The Lies Of Spies (Kyle Achilles Book 2)

by Tim Tigner

  Black Sea Coast, Russia

  MAX WALKED into the August sunshine with his woman on his arm and his head held high, uncertain if he’d just flipped heads or tails. His thoughts jumped to the latter. Russia was famous for making people disappear, and assassinations via helicopter were not uncommon with high-profile targets. Mechanical failures didn’t raise eyebrows in the former Soviet Union. Then again, using a 200 million ruble machine when a two-ruble bullet would suffice was hardly the Russian government’s way.

  What could be the SVR’s motive? Max wondered. The top brass back at Foreign Intelligence Service headquarters in Moscow were singing his praises. He’d just pulled off a major espionage coup in Switzerland. In fact, he was expecting to return from this long overdue vacation to a promotion — one that would bring him in from the field. One that would allow him to start a family with Zoya, knowing that he’d be home most nights rather than away and incommunicado for months at a time.

  Had he done so well that his boss now considered him a threat? That was a distinct possibility. Zoya occasionally chided him for what she called an independent streak, her polite way of saying he wasn’t kiss-ass enough.

  Max didn’t see their suitcases waiting in the big black bird. Perhaps they were in a luggage compartment. Did helicopters have luggage compartments? he wondered.

  “What about our bags?” Zoya shouted over the powerful growl of the engine.

  “They’ve already stashed them in back,” Max said, hoping for the best. He slipped on his headset and asked the pilot, “How long is the flight?”

  The pilot didn’t answer.

  Max couldn’t tell if that was because the channel wasn’t open, or because the pilot was instructed not to talk. He’d ask again later.

  The Ansat rose above the new airport with effortless grace and pointed its nose northwest toward Sochi, rather than south toward their exclusive beachfront resort. The relative position of the Black Sea made this obvious, so Zoya immediately picked up on the navigational discrepancy. Max could see it in her eyes. But she didn’t say anything. She just held his hand and wore her public mask, the pleasantly neutral expression designed to thwart predatory paparazzi.

  As they thundered over the Black Sea coast, leaving Sochi far behind, Max racked his brains for what lay ahead. Not much. Krasnodar region with its surrounding seaside resorts were a few hundred kilometers ahead, but those weren’t as nice as the one now behind them. Still further northwest was the Crimean Peninsula, famous for the 1945 Yalta Conference and the 2014 Crimean Crisis. But the distance would likely warrant a plane rather than a helicopter.

  Max was flummoxed, but like the actress beside him, he didn’t show it. Instead he gave the pilot another try. “I flew Black Sharks and Alligators back in my service days,” he said, referencing the military helicopters by their nicknames. “They were fast, but as long as nobody’s shooting, I’ll take the comfort you’ve got here over speed. How long you been flying?”

  Again, no answer.

  With nothing to lose, Max kept at it. “I still get behind a stick once a year or so, just so I don’t lose the feel. Know what I mean?”

  Nothing.

  Resigned to accepting his temporary state of ignorance, Max worked to keep Zoya occupied by pointing out scenery below, most of which was craggy rocks and uninhabited coniferous coastline. Beautiful, but foreboding.

  Eighty minutes into the flight, the hum of the rotor shifted and the Ansat veered inland over thick forest. This turned into an approach arc that brought them around until they were flying back toward the sea and their apparent destination. Near the water’s edge, a magnificent estate with manicured grounds and picturesque gardens appeared in a hilltop clearing.

  “What is it?” Zoya asked, speaking through her headset microphone for the first time.

  “It looks like the palace at Versailles,” Max said, feeding Zoya the recollection of a favorite trip with a cheerful lilt.

  “That’s just what I was thinking. But this isn’t the center of France. This is the middle of nowhere.”

  Indeed it was. The plot thickened.

  In Russian fairy tales, magnificent homes in the woods were always owned by witches. Max had lost his childish naiveté long ago, but his career had made him all too familiar with the true face of evil.

