Agent Rising

by Ethan Jones

  “I didn’t need a hand.”

  “Like I said, just in case. I was planning my escape at the time, so I had to know whether I needed more manpower, or whether you and Ava would suffice.” He scooped up another forkful of eggs and bacon. “This operation was like setting an explosive charge … You don’t want to use too much or too little; just the right amount.”

  Max nodded.

  “Does that make sense?”

  “It does.”

  “And it convinces you?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What else do you need?”

  “Nothing right now.” He tasted the eggs and found them quite delightful. He broke the second vatrushka in two pieces and dipped one of them into the yolks and chewed slowly. The bacon pieces were crispy and crunchy, and he enjoyed them a lot.

  Volkov said, “Now, what did you want to know about your mother?”

  “Everything.”

  “Sure, we have nothing but time…”

  Max couldn’t tell if Volkov was serious or not, so he asked, “Start at the beginning.”

  “How we met? Sure, it was a dark and stormy night … Cliché, I know, but it was true. The dark, because it was night, almost midnight, and we had blown up one of the local transformers, cutting off the lights to a small section in West Berlin, to make the rendezvous easier. And stormy because it was November in Berlin. We were lucky it wasn’t snowing, but the rain was coming down hard. I could barely see a few feet away.

  “Then I saw her. Your mother … she was so pretty, even with her hair sticking to her forehead and the sides of her face…” Volkov sighed. “She had come for an intelligence exchange. Contrary to what people believe about the Cold War, we often worked together with the CIA and other security agencies, especially when this resulted in mutual benefits.”

  Max stopped chewing. “Mutual?”

  “Yes. In this case, the CIA had a rogue agent, who had started to become a problem. He had threatened to bomb one of the KGB stations in East Berlin. That attack could become the catalyst to kindle an all-out war. Things were very volatile at that time, and even a small spark could light up a massive fire. No one wanted that.

  “Your mother was the liaison. We had a short meeting and hit it off right away. I liked her resolve. She never gave up, even when the odds were impossible. She made it happen.”

  “But she switched sides, began to spy for the KGB against her country?”

  Volkov nodded. “Yes, it happened slowly, and unexpectedly. It wasn’t the money, or the ideology. At the risk of sounding trite, I’d say it was love.”

  Max held Volkov’s nostalgic gaze for a long moment.

  The older man shrugged and returned to his breakfast. “But, we’ll talk about her recruitment another time. The eggs are getting cold, and Kirill would be upset if he saw us…” He looked over Max’s shoulder, toward the counter.

  Max could see that Volkov was getting upset because of the memories the story was bringing back to his mind. He decided not to press the matter any further. Like Volkov had said, now they had nothing but time.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Bronx, New York City

  United States of America

  It took Stefan five days to prepare the necessary forged travel documents and to bribe enough US Customs and Border Protection officials and American Airlines personnel to secure a safe passage for Volkov, Max, and Ava. At Philadelphia International Airport, they boarded an overnight, non-stop flight to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. The Airbus A330 of Flight AA754 landed around 11:00 in the morning, and the trio passed through passport control and immigration without any trouble. The French officials cast only a cursory glance at the team’s Canadian passports, navy-blue with a gold-colored crest.

  After collecting their luggage, Volkov guided them through the public arrivals area. He had activated a few contacts in France, but had chosen not to ask them to meet the team at the airport. Fetching a taxi would attract much less attention, on the slim chance someone was watching. In broken French, Max gave the taxi driver a hotel address in the outskirts of Paris. Max spoke passable French, but the trick would force the driver to keep the conversation at a minimum.

  During the forty-five-minute drive covering the seventeen miles separating the airport from the city, Max kept checking over his shoulder, while he talked to Volkov. The traffic was mostly congested and someone following them would be difficult to spot, especially if the surveillance was using more than one vehicle, as was often the case. The recent turn of events had made Max very suspicious. Combined with the KGB-bred paranoia of Volkov, they were both scouring the area behind them as if their lives depended on it, which might well be so.

