Betrayal (24 page)

Another man might have questioned her further, might have doubted her resolve despite her protests, but Atayev knew better than that. For him, Anya’s word was as good as the truth.

‘Good,’ he said, settling back in the pew. He reached into his pocket and carefully held up a little black chess piece shaped into the distinctive form of a knight. ‘Because it’s time for our next move.’

That was why they were really here. Anya had spent weeks studying and committing every detail of her part in the operation to memory, going over it again and again in her head just as she had done when she was an active operative.

As with the travel arrangements, each member of the group knew the part they had to play, but only Atayev’s mind encompassed the full scope of their plan. Whatever he lacked in experience, Buran Atayev more than made up for in intelligence, tireless work and unwavering attention to detail. He was the key, the lynchpin on which success or failure turned. Without him, nothing could happen.

Everything with him was planned to perfection.

Casting one last glance at the depiction of St George and the dragon, he rose from the pew. ‘Shall we take a walk?’

Norilsk, Siberia

Resembling a cross between a dilapidated bus depot and a besieged fortress, Norilsk’s central police station was a big imposing office building facing out on to the city’s main square. All of its ground-floor windows were protected by wrought-iron bars, though that hadn’t stopped some determined vandals from having a go at them. Several had been smashed and boarded up.

The square itself was at least better maintained than most of the streets in town. Snowploughs had worked hard to clear the worst of the drifts, and the street lamps were still functioning. Cars and buses chugged along, venting diesel fumes as they ferried workers to and from the immense industrial complex in the distance.

It was here, in a small conference room on the second floor, that McKnight and Stav had been brought to lick their wounds after their ill-conceived foray underground. Neither was seriously injured, though they had little to show for their efforts besides plentiful cuts and bruising, and in Stav’s case, wounded pride.

‘Nice going, dude,’ Frost said as she surveyed the injured FSB agent. She had been given a brief summary of events in the mine, but had yet to learn the details. ‘You were supposed to be on protective detail. What the hell happened down there?’

Far from being irritated by her harsh criticism, he looked almost sheepish now. He had screwed up by underestimating their opponent, and had very nearly paid for it with his life. ‘Umarov made a run for it. He was faster than I expected.’

Frost stared at him. ‘You … don’t … say.’

‘That’s enough, Keira,’ McKnight interrupted, an ice pack pressed against the side of her head. She appreciated her companion sticking up for her, but pointing fingers wasn’t going to get them anywhere right now. Anyway, her head was still killing her and the sound of Frost’s tirade wasn’t doing it any favours. ‘It wasn’t Stav’s fault. We both underestimated Umarov.’

She knew from what little time they’d spent together that Frost could be temperamental and difficult, and that it certainly wouldn’t pay to make an enemy of her. But at the same time McKnight knew she had to keep her in line. Drake had entrusted her with the task of finding leads in Norilsk, and whatever their personal issues she wasn’t going to be responsible for screwing this up.

Frost chewed her lip for a moment, seemingly on the verge of carrying on anyway, but reluctantly allowed the matter to drop. ‘Fine,’ she conceded unhappily. ‘So the way I see it we’re fresh out of leads. Any ideas?’

‘Well, we won’t be getting anything from Umarov,’ McKnight confirmed. Being hit and then crushed by a high-powered rock loader didn’t leave much to chance. His funeral would definitely be a closed-casket affair. ‘Did you find anything in the warehouse records?’

She shook her head. ‘Everything’s handwritten. It’s the worst goddamned inventory system I’ve ever seen. Anyone could have falsified the log.’

‘Shit.’ Rising from her chair and doing her best to ignore the pounding in her skull, McKnight walked over to the grimy window and surveyed the darkened world beyond. In the distance stood the towering chimneys of the smelting works, still pumping out smoke like there was no tomorrow. The glow from furnaces was reflected off the low-hanging clouds.

For a moment McKnight caught herself wondering if things had gone downhill in Norilsk since the fall of Communism, or whether it had just always been a shithole.

