Betrayal (18 page)

‘Is that the official FSB line?’

Miranova snorted with amusement. ‘If you are here to lecture me about the evils of our repressive country, maybe you should look to yourself first,’ she suggested. ‘What exactly do you think happens at Guantanamo Bay, or Abu Ghraib prison, or Parwan in Afghanistan? The CIA’s hands are just as bloody as ours, Agent Mason. They are simply better at washing it off.’

This conversation was going nowhere fast, and Drake knew it. Squabbling amongst themselves was exactly what he’d sought to avoid, and he had to fight to hold in check his mounting anger towards Mason. What the fuck was the man doing provoking Miranova?

‘Cole, why don’t you stretch your legs and grab me a coffee?’ he suggested, without looking at the man. He didn’t want Mason to see the look in his eyes.

‘You want me to help you drink it too?’ Mason asked irritably.

‘Go now, Cole.’

Mason hesitated a moment, his hostile gaze still on Miranova, then finally seemed to relent. ‘Of course,’ he said, slowly rising from his chair. ‘Not like I’ve got anything better to do.’

Miranova watched him go, waiting until he was well out of earshot before leaning back in her seat. She had remained thoroughly unruffled throughout the confrontation, as if Mason were no more than a passing irritation to be patiently endured, but Drake could see her relax a little as the man departed.

‘Interesting company you keep,’ she observed dryly.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Drake said, irritated at Mason for causing such needless friction before they were even on the ground. ‘He was out of order. It won’t happen again.’

‘You are not responsible for his thoughts,’ she said, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. ‘But tell me, is everyone at Langley so prejudiced against us?’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

In truth, the FSB were seen by most as nothing but a different incarnation of the KGB; the enemy from behind the Iron Curtain that had been the Agency’s nemesis for decades. Old habits died hard in a place like Langley.

Miranova didn’t seem convinced by his words. For a moment, he caught a look of sadness, of disappointment in her dark eyes.

‘I don’t blame you, you know,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘For hating us.’ She said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if it were something that both of them already knew and accepted. ‘I understand why you would feel that way. We are different to you, born from different circumstances and serving different needs. Because of that you see us as oppressors, as criminals, as torturers. But the truth is, we are what we need to be. And we do what we need to do to survive, to keep our country safe. The men we face are ruthless and focused on nothing but their final objective. If we expect to defeat them, we must be as they are. We must think as they think.’

‘Didn’t Friedrich Nietzsche say something about the dangers of fighting monsters?’ Drake said, referencing the famous quote describing the dangers of ruthlessly pursuing a goal regardless of the cost. He knew that better than anyone.

He saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes. ‘I believe he also said that fear is the mother of morality.’

‘I’ll take your word for that.’ He had pretty much reached the limits of his philosophical knowledge.

‘My point is that we can leave no room for fear. Not in ourselves, or those we work with,’ she added, with a meaningful glance in Mason’s direction.

‘He’ll see this through,’ Drake promised, not sure how confident he felt. Mason certainly wasn’t afraid to face danger, but his behaviour so far had been inconsistent at best, and downright insubordinate at worst. Eighteen months of inactivity hadn’t just eroded his skills as an operative, but apparently changed his outlook on dealing with others.

‘As you say,’ Miranova conceded, though she didn’t look convinced. ‘And you? Do you have the stomach for this, Agent Drake?’

If she had met him five or six years ago, she wouldn’t have asked that question. He had been a very different man back then, fighting a very different kind of war. He wasn’t proud of some of the things he’d done as a black operative, but he knew one thing for certain – they had left their mark on him for ever. The lessons he’d learned back then would never leave him.

He noticed a faint smile on Miranova’s face as her eyes met his. ‘I think I know the answer already,’ she said, suddenly intrigued by the man sitting before her. ‘Tell me, what is it you said you did for the CIA?’

Drake could feel himself tensing up. ‘I find people.’

‘But it was not always this way.’ It was delivered as a simple statement of fact.

She‘d know from his body language that she was right. There was little point in pretending otherwise.

‘We’ve all done things we’d rather leave behind.’ His tone was carefully neutral. He was still on edge, and couldn’t help wondering how much she really knew about him. ‘I imagine it’s the same for you.’