  The pilot landed on the middle one of three helipads, just a few meters from a Mercedes S65 whose gleaming black paint job matched their helicopter’s. Three helipads, Max thought. Much more impressive than a three-car garage.

  No words were spoken as the Ansat powered down, its roar turning to a purr, but the open Mercedes passenger door made the next move clear even as the pilot’s continued silence brought a smile to Max’s lips. He recognized a pattern.

  Max helped Zoya down from the Ansat and wrapped an arm around her waist as they walked toward the car.

  She turned her head and whispered, “Why aren’t they speaking to us?”

  “They’ve been ordered to forget us, and they’re taking their orders seriously.”

  “Forget us,” Zoya repeated. “Are we going to disappear?”

  Max pulled her tight, but didn’t stop walking. “Yes.”

  Chapter 9

  The Twin

  Black Sea Coast, Russia

  “WHY ARE YOU SO CALM?” Zoya whispered, her lips to Max’s ear and her fingers on his pulse. She was speaking English as the Mercedes whisked them toward the palace, something she often did in public to hinder eavesdropping.

  Max didn’t answer. He was deep in thought.

  Zoya persisted. “Isn’t this the perfect time for you to use one of your secret agent tricks to take over the car so we can make a break for it?”

  Max concluded his analysis and cut Zoya off with a single shake of his head. “This may look like a palace, but it’s a fortress. During the helicopter approach, did you notice that there’s only one passage carved through the forest, and that road’s got more curves than a scared snake? It’s designed to prevent an assault, but it works the same for an escape. No doubt they can also raise barricades and dragon’s teeth with the touch of a button. We wouldn’t even make it to the main road.”

  “So you’re not going to do anything? You’re just going to sit back and let us disappear?”

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s not the Siberian kind of disappearing they have in mind, or the Sicilian kind. It’s the covert assignment kind.”

  Zoya’s voice trembled as she squeezed his hand back. “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone thinks we’re on vacation. Nobody will miss us for three weeks. At this very moment, two people resembling us are probably checking into our room, toting our luggage and using our names. Meanwhile, we’re going to be asked to do something very secretive, something that can’t be traced to us, or by extension, to Russia.” As if to accentuate his point, the Mercedes continued past the palace’s front entrance without slowing.

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place, Max? I was scared. Really scared.” Her hand relaxed, and her tears started flowing.

  Max wiped his love’s red cheeks with his sleeve, before meeting her eye. “I wanted you to be braced for what’s to come.”

  She recoiled as the panic returned.

  Max used his index finger to draw a circle in the air as he continued the explanation. “Helicopter transport isn’t the usual protocol for a mission briefing. Whatever they’re going to ask of us, it’s not going to be . . . small.”

  Zoya swallowed hard as the Mercedes slowed and descended through a side drive into an underground portico reminiscent of the entrance to a grand hotel. The instant their forward velocity hit zero, a giant of a man in a soldier’s uniform opened their door like a valet and said, “Welcome to Seaside.”

  He motioned them toward another door which was held open by a similarly impressive soldier and which in turn revealed a third man waiting inside. The third man wore the insignia of a colonel in the presidential security service, and a face Max recognized. Ig
or Pushkin.

  Colonel Pushkin had been Cadet Pushkin when they’d gone through the KGB Academy together. With their heads shaved and uniforms on, the two could have been twins. They certainly fought like brothers.

  The instigator of their discord was Arkady Usatov, the son of the Academy’s commandant, and Pushkin’s best friend. For four years, Arkady and Pushkin made a sport of getting Max into trouble with drill instructors, professors, and women through cases of mistaken identity. Given Arkady’s protected status, Max just had to take it with a tight lip and a burning heart.

  Max’s heart still burned, even though graduation was twenty years behind them, and he hadn’t spoken to Pushkin since.

  Apparently they weren’t going to speak today either. As Max and Zoya entered an enormous circular entry hall reminiscent of a Roman temple, Pushkin simply used a sweeping arm to point them up a broad marble staircase.

