Rise of the Enemy

by Rob Sinclair

  I pulled up to the side of the road, put on my hazards. Then got out of the car. I had my coat on, buttoned to the top. It did a good job of hiding the mess on my clothes. I also had the blanket wrapped around me for extra warmth.

  I waited. But for only a few minutes. I guess when the weather is cold enough to kill you in just a few hours you’re more likely to stop if you see a stranded motorist. Nobody wants an unnecessary death on their conscience. Even that of a complete stranger.

  The very first car to approach rolled to a stop just a few yards past where I was. A beaten-up old compact from the Soviet era. Not many of them were left now. They were notoriously unreliable, uncomfortable and inefficient. They didn’t look too good either. But it was still a car and that was all I needed.

  I walked up to the passenger door. The driver pushed it open for me as I approached, before I even had a chance to tell him who I was or where I was going. I leaned my head into the car. The warm air hit my face as it escaped through the open door, making me blink.

  ‘My car broke down,’ I said to the driver in broken Russian.

  The man raised an eyebrow, probably at my accent. He looked to be in his forties and had a thick face with salt-and-pepper stubble that rose high on his cheeks and sank low on his neck. He was wearing jeans, a thick overcoat and a deer-hunter hat.

  ‘Come on, get in,’ he said. ‘You’re letting all the warmth out.’

  I did as he said, got into the cramped seat and shut the door. The temperature inside the car was probably only ten degrees or so, but it certainly beat the outside.

  ‘Where are you heading to?’ the driver said.

  ‘Omsk.’

  ‘Me too.’

  That wasn’t a surprise. What else was there within a few hundred miles in that direction?

  ‘I can take you there if you want,’ the man said. ‘Or do you want me to take you to a garage?’

  ‘Omsk is perfect.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he said, crunching the car into first and pulling away from the verge.

  We drove on at a steady pace. A dusting of fresh snow lay on the ground but it wasn’t thick enough to cause any problems. The cars that had already been down the road since the last snowfall had cleared neat tracks along the way.

  ‘What are you doing in Omsk?’ the man asked. I detected just the slightest hint of suspicion in his tone.

  ‘I’m here on vacation,’ I replied.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You picked a funny time of year.’

  ‘Yeah. Those damn brochures,’ I said. ‘It’s never quite the same as the pictures.’

  The man laughed and I felt the tension in the tin-can car lift a little.

  ‘What were you doing out of the city?’ he said, apparently not yet convinced of my situation. Or maybe he was just being nice and wanted to chat.

  ‘Just a curious traveller, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t bother. Not much out here.’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘And you’re travelling alone?’

  ‘I usually do.’

  ‘Huh,’ was all the man said.

  We managed little conversation for the rest of the journey. I sensed the man wasn’t quite sure about me. Who could blame him? But I didn’t care all that much. Unless I gave him a reason, he wasn’t going to go running to the police to report that he’d given a lift to a suspicious foreigner. And even if he did, what was the worst that could happen? In all likelihood the police were already looking for me and I’d be long gone, away from this man, by then.

  The man said he was heading to the western part of the city, only a couple of miles from where I wanted to be. I didn’t bother to ask to be dropped off any closer. He told me I could take a bus to the centre, but I decided to walk. The exercise would do me good despite the freezing temperature.

  I had an errand to run before heading off to find Chris and Mary. I had barely any cash left in my pocket. I needed more money, and other than stealing I had only one choice still left to me. The cash I’d had in the safety deposit box had gone. But I still had my bank account back in England. I could access that cash from the Western Union branch in Omsk.

  First I needed to contact my bank to get them to set up the transfer. They would give me a ten-digit money transfer number to take to the teller in order to confirm the transaction. After walking for a few minutes I found a phone booth that was located just around the corner from the branch and put in a small handful of coins. I just had to hope it would be enough for the long-distance call.

  Both the number for the bank and my account details were well ingrained in my brain, I had used them so often. I dialled the number and listened to the ring tone.

  A woman answered the phone. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and her accent, I guessed, was North Yorkshire.

  ‘I need to set up an immediate wire transfer, please,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, sir. Let me just take some details.’

  I rattled off answers to her questions about my name, date of birth, address and account number.

  ‘Okay, yes, I have you on-screen. You said you wanted a new transfer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A moment’s silence followed and I heard her typing away at her keyboard.

  ‘Into the account or out?’

  ‘Out,’ I said.

  A few more moments of silence.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you have any other accounts with us?’ the lady responded.

  ‘No. That’s the only one. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that the account details you gave me…that account has been cleared. It’s been closed.’

  ‘When was it closed?’ I said, feeling anger boiling up inside me.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon. The money was transferred to an offshore account with a different bank. Sir, you must have closed it? You’re the only signatory. Is there something wrong?’

  Yes, I thought. There really is.

  She was still talking as I smashed the phone back down into its cradle.

