Betrayal (25 page)

The FSB agent glanced at the wall clock. ‘Then I hope they find it soon.’

Drake said nothing to that. He could do nothing to influence events in Norilsk. For now, all he could do was sit and wait.

Norilsk, Siberia

Sitting in the back seat of the Merc as it rumbled along the potholed, slush-covered road, McKnight was forced to conclude that Norilsk didn’t look any better up close than it had from a distance. They were lost in a ghostly, frozen world of dreary five-storey apartment blocks festooned with big old-fashioned satellite dishes. Their bare concrete walls were scarred and weathered like those of ancient castles.

‘Umarov’s apartment is just a few blocks from here,’ Stav announced after consulting his GPS. Norilsk seemed to be laid out as one big grid, its streets and buildings designed with simple utilitarianism in mind. However, most of the street signs were rendered unreadable by thick ice and windblown snow.

As they made their way deeper into the city, McKnight was surprised by the number of people out and about at such an early hour. Most were men, wrapped in heavy fur coats and hats, their backs hunched as they trudged through the drifting snow.

Factory workers, heading off to start another shift. In a city of constant darkness, the concept of night and day had ceased to exist, replaced instead by the relentless demands of industry.

‘We are close,’ Stav said as they pulled off the main road and into a parking lot crammed with cars that looked as if they were held together by the sheer willpower of their owners. Most were half-buried in grey snow.

Rolling to a stop in the centre of the parking lot as if they owned the place, their driver killed the engine, opened his door and stepped out without saying a word.

Stav, one side of his head covered by a gauze dressing, twisted around in his seat. ‘We walk from here.’

‘I’d guessed as much,’ Frost replied acidly, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of venturing outside into sub-zero weather. According to the Merc’s dashboard computer, the outside temperature was a balmy minus 20 degrees Celsius. She believed it.

Stav said nothing to that, turning away and opening his door. With little option but to follow, the two specialists exited the vehicle. The cold began to attack them straight away, numbing their fingers and making their eyes water.

Traffic rumbled past on the main drag; a mixture of heavy trucks and beaten-up saloons, all caked in mud and ice. The air was thick with engine fumes, mixing with the output from the nearby factories to form a choking smog that left a bitter taste in McKnight’s mouth. The freezing temperatures prevented it from dissipating into the atmosphere, instead lingering over the city like a blanket.

The tenement buildings around them were all of the same basic design: square and uniform, with boarded-up windows and heavy doors leading to dimly lit stairwells that no doubt stank of urine and God knew what else. Surprisingly, there was almost no graffiti anywhere. Then again, in weather like this, who would want to stand around spray-painting?

After consulting with the giant, who was waiting a short distance away, Stav turned to address the two women. ‘His apartment is in that building there,’ he said, pointing to the nearest tower block. ‘Come, I will show you.’

With that, he turned and started trudging through the snow towards it, with the giant leading the way. McKnight and Frost followed in their wake, eager to escape the cold. However, their relief at escaping the biting wind and driving snow outside was short-lived.

Even by Norilsk standards Umarov’s apartment building was a dump – a cold, draughty, poorly lit edifice that would have been condemned for demolition if it had been in the US. As it was, scores of families eked out an existence here. McKnight could hear the blare of televisions, the rumble of washing machines and the occasional muffled argument from behind battered steel doors. In this strange world where night and day had ceased to exist, life went on.

The main corridor was lit by two bare bulbs, one of which was flickering as if it was on the way out. It was a dark and dingy place, with just enough illumination to navigate by.

‘This is it,’ Stav said, nodding to apartment number 412. The giant was already at the door, and reaching for something inside his coat.

Umarov’s front door, like the others here, was heavy wood reinforced by metal sheeting to prevent anyone kicking it in.

‘Don’t you need a warrant or something to go in there?’ Frost asked.

Stav looked at her with amusement as the giant pressed something against the door lock. It looked like a small bulky pistol linked to a high-pressure air canister. It was a bolt gun – the kind of thing used to execute cattle at slaughterhouses. When fired, the pneumatic bolt would spring forwards with enough force to shatter the animal’s skull and destroy the delicate organ within.

