Betrayal (43 page)

Soon she would start to doubt herself. Her cunning plan that had seemed so bold and brilliant would start to unravel before her eyes as she imagined all the ways it could go wrong. She would question whether he really intended to show up, or whether he had something else planned. She would see enemies in every shadow, and soon enough concern would give way to panic.

Then, when she was off balance, losing her nerve and on the verge of leaving, he would arrive. He would arrive, and he would make her wish she had never considered the idea in the first place.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played on the car’s expensive sound system, the powerful orchestral strains perfectly matching his mood of barely restrained anger. The music was an outlet, a means of keeping his true feelings in check so he could do what he had to, so he could think calmly and logically and make sure this matter was brought to a definitive end.

The stupid, ignorant little bitch who thought she could hold him to ransom was going to feel the full force of his anger today. He hadn’t fought and killed for his country, hadn’t watched good men bleed and die, hadn’t sacrificed his career and his honour, to have some smart-assed investigator take it all away from him.

Unconsciously he reached up and felt the solid, reassuring shape of the USP .45 automatic in the shoulder holster on his left side. When the time came, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

More than most men, Roman Kalyuyev knew that the only true end to any problem came from the barrel of a gun.

Poklonnaya Hill had a long association with war, Kamarov reflected as he glanced around, taking in the Second World War-era tanks and self-propelled guns that sat alongside food vendors and children’s play areas, their barrels empty and their engines silent.

It was here, almost at this very spot, that Napoleon Bonaparte had assembled his Grande Armée, believing such a display of force would prompt the Russians to surrender Moscow. And it was here, more than a century later, that the Red Army had dug in to fight a last desperate battle against the German blitzkrieg. Two generations of invaders who had tried and failed to conquer Russia, both remembered here in the sprawling memorial complex known as Victory Park.

And in the centre of it all, rising from the middle of a vast circular plaza, stood a black obelisk commemorating Russia’s war dead. Over 140 metres from base to tip, it was one of the tallest structures in the area, and dominated the Moscow skyline. An ever-present reminder of the 12 million Russians who had died in that terrible conflict.

However, his concerns at that moment were very much in the present day. He had been informed over the radio net that Kalyuyev had left his car in the parking lot just off the main drag to the east, and was proceeding on foot along the main avenue that led to the obelisk. His path would take him beneath the shadows of fifteen enormous bronze columns that lined the way, commemorating the main fronts during the War.

Kamarov’s concealed radio earpiece crackled with an incoming transmission.

‘This is Anna. He is at the foot of the stairs now,’ came the voice of one of the agents tailing Kalyuyev. ‘On his way up.’

‘Copy that,’ he replied, speaking quietly into the microphone hidden inside the collar of his overcoat. ‘No sign of target. Standing by.’

Even at this early hour there were people everywhere. Many were tourists, some were locals out for a morning walk, and one or two were old men who looked as though they belonged to the generation who had fought here. They weren’t in uniform with their medals proudly displayed like they would have been twenty years earlier, but Kamarov sensed by the way they regarded the tanks on display that the ancient war machines evoked strong memories.

Nonetheless, keeping track of the countless new faces coming and going was no easy task, and he suspected the other field agents spread out across the hill were having similar difficulty. This meeting place had been well chosen indeed.

He would have expected nothing less from his adversary.

‘Anna. He’s at the top of the stairs, heading for the statue,’ the agent’s voice crackled in his ear. ‘We won’t have eyes-on much longer.’

Glacing towards the stairs as if through casual interest, Kamarov saw him at last. Tall, good-looking, broad-shouldered and dressed in a fashionable and expensive black overcoat, Kalyuyev cut a striking figure as he emerged on to the wide paved avenue that ran around the base of the statue.

He hit the transmit button in his coat pocket. ‘I have him. No contacts yet. Standing by.’

The mood in the makeshift command centre was equally tense as Drake and Miranova hovered close to the three communications agents, waiting for news. The radio chatter was now being piped through a set of speakers, allowing them to listen in on events as they unfolded.