Miranova settled back in her seat, satisfied to have her theory validated. She said nothing further, though he was uncomfortably aware that her gaze remained on him, cool and assessing.

‘Forgive me,’ she said a few moments later. ‘Perhaps we could start again, Agent Drake? If we are going to be working together, I would prefer we did it amicably.’

‘It’s not “Agent”.’

She frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You called me Agent Drake. I’m not an agent – that’s not how it works in the CIA,’ he explained. ‘I’m a case officer.’

‘So what should I call you? Case Officer Drake?’

‘You could start with Ryan. I never could be arsed with formalities.’

That seemed to suit her. ‘Anika,’ she said in return.

‘Good to meet you, Anika.’ He reached over the table and shook her hand; a gesture which she apparently found quite amusing.

‘And you, Ryan.’

Deciding to leave while the conversation was on a high, Drake gestured to the galley at the rear of the plane. ‘I’d better see how that coffee’s doing,’ he said, excusing himself.

In truth, he was eager to have a word with Mason. Drake might have managed to salvage something from the earlier disagreement, but that didn’t change the fact that Mason had very nearly dropped them both in the shit.

‘Hey, buddy,’ Mason said nonchalantly as he approached, holding out the coffee he’d just finished making. His earlier anger and belligerence had inexplicably vanished. ‘Milk and no sugar, right?’

‘What the fuck was that, Cole?’ Drake demanded, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard. Only his eyes betrayed the depth of his anger. ‘Do you actually
want
us to fail?’

‘It’s called running interference,’ his friend said, laying the cup down. ‘You just scored a touchdown because of me.’

‘Do I look like a football fan?’

‘Look, I gave you what you both needed – a common enemy. I took a pop at her, you stood up for her, now she trusts you a little more than she did before. She’ll be willing to listen to you, and take you at your word. You’re welcome, by the way.’

Drake hesitated, briefly daunted by Mason’s casual rationale. It was the clichéd good-cop, bad-cop routine employed in movie interrogation scenes.

‘You could have warned me,’ he said, still angry that Mason had taken such a gamble without bothering to discuss it. ‘That could have gone a lot worse.’

Mason shrugged, apparently unconcerned. ‘Wouldn’t have been authentic then. Anyway, I know you better than that. You’re good with people. Especially the ladies, though Christ knows what they see in you. I knew you’d win her round.’

Drake was in no mood for flattery. ‘I’m not in the mood for games, Cole.’

‘Neither am I. I’m helping you win their trust, and it’s working. So relax, would you? You should know me by now.’

He wasn’t so sure about that.

‘Look, things have changed since we last worked together,’ Drake said, forcing calm into his voice. ‘You have no idea the kind of danger we live in every day. If you did, then believe me you wouldn’t be so eager to get back into the Agency. Either way, next time you have an idea like this, do me a favour – don’t do it.’

Just for a moment, Drake saw the same rippling undercurrent of anger and resentment he’d seen when Frost questioned his injury. It was a mere glimpse, but it was there all the same.

‘Fair enough, Ryan. We’ll do it your way,’ he said, his voice oddly calm. He glanced down at the cup still resting on the shelf beside him. ‘Your coffee’s getting cold.’

He moved past Drake, heading for his seat.

Drake watched him in brooding silence, wishing he knew what was going on in the man’s head. The situation was delicate enough without him rocking the boat.

He was about to rejoin Miranova when his phone went off. It was Frost.

‘Yeah, Keira?’

‘Can you talk freely?’ the young woman began.

Drake glanced over at Miranova, seated on the other side of the conference table. She had been watching the interplay between himself and Mason with some interest, but had now returned to her work.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good. I’ve done some digging on your buddy Surovsky. The Agency keeps a detailed dossier on him, so most of my work was done for me.’

‘Can you give me the short version?’

‘He’s not a man to fuck with,’ she said simply. ‘He’s old-school KGB, did a lot of counter-insurgency work back in the eighties, especially in Afghanistan. Apparently he had a reputation for brutality, especially when it came to interrogation. The Agency even gave him the code name Sickle. Anyway, he transitioned into the FSB after the Cold War and went quiet for a few years, mostly moving through different admin positions. It wasn’t until 2003 that he popped up again.’

