by T. M. Parris
Sutherland was looking at him. The man’s eyes flicked from left to right. Fairchild reacted straight away, but the click of a catch told him he was already too late.
There were two of them. One was the man who’d chased him onto the jetty. Both were aiming straight at him. If he thought he could lift his gun and get a shot away before they could fire, he’d have done it. But it was too late. He’d let this mind-manipulator soothe him into inaction, until the opportunity passed. Once again, he’d been played. He’d failed.
“Drop the gun.”
Fairchild did so on the jetty man’s curt order. The man stepped forward and kicked it away. A pause. Fairchild clenched every muscle. He hoped it would be quick. But something happened that didn’t make sense. Jetty man turned and pointed the gun at Sutherland.
It was no trick; Sutherland’s eyes widened. His jaw clenched and he swallowed. This was not something he was expecting.
“You. Run.” The other man was talking to him. Fairchild didn’t understand.
“Run!” shouted the man, and fired high, over Fairchild’s shoulder.
Fairchild turned and ran.
71
He pelted flat out along the track, expecting any second to be thrown to the ground by bolts in his back. Surely that was what they wanted. They wanted it to look as though they shot him trying to escape. Or else it was just sport. But as he sprinted, no bullets came. He ran round the curve of the lake until his legs were burning. He stumbled and fell to the ground, heaving for breath, lungs aching.
Still nothing. He lifted his head and looked back. Three figures were standing by the bench. Two of them had guns aimed at the third. None of them was looking in his direction.
He crawled into the undergrowth and watched. Sutherland was talking, gesturing. Remonstrating. The others stood solid. Sutherland seemed to weaken suddenly. He reached out for the arm of the bench. One of the men lowered his gun, about to step forward.
What happened then was so quick Fairchild didn’t catch it. A man was on the ground. Two men grappled with each other. There was a shot. Someone else fell to the ground. It was Sutherland who was still standing, with a gun in his hand. He aimed and shot again, once then twice.
That was it. One old man stood over two bodies. Then his eyes lifted. He was looking for Fairchild.
Now Sutherland had a gun and Fairchild didn’t. Fairchild looked around him. All he could do was run, try to draw him somewhere to gain advantage. He tensed, about to get to his feet. Sutherland was already moving in his direction. But then the old man slowed, looking up.
He was staring into the sky beyond Fairchild. A distant droning got louder. Fairchild turned and saw it. A helicopter was approaching, coming from Irkutsk. The surface of the lake roughened. It was flying low. Sutherland paused, staring up. He was some distance away but his posture seemed to change. It was as if in that moment it was sinking in. Something had happened beyond here, back in Moscow, that changed everything. Whatever it was, Sutherland was no longer the hunter. He had become the prey.
The helicopter kept coming, the sound growing all the time. Sutherland turned and strode away. A flash of something on the other side of the railway. Sirens. They were sending in police, everybody for this guy. Whether the helicopter could see Fairchild or not he didn’t know, but it was Sutherland it was tracking. Another long goods train was snaking its way along the railway line, separating Sutherland from the road. His black coat was just about visible as he made his way alongside the train. He disappeared from Fairchild’s view behind the row of cabins. The helicopter hovered above.
Squeals of sirens now, and vehicles were congregating around the station platform. The train kept moving slowly, steadily, right through the middle. Fairchild heard shouts, gunfire. Still the helicopter hung there, its hammering deafening. The train kept going. More shouts, men in uniform running.
The train cleared the platform. Uniforms swarmed across the tracks, invading the road where the cabins were, covering every piece of ground, kicking down doors. The helicopter moved up the shore, did a slow turn and came back.
The search slowed. The copter lifted and turned back to Irkutsk. The uniforms were standing now, pointing, looking around.
Their prey had escaped.
