Betrayal (31 page)

Trucks like this came and went all the time around these parts, so neither man was particularly concerned as it approached. Nonetheless, Yerzov gripped his AK-47 a little tighter as the mud-splattered vehicle slowed to a halt beside him.

The driver was a woman he realised as he approached the cab. And an attractive one at that he thought with an approving glance at her tanned skin and blonde hair. Clearly she hadn’t been in Chechnya for long, or she would have been just as pale and pasty as Yerzov and his comrades.

She was dressed in olive-drab military fatigues like himself, though he saw no rank, name or unit insignia anywhere on her uniform. A sure sign that she was FSB. But judging by the mud splattered across it and the various rips and tears in the camouflage pattern, she’d had a far more eventful day than him.

Apparently she wasn’t one of the pen-pushers he was assigned to guard. She was a field agent.

‘Identification?’ he said, a little more wary now. Being around FSB agents always put him on edge, as though he was being assessed or tested in some way.

‘Of course,’ she replied, handing over her ID documents.

His suspicions were confirmed immediately. Anya Sherkova, an operative with the FSB’s counter-terrorism bureau. Retreating to the gatehouse for a few moments, he swiped her card through the magnetic reader, which promptly verified she was who she claimed to be.

He hadn’t seen her before, but that was more the rule than the exception in a major intelligence hub like this. New personnel came and went so often that it sometimes felt like standing guard at the gates of the Kremlin.

Returning outside, he surveyed the jeep that now sat idling, exhausts venting steam that was quickly carried away by the chill wind. ‘Just you in this vehicle?’

She nodded.

‘And your business here?’

She looked him in the eye then. Her gaze was enough to send a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the cold weather. ‘My business is none of yours.’

‘As you say,’ he conceded, not wishing to press the point. ‘If you’d please shut down the engine, we’ll search your vehicle and process you through.’

The woman glanced away for a moment as if struggling to hold in check her rising temper. He heard a slow exhalation of breath as she calmed herself. ‘Corporal, I’ve been travelling for the best part of two days without sleep to get here. I didn’t do it so I could have a pair of grunts rifling through my underwear. Unless you want to make an issue of this, I suggest you open the gate. Now.’

On the other side of the checkpoint, Private Banin looked expectantly at him as if waiting to see what he would do. To back down now would be a humiliation in the presence of his subordinate. Much as Yerzov was tempted to do it, he knew he’d never live it down.

The corporal raised his chin, summoning up whatever sense of authority he could before speaking again. ‘I’m sorry, but I have my orders. All vehicles passing through here must be searched, regardless of rank. You’re aware of the increased security after the attack in America?’

‘Why do you think I’m here?’ she asked with a sharp look. ‘Believe me, I’m all the security you need.’

Yerzov resisted the growing urge to swallow, knowing it would be taken for what it was – a sign of weakness. ‘The head of FSB operations in Chechnya is here, along with most of his senior staff. I’m afraid their safety takes priority over all other concerns.’

Sherkova wasted no more time on him. Instead she turned away, snatched up a cellphone from the passenger seat and dialled a number. It didn’t take long to be answered.

‘Director Masalsky? I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ she said, her voice now smooth and polite. ‘It’s Sherkova. I’m afraid there’s been a problem at the gate. The corporal on the checkpoint won’t allow me through.’ She glanced at the name tag on Yerzov’s body armour. ‘A Corporal Yerzov. Yes, sir, I explained why I’m here. Perhaps he might listen to you?’

She turned her attention back to Yerzov and held the phone out to him. ‘The director would like to speak with you, Corporal. Now.’

Yerzov’s eyes opened wide in fear. She was on the phone to Director Masalsky himself, the very man whose life he was here to safeguard. Yerzov could almost imagine the FSB regional director glaring down at the checkpoint from his office on the second floor, making a mental note of the dumb prick who was holding up one of his trusted employees.

That was more than enough to destroy the last of his wavering resolve. This was the kind of confrontation that could end careers, and he really didn’t need the hassle. Not with only a month left on his tour.

