The Cyprus Coverup

by Ethan Jones

  “You’re here to overthrow my government. Same thing to me.”

  Justin shrugged. “Can’t argue with that, but I’m gonna let you live.”

  The watcher shook her head. “A mistake I’m not going to make the next time we meet again.”

  “I hope that never happens.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  Justin frowned. The women’s cold tone gave him the chills. Maybe I am making a mistake. He pointed his pistol at her head. He had never killed an innocent person in cold blood.

  And he was not going to start now.

  Justin shook his head and lowered his pistol. “Live, and forget about me.” Justin bolted down the alley.

  “I won’t. I’ll find you,” the woman shouted.

  Her threats reached Justin’s ears.

  “I’m going to kill you, Justin Hall.”

  Chapter Three

  February 7

  Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters

  Ottawa, Canada

  Justin reached for his Tim Hortons extra-large coffee cup and glanced at his boss, Flavio Moretti, the chief of CIS’s Europe Clandestine Section or ECS. He was standing near the cafeteria’s floor-to-ceiling window, whispering into his phone. Justin and Flavio were in the middle of a deep conversation about the Damascus operation aftermath when a call had pulled him away. He did not say who it was, but by the deferential tone and the urgency in his voice, it was obvious the caller was a high-ranking official. Flavio and Justin had been called to Ottawa for a series of debrief meetings and operations assessment with officials from the Ministry of Public Safety, which was responsible for the ECS’s activities.

  Justin sipped his coffee and licked his lips. He was not sure when he ordered the dark roast, but it was bold and with an intense caffeine kick, as he liked his coffee. His eyes went over Flavio’s shoulder at the snowstorm pummeling the windows with large, wet snowflakes that stuck to the glass. It was quite a change of weather and scenery from the dry, mild Syria.

  He glanced at his left hand wrapped in a black mesh gauntlet splint. The knife had cut through his skin, fat, and muscle, but thankfully had missed the nerves. The Italian doctor had done a fabulous job applying two layers of stitches to put the tissue back together. The deeper stitches would dissolve with time; the upper ones would need to be removed in a few days, depending on how the wound healed.

  Justin wiggled his fingers, but stopped as the strong pain pierced through his arm. He shook his head and cursed the “asset” who had stabbed him. Justin wondered how long before he could fully use his hand, and the effect his wound might have on future operations. I just can’t sit behind a desk anymore. The doctor had said Justin should rest his hand for at least a week, then stitches would be removed in ten days. If he still had problems regaining his fingers and hand’s full movement, he would need to see a hand specialist.

  Justin shook his head. That scenario would definitely bench him for a long time. He muttered a short prayer for his hand to heal soon and without any complications. He did not mind a scar. It would go well with the others he had all over his body, caused from bullet wounds, explosives’ shrapnel, or other trauma experienced during his operations.

  He drew in a deep breath and took another sip.

  Flavio turned around and made a gesture that Justin interpreted as his boss needing another minute. Justin nodded and brushed back his hair. He remembered the bullet that had almost blown his head off. One of these days I may run out of luck. Or the one up there may decide it’s time for me to go and meet him. He shrugged. Maybe, but not today.

  Flavio ended his call and returned his phone to his jacket. He rearranged the dark brown cap that matched his felt jacket and walked back to the small plastic table. “That was the assistant deputy minister. A new crisis is brewing in the Gulf, but nothing that concerns you.”

  Justin nodded.

  Flavio said, “Where were we?”

  “You were telling me about the Syrian ambassador’s call?”

  “Yes.” Flavio’s forehead creased into a frown. “He’s making some noise about our agency’s interference in Syria’s domestic affairs. After the Damascus op went sideways, the Syrians are furious.”

  “My fault for trusting the asset.”

  “You did your best under the circumstances. I explained to our liaison and the minister’s advisor that we were approached by someone claiming to have intel that could help in the war against terrorism in Syria. Such intel, if proven accurate, would also help the new Syrian government. Of course, the ambassador doesn’t see it that way.” Flavio shrugged and sipped his coffee.