Fairchild waited until the last of them had gone. He got up, rubbing his freezing body. The warmth from his burst of running was long gone. He walked back to the bench. The bodies and weapons had been taken away. He walked along the road between the cabins, moving silently, listening and watching. Every cabin had a door hanging open. Fairchild crept up to each one, combed every room inside, checked every piece of fencing, every shed, every wall. The burned cabin was a blackened mess. Along the railway he worked his way up the platform, checking every storage unit and gully. The searchers hadn’t missed anything. Sutherland was gone.
Fairchild sat on the jetty staring out at the lake. He should have shot the guy. Why didn’t he? Because Sutherland knew that Fairchild didn’t trust MI6. Sutherland played on Fairchild’s alienation from Walter and the Service. He used it to talk his way out. There was nothing in what he said. There were no further secrets to discover. The guy was just a traitor, so enraged at being uncovered that he’d taken it upon himself to exact revenge. And when it finally caught up with him, he hinted at conspiracies and cover-ups just to protect himself. Fairchild’s anger at himself warmed him. After everything Sutherland had done, Fairchild had let the man go.
The only upside was that the Russian authorities now seemed to be after him as well. Hopefully they’d find him. But if they didn’t, Fairchild would be ready next time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
72
Ulan Bator, the concrete capital in the middle of Mongolia’s sparse plains, probably had its points of interest, but Rose was there purely because that was where the train went and it was the first place of any size outside Russia with an airport. It was well able to provide what Rose most needed – sleep, news, decent food – and she didn’t have to wait long before Walter arrived and they were catching up inside one of the city’s many decent Chinese restaurants.
“So you got out of Russia quite easily, in the end?” asked Walter, delicately folding a duck pancake.
“Yes, and I’d like to know why.” Rose was working her way indelicately through a mountain of prawn crackers. Her metabolism was still playing catch-up after Lali. “Even if they weren’t expecting me at Irkutsk there should have been patrols at the station, extra checks on the train. The passport could have been flagged. I had none of that, Walter. I don’t understand it.”
“Things changed, that’s why. They were called off. It all happened rather quickly.”
“All what?”
“Well, as you know, there’s always been a question mark over Sutherland’s real identity. The Fairchilds developed a theory that Khovansky was a sleeper agent inserted into the UK, who managed to convince everyone that he was British and rise up through the ranks of MI6 to a fairly influential position. I went into all this in huge detail and eventually had to draw a different conclusion. The reason why his legend was so perfect, so beyond suspicion to the intelligence service researchers, is that he really was British. He was born there, grew up in Scotland, family, education all exactly as per his record. His achievement therefore is even greater that we thought. Rather than a Russian who persuaded the British he was British—”
“He’s a Brit who persuaded the Russians he’s Russian?”
“Precisely, my dear. No mean feat. We might never know exactly how he did it. When he was working for us and passing secrets to the Soviets, did he persuade his handlers that he was Russian? Or did he concoct a legend later, after he’d already crossed over? He must have had some help either way. And a great deal of foresight and nerve. But that’s Sutherland. He gave the KGB a good period of his life and in exchange built up a considerable power base. He deceived them for decades and gained their complete trust to use for his own ends. He also weathered the regim
e change. The KGB became the FSB, but Khovansky, really Sutherland, remained in place. Well, until now.”
“Until now? Is this what’s changed?”
“We had ourselves a perfect storm, you see. Sutherland with the Russians dancing to his tune, making use of the inner machinery of one of the world’s most corrupt and oppressive governments. Peter and I had a little discussion and agreed to address the issue. We do of course have our own ways of influencing the FSB. We introduced the idea that Khovansky’s Russian identity was a fake, and that he is in fact British. We also managed to implicate the man in a couple of recent leaks. Quite handy for us, as it deflected attention away from our own people. As you know, the best kinds of lies are those that are close to the truth. Their own checks clearly verified our story. Which resulted in an instant death sentence for Sutherland.”
Rose’s progress with the crackers slowed. “He was there, by the lake, you know that, don’t you? Fairchild could have got away with me, but he went back to confront him. Kill him, in fact.”
“Our best guess is that news of Khovansky’s real identity surfaced during the course of the operation to track the two of you down, which led to the FSB agents who were there under his direction being ordered to turn on him and arrest him.”
