by Ethan Jones
Blokhin hesitated just for an instant. “It must be … It has to be.”
Right, it has to be. He lowered his gun, but kept the safety off. He nodded at Blokhin. “All right. I’m convinced the captain was behind all this, and you had nothing to do with it. Ava, give him back his gun.”
She had been behind Blokhin’s back the entire time. She came to the side and handed the pistol to Blokhin.
He held it in his hand and right away realized the trick. The pistol felt lighter, as if the magazine was empty. She must have emptied the pistol while I was talking to him. They’re setting me up. But I’m smarter than that.
Blokhin nodded and smiled at Max. Then he turned slightly toward Ava and tried to hit her in the face with the back of the pistol. Ava had expected his move, so she stepped to the side. The pistol missed her head by a couple of inches.
Blokhin also seemed to have anticipated her evasive move. He struck her in the chest with his fist, then pulled her pistol from her shoulder holster. Just as he raised it, Max pulled the trigger. His bullet struck Blokhin in the head, and he slumped against the wall. He was dead before his body fell to the ground.
Max looked at Ava, who gave him a small nod. “I … I don’t know how that happened … But thank you.”
“He was quite fast…”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Volkov’s plan worked. The Solomon’s dilemma…”
“Yes, he tried to blame the captain, wishing her death.”
The shrill of a police siren began to fill the air. A vehicle driving along Zlatoustinskiy Bol’shoy slowed down.
Max turned his back toward the street and looked at the two handcuffed guards. “You saw what happened here, right?”
They both nodded, their heads jerking furiously up and down.
“This was self-defense, simple and pure self-defense. Would you agree?”
More nodding.
“Good,” Max said. “This is what happened here: You were mugged by four masked men. They just wanted your wallets, but you refused, so they beat you up. When Blokhin fought back and tried to shoot them, one of the robbers fired at him. You didn’t see their faces, as they wore masks at all times. Is that clear?”
More nodding.
“Then, you can live. If I find out you told someone, anyone, then I’ll find you again, and you will die. Like him.” Max pointed with his gun to Blokhin.
The guards tried to say something, but because of the restraints across their mouths, their voices came out faint and unintelligible.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Max said, then looked at Ava. “Let’s go.”
She gave the guards a look full of contempt. She leaned over them and said, “Don’t make us regret we left you alive.”
Both guards nodded at the same time.
The police siren shrieked again, this time much closer. Max and Ava scaled the restaurant’s backyard wall and disappeared in the maze of Moscow’s back alleys.
Epilogue
Gorky Park, Moscow, Russia
Five Days Later
It was a bright sunny day, a rare occasion in the depths of the Russian winter. Max had braved the still-chilly weather, with temperatures around ten degrees, and was sitting on a white bench alongside Pushkinskaya Naberezhnaya, which ran parallel to the Moscow River. The air was cool and fresh, and Max kept drawing deep breaths, the air filling his lungs. He glanced at a large chunk of ice floating down the river, then turned his head to the right. Volkov was supposed to arrive from that direction at any time.
Max shrugged and reached inside his black felt coat for his wallet. He removed his right-hand glove and took out a picture from the wallet. It was the one of his mother and Volkov, which he had taken from the photo album Volkov had given him. Max had only gone through a few of the album’s pages. He wanted to learn the story behind the photos, and Volkov had helped him as much as he knew and could remember. This one, Volkov had said, was taken about a week or so before they saw each other for the last time. They both looked happy, hopeful, full of dreams of their future … What really happened to my mother? Will I ever find out?
He sighed, then looked up. Volkov was coming toward him at a hurried pace. He stepped around heaps of snow piled up on the sidewalk, then crossed the street.
Max put the photo and the wallet away, then gave Volkov a hug. It still felt unusual, but he was getting more and more comfortable every time he met his father. However, he hadn’t introduced him yet to his adoptive mother. Max wanted to give Volkov some time and space to get used to the new dynamics. Or maybe it’s me who needs the time and the space…
“Max, good to see you, son.” Volkov’s voice was loud and cheery, which Max found unusual.
“Good news?”
“Mostly. It depends on your point of view.” He sat on the bench and opened his brown leather briefcase. “But first things first.” He offered Max a thin manila folder.
Max opened it and glanced at the Moscow police report. He skimmed the first page, while Volkov said, “As expected, the police don’t have any leads or witnesses about Blokhin’s death. His guards saw nothing, heard nothing, know nothing.”
“I hope they continue to keep their mouths shut.”
“They will, if they want to live. And soon, this case will be closed.”
Max nodded. “Have you heard about the treason charges?”
