The Agent (An Isabella Rose Thriller Book 3)

by Mark Dawson

  ‘What will happen now?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘Too much momentum for it to stop now,’ Pope said. ‘You don’t move assets like that into theatre if you don’t intend to use them.’

  ‘There’ll be another war?’

  ‘It’s inevitable.’

  Pope turned away from the screen, opened the doors to the balcony and stepped outside. It had stopped raining now, but it was cold and damp, with a low bank of heavy grey cloud slowly rolling over the ugly buildings. Pope had purchased a packet of local Java cigarettes from the hotel bar and he tore off the cellophane wrapper, took one out and lit it.

  Isabella came outside with him. ‘I didn’t think you smoked.’

  ‘I don’t.’ He took the cigarette from his lips, held it up so that he could look at it and then flicked it over the balcony. ‘You’re right. Stupid habit.’

  ‘Just breathing the air here will damage your lungs,’ she said, turning to rest her elbows on the metal balustrade.

  ‘I need to go out,’ he said. ‘We need a car. I saw a Hertz down the street.’

  ‘What do we do tonight?’

  ‘Get there at midnight. Atari is there or he isn’t.’

  ‘If he isn’t?’

  ‘We do it ourselves. We meet her off the bus.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Try to persuade her that she can trust us.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  ‘I haven’t given that much thought yet. I will.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Pope hired a Hyundai Solaris. He collected it from the hotel’s underground parking lot and picked Isabella up from the front of the building. It was eleven at night and the weather was a continuation of the damp cold that had greeted them as they had arrived in the city earlier that day.

  Isabella had slept reasonably well through the afternoon. It didn’t appear as if Pope had been so fortunate. She had seen his silhouette on the adjacent balcony as she went to get some fresh air. He had his phone pressed to his ear; she guessed that he was trying – and failing – to get in touch with Atari. He drove in silence, staring at the empty road ahead. He was anxious. Isabella left him to his thoughts.

  They arrived at the bus station at 11.50. It was on the south side of the city, directly opposite the grand railway station. The parking lot was almost empty, and Pope slotted the car into a space that offered them a view of the terminal building and the bays where the buses disembarked their passengers.

  They sat in the car, staring ahead through the rain-slicked windshield. The odd car or delivery lorry swished over the wet asphalt, the single light that lit the waiting room reflecting off the surface. There was a car in the taxi rank, smoke drifting out of the half-opened window as the driver exhaled.

  She couldn’t see Atari.

  Isabella broke the silence. ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘I couldn’t get through.’

  ‘So how are we going to do this?’

  ‘Let’s see if he’s here. If he isn’t—’

  He stopped. Another car drew into the rank behind the taxi. It was a Mercedes-Benz Geländewagen, a luxury four-wheel-drive SUV with blacked-out windows that obscured the cabin.

  ‘That’s not good,’ Pope said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The FSB drive G-wagens.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii. Putin’s secret service. They used to be the KGB.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I hope I’m wrong. But it doesn’t feel good. They might have come to pick her up.’

  They waited for an hour. The blacked-out Mercedes-Benz stayed where it was, and no other vehicles arrived.

  Atari was not going to join them.

  Isabella was staring out of the window into the dark night when she heard it: the rumble of an engine and then the wheezing of brakes. She swung around, craning her neck to get a better look at the incoming vehicle. It drew into the first bay, the one nearest to the terminal, and she was able to see the electronic display on the flank. There were words in Mandarin, Russian and English.

  HARBIN – VLADIVOSTOK

  ‘It’s ten minutes early,’ Pope said.

  ‘Do you remember what she looks like?’

  Atari had shown them a series of selfies that must have been uploaded from Litivenko’s phone.

  ‘I remember,’ Pope said.

  Isabella looked across to the G-Class. The passenger-side door had opened a crack, a sliver of light leaking out from the inside.

  She turned back to the bus. They had both studied the photographs of Litivenko that Atari had provided them, and now they peered through the rain and the gloom as a handful of men and women clambered down the steps to the ground. Pope was leaning forward in his seat, squinting hard, but it was Isabella who saw her first.

  ‘There,’ she said.

  She came down the steps last of all, gingerly negotiating the gap to the ground. She was wearing a plain beige jacket and blue jeans and she had a beanie hat pulled way down so that it rode just above her brows. Isabella could see the blonde hair that spilled out of the back of the beanie.

  Litivenko went to the side of the bus and waited as the driver dragged suitcases from the luggage compartment. She took a small case and wheeled it to the taxi rank. The cab that had been waiting had been taken by one of the other passengers. The others had dispersed, some waiting for connecting buses and others setting off on foot.

  Litivenko checked her watch, glanced at the display that showed the times of the departing buses and started to walk to the empty waiting room.

  ‘Here we go,’ Pope said.

