The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  70

  They rolled into the parking lot outside the railway station. It was empty, and Smith drove across it so that he could park nearer to the buildings. Ross ran her palm over the hip pocket of her trousers. She had taken the lipstick that Stepanov had given her and dropped it inside; she could feel the hard metal tube against her leg. Using it was an option. Stepanov had said that it would be effective up to two metres. She just had to point it and twist the end and the single round would fire. Smith had no reason to suspect it; she could shoot him in the back and run. But what then? What of her son? She would never see him again. She couldn’t do it.

  “Come on,” Smith said. “Let’s go.”

  Ross opened the door of the car and stepped outside. Smith did the same, then reached down and collected the newspaper that had been delivered to the room with his gun. Ross looked at him and gritted her teeth at how comprehensively they had outmanoeuvred her. She had had no idea that they knew about her. She wondered how long he had hidden the knowledge. When had he been told about her? And by whom? It must have been BLUEBIRD. She knew that it was an academic question, at least for the moment. They had her on a hook now, ready to dangle her in front of Primakov and Stepanov and the rest of Directorate S, the bait to lure them into a trap that would unravel the work that she had done for them for so long.

  It wasn’t that Ross’s beliefs were offended by what had been forced upon her that morning. She had no political leanings in either direction. The professor who had recruited her into the SVR had known her well enough not to try and persuade her with philosophical or ethical arguments, had not tried to sell her on the evils of the west, the purity of Russia or the benefit to the world of levelling the geopolitical playing field. No, Ross had been persuaded to work for the SVR because of a more practical motivation: money. They had offered to pay her handsomely and, as she delivered more and more valuable intelligence, they had reacted with correspondingly larger amounts. She knew that she was one of their most valuable assets, buried deep within SIS and marked for a significant career there, and, true to their word, they paid accordingly. Her Swiss account contained nearly a million pounds, and the flow of money had included the largest payment yet after she had located Pyotr Aleksandrov for them.

  So, no, it wasn’t her beliefs that had been offended. It was her pride. She was upset because she had been duped. The stuffed shirts at VX had made her look like a fool, and it was that that she found so hard to swallow.

  Smith left the keys in the ignition.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered.

  “You’d better hope it does.”

  “Or what? My life is over whichever way this goes.”

  He stared at her; his eyes were the coldest, most piercing blue. “It doesn’t have to be. Make up for what you’ve done and things can be as they were.”

  “Really?” she said. “You’ll excuse me if I’m not overcome with enthusiasm.”

  “I don’t really care. You brought this on yourself. You’ve been given a chance to fix it.”

  “Or I could give the signal and have you arrested.”

  “You could. But you know what that would mean for your family. I don’t think you’ll do that.”

  She shivered in his stare, but ignored him. Perhaps she could make him a little apprehensive. She had almost no influence now; she held onto the small amount that she had left.

  Smith led the way across the parking lot toward the station building. Ross looked around. It was a wide space, and it was almost completely empty. There were five cars and a dirty white van parked near to the building, but that was all. There were a few men and women outside the station: a man on a bench, a couple talking animatedly to one another. She didn’t recognise any of them, although she knew that she wouldn’t. They would be FSB or SVR, trained in surveillance, practiced at hiding in plain sight, giving nothing away.

  Smith walked on, and Ross turned to glance into the cabin of a car that had been parked twenty feet away from them. Stepanov was inside. He looked at her, and, for a moment, their eyes locked. She knew that all she would need to do was touch her ear and he would bring his agents out into the open, weapons drawn. Smith would be arrested but she would be blown; her usefulness to the Center would be at an end and her family would suffer. She would have her money, enough so that she would never again have to work, but she would have no life. Her usefulness to Deputy Director Primakov would be at an end. And she would be stuck in Moscow forever, a prisoner in a gilded cage.

  She didn’t know whether she would be able to do it.

  71

  Milton held the newspaper in his hand and led the way across the parking lot. Ross followed alongside him.

  “Do you see anyone?” he asked Ross.

  “No,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

  Milton felt an itch in the centre of his back, right between his shoulder blades, a sensation of exposure and vulnerability. His skin was clammy and sweat started to bead on his scalp. It was hot, but that wasn’t it.

  It was the dream.

  It wasn’t far away.

  Michael Pope was in the back of the van. It was a GAZelle, a commercial van made by Gaz in Nizhny Novgorod. It bore the livery of a local wholesale grocery business, the logo and script barely visible beneath a layer of dirt and crud. The vehicle was parked with its rear end facing the entrance to the station, and the filthy windows in the double doors offered a view of the steps, the pedestrianised area and some of the cars that had been parked nearby.

  Bryan Duffy was sitting in the driver’s seat. He had stolen the van earlier that morning. Duffy was Number Eleven. Pope had worked with him before, but knew very little about him beyond his name—Duffy had revealed it at a bar in Vienna while they worked an operation two months earlier—and his designation.

