The Lone Patriot

by JT Brannan

  At the start, it had been fairly simple – it was just he and President Emelienenko who knew about it, it was just words on paper. But, once approved, it didn’t stay that way for long. He could trust his own officers in Directorate S of course – they were, after all, used to this work – but how did you ensure silence from military commanders, and the soldiers under their command? Soldiers were prone to gossip, and loose lips were a constant source of worry for Dementyev.

  The key, he knew, was to compartmentalize the knowledge. Even senior military commanders who were now suffering through winter under their camouflage tarpaulins, didn’t know the full extent of Project Europe. They didn’t even know its name, everyone was working under different operational codenames according to their particular part in it. They didn’t know about the involvement of any other group and – even if they did – there were simply too many elements for the entire thing to be put together by any one man.

  But rumor. What could he do about rumor?

  The various commanders involved in the project were dealing with it in their own direct fashion; according to the latest reports from the field, six lower-ranked soldiers had already been shot for voicing too loudly their opinions. Dementyev thought the method archaic, but approved of its effect. After all, the nature of Project Europe was still unknown to the world at large, wasn’t it?

  But the subterfuge wouldn’t have to last much longer, he told himself. He was sure the upcoming vote in the general assembly would go America’s way, and he knew that ratification in the security council would surely follow. The US-led coalition would then get bogged down in a difficult war in a nation with inhospitable terrain and an unfriendly climate.

  And that’s when the true nature of the project would be revealed, and full orders would go out to the Federation’s field commanders.

  When that stage came, there would be plenty of other things to worry about, he knew that; but what gave him his current headaches, and what kept him here at his office day and night, was the possibility that the key elements of the plan would be found out too early, and ruin everything.

  He was a confident man, but as time wore on, he found the stress was finally getting to him. He had trouble sleeping, his blood pressure was on the rise, and he sometimes found himself sitting at his desk in a cold sweat.

  Part of the problem, he realized, was the man at Akvadroma. How much did he know, and who had he told? To date, despite the range of techniques used on him, the man had still not spoken. Incredibly, he was still hanging on to the idea that he really was Aleksandr Petrushkin. But the man was a foreign agent, Dementyev knew that much; and he also knew that the trouble last night near the Kremlin was somehow connected. Were his colleagues trying to rescue him, to find out what he knew?

  And now they had Veronika Galushka too! Taken right from under the noses of the FSB, damn their hides.

  But what could the woman tell them of Project Europe? Nothing, Dementyev was sure.

  But he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, could hardly see straight, and he needed to do something about it – which was why he’d just spoken to the specialist SVR interrogation team at Akvadroma, and arranged to go and visit the man there himself.

  Although the man known as Aleksandr Petrushkin had been found going through the files and computer systems in this very office, Dementyev himself had not actually ever seen him; he was content to let the captive be taken to the hidden facility outside of Moscow for the specialists to work their magic on him. All Dementyev had to do was wait for the results.

  But there had been no results, and now Dementyev was determined to confront the problem himself, face to face. After all, they were now entering the most critical phase of the operation; the UN vote had gone according to plan, and Emelienenko was already on his way to New York to ensure that the Security Council also voted the way they wanted. Then there would be Athens, and then Warsaw . . .

  So much could still go wrong, and he was terrified that the whole thing could still come crashing down.

  And so he was going to meet the man being held at Akvadroma, to try and set his tortured mind to rest.

  A knock on his door, however, reminded him that there was one final meeting to get out of the way before he could leave.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, and waited for her to enter.

  Cole walked purposefully through the corridors, pleased to see that he was mostly ignored. Some people looked his way, but didn’t waste their time talking to him; everyone was busy, and everyone has something to do. Cole was just another worker, on his way to a meeting.

  He headed through the hallways, keeping in mind the mental map he had drawn up of the place; from the exterior surveillance, he knew where Dementyev’s office was located geographically, and from the position of the elevators, he had a good idea of how to get there. The labyrinthine corridors did their best to throw him off, but he kept following his internal compass and was finally rewarded as he rounded a corner that let out into a small reception area, three ladies behind three desks, in front of three wide doors. To one side of the lobby was a thick metal door, what must have been a private elevator. It made sense, Cole figured; there was no way the directors were going to face those long security queues, and ride with their subordinates. Russian leaders just didn’t work like that.

  Cole scanned the Cyrillic signs on each door, saw Dementyev’s in the center. The one to the left was for the Assistant to the Deputy Director, the other for the Chief of the Operations Department. But it was only Dementyev’s he had eyes for, and he knew he would have to get past the secretary first. A formidable, middle-aged woman, she looked up at him as he came into the lobby, an eyebrow raised.

  The plan was simple really, although potentially suicidal. He would talk his way past the secretary, gain access to Dementyev’s office, and then lock the door behind him, trapping himself in there with the intelligence chief. He would question the man, access his computer systems, and he wouldn’t leave until he had the answers he needed.