‘So what happened?’ Drake asked.

‘Russia got hit by a bunch of terrorist attacks from Chechen separatists. They blew up an apartment complex in Moscow, downed a couple of airliners and shot up a school in Beslan. Needless to say, the boys in the Kremlin weren’t pleased with the FSB. The hardliners in Moscow were demanding action, so Surovsky was shoehorned in as interim leader. He must have done something right, because domestic terrorism was all but wiped out after that. Even organised crime’s taken a big hit. And most important, Surovsky’s still in power five years later. Not bad for an interim leader, huh?’

Drake could guess that Surovsky’s crackdown had been orchestrated with the same brutal efficiency he’d learned in places like Afghanistan. No wonder he’d been so angered by the attack in DC – his reputation had just taken a serious hit.

‘He doesn’t seem like the sort to step down voluntarily,’ Drake agreed. ‘What about the other search?’

‘Miranova? Not much. She’s been with the FSB since the late nineties, started out working undercover against organised crime – stakeouts, drugs busts, that kind of thing. In 2005 she moved into anti-terrorism. She was a senior advisor to Anton Demochev.’

Drake rubbed his jaw. Russian organised crime had flourished in the wake of the USSR’s collapse. Now it was a world unto itself, the brutality and ruthlessness of its rank and file members making the Mafia look like children’s entertainers by comparison. Working undercover against such people must have taken nerves of steel.

Miranova had just gone up a little in his estimation.

‘Good work, Keira. Thanks.’

‘No problem. I’ve got nothing else to do on this flight,’ she admitted. ‘Just answer me one thing, Ryan. What’s our situation?’

‘SNAFU.’

He heard a faint chuckle on the other end. SNAFU – Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. ‘Figured as much.’

Norilsk, Siberia

Making her way up the shaky and draughty jet bridge towards the main terminal, Samantha McKnight was thoroughly glad to be on solid ground again after the hair-raising descent into Alykel airport. Crosswinds had hammered them all the way, the big aircraft lurching from side to side as the pilots fought for control. Normally a comfortable flyer, she had found herself gripping the armrests tight as they landed with a heavy, shuddering thump, the undercarriage groaning under the strain.

This was turbulence, Siberian style.

They had left Andrews Air Force Base a good hour after Drake and the others had departed for Chechnya, and though Norilsk was much further east, their journey was actually rendered considerably shorter by flying north of the Arctic Circle. Thus they had a head start on the other group, and she intended to use it.

‘Christ, I hate flying,’ Frost mumbled beside her.

McKnight glanced at her travelling companion. Frost’s diminutive frame was bulked out by a thick padded jacket over which she had slung her laptop bag and electronics kit, while her feet were encased in heavy boots that would have made professional mountain climbers jealous. She had woken up only ten minutes earlier. With her eyes still bleary from sleep and her dark hair sticking up at all angles, she looked thoroughly unimpressed with their new surroundings.

‘I thought nothing fazed you, Keira.’

Frost gave her a sour look. ‘There are only three things in life that I hate. Warm beer, cold weather and bad flying. So far we’re two-and-oh.’

McKnight was spared further grumbling when their FSB minder strode back down the jet bridge to join them, having gone on ahead to clear the way for their arrival.

A powerfully built man with a shaved head and a black goatee beard, Stanislav (or Stav as he referred to himself) was there to serve as their official liaison, translator and guide. In reality his job was to keep an eye on both CIA operatives and ensure they didn’t do anything they weren’t supposed to.

He spoke passable English, and contrary to their expectations of stoic, brooding silence, he’d been happy to use his language skills incessantly on the flight out here. In the past eight hours McKnight had heard his views on everything from the war in Afghanistan to the relative merits of McDonald’s versus Burger King. He and Frost had even got into a heated debate on which was the best gun to use in
Modern Warfare
.

‘We go this way, my friends,’ he said, jerking a thick finger up the jet ramp. ‘Stav has taken care of things. No passports, no problems.’

Another thing McKnight had learned about him over the past eight hours – he liked to refer to himself in the third person.