Hunt for the Enemy (#3 Enemy)

by Rob Sinclair

  Logan heard Grainger scream behind him as the two men hauled him to his feet. Logan fumed and raged, trying his best to shrug the men off him, but he soon went still when he felt the barrel of the gun pushed against the side of his head. And when he looked up, he saw a third man walking to Grainger, gun trained on her, and all of his fight suddenly waned.

  The man strode up to Grainger, then reached down with one hand and pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. He tossed them over to her and they landed at her feet. She looked up at Logan, as though asking him what she should do. Her face was hard and defiant. Logan knew there was plenty of fight in her. It wouldn’t be the first time the two of them had fought against the odds. But despite the perilous situation, Logan still firmly believed this wasn’t a fight they needed. Not until the NSC had declared their hand.

  In the end, he simply nodded to Grainger and she hung her head.

  The two men pulled on Logan’s arms, ushering him backward, toward the car. Logan didn’t resist, but he also wasn’t going to make it easy for them. He let his body flop down so the men had to take his weight, his boots scraping the ground as they carried him along.

  One of the men pushed Logan’s head down while the other shoved him in through the open rear door. Logan looked over and saw Grainger, the cuffs around her wrists, the third man marching her toward him.

  Then Logan caught a glimpse of something behind her. By the gates to the compound. Two figures. Fleming and Butler. Standing, unmoving, their arms folded. They were close to a hundred yards away but Logan was sure he could see a toothy smile plastered on Butler’s face.

  Grainger reached the car door and was bundled in, next to Logan. The three men got back into the car and, without another word, the engine started. The tyres spun and the car lurched forward onto the track and slowly started to move along the grooves in the snow, away from Fleming and the grinning Butler.

  Chapter 28

  Shortly after the four-by-four started off down the track, away from Fleming’s house, one of the men in the car placed a sack over Logan’s head. It meant he had no idea exactly where they were heading.

  Logan’s mind was filled with thoughts of what was happening. The last time he’d been captured on foreign soil, he’d been held in an isolated gulag in the wilderness of Siberia. He’d spent three torturous months there at the hands of Lena and her FSB cronies, before finally orchestrating his escape.

  The place they took him to in Kazakhstan was nothing like the gulag, though. When the vehicle came to a stop, Logan was escorted out of the car and the sack removed only once he was inside a building. Logan was surprised by the room he found himself in. Not a dark, dank cell, but a plain, functional interview room. The man who removed the sack released Logan from the handcuffs and then left, leaving Logan alone to roam around the small space.

  The door to the room was metal and looked thick and heavy, almost like a vault door. The security was clearly tight and there was no way he could escape through the door, but it was an interview room all the same, not a prison cell.

  On one wall there was an expansive mirror, which Logan knew would be two-way glass. He also knew that in a standard police station, the two-way glass was usually only a few millimetres thick – easily breakable if you used a bit of force. Given the spec of the door, though, this didn’t seem to be a standard police station and he could only assume the glass here would be toughened.

  He pushed his shoulder into the mirror. It didn’t give at all. He tapped it gently with his knuckles. It sounded as solid as anything he’d ever seen. He wasn’t going to be breaking through that.

  Logan paced casually, aware he was probably being watched, wanting to give the perception that he was in control, but really his mind was in overdrive and filled with worry. Where the hell was Grainger? Had she wound up in a similar room to this? She had certainly remained in the car with him for the whole journey, but once he’d been taken out of the car, he’d lost contact with her. He’d shouted after her and heard her call back to him all the way until he’d entered the building and heard a heavy door slam behind him. It was possible they’d brought her into this place too, but it was equally possible that she’d been moved to a different facility altogether.

  After mooching around the room, Logan finally sat down on one of the two chairs placed up against the simple wooden table. Other than the table and chairs, the room was bare, lit by a single fluorescent strip light that buzzed and flickered.