“Yes, my friend … the one you like to call ‘the ghost’—”
“Because you still haven’t told me his name…”
Volkov grinned. “I wish I could, but that would put both our lives in danger, even more than they already are. Anyway, I was saying that the ghost has been able to see to it that the charges against me for treason have been shelved. It’s unclear who exactly gave the order, although the ghost has his reasonable suspicions.”
“And you?”
“I tend to agree with him. But we’re not taking any action at the moment. We’re…” His voice trailed off.
“What? What are you plotting?”
“I … I don’t want you to get involved—”
“I’m already involved.”
“Be that as it may, I’d rather leave you out of this.”
Max frowned. “You know you’re just making me more curious and determined to find out what’s going on?”
Volkov nodded and gave Max a small hesitant smile. “I know, and I wonder where you get it from … Maybe your dad?”
Max sighed. “At least tell me before you do something. Whatever it is, I’d like to give you a hand…”
“I’ll let you know if that’s the case. But I’ll definitely need you when we look for Zlobin.”
“The man without a face…”
Volkov grinned. “It’s clear you like nicknames … Yes, Zlobin, the KGB agent we all thought was dead, seems to be alive and well and enjoying the beauties of Lisbon and Barcelona.”
“Seems?”
“Ghost’s men couldn’t be absolutely certain, and they couldn’t get close enough for clear shots. But it’s worth taking a closer look. On the ground.”
“Anything new about finding who was using Tupolev to collect compromising intel about politicians?”
“Nothing new, but everything points to Zlobin. Once we find him, we find who he was working for.”
“When are we headed to Lisbon?”
“Not right away. We still have to deal with Yezhov and Izhutin—”
Max sat back on the bench. He sighed and looked at a couple of young men jogging on the concrete trail stretching along the river embankment. “Yezhov is still unconvinced, unwilling to give me my job back. I’m on indefinite, forced leave until he makes up his mind. At least, he decided you were not a traitor, or a threat, but my image is still tarnished.”
“It’s probably Izhutin. We should take care of him.”
Max shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “If by ‘taking care,’ you mean killing him, that’s not going to happen. I want to do this the right way.
”
“What is that?”
“I want him to be convinced that I did nothing wrong and that I deserve to have my job back.”
Volkov shrugged. “He will be convinced if you call that number…”
“The CIA number? And use the evidence they have to blackmail him?” Max shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Volkov sighed. “I wish you’d listen to me on this…”
Max shrugged. “Sorry, not this time.”
Volkov reached for another manila folder in his briefcase. “You’re leaving me no choice, son…” He handed Max the folder.
“What do you mean?” Max began to skim through the typed pages of the report.
“This is the not-so-good news. Remember how Georgy told us that he knew the name of the CIA rogue agent?”
Max nodded. “Where is he, by the way?”
“Some place safe.”
“Safe for who?”
“For everyone. Ava is with him, so we don’t have to worry about anything. She will join us when we deal with this.” Volkov tipped his head toward the folder. “The rogue agent’s name is there, but as I began to look for him something disturbing surfaced…”
“About my mother?”
“Yes. Two things. First, there’s something suspicious about her death records. The same doctor who assisted her in giving birth to you also signed her death certificate. There was no coroner, no second signature.”
Max shrugged. “How unusual is that, considering the place, time, and circumstances around her passing?”
“There should have been a coroner, or an assistant, a second signature for sure. But there isn’t. And, as we can expect, all records are gone.”
Max studied Volkov’s face. “But you’re not convinced, and you’re not giving up?”
“There’s something gnawing at me, this feeling that there’s something here that I still haven’t found…”
Max leaned closer to Volkov. “Do you blame yourself for her death?” His voice turned low and warm.
“No, not anymore. I used to, at first. I spent a lot of time considering the what-ifs. But, no matter how bad I felt about myself, I couldn’t turn back time, or bring her back. But I will not stop until I find exactly what happened to her. It’s the least I can do…”
“The least we can do.”
Volkov nodded. He gave Max a slight smile, then said, “The second one is actually the disturbing one. According to what we know so far, the CIA rogue agent is connected to your mother.”
“Connected? How so?”
“They worked together … and against us.”
“What?” Max looked up from the folder.
Volkov’s face had turned dark with disappointment. “Yes, I thought she had turned and was working for us. But I might have been wrong. If we can trust the intelligence we have, your mother worked for the CIA the entire time, fooling me, and the KGB, convincing us that she was a double agent.”
“She was a double agent, but reporting to the CIA about the KGB’s activities and operations.”
“It appears that way. She pretended to work for us, but always remained a CIA operative.”