  Proyekt Yevropy.

  If it meant that he never left the building, then that was a risk he was willing to take. It was only the information that was important, as long as he got it out to someone – Barrington, Vinson, Michiko, anyone – and if he achieved that, then he could die a contented man, his job done.

  Not that he had any intention of dying; he was willing to do a lot to stop that happening.

  But if it did happen, then so be it; the mission was all that mattered, not him.

  He began to approach the central secretary, whose eyes were still on him, when he froze.

  The door opened, and Dementyev himself strolled out, alongside a woman . . .

  His heart went numb.

  It couldn’t be.

  But was it?

  Rooted to the spot, he looked at the woman again as she chatted to Dementyev, sure that he knew her.

  Yes, dammit, he knew her.

  Elizabeth Morgan.

  Despite his years of experience, for a moment he was at a loss to know what to do, how to react.

  What was she doing? Here? Now?

  She looked different of course – back in London, she’d had surgery to take over the identity of the MI5 agent she’d killed – but Cole could see it was her; it was her eyes, in the way she moved.

  The Russian assassin who had betrayed him.

  At that moment, he understood that – if he recognized her – then she could just as easily recognize him; and if she did, the alarm would sound and he would be as good as dead, without having achieved anything here.

  He pulled back around the corner immediately, just as she looked away from Dementyev, in his direction.

  His heart pounded in his chest as he rested against the hallway wall.

  Had she seen him?

  Well, he told himself, he would know soon enough; she’d tell the secretary to sound the alarm, and before long there would be an army of security guards here, submachine guns ready to cut him to pieces.

&n
bsp; He breathed out slowly, disgusted that she should have this effect on him. He’d thought he was over her, so how did she still wield such power over him?

  But his mind was confused, and all he could think of to do was run.

  Run.

  ‘I will escort you downstairs, Irina,’ Makarova heard her boss say as they walked slowly past the secretary’s desk toward the private elevator, but something caught her attention at the same time and she didn’t really hear him.

  She murmured an acknowledgement, but her mind was on the shadowy figure she had seen retreating behind the corner just up ahead.

  Who was he, and why had he retreated so quickly upon seeing her?

  She hadn’t seen his face, but was sure he’d been looking at her; she had felt his eyes on her. Irina Makarova’s training had been first-class all the way, and yet it was her innate, animal instincts that had made her one of the most successful assassins in Russian history, even including its aggressive Soviet phase.

  But her gut-reaction to the man was modified by her experience; she knew she was beautiful, that she had an effect on men, and sometimes women, that was inexplicable. She’d used her physical gifts over the years, and her looks were one of the things that made her so successful. By the time anyone suspected her, it was too late – they were already dead. She understood, therefore, that some men were intimidated by her beauty, would become tongue-twisted and sweaty-palmed in her presence; and she also knew that men hated that feeling, and many would therefore try and avoid her, in order to escape those reactions.

  Her reputation as an ice-cold killer would often have something to do with it too. It wasn’t entirely fair, she often thought; she was so much more than an assassin. Killing people was only a small part of what she did, her actual role as an agent was wide-ranging and complex. But, of course, because she was a woman – and good at it – the killing was all anyone ever noticed.

  Some people, it seemed, were just plain frightened of her.

  And with good reason, she thought with a smile, dismissing the man from her thoughts as she turned back to Dementyev.

  ‘Thank you, colonel,’ she said, giving him a more coherent reply now. ‘It would be a pleasure for you to accompany me to my car.’

  Makarova, since her last meeting with Dementyev when he’d confirmed the Athens job, had been working on the plans for it. Finally satisfied, she had just presented the outline of her strategy to Dementyev, who had signed off on it.

  Now she was going to have one of the SVR drivers take her to Sheremetyevo Airport, where she would fly under an assumed name to Latvia – an important element of Dementyev’s strategy. It wasn’t subtle, but it wasn’t supposed to be; she wanted to be identified at Riga airport, at least retroactively. From there, under another name, she would make her way to Athens for the completion of her mission.

  She was already looking forward to it.

  9

  Julie Barrington felt a surge of relief as the situation with Ken and Daw was resolved without gunfire.

  They’d pushed it as far as they’d dared, Barrington knew; when Ken’s hand had gone for his pocket, she could have sworn that one of the guards was going to shoot. Indeed, she could sense Gary Hart next to her adjusting his finger on the trigger, priming himself to shoot. It was possible that he could take all six guards in under four seconds, but – impressive though that undoubtedly was – that would still give the guards time to shoot her teammates, and she prayed that it wouldn’t get to that point.

  In the end though, the guards didn’t shoot, and Ken was able to pull the sheet of paper from his pocket, a forged document purportedly from the local government office giving the Australian news team permission to film.

  One of the guards read it but was obviously unimpressed, ordering his companions to confiscate the video camera and even the microphone. And then he sent in four men to search the van, while he and the other guard held Ken and Daw at gunpoint.

