Betrayal (56 page)

Surovsky eyed her shrewdly, the pain of his injured leg forgotten for the moment as he applied his ruthless, calculating intellect to the deal she was proposing.

‘What guarantee do I have that you will honour this agreement?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘None. But you can be sure of one thing – if you do not take my deal or you try to betray me, all of your confessions will be the top item on every news broadcast around the world. Even killing me won’t stop it.’

The old man said nothing. His mind was still whirring, contemplating options, other courses of action, seeking a way out of this. A beaten player desperately trying to find his way out of checkmate.

His eyes flicked to Drake. ‘And what about him?’

Miranova glanced at him, and just for a moment he saw a hint of regret in her eyes. But it was quickly pushed away, replaced by the avarice and expectation of one now close to realising a long-cherished dream.

‘He was killed trying to break Atayev out of FSB custody,’ she said. ‘He has been working against us the whole time. He even tried to take you hostage, but I took him down first.’

‘You piece of shit,’ Drake snarled, disgusted by what he was hearing. Only now did he clearly perceive her role in all of this. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who sent me that text message in Washington. You wanted me around when that sniper attack happened, because you knew I’d get involved.’

She shrugged, seeing no need to deny it now. ‘We each had our parts to play in this, Ryan. Your role was to be here at this moment, to witness this … and to take the blame.’

‘And all of it so you could land a fucking promotion.’

‘Wake up,’ she hissed, rounding on him. ‘This is about more than personal ambition. Atayev thought only about revenge, of destroying Surovsky’s legacy. But what then? What is the point in removing one criminal only for another to take his place? I will stop that, for ever. Don’t you see? Once I am director, I can make real changes in Russia, bring real freedom to our people. Even if it has to be done by playing Viktor at his own game, that is worth fighting for, worth killing for.’

She seemed to change before his eyes then, the passion and belief behind her words somehow burning through the cold facade she had adopted. Drake saw a glimpse of the perverted idealism and warped sense of justice that had driven her to commit such a callous act of betrayal.

He almost felt sorry for her at that moment, talking about ‘real change’ and bringing freedom to the masses. Even if she believed them, even if she believed she could make them real, they were nothing but flimsy words used by every dictator and tyrant, every terrorist and butcher throughout history. Wishing to prevent another criminal stepping in to fill Surovsky’s shoes, she was simply becoming the very thing she despised.

‘And all those people at Beslan who died because of him?’ Drake asked, gesturing to Surovsky. ‘What about them?’

Miranova hesitated, the muscles in her throat tightening as she saw a momentary glimpse of her bold, brilliant scheme through the eyes of another. Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so justifiable, quite so easy to rationalise as a necessary evil.

Saying nothing, she instead turned her attention to Surovsky. ‘Time is ticking, Viktor. Soon the agents upstairs will realise something is wrong. So, what will it be?’

The old man had been outmanoeuvred and they both knew it. Miranova was offering him a way out. A humiliating, dishonourable way out perhaps, but a way out all the same. The alternative was to be tried before an international court for crimes against humanity and spend the rest of his life in rooms just like this one.

There was no choice to make.

‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘Kill Drake. Then we’ll talk.’

Miranova let out a breath. It had worked. Her plan, everything she had risked her career and her life for; it had all paid off.

‘Atayev was right about one thing, Ryan,’ she conceded grimly as she raised her weapon. She might have shown a brief moment of regret, but even Drake could see the avarice and burning ambition in her eyes. ‘Every victory requires sacrifices.’

He tensed up, bracing himself for the first tearing impact. This would be no neat execution with a single round to the head. She would have to make it look as though he had gone down fighting. His death, when it came, would be neither fast nor painless.

Suddenly the woman stiffened and cried out in pain and shock, her finger tightening involuntarily on the trigger as she squeezed off a shot that zipped past Drake’s shoulder, burying itself in the wall behind him.