Bracing himself, the giant held the barrel of the gun against the lock, turned away and pulled the trigger. There was a dull, heavy thump followed by the splintering of broken wood as the bolt slammed forward, obliterating the entire locking mechanism.

‘This is our warrant,’ Stav said, drawing his sidearm. ‘We go first. You wait here.’

With that, he pushed the broken door open and advanced inside, with the giant right behind. After her experiences in the nickel mine McKnight was happy to let them spearhead this little foray into uncharted territory. In any case, neither she nor Frost was armed.

‘It is clear!’ she heard Stav call from within.

Waiting no longer, she pushed through the door and into a narrow, rubbish-strewn hallway. There was mess everywhere – empty beer cans, newspapers, cigarette packets, food cartons. It was just scattered all over the place as if the owner hadn’t even heard of a bin. Clearly Umarov hadn’t been houseproud.

The air was hot and clammy, and smelled of damp, cigarette smoke and other less savoury odours. The heating must have been running 24/7. Then again, with minus 20-degree temperatures to contend with outside, that was understandable.

To her left was the kitchen, in a similar state to the hallway. The cheap worktops were stained with coffee rings and spilled food, and covered with unwashed dishes, cutlery, spanners, screwdrivers, empty beer cans, broken electrical appliances and a host of other things.

There was nothing there that interested her, and she wasn’t feeling up to investigating the bathroom so instead pushed on to the living room where Stav and the giant had congregated.

It was a cramped, messy, claustrophobic room that made her skin crawl the moment she entered, as if years of deprivation had soaked into its very fabric. Much of its limited floor space was given over to a threadbare couch that sagged noticeably in the middle, a cluttered computer desk in one corner that was positively groaning under the weight of unsorted letters and documents, and a TV stand in the other. DVDs and old VHS tapes were piled up next to it, many of them pornographic.

Much like the kitchen, there was trash everywhere. Everything from discarded clothes to takeaway food boxes, empty bottles, books and magazines. McKnight could barely see the dirty lime-green carpet beneath it, which was perhaps a good thing, she reflected.

‘Jesus, almost makes Drake’s place look good,’ Frost remarked, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she surveyed the room.

Something about the place puzzled McKnight, however. ‘I don’t get it. This place is a shithole. I thought you said miners earned a fortune working here?’ she said, addressing her question to Stav. ‘Umarov was a foreman. Shouldn’t he have been rolling in money?’

‘Maybe he was saving for retirement,’ Frost suggested. Looking around, she spotted several calling cards on the table, all with pictures of scantily dressed and barely legal girls. Most of them had phone numbers handwritten on the back. ‘Or maybe he had a taste for the ladies.’

She tossed the cards aside, unconsciously wiping her hand on her trouser leg.

Stav, however, had found something else of interest: a small metal cigar tin that had been hidden beneath the couch. Opening it up, he carefully lifted out a small plastic bag half-filled with white powder. A couple of razor blades were in the tin beside it.

‘I think whores were not his only vice,’ the FSB agent observed.

It didn’t take a genius to see how Umarov had frittered away his considerable monthly pay cheque on drink, drugs and prostitutes. In a place like this, it wasn’t as though there was a stimulating cultural scene to keep one occupied.

Still, petty drug abuse was the least of McKnight’s concerns at that moment. They had come here for clues to the missing explosives. And somewhere in this mess of an apartment lay the answer.

‘Keira, see what you can find on his computer,’ McKnight said, nodding to the desktop PC in one corner of the room. ‘Stav and I will make a start on his paperwork.’

‘That piece of shit?’ Frost asked, staring at the machine as if it were a museum exhibit, which it very well could have been. It was a bulky old-fashioned model, its beige casing stained black with soot around the air vents in testimony to its long years of service. ‘It looks older than I am.’

‘Believe me, it’ll be a lot more fun than my job,’ McKnight assured her as she looked over the daunting pile of letters, bills, invoices, scribbled notes and countless other documents that had been strewn around the room. Sorting through it all could take days.

Unfortunately neither they nor Drake had that long.