  The doors of the G-Class opened and the driver and passenger stepped out. They were wearing padded jackets, jeans and heavy boots. They moved quickly and with purpose, crossing the pavement and intercepting Litivenko as she came alongside their car. One of the men spoke to her, gesturing to the Mercedes-Benz. She shook her head and tried to step around him, but he caught her arm and dragged her to the side. She let go of the suitcase and started to hit him with her free hand. The second man joined in, taking her other arm and forcing it behind her back. They cuffed her and hauled her to the back of the car. The passenger opened the door and shoved her into the back, sliding in with her. The driver collected the suitcase and put it into the back of the car. He slid inside the car and pulled away from the station. The Mercedes-Benz tossed spray on to the pavement as it accelerated away.

  Pope reached forward and started the engine.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Mercedes-Benz headed north along Aleutskaya. The road was quiet, with just a handful of other vehicles heading north and south. Isabella looked out at the shops and businesses on either side of them and then a narrow slice of park to the left. The G-Class was fifty metres up the road; Pope was allowing them plenty of space to reduce the chance that they might be made.

  ‘Where will they take her?’

  ‘They’ll have a headquarters in the city somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘So?’

  Pope didn’t answer. Instead, he reached across to the central console and zoomed out the satnav’s map so that he could see more of the city.

  He looked forward.

  They were approaching a junction: Aleutskaya continued to the north, with Fontannaya leading off it from east to west. A set of overhead traffic lights controlled the traffic. They were suspended over the road on cables, and they were showing red. The Geländewagen’s tail lights flicked red as the driver touched the brakes. The car rolled to a stop beneath the lights.

  ‘Is your belt on?’ Pope said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to rear-end them. Not too hard, but the airbags might deploy. I’m going to play dead. Ask them to help me. Tell them your father’s had a heart attack. Get them to come over here.’

  The lights changed to green and the Gelän
dewagen started to pull away, but the Russians were moving slowly compared to their Hyundai. Isabella braced herself, holding her breath as they drove into the back of the bigger car. They were travelling at thirty miles an hour, and the bump, when it came, was surprisingly heavy. There was the crunch and tear of metal and the shattering of glass, all a fraction of a second before the sudden exhalation of gases as the airbags deployed. Isabella jerked forward, her face and chest absorbed into the pliant cushion before she was jerked back into her seat again.

  She stayed there for a moment, feeling the bite of the seat belt against her clavicle. The cabin was filled with motes of cornstarch and talcum powder, the tiny particles that lubricated the bag.

  ‘You okay?’ Pope said.

  She glanced across at him. His own airbag was deflating, but he had arranged himself so that he was slumped over to the side, held in his seat by the belt.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  She unlatched the glove compartment and quickly looked inside. There was a can of Blue Star de-icer. She collected it, took off the top and then pushed it into her sleeve so that it was against the inside of her wrist.

  ‘Be careful,’ Pope said.

  She gathered her breath, unclipped the belt and opened the door.

  The Geländewagen had been moved forward by the bump, over the stop line and halfway into the junction. The rear fender had crumpled and the nearside brake lights were out, but save that, it didn’t look as if it had been badly damaged. Their Hyundai was in worse shape. The fender was hanging from one fixing, the hood was crumpled like an unmade bed and steam was jetting from the punctured radiator.

  The driver’s door opened and one of the two men she had seen at the bus station stepped out. He swung around, saw her and fired out a stream of Russian invective.

  Isabella staggered forward, feigning weakness. She braced herself against the side of the car.

  The man approached. He spat out more Russian.

  ‘My father,’ she said in English. ‘Please – he needs help.’

  The man spat out another guttural sentence that ended with a stab of the finger towards the back of the G-Class.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t speak Russian. My father. He needs a doctor.’ She turned her head and looked up at him, mixing what she hoped might pass for shock and panic. ‘Ambulance?’

  The man cursed, turned to the car and called out. The rear door opened and the second man emerged. The two Russians shared a quick conversation, punctuated by angry gesticulations in Isabella’s direction and at the mangled car. They both came closer.

  The passenger went all the way back and looked into the car. Pope stayed where he was, his arms loose by his sides and his head resting against the dashboard.

  The driver approached her. ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My father – please, can you help him? I think he had a heart attack.’ She emphasised the point by tapping her right hand against her chest.

  The driver called out in Russian, perhaps relaying the information.

  She heard the sound of Pope’s door as the passenger opened it.

  The driver drew nearer to her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  Isabella heard a grunt of protest from behind her and the sound of a landed punch. She saw alarm in the driver’s face. She shook her arm, letting the can slide down into her palm. She aimed and pressed down on the nozzle. The man was close and the spray hit him in the face, the glycol and methanol blasting him in the eyes and nose and mouth. He exclaimed and stepped back, his hands instinctively going to his face. Isabella followed him, crouching down and sweeping his legs. He hit the road hard, the back of his head cracking against the edge of the kerb.