Max felt a horrible feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. It was as if he has swallowed poison, the burning sensation spreading throughout his chest and his entire body. “I … I can’t believe this. We’ve got to find out the truth.”
Volkov nodded. “That’s why I said you’re leaving me no choice about that CIA number. I’ll make the call.”
“Why?”
“We’ll make contact, see if we can exchange intel.”
“What intel?”
“The name of the rogue agent for the truth about your mother.”
Max nodded. “That sounds like a fair deal.”
“If they see it that way.”
“If they don’t, we’ll make them.”
Volkov grinned. “That’s my boy. We won’t stop until we find out the truth.”
Max nodded. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”
BOOKS BY ETHAN JONES
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18 Minutes
Prequel Novella
From the Max Thorne Spy Thriller Series
The Story
What choice can he make with only 18 minutes?
FSB Agent Max Thorne might be shy and lack confidence, but he has never lost any of the high-value detainees he transports ... yet. Assigned a daunting new mission, Max must lead a two-man team and transfer a high-profile banker to a safehouse in Moscow. Meanwhile, overwhelming opposition is determined to free the banker at any cost.
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Agent Recruit
From the Max Thorne Spy Thriller Series
Book 2
The Story
What price would you pay to learn the truth?
Russian FSB Agent Max Thorne, recovering from a daring assignment in the United States that led to shocking discoveries about his mysterious past, begins the search to put together the missing pieces … even if it means facing the darkness that is the Russian secret service, head on.
His mission leads him down a spiral of lies, betrayal, and deception. Barely able to stay one step ahead of powerful forces determined to protect these secrets at all costs, Max is determined to do the right thing.
But what price is Max willing to pay to learn the truth, and can he protect the ones he loves?
Chapter One
Lisbon, Portugal
Fear glinted darkly for just a split second in the handcuffed man’s bloodied face, then it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. The man blinked away a drop of blood that had trickled down from a gash on his forehead. He puffed up his bruised chest and looked at the two thugs looming over him. “Go on. Hit me again. You hit like a girl.”
The taller of the two men, to whom the detainee had shouted, shook his head with true regret. “Now, why don’t you listen? You’re being too hard on yourself, unnecessarily so, if I might add…” He spoke in English with a hint of a British accent, although he was a Russian, born and bred in Moscow. He was about forty years old, with a shaved head and a cobra tattoo slithering across the knuckles of his right hand. The Russian kept his voice calm and neutral, with barely a hint of menace.
The other man—shorter and pudgy, and who worked well with his knife—leaned closer to the detainee and lifted his head with the tip of his nine-inch-long serrated knife. “Look, why do you cause so much pain to yourself, huh?” He spoke in Russian, since both he and the detainee were also Russians. “The man you’re trying to protect, he couldn’t care less about you. He’s out there, enjoying the pleasures of this fabulous city.” The short man pointed toward the window at Lisbon’s city lights flickering in the distance. He walked behind the detainee tied to the wooden chair in the middle of their second-story hotel room and tapped his hand with the blade of the knife. “And you are here, ready to bleed and to die for that man who has forgotten you. I don’t understand this. Do you, Fyodor?”
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The tall man named Fyodor shook his head. “I don’t get it, either, but perhaps we’re looking at this from the wrong angle. He’s obviously tough, and I’m afraid we won’t be able to break him. He’d rather die than tell us his boss’s whereabouts. He’s loyal, stupidly loyal, no doubt about it.” Fyodor walked closer to the handcuffed man and crouched, so that he was at the man’s eye level. “But perhaps your wife, maybe she’d know—”
“Leave my wife out of this. She has no business—”
“Of course she does,” Fyodor said. “She drives your Mercedes, uses your money for her shopping in Paris and Barcelona, vacations with you across Europe … If she shares in your pleasures, she must share in your pain… Right, Avros?” he said to the short man.
“It’s only fair,” Avros said.
The detainee shook his head. “No, no, she … she doesn’t know anything. I … I kept her out of my business affairs, precisely to spare her the pain.”
“Well, you’ve done a poor job.”
“Like you’re doing here,” Fyodor said. “Now, before we continue our … our little conversation, here’s something I want you to understand. Whether you talk or not, your boss, Zlobin, will think you sold him out so that you could save your worthless life. Your best option, no, your only option is to tell us, right now, where he’s hiding.”
The detainee seemed to contemplate his answer for a long moment.
Avros tapped his knife blade on his fist. “We’re not getting any younger here…”
The detainee gulped hard and let out a deep sigh. “I’m dead either way…”
Fyodor nodded. “That might be true, but you’ll die a good man, knowing you’re protecting your wife.”