She had operated in former Communist countries that had suffered greatly since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Everywhere there had been remnants of the bold future that their governments had tried to build – huge communal swimming pools and leisure complexes, massive public buildings and wide boulevards built to Stalinist architectural ideals. Operating in such places was like going back through some kind of time warp to a faded, decayed 1950s vision of how the future ought to look.

She spotted an old woman hobbling along the icy, litter-strewn pavement opposite. She was a sad figure, her bent old frame wrapped in what looked like three separate jackets, all worn and patched up and ratty looking. She was clutching several plastic bags as if her life depended on it, probably on her way home after picking up some shopping.

Nodding to herself, McKnight turned back towards the two members of her makeshift team. ‘I want to take a look at Umarov’s home,’ she decided. ‘If there’s anything in this shithole that might help us, it’ll be there.’

Grozny, Chechnya

A couple of thousand miles away, the mood was rather less focused.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Ivan Masalsky raged, pacing back and forth at the end of the conference table like a caged lion. The regional FSB director had summoned Drake and the others there after it had become obvious their target wasn’t on the plane. ‘I have half my security teams on alert, an airport on the brink of being locked down, and for what? Nothing!’

Miranova dared to offer an explanation. ‘Sir, we—’

Bad move.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ Masalsky snapped, jabbing a finger at her. ‘I don’t want your excuses.’

Drake winced inwardly. Masalsky might have vented his frustration on Miranova for the time being, but his true anger was reserved for Drake himself – the outsider, the interloper, the unwelcome party crasher.

It didn’t take long for Masalsky’s attention to rest on him.

‘And you, Mr Drake? Do you have an explanation for this?’

Drake had nothing to offer. He was just as dismayed at having failed to locate Anya, and for once he hoped it showed.

‘Our intel must have been flawed,’ he said, knowing how weak it sounded. ‘We were wrong.’

For a second or two, Masalsky actually looked taken aback by his frank admission, as if he expected elaborate excuses and attempts at passing the buck. The notion that a man could simply admit a failure was almost foreign to him.

However, his surprise didn’t last long.

‘You were wrong?’ he repeated mockingly. ‘Is this some kind of joke amongst the CIA, Mr Drake? Because right now I don’t find it very funny. You have wasted our time and resources with your little wild goose chase.’

‘That wasn’t my intention.’

‘Do I look as if I care about good intentions?’ He placed his hands on his hips in what he probably thought was an intimidating posture. ‘I want to know what you are going to do about it.’

‘What would you like me to do?’ Drake asked, knowing there was no answer he could give that would satisfy the man.

‘I would like you to stop wasting my time, get the fuck out of my country and never come back.’ He turned his baleful gaze on Miranova. ‘Make the arrangements. I expect you to be on the first available flight out of here. If not, I will be having a talk with Mr Drake’s superiors.’

Throwing a final simmering glare at Drake, he turned and strode out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. As far as dressing-downs went, this one took some beating.

‘Keeps his cards close to his chest, huh?’ Mason remarked sarcastically.

Miranova, however, was focused on the failure of their operation, rather than the fallout from her boss. ‘I don’t understand how this happened. We all saw the pictures of the target getting on that flight. How could he have vanished?’

‘He must have switched flights somehow,’ Drake suggested. ‘Maybe during the layover in Moscow.’

‘Or the guy was a decoy,’ Mason suggested.

Miranova glanced at him irritably. After their run-in on the flight here, she had little time for Mason’s opinions on anything. ‘What?’

‘He might have allowed himself to be caught on camera to draw our attention here. Meanwhile the rest of his group gets to go about their business without interference.’

‘We have a lot of theories, and no facts to support them.’ The FSB agent turned her attention back to Drake, eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Unless there is something else going on that I don’t know about.’

The pointed way in which she said it suggested she wasn’t referring to the elusive group behind the attack in DC. Drake, however, said nothing, hoping she would be discouraged enough to let the matter drop.

No such luck.

‘Is there something you want to tell me, Ryan?’

‘What exactly are you getting at?’ he challenged her.

