Double-Cross

by Meredith Fletcher

  He sat at a small table in an open-air café a few blocks from the city’s main tourist drag. The morning sun slanted across the street and left shadows pooled at the feet of the buildings on the east side. Inside the shadow of the café, the temperature was fairly moderate for the desert environment, but the heat of the day was coming.

  “Anything more I can get for you, sir?”

  Riley glanced up at the server coming over to his table. The man was young and lean, nut brown from a lifetime in the harsh sun.

  “No,” Riley replied. “I’m good.” His sweating tea glass was still half-full.

  “Of course, sir.” The server retreated to the next table, asking the same question in his broken English.

  Lounging in the chair and checking his watch frequently, Riley looked like a guy who was awaiting his wife’s return from a morning of shopping. He even wore a wedding ring to carry off the appearance. The khaki trousers and pale blue shirt featuring exotic birds completed his disguise. Wraparound sunglasses and a four-day growth of beard subtly changed his features.

  There were people in Berzhaan who could recognize him. Some of them wanted him dead, not from things that had happened there, but for things that had happened elsewhere that couldn’t be forgiven or forgotten. Riley wanted some of them dead, as well.

  He kept his attention on the man across the street. Riley’s quarry was of medium height, of Middle Eastern origins, and—by all accounts—a dangerous man. Riley had staked the man out for the last day and a half.

  Faisal Hamid, his identity confirmed through a phone call to Howie Dunn, talked on a satellite phone. He’d been caught up in his conversation for almost three minutes, doing more listening than talking.

  One of the contacts Riley had used on earlier ops in the country had pointed Hamid out as a man who was setting up munitions deals. According to the man Riley had talked to, Hamid was trying to undercut the CIA sales of weapons to the Kemenis.

  As far as Riley knew, there were no CIA-sanctioned sales of weapons to the Kemenis. Or to the Q’Rajn. The United States was actively supporting the present government in Berzhaan.

  Finished with his conversation, Hamid drained his coffee and stood. He crossed through the tables and walked to the street.

  Riley dropped money on the table to settle his bill, then followed Hamid. From what he’d been able to find out from his source, there was a woman in Hamid’s organization. Riley’s source had mentioned that she hadn’t been around in a couple months. But the contact’s description of the woman matched Samantha St. John to a T.

  CIA involvement within Berzhaan was limited. Most of the U.S. support came in the form of troops and economic advisers and an infusion of low-interest loans garnered from American oil investors hoping to close a deal. That was why Sergei Ivanovitch’s presence and operation had gone largely undetected. The military teams didn’t share a history with Ivanovitch.

  Hamid stayed on the street, walking under the thick awnings of shops and businesses.

  Riley followed. Behind him, his hired car and driver tailed at a discreet distance. If Hamid decided to get into a vehicle at any time, Riley had that angle covered. The driver was a man Riley had used before, a guy who would stand up if things went badly, and would know enough to save himself if things turned really bad.

  A short distance farther on, Hamid turned right and stepped into an alley.

  An alarm bell went off in Riley’s head. For the last two days, he’d tailed Hamid. Without a team to work the rotation with, Riley knew he risked exposure. Even changing his appearance every day wasn’t a guarantee. During that time, Hamid hadn’t done anything more than talk on the phone. Whatever business dealings he’d had, they’d remained secret.

  Riley approached the alley, his mind rushing. The safest thing to do was keep moving and pass by without a second look. It was what he should have done, what every bit of training he’d had and every bit of field experience had taught him to do.

  But safe isn’t going to do Sam St. John any good, is it?

  During the past four nights, memories of Sam in his arms had haunted him. No matter what the digital record Mitchell had gotten from MI-6, Riley couldn’t buy the fact that Sam was guilty of treason. She’d been willing to put herself on the line to help her friends, even admitting to treasonous activity.

