Betrayal (55 page)

He was armed with an MP-443 Grach; a modern 9mm handgun that was now ubiquitous amongst the FSB, and more than capable of making a mess of anything that wasn’t protected by several layers of Kevlar. Atayev was no expert with firearms, but even he couldn’t miss from this range. Drake would have two or three slugs in him before he could close the distance. No good.

‘Forget it,’ Atayev warned as if sensing his thoughts. ‘Cooperate and you might live through this. Resist and you certainly won’t.’

The decision was rendered moot a few moments later as Miranova appeared with Viktor Surovsky in front of her, his hands cuffed behind his back, his thinning grey hair in disarray and his eyes wide with fear. He grunted in pain as Miranova shoved him roughly down into the chair that Atayev himself had occupied only moments earlier.

Straight away Atayev’s demeanour changed. The layers of logical, calculated self-control seemed to peel back as Drake watched him, revealing the core of absolute, unquenchable hatred within.

‘Hello, Viktor,’ Atayev said, practically spitting out each word. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to speak with you.’

Surovsky began to spout off something in Russian.

‘Now, now,’ Atayev chided. ‘Speak English for Mr Drake here. I want him to understand every word.’

‘W-who are you?’ Surovsky stammered. ‘How do you know me?’

‘Who am I?’ Atayev repeated, taking a step towards him. ‘Of course, you don’t know who I am. There is no reason why you should ever have heard of me. I am nothing to you.’

Atayev held out a trembling hand to Miranova, who reached into her pocket and gently handed him a small, old, creased and faded photograph. He stared at it for a long moment, his eyes holding a look of such sadness and longing that even Drake could see how much it meant to him, then slammed the photo down on the table.

‘Look at it, Viktor. Look at it!’ he shouted, grabbing the older man’s head and forcing him to look straight at the picture.

It was an image of a young girl, perhaps ten years old. She was sitting cross-legged on the porch of some house, beaming a dimpled smile right at the camera. Even in the tarnished image, Drake could see the sparkle in her eyes, and her resemblance to Atayev.

‘There is no reason you should know her either, is there?’ Atayev asked. ‘Let me tell you. Her name was Natasha, twelve years old. Killed by a Russian Army bullet. She was my daughter. And she was one of four hundred other innocents who died at Beslan because of you, Viktor. Because of
you
.’

‘I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Surovsky pleaded. ‘This is madness.’

Balling up his fist, Atayev swung a right hook against the side of Surovsky’s face. It was a clumsy, uncoordinated strike from a man clearly not used to using his fists, but it was delivered with such unrestrained fury that it snapped Surovsky’s head sideways. The older man let out a cry of pain as blood began to flow from a cut over his eye.

‘Do not lie to me!’ Atayev shouted right in his face. ‘You engineered the attack at Beslan, just as you did the other terrorist attacks. You sacrificed the lives of hundreds of the same people you swore to protect. You turned our country against itself. You silenced everyone who tried to get at the truth. And you did it for one reason – power.’

Surovsky was trying to shake his head, but Atayev’s grip prevented it. ‘No! No, that is not true.’ His eyes flicked to Miranova, as if hoping to reason with her. ‘I would never do such a thing! Only a monster would even think of it.’

For a moment, Drake’s mind flashed back to his earlier conversation with Miranova about that very same thing.

‘Be careful fighting with monsters, lest you become a monster.’

‘And a monster is exactly what you created,’ Atayev said, releasing his grip. ‘Along with your partners in crime.’

On cue, Miranova handed him her cellphone. Selecting the video-playback option, Atayev turned the screen towards Surovsky as the first file began to play.

The image on the screen was of Demochev, stripped to the waist and bound to a chair, breathing hard and clearly in pain. His face was bruised and bloodied; testimony to the ferocious beating he had just taken.

‘Once again, tell me your orders,’ said an off-screen voice. Atayev’s voice.

‘My orders were … to suspend border patrols along a certain route,’ he rasped. ‘The route leading to the school. We were … to make no effort to stop the terrorist group.’

‘Even though you knew where they were going,’ Atayev’s voice prompted.

Demochev closed his eyes and his shoulders began to shake up and down as he broke down in tears. ‘Yes.’