‘There’s no need for that,’ he said, handing back her ID documents. ‘Everything seems to be in order here.’

The woman smiled. ‘Everything’s fine, Director. Sorry to have troubled you,’ she said, shutting down the call.

She gave Yerzov a faint nod as the barrier was lifted, then gunned the engine and drove off into the compound beyond.

‘Real ball-breaker, eh?’ Private Banin remarked, giving Yerzov a sidelong grin as they watched the truck turn left and vanish behind a building.

Yerzov could feel a blush rising to his cheeks despite the cold. ‘Fuck off.’

With a canvas kitbag slung over one shoulder, Anya made her way down the corridor at a steady, unhurried pace, barely pausing to acknowledge the FSB agents she passed along the way. She was a travel-weary operative fresh in from the field, in search of nothing but a hot shower and a cup of coffee. Most of them knew better than to mess with someone like that.

The key to situations like this, as she had learned long ago, was confidence. If you looked and acted as though you belonged somewhere, then few people would have the nerve to challenge you. She had known covert operatives to bluff their way through military checkpoints without even showing identification – it just took a touch of panache and no small measure of courage.

The accommodation block in which she now found herself stood adjacent to the FSB’s main office complex; the two buildings linked by a covered walkway to protect against inclement weather. The office complex was the nerve centre of their operation in Chechnya, home to planning and intelligence-gathering teams, conference rooms, secure communications suites and, of course, the senior executive officers.

The sensitive nature of its contents meant that access was restricted to those with high-level security clearance. It certainly wasn’t the kind of place where front-line grunts found themselves, meaning she was going to have to alter her appearance if she expected to get inside.

Up ahead she spotted a sign for the women’s restroom and made straight for it. As she’d hoped, it wasn’t in use.

Fishing in her bag, she attached a
Closed for Maintenance
sign to the door, then retreated inside and used a piece of wood to wedge it shut.

Alone and with space to work, Anya dumped her equipment bag on the tiled floor and knelt down to unzip it. The first item out was a neatly pressed grey suit, blouse and shoes, all sealed within a watertight plastic bag.

Hurriedly stripping off her wet and mud-stained BDUs, Anya glanced at herself in the mirror, frowning at the gash that had been torn along her right hip during her encounter with Drake. It had happened as he’d slashed at her with her own knife, the blade cleaving through the fabric and the skin beneath. She had avoided the worst of it, but the mere fact that he’d been able to hurt her had stung her pride. Perhaps that was why she had retaliated with such ferocity.

She’d barely noticed the injury at the time, having long ago learned to push past such minor discomforts, but the blood was going to be a problem now if she expected to get inside without arousing suspicion.

Fortunately she had a solution.

Using a couple of paper towels to clean off the worst of the blood, she reached into her bag and retrieved a roll of duct tape, tore off a length and pressed it against the cut. Removing it wasn’t going to be fun, but that was something she could deal with later. Right now it was enough to stop the bleeding.

She donned the smart office clothes as quickly as she could manage, tucking in the blouse and pulling the jacket over her shoulders. The shoes went on next; their impractical design uncomfortable and almost unfamiliar to her after years of wearing military boots.

Next she ran a comb through her hair. It was still damp and dishevelled after her flight through the woods, but a wall-mounted hand drier took care of that. A touch of hairspray was enough to hold it in the kind of neat, efficient style that she had seen other female FSB agents in this building wearing.

She was grateful that she was still wearing her hair short. The last thing she needed was for it to come loose and get in her eyes at a crucial moment. She’d made that mistake once before and it had almost cost her life.

The last task was the least pleasant of all. Leaning over the sink, she surveyed her reflection as she hastily applied foundation make-up and a neutral, understated lipstick. She’d always hated make-up, the pointless frivolity of its application and laborious removal, but at times like this there was no option if she wanted to blend in.

On second thoughts, she undid another button on her blouse and tightened the straps of her bra to push her breasts a little higher, revealing enough cleavage to elicit a favourable reaction from any male agent she passed. It went against her instincts to use sexuality to her advantage, but there was no denying its effectiveness in a largely male-dominated profession.