  Or maybe she just wanted you to think that, his more jaded side suggested. Maybe she knew that you weren’t the kind of guy to take advantage of a situation like that. Or maybe even if you had, she wouldn’t have cared.

  Those reasons and his own feelings about Sam St. John, as confusing as they were, had prompted him to cling to the medical cover long enough to get out of the U.S. and go to Berzhaan four days ago. Even then, the hope that the answer to the digital footage British intelligence had shot remained thin. Until he’d picked up the nearly invisible trail of Hamid and the woman who sometimes worked with him.

  Pass by or turn in? That was the question Riley faced in three short strides. If Hamid was securing a weapons drop, Riley knew he needed to see that, in order to figure out who the players were. Information was hard to come by in Berzhaan of late.

  Omar Razidae, the prime minister of Berzhaan, had withdrawn some of his open-arms treatment of the United States over the past couple months. No explanation was given in the news, but Riley felt certain that the British intelligence service had passed their damning record of Samantha St. John in action to the prime minister. The obvious conclusion was that St. John and the Agency were working to supply the Kemenis against the present government.

  In the end Riley had no choice and he knew it. He turned at the alley and entered the long tunnel.

  Smooth-sided buildings rose to three stories on either side of him. One of them had a zigzagging fire escape ladder that ran up the side. Lines of clothing hung between the buildings at ground level and at the second and third floor. The fabric drifted in the slight breeze and created moving shadows on the ground.

  The alley ended in a cul-de-sac, which was a frequent occurrence in the city’s design. Riley saw that from the way the buildings rose at the other end of the alley. Suwan was an old city, but had been added to and rebuilt a number of times since it had risen from the desert sands hundreds of years ago. The architecture varied throughout the different sections of the city, as well.

  Riley’s experience kicked into threat assessment mode as he advanced on the clothesline swaying under the weight of sheets and blankets in the slight breeze. He’d been foolish to follow Hamid. The alley would be a bad place to get caught. Even as he thought that, his peripheral vision caught sight of a slim form dropping through the lines of clothing hanging between the buildings overhead.

  Chapter 12

  R eacting at once, Riley spun and tried to set himself, bringing his hands up to defend himself. Instead, he caught a kick in the face that sent him to his knees with tears rushing down his face and blood spilling from his nose and split lip. The sudden, intense pain followed almost immediately, but his spiking adrenaline levels kept the discomfort muted and away from him for the moment.

  The lithe form fell to the alley floor off balance, but the attacker rolled and came upright almost instantly. A gloved fist pushed a silencer-equipped pistol out toward Riley.

  Surging up, Riley lashed out with his left foot and kicked the pistol. The weapon spat a single bullet that shattered brick from the wall behind Riley, letting him know the round was a heavy one. All he heard was a throaty chuff as the long silencer muted most of the noise of the bullet detonating.

  The pistol flew from his attacker’s hand and dropped yards away.

  Setting himself in a martial arts stance, both hands open before him so he could grab or deflect, his feet splayed into an L-stance, Riley faced his opponent.

  She wore acid-stained jeans, a solid green blouse, and had her hair pulled back. Her face startled Riley instantly, because he knew her features at a glance.

  “Sam,” he croaked in surprise.
/>   She took advantage of his hesitation, stepping in and delivering a front snap kick that caught him in the center of the chest. Despite her small stature, her strength was surprising. The impact against his chest drove him back in stumbling steps to slam against the wall behind him.

  Riley’s mind reeled as he watched the woman go for the pistol he’d kicked from her hand. There was no way that Sam was here. Howie would have told him if she’d been released. Or escaped. And they had talked only hours ago about how things had gone with Sam that day during her quest to identify the Cipher.

  Acting on instinct and out of self-preservation, Riley threw himself in pursuit of the woman. She was a half stride ahead of him. He took that away by throwing himself at her. He collided with her just as her fingertips grazed the weapon’s barrel, then they rolled forward over the pistol.