  There was no clock, but Logan guessed he had been left for a number of hours before the door to the room finally creaked open. It was then that he got his second surprise. The person who walked in was a woman.

  She was young, with dark hair and soft features, and was wearing a black suit with a plain white blouse. She wasn’t stunning but was certainly nice to look at. It was clear from the way the suit clung to her slender body that she was in great shape. Her appearance reminded Logan again of his time in the Russian gulag. Of Lena, the FSB agent who had abused him, tricked him and ultimately bargained his life away. The woman who’d had Mackie killed and had passed Grainger’s whereabouts to the CIA so they could hunt her down and kill her too.

  Lena had been truly beautiful on the outside, but under her glossy skin and perfect face, she had been pure wickedness. This woman didn’t seem to have that edge to her. The whole experience, being in this room, with this woman, was entirely less threatening than when the Russians had held him. And yet Logan wasn’t going to feel at ease yet. Because he was yet to figure out how he was going to get himself out of this mess. And he had no idea where Grainger was or what was happening to her.

  The woman put a notepad down on the table and then sat on the chair opposite Logan. She looked over to the mirror and then began to talk to Logan assuredly. As with the men who had brought Logan here, she spoke in Kazakh and Logan didn’t understand any of her words. He was sure these people understood Russian. But for whatever reason, it appeared they didn’t really want to communicate with Logan. Which only made him more concerned. Because, together with the length of time it had taken for her to make an appearance at all, it felt like they were trying to buy time.

  But for what?

  Logan guessed the lady was asking him questions. She would speak a few words, pause and then, when he gave no response, jot something on her notepad. She repeated the same routine over and over. Until, after what Logan thought was about half an hour, she got up and walked to the door. It buzzed open and she stepped out, then closed the door behind her.

  After that, Logan was alone again for what he thought was a number of hours more. By the time the door finally reopened, he was tired and thirsty and hungry. He must have been in the room for the best part of the day and had been given no sustenance; he hadn’t even been offered a toilet break.

  His next visitor wasn’t the lady; it was the man who had first pointed a gun at him. Gone now was his overcoat. He was wearing smart trousers with a grey pullover. He looked to be a similar age to Logan, but was shorter and thinner. His hair was light and neatly parted. His face was pointy with a jagged nose and deep-set eyes. He didn’t look menacing, but there was something eerie about him.

  He sat down on the chair, no pen or notepad, and began talking. In English.

  ‘I’m Agent Jabayev,’ he said. ‘I work for the National Security Committee in Kazakhstan. You know who we are, right? The Kazakh KGB.’

  Logan didn’t respond. The man waited a few seconds before he spoke again.

  ‘You’re Carl Logan,’ he said.

  Logan wasn’t sure whether it was a statement or a question. But it was certainly disconcerting that the NSC already knew who he was. Regardless, he said nothing.

  ‘Why are you in Kazakhstan?’ the man said after another short pause.

  Again Logan didn’t respond. There was absolutely no reason for him to talk to this man. Not unless he saw some benefit in it for himself.

  ‘I understand,’ Jabayev said in his thick accent. ‘You think y
ou’ll be better staying silent. But it’s not true. We can help you only if you talk.’

  Yeah, right, Logan thought. Like they were really going to help him.

  ‘But I’m not going to help you if you don’t tell me what’s happening. We don’t take too kindly to people bringing their problems to our country.’

  Logan sighed and held Jabayev’s gaze. He was surprised at how good the man’s English was. But it also irked him that they hadn’t tried to engage him in conversation earlier. They hadn’t given him a chance to explain himself at Fleming’s place. And Logan didn’t like being played with – which, for whatever reason, was exactly what they were doing.

  ‘We tracked you from the border, in case you’re wondering,’ Jabayev said. ‘Our border guards are there for a reason. And it wasn’t hard to spot that you two shouldn’t have been there.’

  There was another pause. Jabayev sat back in his chair, beginning to look impatient.

