by Tom Wood
Sykes was starting to understand. Procter was desperate to make sure this wasn’t swept under the carpet.
‘And bringing Ferguson to justice will mean I can forget about any indiscretions you have performed up until this point,’ Procter continued. ‘I won’t forget those people who helped in its course. But I don’t want to put you under any pressure to do anything that you don’t want to do.’
Sykes straightened his back, knowing that he had could gather more than enough proof already to hammer the nails in Ferguson’s coffin. It would be a pleasure to do so. Sykes smiled inwardly. He knew what Procter was up to, the sly fucker. Procter would be the crusader who cleaned — no purged — the CIA of corruption, who showed that one of the organization’s greatest heroes was rotten to the core. That kind of achievement would accelerate him straight into the director’s chair in just a few years. After that, who knew? Procter was going places, that much was certain. And if Sykes continued to be as smart as he knew himself to be, he would be going there too. Sykes had a plan.
‘I want to make things right,’ he said, and he meant it.
Procter smiled. ‘Good for you.’
CHAPTER 81
13:13 EAT
‘How are you feeling, Antonio?’
Alvarez blew out some air and, in answer, raised his slinged right arm as much as the pain would allow. He had some pills in his system, and they took much of the edge off.
‘I’m told it should heal good,’ Procter said.
‘Won’t be pitching anytime soon though.’
Procter stepped into the hotel room, and Alvarez closed the door behind him. The room wasn’t particularly big to begin with, but with Procter now taking up a good amount of the available space it was positively cramped.
‘You know how much blood you lost?’
Alvarez shook his head. ‘No, but I’m betting I’m half African now.’
With one arm Alvarez moved his bag to one side and sat down on the room’s single bed. The bag was small and only contained some dirty laundry and Alvarez’s few personal effects. The clothes he was wearing had been bought for him while he spent most of the night on a hospital bed. He’d been flown to Tanzania’s capital by an embassy chopper and given a hotel room to rest in.
‘But you’re lucky you didn’t come away with worse,’ Procter said, tone noticeably more serious. ‘Going off on your own like that. What were you thinking?’
‘I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think.’
Procter frowned. ‘As an officer of the CIA you should probably have answered differently there.’
‘I’m high on painkillers.’
Procter showed some teeth. ‘Then I’ll let it pass.’
Alvarez didn’t say anything. He reached across to the bedside table and grabbed a bottle of mineral water. He switched it to his right hand to twist the top off with his left, but the bottled water was damp with condensation and too slippery in his weakened grip.
‘Let me get that for you,’ Procter offered, stepping closer.
Alvarez kept the bottle away from Procter. ‘I got it.’
He pushed the bottle against his chest and, with the extra support, managed to get the top off. He took a small sip and placed it back down.
‘Not as thirsty as you thought?’ Procter asked.
‘Guess not.’
‘You know,’ Procter said, ‘a part of me wants to shout my big mouth off at you for disobeying my commands.’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘Because I’m not sure if it would be just ego talking. After all, you did a good, if unconventional, job.’
‘We didn’t get the missiles.’
Procter shrugged. ‘The second Ozols got killed and the drive went missing we were never going to get those missiles. It was a lost cause from the get-go, no matter what spiel came out of Chambers’s mouth.’
Alvarez rubbed his shoulder.
Procter continued, ‘You stopped anyone else from getting them. That’s the most important thing.’
‘Status quo maintained?’
‘That’s the business we’re in.’
‘What happens to Ferguson and Sykes?’
‘Sykes turned himself in. He’ll cut a deal, help the case against Ferguson.’
‘When’s Ferguson going to get the good news?’
Procter chewed on his answer for a moment. ‘That’s going to take some more legwork. But don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’ He reached a hand for the water. ‘Mind?’ Alvarez shook his head, and Procter took a long drink. ‘And don’t think about going solo again,’ he said after screwing the top back on. ‘I won’t be such a nice guy next time you pull this kind of shit.’
Alvarez half raised his arm again. ‘Couldn’t if I wanted to.’
Procter looked at him closely. ‘But do you want to?’
Alvarez thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Once was enough.’
‘Good. Because you’re going to be behind a desk for a while. Partly because you need time to heal and partly because I’ve got to be seen giving you a telling off. The agency doesn’t have time for mavericks.’
Alvarez nodded.
‘What time’s your flight out?’ Procter asked.
Alvarez turned his wrist over to look at his watch. ‘Soon.’
‘Make sure you’re on it.’
‘I will.’
‘What are you going to do when you get back?’
‘Normal stuff. Have a barbecue, go to a ball game. See my kid.’
‘Sounds nice,’ Procter said.
