by Will Jordan
Drake knew what was coming. Anya had made vague references to something that had happened to her in Afghanistan twenty years earlier, though she had refused to elaborate. But Drake still vividly recalled the spider’s web of scarring across her back when she was getting dressed. To his eyes, they had looked just like lash marks.
‘Surovsky showed no mercy once he got his hands on her. He demanded to know why she had betrayed him, who had turned her, but she never gave him anything. No matter what he did. No matter what he made others do to her, she never spoke a word.’ He was silent for a time, taking another draw while he stared out across the city. ‘Never in my life have I seen such resolve. Never. I always asked myself why she resisted, what she was fighting so hard to protect. And … after a time, I began to feel ashamed. Ashamed of what we were doing to her.’
‘What happened to her?’ Drake asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Kamarov swallowed, then raised his chin a little. ‘She escaped, and against my expectations she made it out of the country alive. I had hoped that would be enough for her, that she would leave the CIA and find a new path. I was wrong.’ He sighed, looking around the room. ‘And twenty years later, I was brought in to hunt her down again. History repeating itself, as they say.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
He looked around, and Drake could see the weight of the regret he still carried with him. ‘Because I am getting too old for secrets, and because I know now the man I’ve been serving. I saw the recording of Surovsky’s interrogation.’ The look of disgust in his eyes was obvious, even in the dim light. ‘I can’t undo the mistakes I have made, but I can stop myself making another today.’
He pointed off eastwards, towards the towering walls of the Kremlin.
‘The US embassy is about half a mile in that direction,’ he said. ‘Even you should be able to make it that far. I suggest you get yourself out of Russia, and think very carefully before coming back.’
Drake couldn’t believe it. After everything that had happened, Kamarov was letting him go. ‘What about you?’
The older man took one last draw on his cigarette before flicking it away. ‘I will do what I always do. Survive.’
With that, he returned to his parked car, opened the driver’s door and eased himself in before firing up the engine. Lowering the window, he leaned out and regarded the younger man thoughtfully for a long moment.
‘You are a brave man, Ryan Drake. Not very wise, but brave,’ he decided. ‘I think I understand what she saw in you.’
Drake never got a chance to reply as Kamarov swung the vehicle around and drove off, leaving him alone.
Part Five
Instigation
To date, no Russian official of any rank has been reprimanded for the handling of events at Beslan.
Chapter 70
Aspen Hill, Maryland, 29 December 2008
McKnight’s home was a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Aspen Hill, about 10 miles from central DC. She had moved in only a couple of months ago, yet she seemed to have made the transition as easily as she handled everything that life threw her way.
The place was well ordered, tastefully decorated and furnished to take full advantage of the floor space on offer. It was a stark contrast to Drake’s cluttered, untidy home with its mismatching furniture and heating system that never quite seemed to work properly.
The TV was on, tuned to CNN, though the volume was muted so as not to intrude on their conversation. Beyond the living room’s bay windows lay the distant lights of DC, partially shrouded in sombre grey clouds. It was early evening in December and getting dark fast, with flurries of sleet pattering against the window.
Neither he nor Samantha was much concerned with the weather, however.
‘Any good?’ Drake asked as McKnight took a sip of the Sauvignon Blanc that he’d finally got around to delivering. It might have been ten days late, but he hoped the original intent hadn’t been lost.
She smiled. ‘Well, as far as peace offerings go, you could do worse.’
Drake wasn’t about to argue. When it came to wine, he could have been drinking a glass of paint stripper and not known the difference.
‘So we’re even now?’
‘Not even close,’ she said with a playful grin. However, it soon faded as her thoughts returned inevitably to the events of the past few days. ‘On the subject of peace offerings, I assume you’re still on Langley’s shit list?’
Drake made a face. His return from Moscow hadn’t exactly been a triumphant affair. No sooner had he stepped off the flight than he’d found himself hauled back to Langley for a lengthy debriefing, starting with ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’
The questions had continued in that vein for some time, with Drake being as evasive as possible about Anya while doing his best to make his actions appear justified. He’d been fighting a losing battle right from the start, and yet just when it seemed as though he was staring at a summary dismissal and a prison sentence, the debriefing had come to an abrupt end.
He couldn’t say for sure, but he suspected this change in attitude was due in no small part to Dan Franklin taking the heat off him.
‘I think someone up there likes me,’ he remarked. ‘God knows who or why, though.’
She snorted in amusement at that. ‘And Surovsky?’
Drake’s expression darkened at the mention of his name. He had seen and heard nothing of the man since his departure from Lubyanka, and for now at least he was content for it to remain that way. Challenging him directly was a quick way to get killed.
‘He’s going to get away with this, isn’t he?’ McKnight asked, taking another sip of wine as she looked out the window. ‘Everything Atayev accused him of was true, and he gets to walk away like nothing happened.’
Drake didn’t respond immediately. His attention had been drawn away from her, to the TV that was still playing news coverage from CNN. It was muted to allow them to talk comfortably, but Drake had a feeling she would want to hear the latest news piece.
