a zipper. There was a moment of taut resistance as skin and muscle stretched to their limits, and then with an almost audible rip the pawn slid downwards by several inches, leaving a bloody track of torn flesh in its wake.
Even she couldn’t endure such an injury, and with a cry of pain she started to go down. Her grip on the weapon slackened just enough for Drake to yank it out of her hand.
Realising what he was doing, Miranova grasped desperately at the gun just as he reversed his grip on it and turned the weapon on her. He felt the barrel press against soft flesh, felt her trying to tear his fingers away from the pistol grip, and suddenly there was a muted thump as the weapon discharged.
For a moment the two of them remained frozen together like that, each holding the other close with bloodied hands, each staring into the other’s eyes as if trying to make sense of what had happened. There was no pain – it had happened too suddenly for that.
Then, slowly, Miranova’s eyes grew unfocused, her grip on Drake slackened and with a weary, ragged sigh she fell. Blood stained the front of her blouse. Still gripping her, Drake lowered her to the floor and watched in silence as she took her final breaths.
She looked neither angry nor frightened as her life faded away. Her expression rather was one of confusion, as if she couldn’t quite understand how her plan had unravelled.
Drake said nothing as she convulsed and finally lay still. He had no words to explain what he felt towards her. For now, he was content merely to know that it was over.
‘Drake …’
Looking over,
he saw Atayev lying a few yards away, one hand pressed against the wound at his chest, the other outstretched as if reaching for something. Only then did Drake see the crumpled and faded picture of his daughter Natasha just beyond his reach.
Leaving Miranova, Drake reached for the picture and gently pressed it into the dying man’s hand, then laid his arm across his chest so that she was close to him once more. He might have held on long enough to help stop Miranova, but it was obvious the gunshot wound to his chest would prove fatal.
‘Don’t fight it,’ Drake said quietly. Whatever else this man had done, his last act had been to save his life. ‘She’s waiting for you. You’ll see her soon.’
Atayev swallowed and nodded. He had said before that he had no fear of death, and looking at him then, Drake was inclined to agree.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but could only manage the faintest whisper. Drake leaned in close and strained to hear.
‘The pawn …’
Frowning, Drake glanced around and eventually spotted the small bloodstained chess piece lying near Miranova. It must have come loose during their fight, and now lay alone on the concrete floor. Broken, jagged and stained with a dead woman’s blood, Drake couldn’t imagine why Atayev would want such a grisly memento now, but it was clear from the pleading look in his eyes that it was important.
Snatching it up, Drake tried to hand it to him, only for the man to push it away.
‘For … you,’ he whispered, closing Drake’s fingers around the pawn. ‘Remember … what I said.’ He managed to raise his head a little, driven by a final, desperate need to be understood. ‘Remember.’
His head lolled to the side, where he seemed to see something that pleased him. He smiled, a peaceful, contented smile, closed his eyes and lay still.
He was gone.
Drake glanced down at the pawn Atayev had given him. Despite the bloodstains and the damage it had taken, there were still little patches of white shining through. And as he looked a little closer, he began to understand why Atayev had wanted him to have it; the final message he had tried to impart.