‘This whole operation was based on mutual trust,’ she reminded him. ‘I would hate to think that trust was misplaced. If there is something you are keeping from me, you should tell me now before we go any further. It would be a shame for both of us if I was to find out by myself later, if you know what I mean.’

Indeed he did. Her instincts were telling her that something wasn’t right. He’d expected it sooner or later – Miranova clearly wasn’t stupid – but he’d hoped the doubts would have taken longer to surface.

Now she was testing his resolve. Like a poker player raising the stakes, she was applying a little pressure to see if he would break.

Drake met her gaze without flinching. There was no question of backing down now, even if he’d been having second thoughts. Despite her assurances, he knew that to admit his deception would be akin to painting a target on his head. Neither he nor Mason would ever make it back from Russia alive.

‘You and I both want the same thing,’ he promised her, speaking truthfully. ‘We both want to find the people responsible for this. Believe that.’

Miranova maintained eye contact a few seconds longer before finally relenting. She had pushed as hard as she could, for now at least.

‘As you say,’ she said, though she sounded far from convinced. ‘Either way, it does nothing to change our situation. Masalsky wants us out, and he will get his way.’

‘What about your buddy Surovsky?’ Mason asked. ‘Call him up, get him to pull some strings.’

‘Director Surovsky is not my “buddy”, as you put it,’ she replied. ‘And he was not enthusiastic about this idea from the very beginning. An admission of failure now might turn him against us too.’

‘Fuck,’ Drake said under his breath.

Pushing himself away from the table, he strode over to the window to stare out across the rain-swept runways and the dreary pine forests that lay beyond the airport perimeter. He was tired and frustrated, and increasingly aware that they were losing whatever chance they’d once had of tracking down Anya.

More than once over the past twenty-four hours he’d privately questioned whether he should be looking for her at all. He’d played it over in his head again and again. Whatever reasons she might have had for launching that attack in DC, he could see nothing good coming from it. By attacking such a high-profile figure, she was exposing herself to a level of attention that no one could escape from. What the hell was she planning to do – take on the FSB and CIA single-handed? And why involve him?

His dark contemplation was interrupted when his phone started buzzing in his pocket. It was McKnight. Hope mingled with apprehension welled up inside him as he answered it.

‘Sam, tell me you’ve got good news.’

‘I could, but I’d be lying,’ the woman replied, her voice almost drowned out by the rumble of an engine in the background. ‘I was right about the explosives. There was a man on the inside who smuggled them out. Borz Umarov – a Chechen national working for the mining operation.’

‘So why isn’t that good news?’

‘He tried to make a run for it when we approached him, walked straight into an ore loader.’ He heard a sharp intake of breath as if she’d hurt herself. However, she quickly recovered and carried on. ‘He’s roadkill.’

Drake got the picture. A promising lead, perhaps their only remaining lead, had just been lost to a freak accident. He also hadn’t missed her brief pause, and felt a momentary flash of concern that overrode his own problems. ‘You all right?’

‘Stav and I got a little roughed up. Injured pride, mostly,’ she added, trying to lighten the mood. ‘What about you?’

Drake hesitated, tempted to ask more about her injuries, though he didn’t want it to be misconstrued as overprotectiveness.

‘Our target wasn’t on the plane,’ he said, deliberately omitting Anya’s name. ‘We’ve got nothing to go on right now, and the FSB aren’t happy.’

‘Then maybe we can help,’ she said. ‘We’re en route to Umarov’s apartment now. If he was responsible for supplying the explosives, he must have had contact with the buyer prior to that. We’ll turn his place over, see what Keira can dig up.’

‘Understood. Keep me updated.’ He hesitated a moment before going on. ‘I don’t suppose I need to tell you to watch your back out there?’

‘You know me,’ she replied. ‘So for once, trust me.’

With that, she ended the call.

Drake hadn’t missed the sharp tone in her voice when she expressed that final sentiment, just as he hadn’t forgotten the angry confrontation that had almost flared up between them back in DC. And as much as it galled him to admit it, he knew she had every right to be angry with him.

‘What was that about?’ Miranova asked.

‘Don’t go booking that flight just yet. My team in Norilsk might have a lead.’