So far, nothing. Kalyuyev had arrived at the rendezvous point, a little late but otherwise unscathed, yet there was no sign of Anya or anyone else coming forward to make contact with him.

The minutes ticked by, and Drake found himself growing more and more uneasy. It wasn’t in Anya’s nature to be late for things. In his experience she preferred to be on station first so she could see her contact approaching. Her ability to read the subtle facial and postural cues that people unconsciously gave off also provided her with an edge in such situations.

He glanced at his watch. It was 9:16.

Had Anya sensed a trap and abandoned the meeting? Or even worse, had she laid a trap of her own for Kamarov and his kill team?

‘Olga to all units, possible contact,’ a voice announced. ‘West side of the hill. A woman with blonde hair, moving in on Kalyuyev’s position.’

Olga was their spotter team; a two-man group positioned on the roof of a telecommunications mast about a mile west of the monument. One man was armed with a high-powered camera, the other with a decidedly more dangerous Dragunov sniper rifle. At a mile distant, any shot they took would be risky to say the least, but Kamarov had insisted on their presence nonetheless.

In an instant, Drake’s heartbeat doubled. Was this it? Was Anya making her move at last? And if so, how would the strike team respond?

‘Boris to all units, stand by,’ Kamarov ordered.

‘Is it our target?’ Miranova asked, an edge of tension in her voice now.

Seconds, agonisingly long, stretched out.

‘Do we have confirmation?’ Miranova repeated.

‘Can’t get a good look at her face,’ the spotter admitted. ‘I’m on her four o’clock.’

‘Boris to Olga. Where is she now?’ Kamarov asked.

‘Approaching Kalyuyev. Forty metres and closing.’

‘Anna. We’re trying to get a better look. She’s got her back to us.’

Kamarov snapped out another terse transmission. ‘Do you have the shot, Olga?’

‘Yes. Thirty metres.’

Something wasn’t right about this, Drake knew. It had been nagging at him all morning, but with his mind consumed by what would happen during the actual takedown, he hadn’t had time to consider why Anya would risk herself by making contact like this.

‘Twenty metres. Kalyuyev is turning towards her.’

Anya was no fool, and she would have to assume the people hunting her weren’t either. Killing Demochev might not have been enough to make her goal obvious, but Masalsky was the game changer. She must have realised they would make the connection between the two men and work out that Kalyuyev was her next logical target.

‘I will lose the shot in ten seconds,’ Olga said. ‘What are your orders?’

‘Give me that headset,’ Drake said, practically snatching it off the communications officer nearest him and stabbing the transmit button. ‘Hold your fire. It’s not her.’

‘Drake, get off the net,’ Kamarov growled.

‘Olga. Five seconds. Fire or hold?’

‘It’s
not her
. She would never expose herself like this,’ Drake practically shouted into the radio. ‘We both know the woman you’re dealing with, Kamarov. This isn’t her.’

Stunned silence greeted him.

‘You know I’m right,’ Drake said, ignoring Miranova’s astonished look. ‘She’s better than this.’

‘She’s right on him,’ Olga called out. ‘Do I take the shot?’

‘No,’ Kamarov said at last. ‘Hold your fire, Olga.’

On Poklonnaya Hill, Kamarov watched as the woman in question appeared from around the side of the massive concrete plinth supporting the obelisk. Tall, slender and with short blonde hair, she bore a passing resemblance to his target, but nothing more.

He watched as she strode right past Kalyuyev, who appeared equally surprised at her lack of interest, and embraced another man a dozen paces beyond, kissing him on the cheek and smiling affectionately.

‘Boris to all units,’ he said, speaking into his radio. ‘It’s not her. Stand down.’

If only you knew how close you came, he thought as the woman started taking snaps of her companion against the backdrop of the city.

Drake’s hands were shaking, his heart thumping in his chest as he laid the headset down, ignoring the incredulous looks of Miranova and the three communications specialists in the room. In some part of his mind he was aware there would be repercussions from this. He had revealed his hand to Kamarov, but in that moment he was past caring.