“But that’s not what happened.”
“No.” Walter spooned hoisin sauce and rolled his last pancake tightly like a cigar. “It seems he got away, even though they sent a sizeable team to apprehend him. Slid out and vanished when there seemed to be no way out. Something he’s good at.”
“How old is this guy?”
“Older than me, my dear. But his strength comes from the mind games he plays, not physical force.”
“Well, Fairchild may have had an opportunity to get away as well. Not that he was trying to. I have to say, Walter, I assumed he wasn’t going to make it. He could be in the lake, for all we know.”
“Indeed. They could both be. But somehow…” Walter’s voice trailed off as a waitress approached with a tray of food, most of which Rose had ordered.
“If Fairchild is alive, he could be anywhere,” she said after the waitress left. “What would Sutherland do? Where would he go now?”
“Anywhere in the world except Russia. He’s effectively in exile. His power base is destroyed. Given Russia’s global reach, he may have to go into hiding, change his identity. Hopefully he’ll remain impotent but he’s lost none of his manipulative abilities.”
“Will he try and go after Fairchild, do you think?”
“Well, my dear, there’s a reason why for all these years I never shared any of this with John. He would have tried to find him, the man who killed his parents. As a consequence, Sutherland would have discovered him. While both Fairchild and Sutherland were unaware of each other’s existence, Fairchild was safe from him. Fairchild will never believe I kept things from him for his own protection. But that’s by-the-by now. Sutherland will pursue him. He’s not a man who forgets. He may even try to use you again.”
“You think that Fairchild’s in danger from Sutherland? Surely it’s the other way round. Fairchild went back to kill the guy. He promised Roman he would kill him. That’s why Roman was helping us.”
“He’ll try, I expect,” said Walter. “He may even succeed. Or Sutherland will. But there’s something worse than one or other ending up dead.”
“Such as?”
“Why do you think Sutherland engineered the whole Lali episode? He knew exactly where you were back in Moscow. He was testing. Playing a game. Experimenting, just to see what Fairchild would do. He was curious about him. Instead of trying to kill Fairchild, Sutherland might try to recruit him.”
“Recruit him?”
“Talk him over. Get him on side. Play on his bitterness, how let down he’s been by the British. Fill his head with lies about what happened all those years ago, Cold War shadows no one can ever really refute. They’re both highly competent people. Imagine what they could do if they started working together. And who do you think all their bile and fury would be directed at?”
“Us,” said Rose. “Britain. MI6.”
Every now and again Walter’s inner machinery made itself visible through his dainty exterior: a mind that anticipated, weighed up consequences and possibilities, considered options far in the future.
“So you see, I doubt this is over,” said Walter. “In fact, this may still end up being one of the biggest challenges our Service has ever faced. I know you never welcomed being a part of this story, Rose. But if the issue does come back, you will be uniquely placed. Uniquely placed.”
“So you’re telling me I’m now of strategic importance to the Service?”
“In my eyes, yes. It would be helpful, let’s say, for you to be on hand should this flare up. Of course it would be better if it didn’t, and we never hear of Sutherland again.” He patted his mouth with a folded napkin.
Rose wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It wasn’t at all clear what Walter had in mind. In due course he would probably reveal some long term plan and her role in it. But she knew what she wanted.
“How’s Peter?” she asked.
“Making a full recovery. He took a couple of bullets but it could have been a lot worse.”
“And has this persuaded him that it’s time to retire?”
“He said he’s given it some thought but doesn’t feel ready quite yet. So no, he’s still our Station Head, though not for many more years. This will have taken its toll on his health.”
Rose hoped he had a few more years. There were bosses far worse than Peter.
“I imagine all the heat is off in Moscow given the Russians’ decision to pull back from Tbilisi.”
“To some extent. Of course the international press is saying that the Boris letter and the outcry back home shamed the Russians into retreating, but others are suggesting that they were losing the game anyway. They were particularly troubled by some covert operations which destroyed a number of their strategic positions.”
“Really? Who was behind that?”