CHAPTER 82
Moscow, Russia
Wednesday
14:11 MSK
Colonel Gennady Aniskovach passed through the corridors of the SVR headquarters and, with a controlled amount of anger, accepted that his face now drew more glances damaged than it had when beautiful. Prudnikov’s secretary, who had previously always gazed at him with brazen longing and desire, averted her eyes when he arrived at her desk. Aniskovach waited while she announced his presence by an intercom and, despite the pain it caused, gave her his best smile when she finally glanced his way before he entered Prudnikov’s office.
The director was reading a report of some variety and did not look up. There was no small talk. Aniskovach knew he had exhausted that particular pleasure. Eventually Prudnikov placed the report to one side. He adjusted it so it was square to his desk.
He poured himself a glass of water and took a drink. ‘My throat is hoarse from the amount of explaining I have been forced to do on your behalf. As you may expect, the GRU in particular are not exactly happy that four decorated members of our special forces have lost their lives and that another three were injured during an operation we told them nothing about — an operation that should have been theirs to conduct in the first place.’
He rubbed his brow before looking up, grey eyes narrow. ‘I do not appreciate that you have put me in this position yet again. I did as you requested, and I gave you the task of recovering those missiles, at the same time allowing you the chance to repair your tarnished reputation. And what do you do? You are responsible for yet more deaths; you create yet more problems for me. And you didn’t even come back with so much as a handful of bolts.’
‘I’d like to remind you of the unforeseen circumstances that interfered with the mission,’ Aniskovach responded calmly. ‘Yet I still managed to successfully destroy the missiles and therefore deny America acquiring our technology.’ Aniskovach stood straight-backed. ‘And I offer my sincerest regret for the loss of life, sir.’
The head of the SVR smirked. ‘Even you cannot make that sound sincere, Gennady. Though others may not see past your charm, I am not so easily misled. I’ve spoken to the soldiers at the hospital, and I know what really happened. You had nothing to do with the destruction of the missiles. That was but a fortunate coincidence, so don’t try and claim credit. I always knew that you were ruthless, but now I know that you have no conscience, not even when good men di
e to serve your ambition. If it were purely up to me, I would have you thrown out of the organization or, at the least, I would confine you to a desk for the rest of your career where you could do no more damage.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘Silence.’ Prudnikov waved his hand. ‘Do not spill your veneered words on me. There is no need for it. I say this honestly: Your ability to capitalize on your own mistakes is extremely impressive. Even at my best I don’t believe I could have wriggled from the fisherman’s net as well as you have.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m sure you don’t. But it seems the GRU were not the lone recipient of information relating to the Tanzania operation. That we very nearly lost our missile technology to the Americans has created ripples in the pools of power above my head. It was an especially clever move of yours to leak what happened to those who know no better so that the illusion of success can shield you from your failure. If nothing else, I must respect your guile.’
Aniskovach had originally planned to appear shocked at news of the leak but now chose to stand emotionless. There seemed little point in acting ignorant.
‘There are many who care only for headlines who are extremely pleased with your actions. Press releases are already being prepared to boast of our victory.’ Prudnikov sighed. ‘Quite the hero, aren’t you?’
‘I do my duty as well as I can.’
Prudnikov laughed bitterly and leaned back in his chair. ‘It appears that your stock has risen sharply and that you have some new friends in the Kremlin, friends who inform me that you’ve done Russia proud, friends who inform me that it would weaken our very nation if I were to downgrade your responsibilities. Apparently the lives of four distinguished soldiers, four real heroes, is but a small price to pay for keeping our missile superiority. I have been instructed that I should congratulate you, reward you, even.’
The SVR colonel tried not to look too pleased with himself. This was going even better than he had expected.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There is no need to thank me, Gennady, when this has been entirely of your own doing. Any thanks you receive should therefore be directed purely toward yourself.’
‘Then I thank myself.’
Prudnikov’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Your arrogance will be your downfall.’
‘Perhaps,’ Aniskovach began, ‘but so far any arrogance has been more than justified. There is no reason to suggest that justification shall not continue. In which case confidence would have been a more accurate choice of word. Sir.’
Prudnikov, showing a look of pure disdain, considered Aniskovach for a long time. He didn’t retort, and Aniskovach took his silence as a sign of concession in the verbal battle. Eventually the head of the SVR adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. ‘Since I cannot demote you,’ he said, ‘I may as well make use of you. You are to continue your hunt for General Banarov’s assassin. Hopefully on this matter you have already reached the limits of any damage you may have caused. Do we know anything more of him?’
Aniskovach had not told Prudnikov the full extent of what happened in Tanzania and had completely left out the involvement of Banarov’s killer. Such information was too valuable to give up until the most opportune moment. For now, though, one minor detail to placate Prudnikov wouldn’t hurt.
‘Well,’ Aniskovach began with a carefully measured quantity of drama. ‘We’ve had a very interesting development in that regard.’