  ‘We’ve been speaking to the FSB,’ he said. ‘About both you and Angela Grainger.’

  Jabayev’s words finally piqued Logan’s interest. But then it was hardly an earth-shattering statement. The fact the NSC knew his and Grainger’s names meant it was more than likely they had been in touch with the FSB, the CIA or even the JIA, so that much had been clear from the start. But Jabayev’s revelation did increase the worry that Logan was feeling. If Jabayev was being truthful, the FSB or whoever else could be waiting right outside the door, ready to take Logan out, or ready to take him back to some hell-hole like the one he’d escaped from in Siberia.

  And yet, if that was the case, why all this pretence?

  Buying time, Logan thought again. They were still buying time. Waiting for whoever they’d been speaking with to catch up.

  Or maybe they were just waiting for the right deal to come along. The NSC were an intelligence agency, after all. Chances were, they wouldn’t give up Logan and Grainger unless there was something in it for them.

  But despite the intrigue that was now growing inside Logan, he kept his mouth shut, refusing to engage with Jabayev.

  ‘The Russians, clearly, want to take you and Grainger back over to their side.’

  Logan again said nothing, but Jabayev’s words did at least suggest Grainger was still in the hands of the NSC. That was a welcome relief.

  ‘Given what you two have done,’ Jabayev continued, ‘I’m not so sure why we should refuse their request. They’re still our closest allies.’

  Logan looked away from Jabayev, over toward the mirror. He wondered who was on the other side.

  ‘You remember Lena Belenov, don’t you?’ Jabayev said.

  This time Logan couldn’t help but react to the agent’s words. His head snapped back around and he caught Jabayev’s stare. Logan had fully intended to ride out Jabayev’s questions and statements, but his last words had taken Logan completely by surprise. He forced himself to keep quiet, biting his lip, but it was clear from the pleased look on Jabayev’s face that the NSC agent knew his fishing trip was now getting closer to paying off.

  Why would Jabayev bring up her name? The last time Logan had seen Lena was in an abandoned warehouse in Moscow. He’d followed Schuster, the CIA agent who’d brokered the deal that had seen Mackie killed, to a meet with Lena, where Schuster had been given his part of the deal: the whereabouts of Grainger, whom the Russians had been hiding. After spoiling the party, Logan had shot Lena in the gut and left her to bleed out as he raced to confront Schuster and save Grainger from the CIA.

  He had guessed … no, he had hoped Lena would die in that very spot. The wound would certainly have been fatal unless she’d quickly received medical attention, and even then it was a long shot.

  Maybe she hadn’t died, though. Could she even have been the one the NSC had spoken to? Logan shuddered at the thought. All of a sudden, he felt his demeanour change, felt himself deflate just a little. Perhaps Lena was already there. Standing behind that mirror. But Jabayev’s next words destroyed that theory.

  ‘Lena Belenov was murdered last night,’ Jabayev said.

  Logan felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. He realised that his mouth was wide open and he quickly shut it.

  He knew that Jabayev had him now. Had his full attention.

  ‘She was murdered in her hospital bed in Moscow,’ Jabayev said. ‘It’s been all over the news there. She’s been labelled a local hero. The Russian government are calling her death an act of war. And the Russians have named you as their one and only suspect.’

  Chapter 29

  London, England

  Winter had been deliberately vague with Lindegaard when the two men had met the previous evening. Events were beginning to spiral out of control. While Winter was sure Lindegaard was either involved or at the very least knew more than he was letting on, it was too early for Winter to play his hand. He’d toyed with the idea of dropping Belenov’s name into the conversation to gauge Lindegaard’s reaction, but ultimately had decided against it.

  No, in all honesty, he’d plain bottled it. As much as he despised Lindegaard and relished the thought of being able to get one over on him, Winter was still somehow in awe of the man, forever feeling like a naughty schoolboy in his presence. He hated himself for it, but that was Lindegaard’s power.