‘And who gave you these orders?’

‘Please … he will kill me if I—’

‘Who gave the order?’ Atayev demanded.

Demochev’s shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Viktor … Viktor Surovsky.’

The screen went blank then as Atayev selected a second video file and hit play. This one, unsurprisingly, featured Masalsky in a similar state of duress. If anything, he looked even worse than Demochev had.

‘What were your orders?’ Atayev’s off-screen voice asked.

Masalsky’s head was down, as if he barely had the strength to lift it. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, his speech slurred.

‘To suspend all surveillance activity on known terrorists, and release any members of the group already in custody.’

‘And where did the orders come from?’ the voice demanded.

Masalsky raised his head up then, revealing the extent of his injuries. ‘The orders … were given by Director Surovsky.’

Having made his point, Atayev laid the phone down on the table and turned his attention back to Surovsky. ‘Do you still deny it?’

Surovsky was staring blankly at the phone, frozen as if in shock. Then, slowly, he turned his head around to look at Atayev.

‘What you did to those men … they were under torture,’ he protested weakly. ‘Their confessions mean nothing.’

‘Confessions extracted under torture have always been good enough for the FSB,’ he reminded his captor. ‘Admit what you did.’

‘Why? So you can kill me just like you did them?’

‘I have no desire to kill you,’ Atayev assured him. ‘But over the past few days I have become very good at hurting men while keeping them alive. I no longer have the time or the tools I would like, but I can show you a little of what I learned.’

With that, he levelled his weapon at Surovsky’s leg and without hesitation, fired. There was a small explosion of blood and fabric across his left thigh as the single round tore through skin and muscle tissue, and a moment later the crack of the gunshot was drowned out by Surovsky’s howls of agony.

‘That was only a flesh wound,’ Atayev said once his cries had subsided a little. ‘The next one will not be. I will give you three seconds to speak the truth, then I will shoot out your left kneecap. Three seconds later I will take your right. You will never walk again, Viktor. After that, I leave it to your imagination. One.’

In desperation, Surovsky’s eyes turned on Miranova. ‘Whatever he has paid you, I will triple it. Get me out of this. You will suffer no blame for what you did. I swear it!’

The woman said nothing. She was far beyond such petty bribes now.

‘Two.’ Atayev’s finger tightened on the trigger.

‘Let me go and I can get you out of Russia,’ he said, turning his attention back to Atayev. ‘I-I can give you money, a new name, a new life, anything. Name it!’

‘Three!’ Atayev warned, turning his head away to avoid the blood splatter as he pulled the trigger.

‘All right!’ Surovsky cried, bucking and kicking in his chair. ‘All right, damn you! I admit it! I admit it.’

Atayev’s grip on the weapon relaxed just a little. ‘Go on.’

Surovsky let out a defeated sigh and allowed his head to slump forwards, the harsh electric light shining off the balding dome of his head. Bloodied and broken, he was a pathetic-looking figure.

‘I was responsible for Beslan,’ he said at last, refusing to look up when he said it. ‘And the other attacks. I allowed them to happen when I could have stopped them. All those deaths … they are on my hands.’ Finally he managed to drag his head up to look Atayev in the eye. ‘Your daughter … Natasha, she died because of me. Because of me.’

For several seconds, nothing was said. A silence, stunned and absolute, descended on the room. After all the protests, the deflections, the manoeuvring and the threats, to hear him finally come out and say it, to face up to what he had done at last, left them simply dumbstruck.

It was Atayev who broke the silence, letting out a strangled breath that sounded almost like a sob. The cold, focused, detached self-control he had maintained all this time was at last failing him as he reached the end of his long journey. He had found the one thing he had been looking for all these lonely, empty years, driven and consumed by his need to get to the truth.

All the planning, the contingencies, the tireless work, the doubts and dangers had led to this moment, to this confession.

And now that it was over, he could finally allow himself to experience the grief and desolation he had kept locked away since the day of his daughter’s death. Drake watched as Atayev bowed his head, closed his eyes and let out a single, choking sob, tears trickling down his cheeks. Despite everything he had done, even Drake felt a twinge of sympathy for him.