  Thankfully, they noticed nothing strange, so when they arrived at the hotel, Volkov gestured at the two men waiting in a blue Peugeot just across from the building’s entrance. They waited until the taxi had disappeared around the corner, then pulled in to pick up the team. “Good to see you, boss,” said the driver, while the front passenger stepped out.

  The driver exchanged a fist bump with Ava, who was dressed in a white and black fall dress, along with a dark gray heavy-knitted cardigan, since the wind had turned sharp. It was one of the few times she could wear a dress, and the clothes fit very nicely around her hourglass curves and fell just above her knee. Max caught himself looking at her a couple of times. He still couldn’t believe he had kissed this gorgeous woman, and she was now his girlfriend.

  “Are you coming, Max?”

  Ava’s soft voice brought him out of his daydreaming. He smiled at her. “Yes, of course.”

  The plan would have them take the long nine-hour drive to Cannes. Of course, they could have flown from Paris or another city, but Max didn’t want the additional scrutiny of their identification documents. Besides, they were not going to spring into action until after midnight, after they had climbed into the small speedboat that was going to take them to Tupolev’s yacht, Prekrasnaya, The Beautiful.

  Max could hardly wait.

  * * *

  Ten miles off the coast of Nice

  Southern France

  Ava kissed him so passionately that Max almost forgot it was part of the play. He held her close to his chest, feeling her body press tightly against his. They were both leaning against the starboard gunwale of the speedboat, whose engine Max had turned off only moments ago. The cold waves splashed them, but he ignored the shivers going through his body even though he was wearing a black windbreaker. The night had grown cold, but Ava’s touches had started to warm him up.

  He broke the kiss for a moment and glanced to his right. The waves were guiding the speedboat toward Tupolev’s yacht, which was about a hundred yards away. Then he looked near the stern of the speedboat, where Volkov was hiding behind a few plastic boxes and underneath a sheet of black tarpaulin. Only his eyes were visible in the complete darkness that had enveloped everything. Max only spotted them because he knew where to look. He hoped the yacht’s guards would miss him—at least for a few seconds—to give Volkov and their team the advantage of the surprise.

  “Max, I’m waiting here,” Ava whispered in an annoyed tone.

  He smiled at her and returned to kissing her like he had never kissed a woman in his life. But his zeal was cut short by one long warning blast on the yacht's horn. Then a strong searchlight fell upon the speedboat. Its beam was so strong that Max had to protect his eyes with the back of his hand and turn his head in the other direction.

  “It’s on,” Ava said.

  Max nodded. His hand hovered over the pistol in his ankle holster. The Heckler & Koch HK45 Tactical pistol was locked and loaded.

  Ava switched the safety lever on her HK45 pistol to the off position. Her hand was around his back, so anyone watching them from the yacht’s decks wouldn’t notice the weapon.

  “Wait,” Max whispered. “We’re trying to go in quietly…” He cocked his head toward the water on the starboard side of the boat.

&nbs
p; “I’m waiting. But in case things go bad, I’m ready.”

  Before Max could reply, a strong voice came in English through a loudspeaker. “Turn around. The couple on the speedboat, turn around.”

  Max waved with both arms. They were about fifty yards away, and he needed to get closer, at least another forty yards. “We need help. Help. Please, please, help us. We need help.”

  He noticed a couple of silhouettes standing by the searchlight. Its beam was too strong for Max to determine whether they were armed or not.

  A moment of silence, then the ear-splitting screech of the loudspeaker, followed by the angry voice, “Go back. Turn around. Last warning.”

  “This is not good,” Ava whispered and moved the pistol along his back.

  “Let me handle it.” He stood up and waved his arms again, keeping them up in the air. “We’re out of fuel. We’re lost. Please help. Help us.”

  A gunshot rang out from the yacht.