“Publicly, no one knows. Privately – well, you can’t expect to gun down the number two British diplomat in Russia and pay no consequences. Of course the Kremlin is saying the shooting was a dissident group, but no dissidents we know are claiming it. And I’ve heard Zack is in the region as well.”
“Ah! He’ll be pleased about that. The Russians have only gone back as far as South Ossetia, though. They could try again.”
“Indeed. They could try again. Relations, as they say, remain tense.”
“Well, if the Boris letter prompts them to reform their military obligation programme, at least one good thing will have come of it.”
“Yes, my dear. It does seem to have caused something of an outrage, and has prompted numerous questions about the human cost of the siege as well. It significantly weakened the Russians’ position at the international negotiating table. I wonder how that letter got out of Lali and into the hands of the media. It’s assumed Boris himself was killed in the siege.”
“I expect we’ll never know.” Rose ate a mouthful of pork. Passing information to the media was not something her superiors would approve of. Walter may have his suspicions, but they’d never find out for sure.
Jannes had done well, finding Boris’ home village and getting his mother to read out the letter on camera, with the rest of the family and a subdued but beautiful Tatiana in the shot as well. The letter was tragic, sincere, horrifically frank and incredibly moving. Hearts across the nation were touched. The clip went viral, with millions of online views in a matter of days. Activist groups of soldiers’ mothers seized on it and campaigned vigorously. Russian politicians found themselves facing a barrage of awkward questions, not only on the plight of Russian conscripts but the purpose of the Georgian conflict itself. It was gratifying that even a government with this much power found itself knocked back occasionally by the will of its own citizens. Far too occasional, that was the problem.
S
he changed the subject. “What’s happening with Morozov?”
“Well, Roman was found dead as you know. He was poisoned. We’ve heard it was someone close to him, his driver and bodyguard, who’s now running the network in close cooperation with the authorities.”
“Vadim? So Vadim turned traitor. Poor old Roman.” She thought about them all: Roman, Alexei, Kamila, Boris, Marta, Ilya, Katya, all the others. Such a Russian story. The babushkas had it right: dead, dead, all dead.
“It’s thanks to Roman that Fairchild and I made it,” she said. “He managed to get a call out to us. He must have realised Vadim was working against him. Fairchild will…”
Walter carried on eating as she tailed off. Fairchild will what? Never give up. Transfer all his efforts from finding his parents into ending the person who ended them. But that was him. What about her? Fairchild will turn it into a feud, something personal. This was bigger. As Peter said, there will never be a time when Russia doesn’t matter.
“Walter, I have to go back. I can help with this. Now Sutherland’s out of the picture it’s all different, isn’t it? The personal element is all gone. I get back to business, doing what I’m good at, running agents.”
Walter lowered his fork. “Rose, I’m terribly sorry, but going back to Moscow is out of the question. The FSB know you’re in intelligence. Our contacts have told us as much. It would be impossible for you to do anything covert, even without Sutherland on the scene. You’ve done well there in very difficult circumstances, Peter only has praise for you, and this will be reflected in your record, don’t worry about that. We know that much of this is not of your own making. But staying in Moscow just won’t work.”
Rose sat back. Why was all this happening to her? For her first ten years she’d been a model intelligence officer. Still was, in fact. But this thing she’d got caught up in didn’t want to let her go. She just wanted to get stuck in, bury herself in a role, get back to where she was. What she wanted, in fact, was to go back in time to before she’d ever heard the name John Fairchild, or Grom, or Khovansky, or Sutherland. She wanted to be the person she was before Lali, the one who’d never seen a child shot in the face – not a child, a young man, a boy as brave as any soldier – never felt the warmth of a girl’s head on her lap, felt the ache of knowing that child was suffering, was relying on her, never had it all snatched away in an instant, feelings crushed as soon as they’d formed, leaving her with nothing, with only what she had before except that she knew, now, what she’d lost, what she missed, why she felt so empty. To un-know this, to fill the emptiness with purpose, that was what she wanted, what she needed.