  A couple of minutes later and the guards reemerged, shaking their heads. They’d found nothing, because there was nothing to be found.

  There was some further shouting, and pointing, and then Ken and Daw – minus their filmmaking equipment – got back in their van and drove off down the road.

  She wondered how Cole was getting on; Devlin had reported that Dementyev was in a meeting with someone, and Cole had not yet appeared on the scene. And now, he’d just reported that the Russian intelligence chief was escorting the lady from his office.

  Was he leaving?

  She was just wondering how this was going to affect their plans, when her cellphone rang.

  ‘Julie,’ she heard the voice of Cole say in a low whisper, ‘Dementyev’s on the move. I don’t know if he’s staying in the compound or leaving altogether, but we need to get ready to follow him if necessary.’

  ‘Okay,’ Barrington confirmed.

  ‘And Julie?’ Cole said. ‘We’re going to need two vehicles.’

  Cole walked toward the security personnel, all too aware that Dementyev and the woman he had called ‘Irina’ were probably already on their way down in the private elevator.

  He didn’t have a lot of time to lose, and strode confidently toward the men, ready to brush past them.

  ‘One moment, sir,’ said one of the guards, stepping in front of him.

  Cole readied himself for the attack, but it didn’t come; the man just indicated that Cole should empty his pockets and raise his arms for a search, just to confirm he wasn’t taking anything from Directorate S that he shouldn’t.

  While one guard performed the search, another looked over his documents, and Cole hoped that he wouldn’t question the pass, or the fact that he hadn’t gone through the proper security checks on the way in.

  The second man tapped the authorization pass against his palm, gaze leveled at Cole.

  Cole tensed, waiting for it.

  ‘Did your meeting go well?’ was all the man said though, and Cole felt relief flood his body.

  ‘Yes,’ he said as the other guard finished searching him, ‘thank you, it did.’

  ‘He’s clean’ said the man who’d searched him, and the third guard called for the elevator.

  A few moments later, the doors opened and Cole stepped through into the car, checking his watch as he went.

  Dementyev and Irina had a head start on him, and he could only hope that he was able to catch up with them.

  ‘Can you see them?’ Cole whispered as he made his way through the first-floor lobby. He hadn’t been able to call Barrington from the elevator, he was too close to the guard, but he risked it now as he strode out across the tiled floor to the large glass exit doors.

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply from Barrington, ‘they’re outside now, two cars have pulled up. They’re still talking. Now Dementyev is opening the rear door of one of them for the woman, she’s getting in. And Mark, there’s a problem – we’ve only got the one vehicle, the news van’s been marked, there’s no way we can use it to follow them. We can only follow one car, which do you want the most?’

  Cole could see them now through the glass, and paused as if wanting to finish the call in the warmth of the building before going outside into the cold.

  Which one to follow?

  Damn, which one?

  Dementyev had the information, the access, he probably knew where Jake was. Irina was an assassin, just a regular employee, a nobody.

  And yet . . . And yet . . .

  He watched Dementyev slam the door shut, before moving to the second vehicle, parked in front of the first. The door was opened for him by a bodyguard, who then climbed in after his boss.

  Dementyev or Irina?

  ‘Okay,’ he said, thinking fast, ‘this is what I want you to do.’

  Cole left the building, collar turned up against the subzero temperatures.

  Dementyev’s car had pulled away from the curb, taking the lead; Irina’s car was also starting to move away, and Cole moved casually along the avenue in the same d
irection.

  There were people all around – not as many as there had been a little while earlier, but still enough to see if Cole did anything out of the ordinary.

  But then, in a flash, everyone’s attention was drawn away from him, toward a small group of cars nearby, as one of them erupted in a fireball, the crashing boom and shooting flames making it impossible for anyone to look anywhere else.

  Except for Cole, who was now moving fast, eyes on the rear car.

  ‘Good shot,’ Barrington said as she watched the vehicle explode. Hart had targeted the fuel tank with a high-explosive round from his rifle, and the result was dramatic, to say the least.

  ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got a car to follow.’

  Cole saw Dementyev’s car slowing as the flames flickered across the avenue; by the time the driver has decided to accelerate away out of the danger zone, Cole had already sprinted forward and rolled underneath Irina’s vehicle, clamping his hands and feet around the underbody pipework and pulling himself off the cold ground just instants before the car accelerated off after the first.

  He was glad he’d put his gloves back on before stepping outside, as without them the skin of his hands would almost certainly have become attached to the metalwork, and it would have been torn off when he finally had to let go.

  It was unpleasant enough as it was, and reminded him of the last time he’d been under a car like this; it had been in England two years ago, when he’d used the tactic to board a ferryboat to France after Charles Hansard had tried to have him killed. That particular mission had ended with the death of his wife and children, he remembered; but no sooner had the thought entered his mind, than he cut it off completely.