  Max ducked. He knew the guards wouldn’t open fire at him, and no bullet whizzed by his head. It was a warning shot, high up in the air. But he had to give the appearance of being terrified.

  Ava had lowered her pistol behind the gunwale, so it wasn’t visible to the gunmen. “It’s time,” she said to Max.

  “No.” He shook his head. “We need to get closer.”

  “We’re close enough.”

  “No, wait.”

  “All right. I’ll wait.”

  Max waved his arms for another brief moment, then looked at the dark water a couple of feet away from the starboard side. He thought he saw something in the water, something shining—the razor-sharp tip of a double-barbed spear. If I can see it, can the guards see it too?

  He had no time to decide, because a spear shot through the water. It pierced one of the guards deep in the chest. He screamed and toppled over the yacht’s port side, falling headfirst into the water.

  Volkov jumped out of his hiding place at about the same time the second spear arrowed through the air. It found the head of the second guard, and he dropped onto the yacht’s deck.

  “Hurry, hurry, move, move,” Max shouted at the swimmers.

  He started the engine, and the speedboat reached the yacht’s stern.

  A man in a white uniform appeared near the top of the stairs by the stern. Max couldn’t tell if he was armed or not. It made no difference, since Ava had already squeezed off a couple of rounds. The uniformed man fell against a glass door.

  Two gunmen popped up on the upper deck of the yacht.

  This time, Volkov opened fire. His bullets cut through the gunmen, but they were able to tap their triggers. Their rounds whizzed over Max’s head and a couple struck the bow. But he was able to bring the vessel all the way to the yacht’s swim platform.

  Lights on both of the yacht’s decks began to turn on. A uniformed man appeared behind one of the glass windows of the salon. He aimed his rifle at the speedboat just as a spear cut through the air. It shattered the glass and stabbed the man in the neck.

  Max grabbed the knotted end of a thick rope and jumped off the bow. He rolled onto the swim platform, then hooked the rope onto the closest cleat. Footsteps came from behind him, but he was ready. He turned his body and fired his HK pistol. The quick burst sent bullets into the body of a gunman running along the side of the lower deck.

  Max dropped to a knee and crawled up the stairs. When he came to the salon’s windows, he stopped and listened. Shouts and gunfire came from the other side. Then a long volley shattered the glass. Max flattened himself to the deck, as the bullets punched holes through the plastic walls of the salon. He crawled further away toward the starboard side and waited for the right moment to return fire.

  It came when a gunman barged out of a side door. Max greeted him with a quick burst. At least one of the bullets struck the man, and he crumpled to the deck. Max looked up and noticed two silhouettes just appearing on the upper deck. One of them turned his rifle toward the speedboat and fired a few rounds. Max squeezed off a pistol shot. The gunman disappeared behind the side of the deck.

  Max looked behind. Ava was covering the other corner, crouched along the salon’s wall. He waited for a moment, and she turned her head and gave him a smile. He gestured with his hand that he was going to move forward, but before doing that, he searched the platform for Volkov. He was still on the speedboat, helping one of the spearmen who seemed to have been wounded.

  Ava stood up and fired a long volley.

  Max took that as his cue to advance. He made his way almost halfway to the bow without exchanging fire with anyone. He turned his weapon to all sides, looking inside the salon and covering especially the upper deck, which was his most exposed point. Max came to the body of the gunman who had barged out of the side door. As expected, he was not breathing. Max put away his pistol and picked up the AK rifle lying by the gunman’s feet. Then, he crawled inside the salon.

  He moved quickly as he went through the staterooms and the galley. Then he came to the guest cabins without running into any of the gunmen. He cleared the areas and came to a locked door that led to one of the crew cabins. He tried to turn the handle, then kicked it a couple of times, but it wouldn’t open. Is anyone there?