  Chapter 10

  The Proposal

  Black Sea Coast, Russia

  ARM-IN-ARM, Max and Zoya climbed toward a domed ceiling decorated with a fresco of the Greek gods in their heavenly abode. Max loved museums. He found poetry in the idea that you could achieve immortality by pouring years of your life into a spread of canvas or a chunk of stone. But today his appreciation of the beauty surrounding him was lost to other emotions. Relief primarily. Relief that they were going up stairs rather than down.

  As they reached the landing where the stairway split left and right before doubling back, Zoya whispered, “That officer looks just like you. Could that be why we’re here? They need a body double?”

  Wishful thinking, Max thought. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I love you so.”

  Pushkin hadn’t told them where to go once they reached the main floor, implying that there would either be another guide or their destination would be obvious. Obvious was an overstatement, but an open double doorway beckoned them from the distant end of a long promenade. Still arm-in-arm and with footsteps now echoing on marble, they walked past life-sized sculptures and oil paintings bigger than barn doors toward the unknown.

  “Who owns this place?” Zoya asked, still whispering. “I know we don’t have one, but you’d think a palace like this could only belong to a tsar.”

  Technically, Russia hadn’t been ruled by a tsar since Nicholas II, who was deposed at the start of the Russian Revolution. Effectively, it had fallen back under a monarch’s rule some seventeen years ago. Heredity aside, the main difference between a president and a king was a parliamentary system of checks and balances. Although his title was president, Korovin hadn’t been checked or balanced for years. Anyone who tried, ended up in jail or dead. “You’re right,” Max said. “I’m sure it does.”

  Zoya stopped walking when they neared the double doorway. She just halted and turned and wrapped her arms around his waist. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes and waited for him to return the stare.

  He did.

  “You were going to propose to me, weren’t you? At the resort? Tonight, for the fourth anniversary of our first date?”

  Actually, Max was undecided. He’d planned to, wanted to, desperately, but he was hesitant because his big promotion hadn’t yet been granted.

  Women were usually a mystery to Max, but this was not one of those times. He held her gaze without waver, as tears came to his eyes. “I want to marry you more than I want anything else in the world.”

  “Well then ask me.”

  Now? Here? Were they on camera? The thoughts and implications pummeled him, even as he pulled the ring from his pocket and dropped to one knee.

  Chapter 11

  The Assignment

  Washington D.C.

  THE COBALT BLUE MUGS were etched with the seal of the United States Senate. The coffee was fresh-ground and thick. The conversation, however, was more tense than cordial. Collins had left her flowery words and embellishing phrases on the Senate floor.

  Foxley ate it up.

  He loved the no-nonsense approach top politicians tended to take when behind closed doors. What he didn’t like was that Collins kept her big blue eyes locked on Achilles like a teacher on her pet. When she finally did turn her gaze his way, Foxley couldn’t believe the words that followed. “President Silver has reason to be concerned that President Korovin will make an attempt on his life.”

  “What!” Foxley blurted, unable to help himself. The idea was too provocative. And yet, he noted with more than a little consternation, Achilles didn’t seem surprised.

  Collins turned back to Achilles and continued as though Foxley hadn’t spoken. “Therefore, after long and careful debate, President Silver has decided to eliminate the threat. Given your native language skills, your relevant clandestine experience, and perhaps most importantly, your personal history with Korovin, you are uniquely and ideally qualified for the job. Given your civilian status and independent stature, you’re also a good diplomatic fit.” Collins emphasized diplomatic, and then paused for a sip while her words reverberated between their ears.

  Again, Foxley was flabbergasted. What personal history did Achilles have with Korovin? What relevant clandestine experience? Neither was even hinted at in Achilles’ FBI file.

  Collins set down her mug and continued talking directly to Achilles. “Your primary concern, job number one, is to ensure that nothing you do can ever be traced back to your government. If the U.S. were to be implicated in the assassination of the Russian head of state, the world would begin to worry about nuclear war. And even though we’d likely avoid the red button, the strain would rattle the planet. Who knows what nuts would shake out? Best if his death looks to be natural. If not natural, then an accident. If not an accident, then anonymous. If not anonymous, then for the assassin’s personal reasons. Are we clear?”