  Isabella turned. Pope was out of the car, wrestling with the man who had come to check on him. The Russian was bigger than Pope and, as she watched, he fixed Pope in a front headlock and started to drive his knees into Pope’s gut.

  Isabella dropped down to her knees and opened the driver’s jacket. He was wearing a shoulder rig with an MP-443 Grach in the holster. Isabella had fired the sidearm before; it was an ugly weapon that fired a 9×19mm cartridge. She took it out, got to her feet and aimed.

  ‘Hey,’ she called out.

  The man still had Pope in the headlock.

  ‘Hey!’

  He glanced over at her, saw the gun and ignored it. He raised his right knee again, the impact landing deep in Pope’s gut and lifting him off his feet.

  Isabella aimed low and fired. The nine-millimetre round cracked into the asphalt a foot from the Russian’s feet.

  That got his attention.

  He released the headlock and raised his hands to his head.

  Pope straightened up, wheezing and coughing from the battering that he had taken. He put both hands on the Russian’s shoulders, grabbing handfuls of his jacket and then butted him in the face. The man went down, landing on his backside. Pope took a step towards him and then drove the point of his knee into the side of his head. The Russian toppled on to his side and lay still.

  Pope frisked him quickly, collecting a second Grach and a bunch of keys. Then he hobbled slowly to the G-Class.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Been better,’ he groaned. ‘Get in the back.’

  The rear door was open. Isabella shoved the MP-443 into the waistband of her jeans and slid inside.

  Litivenko was on the other side of the cabin. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. She had turned to face Isabella so that she could try to reach the door handle. Isabella wasn’t sure what she was hoping to achieve; even if she had opened the door, she was still shackled. How was she proposing to get away?

  ‘It’s okay,’ Isabella said.

  The woman gaped at her uncomprehendingly.

  Pope got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He started the engine and pulled away, turning left on to Fontannaya.

  ‘Dr Litivenko?’ he said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re on your side,’ he said.

  ‘Let me out.’

  ‘I will. But I’m going to get you away from here first.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Pope drove them north, out of Vladivostok.

  ‘Who are you?’ Litivenko asked again.

  ‘My name is Michael Pope.’

  ‘And her?’

  ‘I’m Isabella Rose,’ Isabella said.

  ‘We’re on your side,’ Pope added.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Away from what just happened. Those men weren’t friends, were they?’

  ‘Secret police,’ she said.

  ‘Did they say anything?’

  ‘They wanted to talk to me.’

  ‘We saw what happened. You don’t want to go with them?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘What do you want? Are you with the company?’

  ‘With Daedalus?’ Pope said. ‘No.’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘Let’s get out of the city,’ Pope said. ‘We’ll find somewhere safe to stop and I’ll get those cuffs off. Then we can talk.’

  It was two in the morning and traffic was light.

  That was in their favour. Pope drove carefully, following the satnav to the three-mile bridge that crossed the Amursky gulf between Vladivostok and the De Vries Peninsula. The darkness of the bay filled the spaces in both directions as they headed out to the centre of the span. Pope had not discussed what they would do in the event that they were able to reach Litivenko, and Isabella didn’t want to spoil the silence now to ask. She could guess, though: there were several ways that they could have left Vladivostok, but none of them – not the airport, or the ferry terminal – would have been safe. Their attack on the FSB agents would have been relayed to headquarters now, and it was reasonable to assume that their first actions would have been to lock down those facilities. This bridge would be checked, too, but Pope was evidently
gambling that they would be across it before they could react.

  They rejoined the A-370 on the other side of the water without incident, and Isabella allowed herself to relax. Pope followed the road north for five miles until they reached the town of Shmidtovka. The lights of the settlement were revealed as they crested a hill: it was modest in size, with chimney smoke drifting up through the sodium glow. Isabella wondered if he would stop here, but he carried on, continuing on the A-370.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Litivenko asked him.

  ‘Korsakov.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Take me to Ussuriysk.’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘It’s where I was going. My parents live there.’

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You think the FSB doesn’t know that? That’s the first place they’ll look for you. It might be under surveillance already.’

  ‘It must be nice to know so much, Mr Pope.’

  ‘We go around Ussuriysk on the way to the coast. I’ll stop the car when we get nearer to it. If you want to leave, you can. I wouldn’t recommend it, but I’m not going to hold you against your will.’

  Pope reached into his pocket and took out the bunch of keys that he had confiscated from the Russian agent. He reached back and handed them to Isabella and she thumbed through them until she found a small key with a single hooked tooth. Isabella indicated that Litivenko should turn around. The doctor had been restrained with rigid solid bar cuffs. Isabella tried the key in the first lock; it slid in and, when she turned it, the cuff sprang open. She opened the second cuff.

  ‘Thank you,’ Litivenko said to her as she rubbed her wrists.