Betrayal (60 page)

She could no longer resist, could no longer fight back or defend herself. Her only weapon was stoic, abiding silence.

She closed her eyes for a moment as the key turned in the lock and the rusted cell door swung open, silently reciting the words that had been her only source of strength.

I will endure when all others fail. I will stand when all others retreat. Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed. I will never surrender.

She opened her eyes, expecting big coarse hands to seize her and haul her roughly to her feet, dragging her off for another session.

Then she froze, utterly perplexed by what she was seeing.

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t one of the guards she’d come to know all too well during her time here. He wasn’t leering at her as an object to satiate his desire, wasn’t glaring at her with contempt or, even worse, showing no recognition at all, as if she were merely an unpleasant task to be completed as quickly as possible.

She recognised this man. Dredged from the depths of her memory, she recalled the day they had captured her, the desperate holding action she’d fought while the rest of her team withdrew. She remembered the grim satisfaction she’d felt as her ammunition at last ran out and her enemies closed in around her.

And most of all she remembered the man who had taken her down. There had been no triumph in his victory, no lust for vengeance or desire to inflict pain and humiliation on his defeated opponent. He had been a soldier like herself, each set against the other by the decisions of their masters.

That same man was standing before her now, saying nothing, just staring at her.

Why was he here? Had he come here to kill her? she wondered with mingled hope and apprehension. The prospect of dying no longer held much fear for her, but as she had learned from bitter experience over the past couple of months, there were worse things to be experienced than death.

His gaze travelled slowly across her body, taking in the filthy clothes, the bruised and cut flesh, the tangled, matted hair, the desperation in her eyes.

‘My God, what have they done to you?’ he whispered, his voice sounding as though it was about to break. He approached, and instinctively she tried to back away, her eyes wide with fear.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, kneeling beside her. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve seen too much of it already.’

Anya frowned, not understanding what was happening. What she was seeing and hearing didn’t conform to the grim pattern that her life had assumed.

And just like that, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Something that had almost burned out completely, but which had suddenly rekindled into a raging inferno. Hope. Wild and unfettered hope.

She did something she hadn’t done since the day of her capture. She spoke.

‘What do you want?’

He sighed, and in a heartbeat her hope evaporated. ‘They’re going to execute you today.’

Anya let out a breath, as if she’d just been punched in the chest. Of course she should have seen it coming. Sooner or later she’d known they would tire of their game, that they would eliminate her and move on to something more worthy of their time, but to hear the news delivered in such blunt, businesslike fashion was hard even for her to take.

‘They’re going to drive you out to the middle of nowhere and shoot you,’ he went on, much to her dismay. ‘And if you want to survive, you’re going to let them do it.’

Reaching into his pocket, he pressed something into her hand. Something small and metallic. A key.

‘Listen carefully. This key will unlock your cuffs,’ he said, speaking low and fast. ‘I’ve made sure his gun is loaded with blanks. Let him shoot you, let him drive away, then unlock yourself. Head due north, through a valley between two mountains. You’ll find a small village a couple of miles away. Ask for a man named Vesh. He’ll help you get across the border to Pakistan.’

Such was her complete shock at everything she’d heard, she was having trouble taking it all in. Her eyes were blank and staring, longing to believe him but frightened to let herself feel trust for anyone.

Sensing this, he reached out and cupped her jaw, forcing her to look right at him. ‘Tell me you understand, child,’ he hissed. ‘I have no time to repeat it. Tell me you’ll at least try.’

If she’d harboured doubts before, the intense, desperate look in his eyes was enough to silence them. ‘I will,’ she promised. Never had she meant anything more in her life.

That was enough for him. Letting go of her, he stood up and made to leave.

‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked, still unable to comprehend his actions.

He paused, just a moment, and looked at her. Looked at her but didn’t see her. She realised then that he was looking at himself, his thoughts turned inwards.

‘I’m a soldier, just like you. And you deserve life more than the men I serve.’

Saying nothing more, he retreated from the cell, slamming the heavy door shut behind him and plunging Anya into darkness once more.

And alone in the dark, she at last gave in and allowed the tears to come.

‘We’re both soldiers,’ she said, echoing his words from twenty years earlier. ‘We both fight and kill. Just remember who you’re doing it for.’

For a moment Kamarov’s eyes flicked to Surovsky, replaying the accusations and conspiracies swirling around him, the seemingly endless toll of death and fear and suffering that was his true legacy.

‘Alexei, what the fuck are you doing?’ Surovsky snapped. ‘Why are you listening to her? This woman is a terrorist, a traitor, a murderer. She killed your fellow agents and she’ll kill you if you give her a chance. Shoot her! Shoot her now!’

She saw Kamarov’s finger tighten on the trigger, saw his body tense up in preparation for the kick of the weapon. Anya held her breath, bracing herself for the impact of the first round.

It never came.

She watched as the gun was lowered and his posture relaxed.

‘If she is a terrorist, a traitor and a murderer, then she’s in good company tonight, Viktor,’ he remarked, his look one of absolute contempt.

‘You’ll die for this, you piece of shit,’ Surovsky spat. ‘It’s over for you.’

‘All of us deserve death for what we’ve done, and what we’ve allowed others to do. This won’t erase my mistakes, but perhaps I’ll sleep a little easier now.’ With nothing more to say to his former boss, he turned his eyes on Anya once more. ‘Answer me one question. Will you come after me when this is over?’

Anya shook her head. ‘You saved my life once already. I’d say that makes us even.’

Kamarov sighed and nodded, satisfied with that. Her word meant more to him than Surovsky’s ever had.

‘Then I hope we won’t meet again,’ he said.

‘We won’t,’ she promised, watching as he holstered his gun, turned away from her and walked off towards his car. He was a man approaching the end of his career now, prematurely aged by years of care and regret, yet he appeared lighter somehow, as if he’d discarded a heavy burden that had long been weighing him down.