‘Maybe not,’ he said, reaching for the remote.
Frowning, McKnight glanced around. And straight away found herself confronted by unnervingly familiar images of a short, withered-looking man being escorted out of a secure building and into a waiting vehicle, with crowds of reporters pressing in on both sides. The flashes from their cameras formed an almost continuous burst of light, starkly illuminating the aged, pockmarked face of Viktor Surovsky.
Beneath the video footage, a bold, urgent news feed scrolled across the screen.
Beslan Massacre – Russian cover-up?
‘We see here images of Director Surovsky being escorted from the FSB headquarters building in Moscow,’ the news anchor announced, an edge of excitement in his voice at what was clearly a major story. ‘Neither Mr Surovsky, the FSB nor the Russian government have issued any statements yet in response to the videos which were released over the Internet in the past hour, but sources in Moscow have suggested that an official statement will be forthcoming later today. Once again, a number of video recordings have been released via the Internet which appear to show senior FSB agents admitting their involvement in the hostage crisis which claimed the lives of nearly four hundred civilians in Beslan in 2004. These recordings are too graphic to show on television, but they—’
The voice was cut off abruptly as McKnight muted the TV and turned to Drake, her expression one of incredulity.
‘You?’ she gasped.
He said nothing to this, just took a sip of his wine. Not too bad after all, he thought.
‘How did you know?’
In response, Drake reached into his pocket and held up a little memento of his encounter with Atayev. The little white chess pawn that the man had given him as a parting gift, the top broken off in a jagged point, which held more significance than Drake had ever imagined.
A simple twist allowed him to unscrew the base, revealing a small hollowed-out compartment within.
Taking Samantha’s hand, he turned the pawn upside down and allowed a little Micro SD card to fall into her palm. The sort of memory card used in digital cameras all over the world. The sort Atayev had used to record Demochev and Masalsky’s confessions.
The contents of that memory card, while not enough to conclusively prove Surovsky’s guilt, had nonetheless ignited a media firestorm. Within the hour, every major news network worldwide had picked up on the story and was running it continuously as reporters and investigators clamoured for more information. No amount of threats or intimidation or political manoeuvring could stop it now.
Men like Surovsky were untouchable.
Well, almost.
It wasn’t mercy or compassion that had kept him from killing Surovsky in that interrogation room, but rather the growing realisation that he didn’t have to. A far worse fate awaited Viktor Surovsky.
He would have to watch as everything he’d worked for, everything he had compromised and sacrificed to achieve, collapsed around him, until he was left with nothing but the memory of the power and influence he’d once wielded. The shadow of his former glory would consume him.
‘He was right,’ Drake said quietly, still holding Samantha’s outstretched hand. ‘Even a king can be brought down by a single pawn.’
It happened almost without either of them being aware of it. Tilting her head back slightly, Samantha leaned in a little closer, her lips parted as she stared into his eyes, willing him to respond in kind. And moved by an impulse that went deeper than he’d ever consciously acknowledged, he did.
All of the things they had left unsaid were forgotten in that moment, all of the admissions that should have been made were cast aside as they at last gave in to their need for each other.
The news report continued to play on the TV, but neither of them paid heed to it now. They had seen enough.
Chapter 71
Moscow Oblast, Russia, 29 December 2008
‘Listen to what I’m telling you, Sasha!’ Viktor Surovsky growled into the phone. His angry pacing across the luxurious study was reduced to a shuffling limp by the recently treated bullet wound in his leg. ‘They have nothing on me. Their evidence is non-existent. These confessions were extracted under torture, and we both know men will say anything if you hurt them enough.’
Accompanied only by a couple of loyal bodyguards, he had retreated from Moscow and the media firestorm engulfing the FSB to the isolation and comparative safety of his luxury dacha east of the city. Very few people knew the exact location of the sprawling house, set within acres of woodland purchased under a fake identity, and he had worked hard to keep it that way. It was his safe haven, his fallback position from where he could plan his next move.
The darkened snow-covered forests and the frozen lake beyond the big windows of his study were a deceptively peaceful counterpoint to the turmoil now raging within his organisation.
‘I’m sorry, Viktor, but this is out of my hands. It’s out of all our hands now,’ replied Aleksander “Sasha” Polunin, the head of the FSB’s Internal Security Directorate. ‘The Kremlin’s up in arms – they’re already talking about appointing a special commission to investigate the claims. You have to step down as director, at least until they can make their assessment. You can’t carry on like this.’
Surovsky snatched his glass of vodka from the table and took a deep gulp, hoping it would stop his hands from trembling. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be mixing alcohol with the potent painkillers he’d been taking, but that was the least of his concerns at that moment.