Caught off guard, Miranova looked down at the source of her sudden, unexpected pain. The base of the ruined chess pawn protruded from her leg, the jagged and broken tip buried in the fleshy part of her right calf. And clutching it in a desperate grip, jamming it in deeper with every ounce of his waning strength, was Atayev.

Somehow the stubborn bastard was still conscious, still clinging on to life.

Another twist, another agonising jolt of pain as the wooden chess piece tore through muscle tissue, threatening to drop her to her knees. She had to do something. Reacting instinctively, she trained her weapon downwards, aiming for his head.

On the other side of the room, Drake had watched this bizarre spectacle unfolding, watched as the dying man used the only weapon available to him to lash out at the woman who had betrayed him. The injury was little more than a flesh wound, almost comical in comparison to the death she could deal out with the automatic in her hands.

But at that moment, it was enough.

Knowing he had to act now, Drake planted his right foot firmly on the ground, tensed the muscles in his legs and leapt forward like a sprinter off the starting blocks.

He saw Miranova register the sudden movement, saw her eyes come up and the weapon follow them a heartbeat later. It didn’t matter now. He was in a race for his very life. Propelling himself forwards, he managed to take two good strides, building speed and momentum before throwing his shoulders down and launching himself across the metal table.

Drake weighed a good 190 pounds, maybe a little less after several days without proper food or sleep, but every ounce of it was now directed at Miranova. It was simple physics – mass multiplied by velocity equalled momentum, and he had more of both on his side.

He impacted hard, tackling her around the waist like a rugby player and knocking her into the wall opposite with bruising force. He heard her grunt of pain as the side of her face collided with the wall, and tried to drive his shoulder in harder, looking to crush the air from her lungs.

All thoughts of compassion and restraint had vanished now, driven away by the desperate nature of his situation. Only one of them was coming out of this alive.

Miranova might have been surprised by his sudden attack, but she was a trained operative just like him, and she knew how to handle herself in a fight. An elbow to the side of his head caused an explosion of light more powerful than the flashbang grenade that had blinded him earlier in the day, while a knee to his stomach almost doubled him over. He tasted the harsh burn of bile in his throat.

Miranova wasn’t stupid. She knew that the pistol gave her the advantage, but in a close-quarters struggle like this it was also a liability. Drake was all over her, too close to get a decent shot.

But she could still use the weapon in other ways.

He saw Miranova bring the butt of the pistol down like a club, striking the recently repaired wound at his shoulder joint. Pain more intense than even he could have anticipated rippled outwards from the point of impact, and travelled all the way down his arm to leave his fingers numb and tingling.

They were both hurting now; it was just a question of who could take more.

Through blurred vision he searched frantically for the gun, knowing he had to keep it out of play. He saw the barrel rising up towards him as she tried to put a round in his stomach. Any injury there would certainly drop him.

Then suddenly an idea came to him; a memory of something he had seen Anya do in a similar situation. Reaching out, he grasped the weapon by its slide and jammed it back hard just as Miranova pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened; not even a click. The retracted slide was now blocking the firing pin, preventing it from striking the round in the chamber.

Stalemate, at least for the next few seconds.

Looking down at her right leg, he saw the bloody wound where Atayev had struck her, and in the centre of it a faint gleam of white wood. The pawn, still embedded in her flesh as she hadn’t yet had a chance to remove it.

Even as she tried to wrench the weapon free of his grip, Drake raised his foot and slammed it downwards against her leg, managing to catch the protruding object perfectly.

The effect was not unlike pulling open a zipper. There was a moment of taut resistance as skin and muscle stretched to their limits, and then with an almost audible rip the pawn slid downwards by several inches, leaving a bloody track of torn flesh in its wake.

Even she couldn’t endure such an injury, and with a cry of pain she started to go down. Her grip on the weapon slackened just enough for Drake to yank it out of her hand.

Realising what he was doing, Miranova grasped desperately at the gun just as he reversed his grip on it and turned the weapon on her. He felt the barrel press against soft flesh, felt her trying to tear his fingers away from the pistol grip, and suddenly there was a muted thump as the weapon discharged.