  She came up with catlike grace, rolling to a standing position without pause. Riley extended his hand for the pistol, but she squatted and spun with a leg fully extended. Her heel, barely an inch off the ground, smacked into the pistol and sent it skittering away.

  Riley cursed as he stood and crossed his wrists to block another kick that came straight at his face. She was amazing, deft and powerful, every move poetry in action.

  “Sam!” Riley said.

  The woman looked at him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment in perplexion. “Who are you?” she asked.

  The voice even sounded like Sam St. John’s. But there was a difference. The pitch was the same, but the cadence was a little off.

  “What’s going on?” Riley circled to his left, shifting to his right foot forward, taking a step, then placing his left foot forward again.

  “You should have continued playing the tourist,” the woman said.

  “Do you know Samantha St. John?” Riley asked. Pain bit into his face where she had kicked him when she’d dropped from the overhead window.

  “No. Who are you?”

  Too late, Riley heard the scuff of a shoe behind him. Before he could move, warm metal pressed up against the back of his neck.

  “I have two pistols, my friend,” a calm voice with an accent stated. “You might be able to sidestep the one I am now holding against the back of your neck, but I promise you that I will shoot you with the other with only the slightest provocation on your part. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” Riley said. He froze. If the man had wanted him dead, he would have already fired. “I got it.”

  “Stand relaxed.”

  Reluctantly Riley dropped his hands to his sides and stood up. The pistol barrel pulled back from his neck.

  The man walked around in front of Riley. The man’s dark, hooded eyes regarded Riley with casual disdain. His mustache gave his small smile a sarcastic twist.

  “Do you know him?” the woman asked.

  “He is an American CIA agent,” the man told the woman. “His name is Riley McLane. I just this morning confirmed his identity.”

  Riley stared at the Russian. “You’re Sergei Ivanovitch.”

  “Yes.” The man gave a nod of acknowledgment, but he also frowned. “It troubles me that you know me so easily. So what is your interest here, Agent McLane? Are you protecting the CIA’s arms trade with the guerrillas?”

  “We’re not trading with the guerrillas,” Riley replied.

  Ivanovitch smiled crookedly. “We must all protect our little lies, mustn’t we?”

  Riley kept an eye on Ivanovitch, but he stared at the woman. It was Sam St. John, but not Sam St. John.

  “I must ask you again,” Ivanovitch said, “what your intentions here today are.”

  “I was following Hamid.”

  “Yes. So I saw. But why?”

  “Because I wanted to find her.” Riley nodded toward the beautiful blonde.

  No emotion touched her face as yet. If anything, she only looked curious.

  “Why?” Ivanovitch asked. He stood with both pistols still in his hands. The bedding waved on the clotheslines around them, sending shadows scurrying constantly.

  “A buy was made a few months ago,” Riley said. “A British agent was killed. However, the support team got digital footage of the firefight that resulted when the Kemenis interrupted the arms shipment.”

  “I would deny any knowledge of this,” Ivanovitch said.

  “Go ahead,” Riley said. “The fact remains that the Brits caught this woman in the footage.”

  Ivanovitch glanced at the woman.

  “I saw no cameras,” the woman said.

  Ivanovitch stared at her a moment longer, then turned his attention back to Riley. “You still haven’t said why you would come after someone British Intelligence was interested in.”

  “MI-6 gets testy when one of their own is gunned down.”

  “Understandable. But you are not with MI-6.”

  “A woman as beautiful as that,” Riley said, readying himself for action, “you tend to remember. I thought if the Brits were interested in her, then I should be, as well.”

  The fact that Ivanovitch hadn’t put away his pistols gave Riley a bad feeling. Normally when two agents of different governments confronted each other and hadn’t been ordered to terminate on sight the other agent, hostilities ended and negotiations began. Ivanovitch showed no sign of doing that.

  “Someone is framing the United States regarding the arms deals with the Kemenis,” Riley said. “I was sent here to find out whom it is.”