  Pope and Duffy had tipped the crates of produce out of the back of the van before they had driven to the station, and now there was enough space for him, their equipment and three or four others. Pope was dressed in black, with a black balaclava covering his face. He had a UCIW on a sling that he wore over his shoulder, the automatic cradled in front of his body. The gun had the shorter barrel and Pope had screwed a suppressor onto it. He had two spare magazines in the pouches of his combat trousers and a full magazine in the weapon.

  Pope saw Milton and Jessie Ross arrive in a hire car. He watched as they stepped out and made their way to the station. He scanned the other vehicles and checked out the men and women who were gathered in the vicinity of the station. He knew, of course, that some—perhaps many—of them would be SVR agents waiting to snatch Anastasiya Romanova should she dare to show her face. How many? He had no idea.

  “You think she’ll come?” Duffy asked over the radio.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Midday,” Duffy said.

  “Check,” Pope said, and then, before Duffy could speak again, he saw her. “Coming out now.”

  He reached for his radio and depressed the broadcast switch two times.

  Here we go.

  The radio squelched twice in Milton’s earpiece and then he saw her. He recognised Anastasiya Romanova from the photograph that he had been shown. She crossed the station concourse and stepped outside, coming down the broad steps that led into the pink-painted building. She was wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a sunhat shielding her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. A train wheezed as it pulled away and Milton wondered whether she had arrived on it. That would have been clever; the SVR would have expected her to arrive from the town itself, to make her way into the station rather than coming out of it. It wouldn’t have made a difference—they would have recognised her either way—but perhaps she was thinking, acting cautiously, and that would be a good thing.

  She paused on the steps, looking left and right.

  Milton took Ross by the elbow. “Stay close to me. Do what
I tell you and I’ll get you out alive—you have my word.”

  Ross didn’t reply. Milton spared her a quick glance and saw that she was pale, sweat beading on her brow. No time to worry about that now. She was resilient—a survivor—and he had no option but to hope that she had calculated her odds and come to the conclusion that she was better off with him.

  Milton set off again, headed for Anastasiya. The woman saw him coming, squinting in the sunlight despite the hat. She looked down at the newspaper, then back up at him. Her face flickered with fear and uncertainty. Milton smiled at her, as if that might make a difference.

  “Hello,” Milton said in English when he was close enough for Romanova to hear him.

  “Are you…?” Her English was halting, and the words trailed away.

  Milton spoke slowly and firmly. “I’m here to get you out. Do you have the data that you want to sell?”

  She looked confused. “My English,” she said. “Not good.”

  Ross spoke in Russian. Milton didn’t know what she had said, and had no choice but to hope she was playing straight. He watched Anastasiya’s face and saw understanding, and then a nod. She replied in Russian.

  “She has it,” Ross said.

  “Tell her we’re going to get her out,” he said to Ross.

  Ross started to speak, but, before she could finish, Milton saw movement all around them. It happened at once, on command, a coordinated response. The SVR thought that their prey were in the trap, and now they were rushing to close it. An old man wearing a cloth cap stood up from the bench that he had been sitting on. A couple sitting on the grassy knoll away to the left stood up, too, the woman taking a weapon from the cloth bag at her feet. The bum slumped against the building, playing drunk, now stood up straight and took a pistol out from the folds of his rags.

  Milton counted four of them, with the man in the Mercedes making five.

  “Don’t move!”

  The order was barked out in English and Milton turned to face the speaker. He was out of the car, a pistol in his hand aimed straight at them.

  Milton raised his hands.

  “Do as they say,” Milton said quietly, his instruction intended for both women. “Stand still and put your hands above your head. It’ll be all right.”

  Stepanov gave the command and Mitrokhin knew that it was time to move. He opened the door and stepped out into the midday heat. Stepanov was out of the car, too, his carbine aimed at Smith and the two women.

  “Don’t move!” Stepanov yelled out.

  The others swept into action now, abandoning their disguises as they pulled weapons and aimed them toward the entrance to the station.

  Mitrokhin lowered his Vikhr, took out the Beretta that he had been given and took a step forward so he could aim over the hood of the car. He slid his finger through the guard, sighted, and fired three times.

  He couldn’t really miss. Stepanov’s body jerked as the bullets punched him in the back. He stumbled ahead, his arms splayed out wide, and then he fell to his knees.

  72

  Milton had seen BLUEBIRD get out of the car and knew what was about to happen. He reached out for Romanova and Ross and held onto their shoulders, drawing both closer to him as BLUEBIRD aimed his pistol and drilled Stepanov in the back. His shirt bloomed red as the bullets punched out of his chest and he fell to the ground.

  Milton had seen the other SVR agents: the tramp, the old man, the couple on the knoll. The shock of the gunshots froze all of them in their tracks, their attention drawn to the body of Stepanov and then to the man who had shot him.

  Distraction was what their plan had demanded. Now they had it.