He had just prevented an innocent civilian from having her head blasted apart by a high-powered sniper round.

He glanced at his watch – 9:20 a.m.

‘You have some explaining to do, Ryan,’ Miranova warned, her dark eyes smouldering. She wouldn’t have figured it all out yet, but she would know there was more to his presence here than he was letting on.

His cover was blown. He was well and truly in the shit now, and unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in a prison like the one he’d rescued Anya from, he knew it was time to part company with his FSB comrades.

He looked at Miranova, eyeing up the side arm that he knew was holstered inside her jacket. The technicians weren’t armed, and he was fairly sure he could wrest the weapon away from her. He wouldn’t kill her – there was no way he was prepared to sacrifice another life for this – but perhaps he could restrain her or even use her as a hostage.

Either way, he saw little choice but to act, and act fast.

‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I do.’

He had just taken a step towards her when suddenly the foundry’s main door exploded inwards in a hail of wood and metal fragments, its lock disintegrated by the breaching charge fixed against it. A moment later, several small objects were hurled inside, landing with heavy thunks on the floor.

Having taken part in his share of house assaults, Drake could guess well enough what they were without having to see them.

‘Get down!’ he yelled, grabbing Miranova and tackling her to the ground behind the big furnace in the centre of the room as the first stun grenade exploded.

In an instant, blinding white light engulfed his vision, burning away the room and everything in it. The devastating blast that accompanied the detonation felt as though it had blown out both his eardrums, leaving him with nothing but a constant static whine, like a television that had lost its tuning.

For a second or two he could do nothing except lie there, breathing hard, water streaming from his eyes. Miranova was beside him on the ground. He still had one arm across her back, keeping her pinned down. He couldn’t see or hear her yet, but he at least knew she was alive. He could feel her chest expanding and contracting with each breath.

He blinked several times, shaking his head in an effort to clear his eyes. Then at last, through blurry, sun-spotted vision, he saw her lying beside him, her face just inches from his. Her eyes were wide and staring, her mouth moving as she tried to say something to him, but the words were engulfed by a dull booming roar.

He could guess what she was saying, though. Somehow their enemies had found the safe house, and they had brought enough firepower to smash their way in, presumably taking down the two security operatives outside. He couldn’t explain how or why at that moment, and he knew there was no time to ponder it.

He also knew what was coming next. Their attackers had used a trio of flashbang grenades to stun and disorient the inhabitants of the command centre, making them easy prey for the inevitable assault team that was about to move in.

Drake opened his mouth to call out to the three communications officers over by their workstations, to yell at them to send out a distress call to Kamarov and the other field teams. He was too late. A dull staccato roar echoed through the room at the same moment, and all three men jerked and twisted aside and fell, blood painting their shredded clothes where a burst of automatic gunfire had torn through them. Unprotected and unarmed, there was nothing they could do to defend themselves.

A similar fate likely awaited himself and Miranova if they didn’t act fast.

Only then did Drake recognise the opportunity that now presented itself. Their attackers couldn’t see them from where they stood; they might not even know they were there. Perhaps, just perhaps, that would be enough.

Miranova was apparently of like mind. Pushing his arm aside, she drew the automatic and backed up against the side of the lathe, staring right at him and holding a finger to her lips in a plea for silence. Verbal communication was impossible with their ears still ringing, and would in any case announce their presence. It was hand gestures only for now.

Easing himself up from the ground, he crept over to the edge of the furnace, a little unsteady as the flashbang had disturbed his equilibrium. Under normal circumstances he would have listened for the telltale crunch of boots on the debris-covered floor, but with his hearing gone he knew that was impossible.

Instead he took a breath and leaned out just far enough to survey the room. The air was thick with smoke, burned cordite and chemical fumes from the grenades, limiting visibility. The only good news was that it worked both ways.

He spotted three figures moving through the artificial mist, their weapons sweeping the room in search of more targets, before he ducked back behind cover. He looked at Miranova again and held up three fingers.