Grozny, Chechnya

Drake’s phone was ringing again. Hoping it was Frost or McKnight with an update on their investigation, he was disappointed to find instead that Franklin was calling.

‘Yeah, Dan?’

‘I guess there’s not much point asking where you are right now, huh?’ The tone of his voice made it plain he was far from pleased that Drake had gone behind his back.

‘If you don’t ask, I won’t tell,’ Drake replied.

‘Then tell me this. Have you found what you were looking for?’

Drake glanced over his shoulder at Miranova. She was busy working on her laptop, perhaps compiling a report for her superiors in Moscow, and paid him no heed.

‘We’re working on it.’

‘Then you’ll want to get your ass in gear,’ his friend advised. ‘Cain’s been snooping around. He knows you’re up to something.’

Drake cursed silently. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about at that moment; having Marcus Cain breathing down his neck was the last thing he needed.

‘Even if you find her, I can’t guarantee the kind of reception you’ll get when you come home.’ Halfway around the world, Franklin sighed. ‘You may want to consider using your security blanket.’

Drake had guessed as much. A security blanket was a contingency fund set up by deniable operatives like himself for situations in which they were burned by their handlers and needed to disappear. For obvious reasons nobody admitted to having one, but everyone with a grain of common sense had hidden away the money and resources to start a new life. Drake was no different.

In essence, Franklin was advising him to cut all ties with the Agency and go dark for good. There would be no coming back from this one. He’d be a hunted man for the rest of his days.

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ he said, unwilling to go any further. Deep down he’d always known there would come a time when he’d have to part company with the Agency, but he wasn’t ready to jump ship yet. To do so would vindicate Cain and give the man the perfect excuse to hunt him down.

‘It’s your call. I’ve done what I can, Ryan. The rest is up to you.’

‘I know. And … Dan?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks. I mean that.’ There wasn’t much he could say beyond that. Whatever their differences, Franklin had risked a lot to protect him.

Silence greeted him for the next few seconds. Then: ‘Just get this done.’

The line went dead.

‘Has something happened?’ Miranova asked as he closed down the call. Apparently she hadn’t been quite as absorbed in her work as he’d hoped.

‘My boss giving me a hard time,’ Drake said, pocketing the phone. ‘He’ll be the death of me one day.’

She flashed a pained smile and gestured to the computer. ‘Then it seems we have something in common.’

‘Surovsky?’

She nodded.

‘Yeah, I got the impression he’s not exactly a people person.’

‘He is not,’ she admitted. ‘But then, I think his job demands a certain … detachment. Much like our own, yes?’

He used to feel the same way. His job as a Shepherd team leader had once been an easy one, at least from an emotional standpoint. He’d always maintained a professional distance between himself and the targets, thinking of them simply as an objective to be captured or safeguarded.

That way it was easier to accept when they came home in a coffin.

That had all changed with Anya. The wall, the barrier that allowed him to do what he did with a clear conscience, had vanished. Everything had changed with Anya.

‘We’re not machines,’ he replied at length, not altogether pleased that she was pressing him on this issue again.

‘But we are soldiers, trained to fight a war,’ she reminded him. ‘Perhaps a different kind of war, but a war all the same. Given your background, you should understand this more than most.’

Drake eyed her darkly. Her purposeful tone wasn’t lost on him. ‘What exactly do you know about me?’

‘The FSB keeps files on most people of interest. Needless to say, you became interesting to us a couple of days ago.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

She leaned back from her computer, exhaling slowly as if weighing up what to say. ‘You were born in England in 1972. You earned high academic marks at school, and won a scholarship at Cambridge where you studied structural engineering. You joined the British army afterwards, then transferred to the Special Air Service a few years later. We know little beyond this, except that you left the military in 2003 and moved to the CIA not long after. There was no official reason on your service record.’

Drake wasn’t surprised by the first part of her brief summary of his life. His education and early military service were, after all, a matter of public record and accessible by anyone with a computer. The rest of it, however, had stirred up memories of a time he’d much rather forget. He couldn’t help wondering if she knew more about his departure from the military than she was letting on.