For a moment the two of them remained frozen together like that, each holding the other close with bloodied hands, each staring into the other’s eyes as if trying to make sense of what had happened. There was no pain – it had happened too suddenly for that.

Then, slowly, Miranova’s eyes grew unfocused, her grip on Drake slackened and with a weary, ragged sigh she fell. Blood stained the front of her blouse. Still gripping her, Drake lowered her to the floor and watched in silence as she took her final breaths.

She looked neither angry nor frightened as her life faded away. Her expression rather was one of confusion, as if she couldn’t quite understand how her plan had unravelled.

Drake said nothing as she convulsed and finally lay still. He had no words to explain what he felt towards her. For now, he was content merely to know that it was over.

‘Drake …’

Looking over, he saw Atayev lying a few yards away, one hand pressed against the wound at his chest, the other outstretched as if reaching for something. Only then did Drake see the crumpled and faded picture of his daughter Natasha just beyond his reach.

Leaving Miranova, Drake reached for the picture and gently pressed it into the dying man’s hand, then laid his arm across his chest so that she was close to him once more. He might have held on long enough to help stop Miranova, but it was obvious the gunshot wound to his chest would prove fatal.

‘Don’t fight it,’ Drake said quietly. Whatever else this man had done, his last act had been to save his life. ‘She’s waiting for you. You’ll see her soon.’

Atayev swallowed and nodded. He had said before that he had no fear of death, and looking at him then, Drake was inclined to agree.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but could only manage the faintest whisper. Drake leaned in close and strained to hear.

‘The pawn …’

Frowning, Drake glanced around and eventually spotted the small bloodstained chess piece lying near Miranova. It must have come loose during their fight, and now lay alone on the concrete floor. Broken, jagged and stained with a dead woman’s blood, Drake couldn’t imagine why Atayev would want such a grisly memento now, but it was clear from the pleading look in his eyes that it was important.

Snatching it up, Drake tried to hand it to him, only for the man to push it away.

‘For … you,’ he whispered, closing Drake’s fingers around the pawn. ‘Remember … what I said.’ He managed to raise his head a little, driven by a final, desperate need to be understood.
‘Remember.
’

His head lolled to the side, where he seemed to see something that pleased him. He smiled, a peaceful, contented smile, closed his eyes and lay still.

He was gone.

Drake glanced down at the pawn Atayev had given him. Despite the bloodstains and the damage it had taken, there were still little patches of white shining through. And as he looked a little closer, he began to understand why Atayev had wanted him to have it; the final message he had tried to impart.

‘He is dead?’ Surovsky asked. Still handcuffed to the chair, he had been unable to take part in Drake’s desperate struggle with Miranova, or to listen to Atayev’s final words.

Drake said nothing. He didn’t want to look at the old man, never mind speak with him.

‘Then it is over.’ Surovsky let out a breath, his teeth still clenched against the pain in his leg. ‘Thank God.’

Drake closed his eyes. He had no wish to earn Surovsky’s gratitude.

‘Get me out of here,’ Surovsky implored him. ‘You stopped that traitor, that insane bitch. I will make sure you’re rewarded for what you did.’

Rewarded. Drake might have laughed if the situation had been different. Drake’s only reward from this man was to have been a bullet courtesy of Miranova. Now he was trying to act as if none of that had ever happened.

Slipping the pawn into his pocket, Drake snatched up Miranova’s gun and rose slowly from behind the table. The look in his eyes was that of a predator regarding its helpless prey. Restrained and injured as he was, Surovsky could do nothing to stop him.

Christ, it would be so easy, he thought as he glanced down at the automatic. Easy, and justified. This man deserved death a hundred times over for the things he had done, and the things he might yet do. Neither Atayev nor Miranova had been able or willing to give it to him, but Drake was of a different sort.

He had learned long ago that death was the final, definitive way to stop such men. Perhaps the only way. He had hidden that lesson and the man it had turned him into beneath the facade of his new life, his new career. But it was always there beneath the surface.