Anyway, she had paid a high enough price over the years for the simple fact of being born a woman; she saw no harm in reaping some rewards now.

Last out of the bag was something she was infinitely more comfortable with – her silenced Colt M1911 automatic. She had been using that reliable old sidearm since the very start of her career as a paramilitary operative, and in her opinion it was still one of the best handguns ever produced. It had never let her down.

She raised the automatic, checking that the magazine was firmly locked in place and the safety catch engaged. The M1911 was a single-action weapon with a manual safety, allowing it to be carried ‘cocked and locked’, meaning there was a round chambered and the hammer was drawn back.

Satisfied that all was well, she holstered the Colt inside her jacket, adjusting her posture a little to compensate for the extra weight of the weapon plus the bulky silencer.

She stretched, arching her back and raising her arms above her head. The joints popped as her muscles strained against them, but she felt better for doing it. Aches and pains that she hadn’t noticed before were beginning to nag her, and she could guess why. Her body had taken a lot of punishment over the course of her long career, and at last the years were starting to catch up with her.

You’re getting old, she thought with a wry smile as she clenched and unclenched her right hand. The hard, compact muscles in her arm bunched and contracted with the movement.

She wasn’t frightened or apprehensive – she’d been doing things like this for too long to feel such emotions now – but she did feel a certain sense of anticipation. A heightened awareness, a rush of chemicals to her brain as her body readied itself once more for the primal battle of survival.

She looked at her watch again. Almost time.

Stuffing her wet, mud-stained BDUs into the canvas bag and locking it inside one of the stalls, Anya checked her appearance in the mirror one more time, remembering to pin her ID badge to the breast pocket of her jacket.

All things considered, she felt she was good enough to pass muster.

She would find out soon enough, she thought as she removed the wedge from the door and stepped out into the corridor beyond.

Seated behind his expensive desk, Ivan Masalsky leaned back from his computer and stretched, rubbing the stiff muscles in his neck. Being the head of FSB operations in Chechnya was a demanding job at the best of times, and it had become even more difficult in the wake of the attack in America. Rather than sympathy, the killing of several FSB officers on a peaceful mission to a foreign country had instead stirred up potent anti-Russian sentiments amongst the Chechen population.

He should have left his office hours ago, but circumstances now found him working late into the evening trying to deal with the aftermath of the ill-conceived raid on Glazov’s farm.

He was going to have some serious words with everyone involved when they returned, beginning with Miranova exceeding her authority and hopefully ending with Drake and his companion on the next flight back to Langley.

He glanced at his coffee cup. Barely half an inch of dark sludge remained in the bottom, and that was long cold. Reaching for the intercom beside it, he buzzed through to his personal secretary in the outer office: a beautiful young woman named Katarina whom he’d selected for this job by hand, as it were.

Her crisp, efficient voice answered straight away. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Have some fresh coffee brought in, would you?’

No way was he taking on such a confrontation until his brain was firing on all cylinders again. And if nothing else, it was an excuse to watch Katarina enter and leave the room. Truly the woman had the finest ass he’d ever seen. He wasn’t ashamed to look at it, and he got the impression she knew full well what he was doing.

What the hell. He was old, but not that old.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

With that pleasant prospect buoying his mood a little, he turned his attention back to the computer and the stack of orders waiting for his sign-off. He was just moving his mouse to open another email when suddenly his world turned upside down.

A bright lightning flash from outside was followed an instant later by an earth-shattering boom that blew out all the windows in his office and threw him to the floor like a rag doll.

The explosion was louder and more powerful than Anya had expected. The floor beneath her feet shook visibly, streams of dust and pieces of ceiling plaster fell down around her, and a moment or two later the lights flickered and went out.

She had tried to park her 4x4 far enough away from the office complex to avoid major structural damage when the 300 pounds of industrial explosive hidden inside detonated, but it had to be close enough to cause sufficient chaos for her plan to succeed. On reflection, perhaps another 20 yards might have been advisable.