  Chapter 37

  I was more angry than surprised. Taking my possessions from the safety deposit box was one thing. But this? That account was my personal money. Other than the scars on my body it was all I had to show for nineteen years of toil for the JIA.

  But on top of the anger, which was hard to suppress, I also felt sorrow. I wasn’t sure why. I’d had no emotional attachment to that money. It had sat piling up in that account for years and I’d never had the time or desire to use it to splash out on material items. The feeling of sorrow was more because of the implications of what the missing money meant.

  Because it wasn’t just my assignment that had been sabotaged – it was my whole life.

  And the timing of the account closure was notable. Yesterday afternoon. After Mackie’s death. Not really a surprise, but it was clear the agency were holding me responsible. It felt like my own people were now trying to erase my very existence. Was I just an irredeemable problem to them now? An embarrassment that they wanted to get rid of?

  I stood doing nothing for a couple of minutes, trying to figure out my next move.

  I had another call to make. There was only one number I could dial for which I wouldn’t need money.

  Mackie’s number.

  I didn’t know who would answer the call, if it was answered at all. Even if it was answered, chances were I wouldn’t know the person on the other end of the line. The agency was necessarily secretive. I’d met only a handful of other people who worked there. We had no functions or conferences or Christmas parties. The people I knew were the ones I needed to: Mackie and a small number of agents I’d worked alongside at various points in time. Probably fewer than one person for every year I’d worked there. And some of those weren’t even alive any more. It had to be that way. Both for the safety of the agency and its agents. The fewer people you knew – and, more importantly, the fewer people who knew you – the more likely yo
u were to survive a life like mine.

  After five rings the phone was answered. Silence for a few seconds. Not even the sound of breathing. Then a man’s voice.

  ‘Who is this?’ he said.

  The tone was terse. The voice was gruff and low-pitched. I didn’t recognise it.

  The phone signal sputtered a couple of times, crackling coming from the earpiece, probably due to the poor weather. I wasn’t sure whether the connection would stick.

  It did.

  ‘Who is this?’ the voice said again. ‘Logan, is that you?’

  Now that the connection was clear, his voice fell into place. Peter Winter. Mackie’s young assistant. Not a PA as such, more a trainee, being groomed to one day be a commander like Mackie had been.

  We’d met before. He was young and clever and enthusiastic and inexperienced and a pain in the arse. We hadn’t got on particularly well. But I knew Mackie had thought highly of him. And I knew he was loyal to Mackie.

  Under different circumstances he might have been an ally. But I got the sense it wasn’t going to be that way today.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve calling this number,’ he said. ‘After what’s happened. What the hell do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ was my feeble response.

  ‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘We’re going to find you. You’d better believe that. We will find you. You’re a wanted man, Logan.’

  ‘You think I killed Mackie?’ The words sounded surreal to me.

  ‘You know, you might think you’re some kind of superhero, running around taking out the bad guys, but not this time.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Mackie,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Then how about you come in and we can talk all about it.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I always told Mackie you were a loose cannon. That one day you would flip. I always thought you’d only end up hurting yourself, though. Not this. I never thought you’d end up like this.’

  ‘Don’t let your misconception of me get in the way here, Winter. I’m the one who’s been wronged. I was the one who was left in the hands of the Russians. Left to months of torture.’

  Winter laughed sarcastically. ‘You’re going to long for those days to be back when we’re finished with you.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Mackie!’ I shouted through exasperation rather than anger. ‘Don’t you get it? Someone is setting me up.’

  ‘I got a call from your bank just now,’ Winter said, ignoring me. ‘Sorry about that. Just how long do you think you’re going to last if you keep on running?’

  I gritted my teeth. I’d already assumed the agency had been responsible for clearing my account. But to be taunted with it by this worm was something else.

  ‘You need to give yourself up, Logan. Come in. That’s the only way you can move forward now. If you don’t, I’m only going to make things worse for you.’

  ‘I’m not coming in. You should know better than that.’

  ‘We’re just protecting ourselves. And our other agents. That’s all we can ever do.’

  ‘You had no right to take my money.’

  ‘Your money? Everything you’ve ever had in your life has been because of the JIA. It’s not your money. And don’t think we’re going to stop there.’

  ‘Your threats aren’t exactly winning me over.’

  ‘These aren’t threats. When this is all over, you’ll be begging for your life back.’

  ‘Whatever you do to me, I’m going to finish this.’

  ‘Play it like that if you want. You’ve still got a choice. If you make the wrong one, you can kiss your life goodbye. There will be no Carl Logan. With a few clicks on a mouse I can have your entire life erased. No fancy flat, no bank account, national insurance number, passport, driving licence, birth certificate. It’ll be like you never existed.’

  ‘If that happens, you’re going to wish I never had.’

  I slammed the phone down. This time I was unable to resist the urge to lash out and I thumped the metal panel behind the phone once, twice, as hard as I could. The whole booth shook and my knuckles were immediately throbbing. I didn’t care.