  Since that meeting, though, events had taken yet another twist. News had come through that Lena Belenov had been murdered in Moscow. Belenov had been central to the deal that the JIA and CIA had been trying to broker for Logan’s release. In that regard, her involvement in the ongoing mess was clear. But given that Winter now knew of her relationship to Lindegaard, her death was a startling development. Could the Russians have found out about her? And yet if that was the case, why were the Russians blaming Logan for her death? And Medvedev’s too?

  The more Winter thought about it, the less sense it made. Whatever the explanation, it looked increasingly likely that Logan wasn’t in bed with the Russians, which had always been the main fear for Winter – and for Mackie, before his death.

  It had been more than twenty-four hours since Winter had last spoken to Paul Evans. Winter was certain his agent had been captured by the Russians following the botched meet with Nikolai Medvedev. Someone had blown either Evans’s or Medvedev’s cover. Both of the Russian agents who’d been killed had links back to the JIA, for different reasons, but links nonetheless.

  The only conclusion Winter could come to was that a mole on at least one side of the playing field had led to those two Russian agents losing their lives and to Evans’s disappearance. Winter was increasingly coming to the conclusion that there was no one left he could trust.

  Well, almost no one. There was Carl Logan. So far, the one man who everyone seemingly wanted dead was the only man whose role Winter still could not figure out. In fact, the only thing that seemed to fit was that Logan was being made a scapegoat. First for Mackie’s death and now Medvedev’s and Belenov’s too. The Russians were gunning for Logan for sure. But was there more to it than that even?

  Since Evans’s disappearance, Winter had been riffling through as much information on the missing agent as he could find, looking for some hint as to who could have set him up. But Evans’s work had always been so clean. Medvedev had been a key source for Evans, but the two of them had never generated any heat from their relationship. Evans’s other work for the JIA was similarly seamless. Winter just couldn’t grasp any answers at all.

  But as he sat in his office, staring out of the window at the thick grey clouds hanging over London, he suddenly thought of something. Lindegaard and his relationship with Belenov.

  From what Winter had learned, Belenov was the daughter of Lindegaard’s half-sister, one of four siblings who shared the same American mother. The half-sister had been conceived in an extramarital affair, fathered by a Russian expat living in America – a communist escapee. The bastard child had held dual nationality and had long ago moved to Russia, where she’d married a wealthy Russian businessman. He’d been killed
under suspicious circumstances when he’d supposedly driven his car over a bridge into a river, high on drugs and alcohol. His wife had died some five years later in much less suspicious circumstances: she’d developed bowel cancer in her early thirties and passed away a mere three months after diagnosis. Their only child was Lena Belenov. Lindegaard’s niece.

  The biological link was clear-cut. What was less clear was how Lindegaard had exploited that relationship. What role had he taken in bringing up Lena, who had been eight years old when her mother died? What part had he played in her landing a job with the FSB? And what destruction had the two of them wrought in the years since?

  Winter didn’t know. Yet. But could Evans similarly have skeletons in his past? From before his days at the JIA?

  Winter began typing away at his computer, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm. He pulled up Evans’s personnel file and methodically scrutinised the details of his life and career. The file gave intimate details about his upbringing, his schooling, his qualifications, his JIA missions, his psych reports, his performance assessments. But it didn’t include everything. It didn’t have what Winter needed.

  Winter opened up a new page and began to dig further. Not on the JIA’s intranet, but on the World Wide Web. Winter knew that even secret agents left traces of their lives on the internet. It was impossible not to leave footprints. Even if the world was in the dark as to the JIA’s existence and methods, that didn’t stop the fallout from its operations on occasion making news or being debated in chat forums. And personal information, even if out of date and spurious, was everywhere. Registers of births, deaths and marriages and electoral, land and educational records were just the tip of the information iceberg that was available quickly and entirely legitimately – not to mention the often ludicrous amounts of personal data that people willingly posted to the world through social media and other channels.