  Pope came out of the parked van wearing a UCIW on its sling. He aimed at the SVR agent dressed as a bum and fired a burst. The volley stitched the man in the torso and he stumbled back against the wall, sliding down it until he was slumped back against it once again. Pope swivelled and sighted the old man who had pulled a pistol from his jacket and fired again, another three-round burst. Two shots cracked into the wall, blowing out puffs of mortar and brick dust, but the third drilled the man in the cheek. His head snapped back and he went down, poleaxed, and didn’t move.

  The dirty white van jerked away from the parking space, leaving rubber as the driver swung the wheel, smoke spilling out of the wheel arches until the tyres gripped and the vehicle rushed ahead. Milton held onto Ross and Romanova and moved them ahead. The van slithered to a stop; Milton opened the back door and bundled both women inside.

  There was a rattle of automatic gunfire and a jagged line of holes appeared in the flank of the van. Milton ducked, drawing his Beretta and swivelling in the direction of the inbound fire. The sun was low and in his eyes, and he couldn’t make out the shooters. He ducked as the automatic rattled again, more rounds slamming into the side of the van, one of them punching through the windshield and spiderwebbing it.

  BLUEBIRD had moved away from the car. He aimed at the shooter on the knoll and fired, two contained bursts, and drilled the man in the back before he could fire again. The female agent who had been part of the couple moved down the slope away from BLUEBIRD and, as a cloud covered the sun, Milton was able to draw a bead on her. He fired, two careful shots, aiming into the mass between her head and waist. Both shots found their mark. She dropped onto her back, her hands pressed against her gut.

  BLUEBIRD was ten feet away.

  He dropped the Beretta to the ground. Milton collected it.

  BLUEBIRD’s face was calm as he gave Milton a single nod of his head. Milton raised his pistol, aimed low, and shot him in the leg. He fell to the ground, his hands instinctively clutched around the wound, blood already running between his fingers.

  Milton pulled himself into the back of the van. Light spilled into the interior from the bullet holes that jagged up in a long diagonal. He slapped his hand on the side of the van and the vehicle jerked away, the doors still open. Eleven slammed on the brakes and Pope pulled himself inside. Milton closed the door as Pope yelled out that they were ready to go. The engine revved loudly, the rubber squealed against the asphalt, and Milton braced himself against the wheel arch as the van swung left and right, picking up speed. They roared across the parking space and onto the road. Milton looked back through the tinted window at the confusion in their wake, bodies scattered across the ground like ninepins.

  Milton turned back to the interior. Anastasiya Romanov was sitting against the wheel arch, her legs bent and her arms around her knees, clutching them tight. Ross was next to her, her eyes wide. Neither of them spoke.

  “Where are the change-ups?” Milton asked.

  “Two minutes away,” Pope said.

  Milton turned back to the window and looked for any sign of pursuit. There was none. The agents had no other support, just as BLUEBIRD had suggested would be the case. The SVR had allowed arrogance to get the better of them. That had been their undoing, together with the closed nature of the operation that had been insisted upon by whomever it was in the Center who wanted Anastasiya Romanova for him or herself. Milton didn’t know anything other than what BLUEBIRD had told him in the lounge at Vladivostok: that Jessie Ross had been turned and that he would be at the RV and would do his best to assist.

  Milton had been given only a few hours to put the operation together, and most of his time had been circumscribed because he had been with Ross. Pope had taken the JAL flight to Narita after the assassination of the Ryans, but, instead of continuing to London, he had taken the next flight to Vladivostok where he had collected the arriving Eleven before driving north. The two of them had handled the detail, including sourcing the weapons and arranging for their exfiltration. The biggest risk was that BLUEBIRD’s involvement, although valuable, would lead to him being blown. Someone might have seen him firing on the Russians, but, Milton thought, the scene had been so disorientating that any testimony would be unreliable. The men that BLUEBIRD had killed were shot with 19mm Parabellum ammunition, rather than the Russian 39mm cartridges that
the Vikhrs fired, and Milton had collected the Beretta that he had used. And then BLUEBIRD had required that he be shot in order to lend weight to the story that he would tell. Milton didn’t know whether there would be witnesses, and hoped that he had been convincing.

  Milton called to Pope over the sound of the engine.

  “How many cars do we have?” Milton asked.

  “Two.”

  “You take Romanova.”

  “And Ross?”

  “I’ve got her. Take Eleven, too. Romanova’s the prize. I’d rather you had the extra manpower.”

  Pope looked at him quizzically, as if wondering whether to object, but he knew Milton well enough to know that he wouldn’t change his mind. “There are extra weapons in both cars. Guns and explosives. We probably won’t need them, but…”

  “What’s the route for exfil?”

  “Drive to Svetlaya. It’s on the coast—twenty hours if you don’t stop. There’ll be a trawler waiting there. It’ll take us out into the Sea of Japan. HMS Sutherland will pick us up and we’ll be transferred from there.”

  “I’ll go first,” Milton said. “Follow a mile behind. If they stop me, you might be able to turn around.”

  Pope put out his hand. “Good luck, Milton. See you in Svetlaya.”

  “Good luck,” Milton said, clasping Pope’s hand.