  “Perhaps we should have vetted the asset more closely.”

  “We could have done that, yes. But would we have discovered this was a trap? The asset had never worked for the current or previous Syrian authorities. Instead, he had been fighting the regime until three months ago, when he was wounded and hospitalized. All that matched up with what our teams found.”

  Justin nodded. “I understand. We don’t get to pick and choose when we meet what may or may not be an asset.”

  “Yes, but that’s all behind us. The agency has already sent in a corrector, to wipe out any tracks of the Damascus op.”

  Justin smiled. “I love those guys. I’ve never been good at cleaning up my messes.”

  Flavio sipped his coffee. “Without any intel to confirm Markov’s assertion, we’re close to square one.”

  Justin nodded again. Yuliya Markov was a special operative with the GRU, the Russian military intelligence directorate. In exchange for a favor, Markov had provided Justin’s agency with classified intelligence about a large-scale weapons deal. It involved the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria or ISIS along with other terrorist groups active in those countries on one side, and a handful of Russian rogue operatives supported by an unnamed “Gulf Prince” on the other side. Justin and the CIS were now in the process of verifying the intelligence, in order to determine their course of action.

  “Should we try the SVR again?” Justin said in a tone that sounded more like a request rather than a question.

  “Why bother? The Russians aren’t going to change their mind. I talked to two of SVR’s directors yesterday, and so did Kent. The Russians have made it clear that they aren’t going to reconsider.”

  Justin nodded. If James Kent, the CIS Director General, could not convince the SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, to share information evidently in their possession, insisting at a lower level would be simply a waste of time. “But we have the claims from the Austrian asset—”

  “The SVR dismissed his claims as ‘jihadist nonsense.’ All we have is Markov’s report. According to Kent, it’s insufficient to warrant our actions at this time. If we can go back to him with new intel, he’ll consider our further involvement.”

  A frown spread across Justin’s forehead. “Insufficient? What exactly is he looking for?”

  “Accurate intel, not corrupted by going through various agencies, especially Russian ones. Needless to say, Kent and a lot of people, including the two of us, are weary of Russian schemes.”

  “Okay, and what’s the status of our request to interrogate the asset?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not? He would be able to confirm these allegations.”

  “The asset is dead.”

  Justin cursed under his breath. “The Russians killed him?”

  “According to SVR’s official report, he hung himself.”

  “He did now? Handcuffed, held in an isolated, max security cell. What did he use to hang himself, his hair?”

  Flavio frowned. “I said it was the official version. I didn’t say I believed it.”

  “So the Russians killed him.”

  “It appears so, but, again, we can’t prove anything.”

  “Of course not.”

  “We’ve hit a dead end, but we’ll refocus our efforts. I have two teams looking into what we can find about th
ese allegations. They’ll dig up something in no time.”

  “Are they looking for Egorov as well?”

  Ekaterina Egorov, a disgraced covert operative working for the FSB, the Russian internal security intelligence service, had narrowly escaped Justin’s and Markov’s Moscow operation to capture her. Egorov had disappeared in northern Iraq during a spy exchange that had gone sideways. She was suspected to be involved in an oil-smuggling and money-laundering scheme in Iraq, one that implicated high government officials in Iraq, Turkey, and Belgium. However, the evidence for the case against these officials was very weak, and the CIS was not planning to pursue them or leak the intelligence.

  “They are, yes. No trace of her, yet.”

  Justin hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward. “I’d like to be involved in this operation, sir.”

  Flavio held Justin’s fiery eyes. “You do? All right then, pick up your coffee.”

  Justin reached for his cup with his wounded hand. He was able to wrap his fingers around the cup with great difficulty. When he tried to lift it up, agonizing pain twisted his face into a grimace. The cup felt as if it weighed a ton. He clenched his teeth, but he could not lift the cup even an inch off the table.