  They thought I’d turned. That I’d set up Mackie to be killed.

  Yes, it had been a setup, that meeting. For the Russians to get access to Mackie. But it wasn’t my setup. Someone else had got Mackie killed. And I had to find out who. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. I was going to get whoever had been involved in the whole sorry mess. Whatever it took. And I was going to make them pay.

  Chapter 38

  Winter said the bank had already put a call in to him. There had only been a matter of minutes between when I’d spoken to the bank and when I’d dialled Mackie’s number. The fact the JIA were keeping such close tabs on me meant they would be close by. They’d probably be trying to trace the location of the calls I’d just made. Mary or Chris or whoever else was out there looking for me wouldn’t be far away. That was fine with me. I didn’t care any more if they found me. One way or another I was going to finish this.

  Strange as it seemed, standing in that phone box I couldn’t help but compare my predicament to Grainger’s. Sure, her situation was different. There was no sense that she’d been set up by anyone – the mess she’d found herself in was, ultimately, of her own making. But when she’d shot me and gone on the run, she’d condemned herself to a life in the shadows. Running was certainly an option for me too. But I wasn’t going to go that way. Not while the people behind my demise were still out there. I had to believe that I could still find a life for myself, if only I could get to the bottom of what was happening.

  My next stop was the safe house that Chris and Mary had taken me to previously. If they weren’t looking for me already then I’d make it easy for them.

  I retraced my steps from the first time I’d been taken there, back along the street of concrete monoliths, quiet and largely uninhabited. I didn’t know what I’d be walking into when I reached the safe house. Perhaps Chris and Mary hadn’t been back there at all since the incident in the café. Or maybe a full team of people was now there. I would be ready for whatever was thrown at me.

  I arrived at the unassuming apartment building, walked up the slippery steps to the third floor and exited onto the corridor. As I approached the safe house I pulled up alongside the door, doing a quick recce of the area around. I saw no signs of life. I pushed my ear close to the door, straining to hear any movement. Nothing. I knocked three times and listened.

  The sound of footsteps caught my attention. But they weren’t from inside the flat. They were coming from the stairs, down the corridor, ten yards from where I was standing. Before I could react, I saw a figure appear at the top of the stairs.

  A woman.

  Mary.

  She was looking down, fumbling with a set of keys. When she looked up at me, she immediately stopped. A rabbit caught in headlights. Both of us.

  ‘Shit!’ she said, turning on her heels.

  She ducked back into the stairwell. I could see as she rounded the corner that she was already reaching into her coat. Probably for a weapon. I wasn’t armed. I had nothing at all. But I didn’t hide, I gave chase. Because of the look in her eyes. It told me three things:

  She wasn’t prepared.

  She was alone.

  And she was scared of me.

  As I rushed over to the stairwell I could still hear her footsteps, descending. I realised she wasn’t positioning for attack. She was running away. I reached the stairwell and leaned over, looking down. I spotted her, already three floors below, rounding the final bend.

  I didn’t know why she had run. To get back-up? Because she was genuinely afraid of me? Either way, I decided against going after her. Whatever her motives for running, I knew that it had given me a window of opportunity. Whether she was gone for good or just waiting for support, I had a chance to get into the safe house. Alone. For all I knew there would be money, food, even weapons in there. I needed all three.r />
  I turned on my heels and raced back to the safe house door. I tried the door handle, out of habit more than anything else. Locked. But the door was rudimentary with a simple latch lock. Safe houses are deliberately inconspicuous. No heavy security. It only took one barge from my shoulder and the whole door splintered off its hinges.

  If Mary had gone to get help, I had at worst a couple of minutes. I rushed into the flat, rifled through drawers, looked under rugs, behind curtains, under cushions. Nothing.

  I moved on to the sole bedroom, which had twin beds. I looked under the pillows, under mattresses, in the cupboards. Again, nothing. Just a few clothes and some toiletries.

  I rushed back out and through into the kitchen. I opened cupboard doors. I found tins and packets of food still there. I stuffed some crisps and crackers into my overcoat. I didn’t have time to eat there and then but I would need to later.

  But I found nothing else of interest. I felt slightly deflated, though what had I expected? Mary and Chris would have been careless to have left anything of value, anything useful to me, in plain view. If time had been on my side, I would have turned the place upside down. I was sure there would be something for me. Maybe under floorboards or in hidden drawer compartments. It would be very unusual to have not kept weapons hidden for times of need.

  The problem was I didn’t have the time to try to find them. I thought about taking one of the knives from the kitchen, so that I’d at least be armed. In the end I didn’t. Without a sheath there wasn’t really an easy way to carry an eight-inch blade. At least not without drawing unwanted attention or cutting myself.

  Before leaving the flat I took the opportunity to quickly change out of the bloodied trousers and jumper that I was wearing, swapping them for a pair of jeans and a black turtleneck that I presumed were Chris’s. They fitted me just fine and it felt great to have clean, laundered clothes on again.