  An explosion came from the bow, and Max wondered how Ava and Volkov were doing. He retraced his steps to the side door of the salon and kept looking toward the locked door. When he stepped on the deck, he saw one of the spearmen. He was still wearing his black wetsuit, but had replaced the speargun with a pistol.

  Max asked, “Where’s Volkov? And your friend?”

  The spearman shook his head. “My buddy is gone. Headwound. Volkov, he’s with Ava, on the other side.”

  “Go help them, and bring them here.”

  “Is this clear?” He gestured toward the salon.

  “Almost. One door’s locked.”

  “Who’s inside?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I’m not going with you. Don’t want him to escape.”

  The spearman had taken only a few steps when another blast rocked the yacht. Max was thrown against the salon windows and rolled onto the walkway along the yacht’s starboard side. The spearman fared better, since he was four feet behind Max. The explosion knocked him off his feet, and he fell flat on his back. Tall blue and orange flames came from the bow, then Ava appeared running away from the fire.

  “What happened?” Max asked.

  “They wanted to play catch the grenade.” She shrugged. “They lost. Everyone’s dead.”

  “Where’s Volkov?”

  “I’m right here.” He came up behind Ava, limping on his left leg.

  “What happened?” Max jumped to his feet and dashed toward his father.

  “I slipped on one of those bloody stairs.” He shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  “We haven’t found Georgy,” Ava said.

  “I think I have him. One of the crew cabins down there.” He gestured toward the salon.

  “Did he put up a fight?” Volkov said.

  “Door’s locked. Not sure if there’s anyone inside.”

  “Let’s check.” Volkov hobbled toward the side door.

  “No, I’ve got this.” Max stepped forward and entered the salon.

  He led the way to the right. When they reached the door, Ava said, “Careful, Max. Stay back.”

  “He would have fired, if he was armed.”

  “We don’t even know if there’s anyone there,” said the spearman, who was standing as far away as possible from the door.

  “Georgy should be on this yacht. If not here, somewhere else aboard.”

  Max placed the muzzle of his pistol within a hairsbreadth of the lock and aimed it downward. He stayed away from the potential trajectory of a ricocheting bullet and pulled the trigger. The bullet blew out the lock and a chunk of the wooden door, sending slivers around Max. He pushed the door open and glanced from behind the sight of his weapon.

  A hooded man was tied with his hands behind
his back to a chair fastened to the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ten miles off the coast of Nice

  Southern France

  Max removed the detainee’s black hood slowly, so that it wouldn’t scratch his face.

  The man’s black curls were matted against his sweaty forehead. His face was red, except for a few spots along the square jaw where the skin had turned blue. Bruised blue. The man blinked and glanced at Max with his small brown eyes. He drew in a tired breath and sighed. “You’re too young to be Volkov. But you look … you look just like him…”

  “I’m glad to see you, my friend, Georgy.” Volkov stepped inside the small crew cabin that had a twin bed, a desk and a couple of closets. “You don’t look very well…”

  “I can’t say you’re doing any better. But Volkov, look, your son. The one I saved back in Berlin—”

  “You did what?” Volkov flinched but kept his pistol trained at Georgy’s head.

  Max’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two men. “What is he talking about?”

  Ava stepped closer to them. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out elsewhere. We’ve got to—”

  “No, we’ll take the time to clear this up. Are you saying this to save your skin, because you know what’s waiting for you?”

  Georgy shook his head. “Look where I am, Volkov. Does it look like I’m enjoy my stay on Tupolev’s yacht?”

  “That’s because you refused to give them the secrets even after getting paid—”

  “I didn’t get paid, and whatever they know, they extracted it out of me … You know how this works, Volkov.”

  “Yes, I do. Traitors pay in the end.”

  “I didn’t betray anyone, let alone you, or my country. Look, Tupolev wanted the names of all KGB operatives who worked as double agents in Berlin. Some of them, and we both know who we’re talking about, are still in power. Tupolev was going to turn that intelligence over to a politician, a strongman who desires to be even stronger.”