  He sighed and looked down.

  Flavio said, “What will happen the next time you face Egorov?”

  Justin opened his mouth to reply, but Flavio silenced him with a headshake. “I need you in top shape before you’re assigned to this op. Give your body time to recover. A few days. Egorov and this case aren’t going anywhere.”

  Justin nodded. As much as he disliked Flavio’s words, he was right. If Justin was not ready to be running an operation on the ground, his life and the life of other agents under his watch would be in grave, unnecessary danger. “I understand, sir.”

  “Justin, you’ll get your chance to settle the score with Egorov. Sooner or later, your paths will cross again.”

  “Yes, and when that happens, I’ll be ready.”

  Chapter Four

  February 8

  Montfort Hospital

  Toronto, Canada

  Justin glanced impatiently at the gray-haired doctor who was hesitating to answer the agent’s question. The doctor shrugged, opened his mouth, then shook his head. “It’s . . . it’s not that easy to tell. It will depend on . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again. “I’ll explain it in simple terms and save you the medical lingo.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “If we perform the surgery now, it may kill your dad.”

  Justin nodded. That had been the case for the last few months. Justin’s father, Carter, had been diagnosed with stage 3A non-small cell lung cancer over eighteen months ago. There had been many ups and downs in Carter’s health, with days and weeks when he had been strong enough to go hunting and fishing, and other times when he could barely get out of bed.

  His former job as the CEO of Hall & Brown Equity Investments Inc., one of the largest brokerages in Toronto, had allowed him to afford any type of medical and homeopathic treatment. And Carter had tried everything: preoperative chemotherapy, a surgery in California, adjuvant chemotherapy, and several trial treatments, some of them quite controversial, and others falling on the fringe of medicine. All treatments so far had failed, and the cancer had returned.

  “So, what are his options?” Justin asked in a low voice as a nurse walked down the hall.

  The doctor shrugged. “We’ll just have to wait for his health to get better. The patient needs to be strong enough, so he can handle the surgery. At this time, his lungs are too weak.”

  “What are the chances he’ll die before he gets strong enough for the surgery?”

  “It’s . . . that’s difficult to determine. But one shouldn’t think like that. Your father is strong. He has come so far, and he’s in stable condition. I mean, anything is possible, and his health may take a turn for the worse. But we haven’t seen that, and I hope we won’t. Now, would you excuse me?”

  Justin wanted to continue talking to the doctor, but he had to attend to other patients. “Sure, Doctor. Thank you.”

  The doctor patted Justin on the shoulder.

  His eyes followed the doctor as he hurried down the hall and toward the triage desk. Then Justin looked through the glass window of his father’s room. Carter was lying in bed with his eyes closed. His face was very pale and oxygen tubing ran into his nose. Justin hoped his father was sleeping and the morphine had eased his pain. During the day, Carter had been quite restless. At this late hour of the night, Justin prayed his father would find much-needed rest.

  Justin sighed, undecided whether to sit by Carter or to go downstairs for a cup of coffee. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost two in the morning. Tim Hortons is open all night, I think. He nodded to himself. Yes, Dad. You enjoy your sleep. I’ll come up in half an hour or so.

  He stifled a yawn as he walked down the stairs to the basement. Justin’s brother, Seth, had been in the hospital until eight or so. Growing up, the two brothers had never been close. Carter had always favored his older son—who had chosen to follow in his father’s career footsteps, had married a woman only after receiving his father’s blessings, and lived in Toronto, not far from his father’s house.

  On the other hand, Justin had always harbored a relentless, rebellious spirit. His relationship with his father had gone downhill after his mother’s death. He was only eleven years old when she had driven off a bridge. The police investigation concluded the accident was caused by human error coupled with bad weather conditions. But Justin knew his mother was escaping from a life that had turned into a nightmare. He had witnessed the verbal abuse and the physical threats when his father was around and the neglect and the abandonment when he was gone on his frequent long business trips. His mother’s death had not been an accident. Justin moved out as soon as he could; the last thing he wanted was to be like his father, to want or to have his father’s possessions.