Opening his eyes, Atayev let out a long, slow breath and looked at Surovsky again. ‘Thank you.’

‘You think this means anything?’ the old man spat, his teeth bared as blood flowed from the gunshot wound on his leg. ‘You think you can prove any of this? So you have your confession – what now? Even if you could escape this building, you will be a hunted man for the rest of your life. I hope this was worth it, because you just signed your own death warrant.’

At this, Atayev actually let out a chuckle of amusement. ‘Do you think I would have done any of this if I cared whether I lived or died?’ he asked. ‘I came here for you, Viktor. I did not come to kill you, but to destroy you.’

He nodded to one of the security cameras mounted in the corner of the room. The tiny LED indicator light on the side of the unit was glowing red – it had been recording the entire conversation. Miranova had enabled the cameras that Surovsky had ordered shut down.

Atayev smiled, relishing the look of growing horror on Surovsky’s face. ‘Once every news outlet with an Internet connection has access to this recording, even you will not be able to silence them. I won’t kill you, Viktor, because I won’t have to. The world will eat you alive.’

The single gunshot startled him out of his thoughts with painful, violent clarity. Drake stared at Atayev as a small cloud of red exploded from the front of his jumpsuit. Atayev himself looked down at it, seemingly unable to comprehend what had happened, then slowly his legs buckled and he went down.

‘I’m sorry, Buran,’ Miranova said quietly, a wisp of smoke still trailing from the barrel of her automatic as she circled the small table to stand over him. One look was enough to confirm her shot had fatally wounded him. Frothy blood was leaking from his mouth and chest, his breathing growing laboured, his movements lacking any sense of purpose.

Reaching out, Miranova picked up the single chess piece that Drake had laid on the table earlier, turned it over thoughtfully in her hands for a moment, then dropped it on the ground beside Ayatev and brought her shoe heel down on it. There was a muted crunch as the ancient wood splintered and snapped beneath the pressure.

She surveyed the dying man with something akin to pity as the look of uncomprehending shock and disbelief in his eyes slowly faded away.

He was gone.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Surovsky demanded as Miranova bent down and snatched up Atayev’s weapon. The old man looked just as perplexed as Drake felt at this sudden turn of events. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Releasing the magazine from the weapon, she pulled back the slide to eject the round in the chamber, then tossed the empty gun to Drake. It landed on the floor right in front of him, though he made no move to go for it.

‘Pick it up,’ she ordered.

Drake did nothing. Even if he didn’t understand her motivation, it was obvious enough why she wanted him to take the weapon. She wanted his prints on it.

He saw a flicker of anger in her eyes now. ‘One way or another, you will pick it up. It is only a question of how much I have to hurt you.’

She allowed her aim to stray lower, to his stomach and down to his groin. He got the message. She wouldn’t kill him, yet, but she would put as many bullets in him as she had to.

Glaring at her, he reached out and closed his hand around the butt of the gun, just as she’d asked.

‘Now throw it over here.’

With no option but to comply, he slid the gun back across the floor towards her. The weapon skittered and scraped on the concrete, ending up near her feet. Wrapping a handkerchief around her hand to avoid smearing his prints, she picked the gun up and laid it on the table, then turned her dark gaze on the old man.

‘You are in trouble, Viktor. If you want to survive this, you will pay very close attention to what I say in the next few seconds,’ she advised, her tone now clinical and detached. ‘Here is what you are going to do. After this is over you will publicly declare me a hero for bringing Atayev to justice and saving your life when he tried to escape, and announce my promotion to Demochev’s old position as head of counter-terrorism. A year from now you will again promote me to the position of deputy director of the FSB, making it known that you intend for me to succeed you. Within six months you will announce your retirement due to ill health, and publicly endorse me as the new director. If you do this, I will make sure that your confession, and those of Masalsky and Demochev, never see the light of day. You will get to live out the rest of your life, such as it is, in peace.’

Drake felt sick to his stomach. Only now did he see Miranova’s actions for what they truly were. She had no interest in Atayev’s cause, in finding justice for those who had died for Surovsky’s greed. She had taken part in this whole thing, had gone through all of it, just to get herself a bargaining chip for the biggest game of all.