  Ivanovitch showed Riley a shark’s smile. “All by yourself, Special Agent McLane? I don’t quite believe that’s the whole truth.”

  “Believe what you want,” Riley replied.

  “Of course.”

  “If there are no further objections, I think I’ll just take my leave.” Riley took a step backward.

  “No,” Ivanovitch said. “You will stop or I will shoot you.”

  Riley stopped, weighing his chances.

  “Russia is very interested in the outcome of the business dealings of this country,” Ivanovitch said. “My government wants to build a trade agreement with Prime Minister Razidae. My superiors sent me here to get proof of American involvement in supporting the Kemenis. I admit that the task has been somewhat difficult.”

  “That’s because it’s not going on,” Riley said.

  “Oh, it’s going on all right,” Ivanovitch said. “But proving this has been almost impossible. Or, perhaps, I have no true patience. I am not a spectator, as this job so often requires. Rather, I am a predator.” He smiled. “Now I see before me the perfect opportunity to meet the demands of my superiors and end my own boredom. You are here without official sanction, Special Agent McLane. Not only that, but I know that there is a woman in your group who is being held for helping transport weapons.”

  Riley wasn’t totally surprised at the Russian agent’s knowledge. In addition to the fact that intelligence agencies often couldn’t keep all their secrets, they also sometimes used the same resources inside a country. Information inadvertently got swapped as a result.

  “I think the case can be built that you were here to do damage control regarding that compromised agent,” Ivanovitch said. “Perhaps to take over the munitions operations to the Kemenis.”

  “I won’t tell the story that way,” Riley said. He was tense. He concentrated on being loose and ready.

  “You won’t have to. The body of an unsanctioned CIA agent gunned down at a weapons buy a few hours from now will explain a great number of things to the prime minister and his cabinet. I’ve already had a number of discussions with Razidae. I believe he would be quite amenable after seeing your body.”

  The woman reached behind her back. “I’ll secure him.” She took out a pair of disposable handcuffs from behind her back. “Turn around.”

  Riley stood his ground. If he let himself be handcuffed he knew he’d never stand a chance.

  “Do it,” Ivanovitch ordered.

  At that moment the woman stepped forward. Maybe she was inexperienced, though Riley doubted that after seein
g her in action earlier, or maybe she didn’t see any fight left in him. Her movement effectively put her in the middle of Ivanovitch’s field of fire.

  Riley turned and grabbed the clothesline, holding on to it as he broke out into a sprint. He released the line with a pop and set the line of clothing in motion. By then, he was through the clothes, angling for the other side of the alley and staying low.

  A brick in the wall across the alley fragmented. Another only a few feet away suddenly showed a deep score where a bullet had slid along it. Then the sharp reports of Ivanovitch’s pistols exploded the lazy din from the street that filled the alley.

  Ivanovitch’s third shot hit the right alley wall, only a few feet behind Riley. The fourth smashed a window in front of him. Then he was out of the alley and on the street. The driver he’d hired to tail him idled just in front of the alley.

  Riley waved to the man, hoping that the guy didn’t jump ship to save his own skin. It was possible. Riley had been abandoned before with trouble breathing down his neck. Even if the driver didn’t stay, Riley was in the tourist area. The chances of Ivanovitch or his people catching him were small. There were too many people around and too many places to hide. And Riley felt confident the Russian SVR officer didn’t want to kill a civilian and risk identification later.

  The driver eased the older Chevrolet sedan up as Riley reached the street. He reached across the seat and opened the passenger door.

  Riley grabbed the door, opened it, and swung inside to drop into the seat.

  “Go,” he told the driver just as Ivanovitch and the woman who wasn’t Sam St. John raced from the alley. The Russians had their pistols tucked out of sight behind their backs.

  The driver put the car into motion, cutting into the heavy traffic and drawing fire from half a dozen horns behind him.