She looked at Surovsky again. She had a burden of her own to discard tonight.

Pakistan, 28 December 1988

Light. Bright light everywhere.

She blinked, opened her eyes a crack, then squeezed them shut again. The light burned her eyes.

Her next attempt was a little less painful, and as she opened them a little further, she began to make sense of her surroundings.

She was in a hospital. She knew that much from the stinging smell of antiseptic and the faint beep of a heart monitor that was coming from somewhere to her left, slow and regular.

‘Anya,’ a voice gasped. A voice she knew well.

She opened her eyes again, forcing them open despite the pain. She watched as a face swam into bleary focus in front of her. A youthful, handsome face now darkened by worry, as if he had aged many years in just a few months.

Marcus Cain.

‘Shh. It’s all right, Anya. It’s all right,’ he said, his voice soft and soothing. ‘Just relax. You’re safe now.’

‘Marcus,’ she managed to rasp. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

‘Yes. It’s Marcus. I’m here now. I won’t leave you.’

‘Where …?’ she began. Her head hurt; it was difficult to speak.

‘You’re in a hospital in Peshawar. Don’t worry, you’re safe,’ he promised her. ‘I don’t know how you made it out of there, but you’re safe now. It’s over.’

Like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle tumbling on to the floor, a disorganised mess of images and memories began to flash through her mind. She remembered the months of torture and interrogation she had endured, remembered her stubborn, almost childish refusal to give in. She saw her execution at the hands of Surovsky, saw her escape and the desperate, freezing journey on foot through the mountainous border region with Pakistan.

‘I didn’t give you up,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘No matter what they did, I didn’t betray you.’

She reached out to take his hand, though even this simple act required a great effort. Only then did she notice how thin her arms were; veins and stringy muscle standing out hard against her pale skin. Her body, once fit and strong and in the prime of life, had withered and deteriorated after months of abuse and starvation.

Cain’s face seemed to crumple before her eyes at her feeble effort to reach out to him, though he made no effort to return the gesture. He bowed his head, and she saw tears falling into the bedcovers.

‘Just concentrate on getting better,’ he said, unable to look her in the eye. ‘We’ll do everything we can. I’ll make sure you get the best treatment available.’

Anya frowned, confused. It was an effort just to focus on him. Her head was pounding, and she felt a rising tide of nausea threatening to overwhelm her. ‘What do you mean, treatment?’

‘I don’t pretend to know what happened to you in there, but the doctors found evidence of … assault.’ He swallowed and looked down, unwilling to meet her gaze. ‘There are … complications that we need to deal with.’

It was too much. Leaning over the side of the bed, Anya curled into a ball and was violently sick across the tiled floor. Cain was there with a basin, several seconds too late. The sad, grief-stricken look in his eyes was more obvious than ever.

He couldn’t even bear to look at her, as if her very appearance disgusted him. Only then did she begin to suspect the truth. Her survival had not been anticipated. She was expected to have died a heroic death for her adopted country, not to have survived and returned … tainted.

She was an embarrassment, to him and to the Agency. She was a blight, a sore, a gangrene. A dirty, uncomfortable little secret to be hidden away and forgotten about.

‘Christ, Anya, I’m so sorry,’ he said, his voice breaking.

Sorry. She was sorry too, about a lot of things. But sorry wasn’t going to make things right; not this time. Sorry wasn’t going to undo what had happened to her.

Nothing would.

Johns Hopkins Hospital, Maryland, 27 February 1989

Anya sat with her back ramrod straight, her hands in her lap as she listened to the doctor read out her medical report. He was an older man, probably in his early fifties, balding and overweight, his fleshy chin bobbing every time he spoke.

Cain had made good on his promise. She had indeed received the best medical care the government could provide, all the latest drugs and treatments to combat the damage done by torture and rape. He had done everything in his power to help her, but she knew it wouldn’t assuage his guilt.

In the three months since her escape, she had recovered a good deal of her robust health and fitness. She had put on weight, the colour had returned to her skin and she had even resumed her once intense physical training. Outwardly she appeared to be in good health, but as she had learned many times in life, appearances could be deceptive.

‘Unfortunately our tests indicate significant damage to both the ovaries and fallopian tubes,’ the doctor went on. He glanced up from his report and offered her a sympathetic look, as if that would make everything all right. ‘Function of both organs has been significantly impaired, and is unlikely to improve beyond its current level.’

Anya swallowed and looked down at her hands. ‘Is there … anything that can be done?’

He shook his head. ‘The reproductive system is, I’m afraid, particularly vulnerable in cases like this.’ He sighed and closed his folder. ‘I wish I could give you better news, but we have to be realistic here. It’s highly unlikely you’ll be able to conceive naturally, much less carry a baby to term.’

Anya said nothing. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to feel. She just felt empty, all thoughts and emotions purged from her.

Rising stiffly from her chair, she nodded to the doctor. She couldn’t remember his name. She didn’t care.

‘Thank you for your help.’

He regarded her over the rim of his glasses. ‘Are you all right? We have … people you can talk to.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

Leaving his office, she walked to the restroom at the end of the hallway and locked the door behind her. She stood by the sink, just looking at herself in the mirror.

She reached up to move a lock of hair out of her face, noticing with a kind of mild disinterest that her hand was shaking.

There were tears in her eyes. She noticed that too.

Yaroslavl Oblast, Russia, 29 December 2008

Bringing the jeep to a halt, Anya killed the engine, opened her door and stepped out. The cold night air hit her straight away, seeming to steal the breath from her lungs as a northerly wind sighed across the flat snow-covered steppes. She looked up, catching glimpses of the crescent moon through gaps in the ragged clouds.