  Justin sighed as thoughts of his turbulent youth flowed through his mind. Carter’s illness had brought Justin closer to his estranged dad and to his brother. The process of bringing the family together was difficult and slow. Because of Justin’s profession, it was very rare he was in Canada or Toronto for a lengthy period of time. He tried to call his father and brother as often as he could. But those calls and rare visits could not make up for almost two decades of absence and bitterness.

  Justin stopped for a moment as he noticed his reflection in a mirror next to the cafeteria’s entrance. He had a Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, wavy raven hair, big black eyes, and a large, thick nose—inherited from his Italian mother. Tufts of gray hair had formed around his temples and near the top of his head. At least I still have all my hair. He grinned and ran his fingers through his hair. One of the few things I didn’t inherit from my father. Justin’s personality, like that of Carter, had an unpredictable, flaring temper.

  The cafeteria was almost empty. A group of three nurses was eating a late supper or an early breakfast near the back. Two men were sitting at opposite ends of the Tim Hortons café. Patients’ family members or relatives, Justin thought. He gave them a quick glance and noticed nothing worrisome. The younger of the men, maybe in his late twenties with a thin goatee and glasses, was reading a newspaper, seemingly immersed in whatever article had grabbed his attention. The other man, who was perhaps in his forties, with a full beard and a black baseball cap, seemed to be dozing off. A tall coffee cup was on his table.

  Justin shrugged and approached the counter. He ordered an extra-large medium roast, since he needed a caffeine kick to stay awake. Once he picked up his coffee, Justin sat at the nearest table to the exit. Although, he did not expect anything to happen, his tradecraft training always kicked in. Paired with experience, it had taught Justin to expect the unexpected at all times.

  So his eyes cast a sweeping gaze around the café. The nurses were chatting and laughing quietly, and the two men posed no obvious threa
t. So Justin uncapped his coffee cup and took a sip. Still too hot.

  So he closed his eyes, began to massage his temples and tried to relax.

  It was not meant to be.

  When he reopened his eyes, perhaps ten seconds later, a woman in her late thirties was headed toward him. She was hobbling on her right leg, and her right arm was in a sling.

  It took Justin a split second to recognize her face.

  The woman was Ekaterina Egorov, the former FSB operative he had been looking for.

  Chapter Five

  February 8

  Montfort Hospital

  Toronto, Canada

  Justin went for his Sig Sauer P229 pistol in his waistband holster.

  Before his hand could reach it, Egorov said, “Bad idea.”

  She gestured toward the young man.

  Justin’s eyes darted in that direction.

  The man had placed his folded newspaper on the table. Underneath the newspaper, the muzzle of a pistol was aimed at Justin.

  He returned his eyes to Egorov. “I’ll still get you.” His fingers were now wrapped around the pistol’s handle.

  “You will.” Egorov nodded. “But think about the nurses.” She cocked her head toward the old man.

  He had shifted his chair to face the back of the café.

  Justin dropped his eyes. The old man had a pistol trained at the group of nurses.

  Egorov limped a few steps, drawing nearer to Justin. “Look, I just want to talk. Five minutes.”

  Justin shrugged. “Nothing takes five minutes. How did you find me?”

  “That’s immaterial to our conversation.” Egorov said in a low voice as she switched to Russian. “Now, can we chat for a while?”

  Justin shrugged again. “You leave me no choice.”

  Egorov grinned. “You always have a choice. And you’re choosing to live. That’s good.”

  Justin unhooked his fingers from the pistol, feeling he was making a grave mistake. But Egorov sounded genuine. If her thugs wanted him dead, they would have shot him in the back when he was ordering coffee. Justin placed his hand over the table. “Sure, let’s talk.”