‘Fuck the Kremlin, and fuck their special commission!’ he raged, frustration and desperation surging up within him. ‘I could ruin all of them. Do they know who the fuck I am? Do they know the things I’ve done for this country?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Polunin replied, his voice frighteningly cold and detached. Already he was pulling away, distancing himself from Surovsky. A rat deserting a sinking ship. ‘They know exactly who you are, and now they’re beginning to question what exactly you’ve done. My advice to you is to find a good lawyer. You’ll be needing one.’
Saying nothing more, he hung up.
‘Fuck!’ Surovsky snarled, slamming the phone down in its cradle.
It was all falling apart. His career, his legacy, his very life was unravelling around him, and he was rapidly running out of means to stop it. He was calling in every favour, trying to threaten, plead or reason with influential men in the Russian government to help him in his hour of need, but none of it was working.
He was political poison. Nobody wanted anything to do with him in the light of accusations like this. People he’d known for decades brushed his requests of help aside as if he were a beggar on the street. In Russia, one quickly learned to know the difference between a man in difficulty, and a lost cause who could easily drag others down with him. Surovsky was now firmly in the latter category.
He raised the glass to his lips again, only to find it empty.
Cursing under his breath, he threw open the door and limped down the short hallway to the dacha’s expansive living room.
And there, he stopped in his tracks.
The two FSB bodyguards he had employed to accompany him out here were lying sprawled on the floor, their blood soaking into the expensive rug he’d had imported from Saudi Arabia two years previously.
And beyond them, seated comfortably in one of the room’s leather recliner chairs with a silenced handgun trained on him, was a woman.
A dead woman. A ghost.
The glass fell from his grip, shattering on the polished floorboards with a musical tinkling, tiny fragments peppering his feet and ankles. He was oblivious to it. All his attention was focused on the ghost, on the icy blue eyes staring back at him, piercing in their intensity.
‘Hello, Viktor,’ Anya said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
For several seconds, not a word was said. The old man and the woman stared at each other across the open space, each taking the measure of the other.
Surovsky needed a moment to recover from the shock of seeing her again, to assure himself that she was indeed real and not some horrific, fevered product of his imagination. But she was real. And the two dead agents lying on the floor in front of her, like trophies placed there in homage to a god of war and death, were mute testimony to the terrible skills she still commanded.
He made no attempt to flee. Even if she wasn’t armed, she could easily outpace him on his injured leg. Instead he stood his ground and looked a little closer at her, comparing her to the woman he’d once known.
She looked older now, Surovsky caught himself thinking. The first time he’d met Anya, she had been a young woman of seventeen, her youthful prettiness giving a tantalising hint of the woman she would one day become. Indeed, that was part of the reason he had chosen her, knowing that beauty could be a weapon as effective as any other.
She had changed in the quarter of a century since that day; grown stronger, harder, colder. The trials and hardships of the life she’d lived had left their indelible marks on her, both inside and out. She was still strikingly attractive, no doubt still able to use that beauty to her advantage just as he’d taught her, but the soul that lurked behind those icy blue eyes was one that struck fear even into his heart.
All the more so because he had had a hand in shaping it.
‘I was told you were dead,’ he said quietly. Drake, McKnight, and the few of Atayev’s men who had survived the assault on the warehouse in Moscow, had all sworn the same thing – that Atayev himself had shot Anya dead and pitched her body into the river. How could they all have been lying?
Moscow, 24 December 2008
‘I don’t suppose you can tell me where you’re going?’ Atayev asked, his tone one of mild curiosity.
‘Better that you don’t know,’ Anya replied honestly.
‘Perhaps so,’ he conceded. It made little difference to him now anyway. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Anya. A
nd … good luck.’
Anya gripped it and held his gaze for a long moment. This would be the last time they spoke. She hadn’t been told what the final stage of Atayev’s plan entailed, but she knew one thing for certain – it would end with his death.
For now, however, she had her own death to take care of.
Releasing her grip, she turned and walked away, having to force herself to take each step. Turning her back on a man with a gun was foreign to her nature, especially when she knew that gun was about to be used on her.
Ten steps and he would fire. Seven to go.
Anya wasn’t often inclined to entrust her life to others. She certainly hadn’t had good experiences with such things in the past. But against her better judgement, she trusted Buran Atayev.
Four steps to go.
Her left hand closed around a small electric detonator hidden inside her jacket sleeve. The detonator wire trailed up her arm and into a pair of blank squibs fixed to the back and front of her vest, each with a small plastic bag of blood secured over them.
The blood was real. It was even her own, extracted from a vein in her left arm only minutes earlier, in case forensics wished to analyse it. The only fake thing would be the manner in which it was shed.
Two steps.
Anya took a breath, tensing herself in preparation. She had been shot before while wearing Kevlar vests. It was never a pleasant experience, and she was quite certain she would have some impressive bruises when this was over, but with a little luck she would be alive to see it.
She was about to find out.
She felt the impact of the bullet before she heard the shot, slamming into her back slightly to the left of her spine. Perfect. At the same moment she triggered the detonator, watching with satisfaction as blood sprayed from her chest.