  Foxley remained silent as Achilles said, “Crystal.”

  “Outside the three of us, only Silver and Sparkman know of this assignment,” Collins said, looking Foxley’s way again. “Not the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, not the National Security Advisor, not the Directors of the CIA or the FBI. That’s just five people, gentleman. The circle must never, ever, reach six. Are we clear?”

  “Yes ma’am,” they replied in chorus.

  “Good. It goes without saying that there will be no paperwork. No get-out-of-jail-free card. And of course no parade once the deed is done. If bad meets worse, I trust you’ll take matters into your own hands — one way or another. Any questions, or can I move on to operations?”

  Foxley shook his head along with Achilles. Crazy though it might sound, they knew the drill.

  “Geopolitics and nuclear arsenals aside, operations really is the rub,” Collins said, her tone more congenial now that they were over the hump. “Korovin is the most highly-protected man in the world. I say most rather than best out of deference to the home team. That said, Russia’s Federal Protective Service, FSO, is five times the size of the Secret Service. They have 3,000 employees whose sole responsibility is Korovin’s personal security.”

  “That makes for a pretty tight net,” Foxley said, trying to be the wise voice of experience.

  Nobody reacted.

  “The CIA has spent months looking for holes in that net,” Collins continued. “Michael McArthur, the CIA Station Chief in Moscow, finally found one. Just one. It’s up to you to figure out how to exploit it.”

  Collins produced two crimson red flash drives. They looked bulkier than most Foxley had seen. She set them down on the white tiled tabletop and used a French manicured index finger to slide one over to each of them. “There’s a few thousand pages of research notes, and a ten-page summary report. None of it can be copied, printed, or transferred. The files will erase if you try. Read it all, and memorize what you need. The drives will auto-erase in seventy-two hours, but destroy them anyway once you’re done. They’re flammable. Any questions?”

  “I have one,” Foxley said. “I’ve listened to everything you’ve said, but have yet to decipher the exact nature o
f my role.”

  “It’s crucial,” Collins said, giving him an encouraging smile. “I understand you’ve handled a number of sensitive assignments for Sparkman. Quick, quiet, and without complications was how he summarized your service. He said that if you had a business card, those words would be engraved on it. Sparkman also said you were well connected within the world of shadow operations. That you are a master of procurement. Everything from cutting-edge weapons to surveillance systems, passports, and visas.”

  The one and perhaps only good thing about politicians, Foxley thought, was their talent for making you feel important while speaking face-to-face. “That about sums it up. But it doesn’t really clarify my role.”

  “Your role, Mr. Foxley, consists of two parts. Number one, you act as a cutout, so that Achilles has no direct relevant communication with anyone employed by the government during the course of this assignment. And number two, you supply him with anything he needs, be it information, documentation, or equipment — all sourced from non-governmental channels. Your fee and funding will come through the same cloaked channel Sparkman has used in the past. Clear and copacetic?”

  “Clear and copacetic.”

  “And Achilles,” Collins continued, redirecting her charm. “Whatever you need, Foxley’s your man. I trust the two of you will come up with some clever means of communication that avoids leaving any trail of association.”

  After both men nodded, she said, “Well then, I suppose that’s it. We’ve just changed the course of human history over a single pot of coffee.”

  “I have a question,” Achilles said, arresting the other two as they began to rise. “Silver’s not an impulsive man. He’s a planner. He must have given thought to what happens next. In Russia, I mean. When Korovin’s gone.”

  “Indeed he has,” Collins said. “Vasily Lukin talks tough in public, but privately he’s a great admirer of the West. Silver is convinced we can get him into the Kremlin. Then the West will enjoy its first substantive ally since Gorbachev, and we’ll be a big step closer to world peace.”