CHAPTER 83
Tanga, Tanzania
Wednesday
16:50 EAT
When Victor awoke, he wanted to be sick, but he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings as soon as consciousness allowed. He was lying in a hospital bed, a mosquito net surrounding him. His vision was blurry, but it was bright, daytime. A ceiling fan thrummed overhead. The room was small. He was alone.
Every inch of him seemed to hurt. There were bruises everywhere. Wounds all over his body had been dressed. A ring of bandages was wrapped tight around his stomach, but his left forearm was the most heavily bound. Nothing was splinted or cast, so he knew there were no broken bones, but fearing tendon damage he tentatively flexed his left hand. He winced at the pain, but all his fingers seemed to move correctly. He hoped that there wouldn’t be any long-term damage. If he made it back to Europe, he would get it looked at by a specialist just to be sure.
He felt weak; it was difficult to sit himself upright. He guessed he was suffering the side effects from any painkillers and sedatives as well as from his injuries. He brushed the mosquito net aside. Since there were no tubes inside him, he swivelled his legs out from under the blanket, and the soles of his feet touched the cool floor.
He didn’t know why he was in a private room instead of a ward, maybe just on merit of his skin colour. It was an effort to stand, and he moved slowly over to the window. Looking out he saw that he was on the second floor, no more than fifteen feet from the ground. Not far, but in his current physical state he doubted he’d be able to support his own weight, let alone climb. The window was a potential escape route, not his first choice of exit.
He would have to be careful how he elected to leave. If he slipped away unnoticed, it could create a fuss; people’s memories would be keener if questions were asked about him at a later point. If he took his time, discharged himself without incident, then if anyone came asking questions, no one would really remember him except for his race and wounds. After he left, he would come back and pay an intern to steal his records.
He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his skin. It was good to be alive, better than he could have believed. But he wasn’t safe. He was surprised there were no guards outside his room. Maybe the Tanzanian authorities didn’t know his part in the killings of the previous night. He realized his sense of time was off. He didn’t know what time of day it was or how long it had been since that knife fight in the river. He remembered waking up before, maybe twice, but couldn’t remember any details. He hoped it was only the next day.
The door opened, and he turned quickly to see a doctor enter. Victor could barely see the face, his eyes having trouble focusing. The doctor was tall and overweight. White. He looked to be in his fifties.
‘How do you feel?’
His accent was strange. Victor couldn’t place it.
‘Groggy,’ was his reply.
The doctor seemed agitated. ‘You should be resting.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Almost two days.’
Victor knew he was fortunate that people who mattered didn’t yet know he was here after so long a time. But any further time spent in the hospital gave any enemies more chance to zero in on his position. He needed to leave, now, regardless of causing a commotion. Victor opened the cupboard near the bed and found some of his clothes.
‘I need to go,’ he said.
‘I’d like to talk to you before you do.’
‘I haven’t got time.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
There was something in the tone that made Victor look up. The face started to come into focus. There was a curious expression etched on the doctor’s features. His white coat looked pristine. There were no pens in the pocket, no stethoscope around the neck, no identification.
Victor stopped getting dressed. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘I worked that part out for myself.’
The man who wasn’t a doctor smiled. ‘I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.’
‘If you’re here to kill me you’ve waited too long.’
‘You think I’m a killer?’ He laughed to himself. ‘Hardly.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘Think of me as an administrator.’
Victor continued putting on his clothes. ‘Is the accent necessary?’
‘Is this better?’ An American.
‘Where’s your back-up?’
‘I don’t have any.’
A lie.
‘In your current physical state, I think even you would struggle with that. But, more notably, the same thing that would prevent me from doing likewise.’ The administrator pointed, gestured through the door’s window to the corridor outside full of patients and hospital staff — a janitor, nurses. Witnesses. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘We’re talking,’ Victor said. ‘You have the time it takes me to get dressed.’
‘Then I’ll be curt.’
Victor kept his gaze on the administrator the whole time. He couldn’t see signs that he was armed. ‘Please do.’
‘I’m here because we can help each other.’
‘How?’
‘We both want the same thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘This thing to be over.’
‘And?’
‘I can make that happen.’
‘Why?’ asked Victor, genuinely intrigued.
‘Don’t be fooled by the cuddly exterior,’ the administrator said. ‘I’m really not a very nice man.’
‘I wasn’t fooled,’ Victor said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’
‘My reasons are my own. But this whole mess should never have been created. I want to clean it up.’
Things were starting to make sense. ‘And whom exactly are you representing?’
‘The government of the United States of America.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Victor said.
‘I represent the USA in my own way,’ the administrator corrected.
Nether spoke for a moment, and the administrator took an object from a trouser pocket and threw it to Victor. He caught it in his right hand. The assassin’s knife. Victor unfolded it slowly. His left forearm throbbed.
‘That’s a pretty special weapon,’ the administrator said. ‘Custom made. No metal. Ceramic blade, carbon-fibre fittings, gladiator point, kriss edge.’