Betrayal (46 page)

‘Goddamn it, Ryan. Pick up!’ McKnight seethed, pacing the small office while her cellphone rang out uselessly.

Mason watched her in uneasy silence, wishing he could say or do something that would help. Unfortunately he had little to offer except bad news.

True to his word, he had made excuses to his FSB minders and arranged an escort to the US embassy in Moscow – a big, square, seven-storey office block located in the Presnensky District less than a mile from the Kremlin. Constructed of steel and mirrored glass and concrete, its appearance more closely resembled a corporate headquarters than a diplomatic mission.

That, however, was where the similarities ended. This particular corporate headquarters was surrounded by imposing perimeter walls and watchtowers, every inch of its property monitored by security cameras and guarded night and day by armed Marines.

The Chief of Mission there had greeted his arrival with the same enthusiasm most men felt for a piece of dog shit stuck to their shoe. Still, a little negotiation on his part had granted him entry, and less than ten minutes later he had found himself reunited with Frost and McKnight, both of whom were eager for news on Drake.

Neither had been impressed by the admission that he’d willingly left Drake to carry out his ill-conceived plan, and McKnight had wasted no time trying to raise him by phone. Thus far, however, she’d had no luck.

‘Fuck,’ McKnight hissed, abandoning her attempt. ‘Nothing.’

‘He won’t answer,’ Mason said gently. ‘He’ll know why you’re calling.’

McKnight’s hazel eyes flicked to him, filled with concern and anger, though the latter seemed to be winning through. ‘And for good reason. Christ, the stupid son of a bitch is going to get himself killed.’

‘And you let him go through with it,’ Frost added with an accusing look at Mason.

He avoided her gaze. ‘It was his call.’

He heard her footsteps on the carpet, and turned around just as she squared up to him, having to tilt her head back to make eye contact.

‘And that’d be just fine with you, right, Cole?’ she snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. ‘Why should you give a shit now that Ryan’s got your crippled ass back on the books?’

Batting her hand away with such force that even she was caught off guard, he took a step towards her with his fists clenched. ‘Fuck you, Keira. If you were a man, I swear to God I’d hammer you into the floor.’

After everything he’d gone through, everything he’d lost since that disastrous night last year, how dare she even think to question his loyalty?

Another person might have backed off, might have been intimidated by his rage, but not her. She stood her ground, flashing a fierce grimace that might have been called a smile.

‘Don’t let that stop you,’ she said. ‘Come on, champ. Take a shot, see where it gets you.’

‘Both of you, stop this!’ McKnight shouted, forcing herself between the two. ‘You’re field operatives, so start acting like it.’

Mason let out a breath, calming a little.

‘We all want to help Ryan. Knocking the shit out of each other isn’t going to cut it.’ McKnight lowered her arms, keeping her eye on Mason who she no doubt considered the bigger danger. ‘Keira, go get some air.’

The young woman’s eyes lit up, no doubt feeling like she was being singled out as the perpetrator. ‘There’s plenty of air in here.’

‘That wasn’t a suggestion,’ McKnight said without turning around. ‘Come back when you’ve got a clear head.’

Both McKnight and Frost were feeling the strain of having been isolated from unfolding events for so long. The frustration at being unable to directly help their teammates had taken its toll on both of them, but this wasn’t the way to deal with it.

Glowering at Mason a moment longer, Frost turned away and strode out of the room, making sure to slam the door shut behind her.

‘Thanks,’ Mason said, relaxing a little.

‘Save it,’ the woman advised. ‘You fucked up by letting Ryan go through with this. But pointing the finger and yelling won’t undo it.’

Mason said nothing to that. He admired her pragmatism, if not her manners.

She was just raising her phone again when suddenly the door flew open and one of the embassy staff hurried in. Mid-forties, bespectacled and with his shirt straining to contain his overhanging beer gut, it was obvious he wasn’t part of the security detail here.

He was a signals technician, responsible for monitoring and reporting on the vast amount of data and communications that the embassy was able to intercept each day. This might have been a diplomatic mission on the outside, but like any embassy in the world it was also an intelligence-gathering hub.

‘We have a problem,’ he began, out of breath having run here from wherever his own office was. ‘NSA just intercepted a flash warning across the Russian radio net. Looks like one of their field units was hit.’

Mason felt an icy knot of fear twist his stomach. ‘Where?’

‘Kutuzovsky Prospekt, near Poklonnaya Hill. They’re scrambling tact teams in the area.’ He paused for a moment, taking a breath. ‘There’s talk of agents missing in action.’

McKnight let out a breath, paling visibly at the news.

‘Ryan.’

Anya surveyed the bruised and bloodied man handcuffed to the chair before her with cold, clinical detachment. Ryan Drake, the man who had freed her from the hell she’d been imprisoned in for four long years, who had given her back her life, who had helped her regain some vestige of humanity.

Only she had the power to liberate him now.

‘As I said, I owe you my thanks,’ Atayev said. ‘Without you, this woman never would have found me. And without her, none of this would have been possible.’

Drake paid no heed to Atayev’s words now. All his attention was focused on Anya.

‘Why, Anya?’ he demanded, his voice icy cold despite the fire in his eyes. ‘Just answer me that. Why?’

He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t understand. How could he?

‘You should have taken my advice, Ryan,’ she admonished him. ‘I warned you what would happen if you tried to stop me. Why couldn’t you have listened?’

She saw him waver just a little, saw the doubt growing within him as another piece of his faith and trust crumbled away. But still he held on, still he refused to believe it.

‘Anya, this isn’t you,’ he implored her. ‘I know you. You’re better than this.’

Anya shook her head, looking at him with pity in her eyes. ‘You don’t know me. You never did. You only saw what you wanted to see, what you needed to see.’ She spread her arms, gesturing at their surroundings. ‘Tell me, what do you see now?’

It was too much for him. He had clung to the belief that there was something to this whole thing he wasn’t seeing, some deeper truth that would justify her actions. Only now did he realise it didn’t exist. Only now did the knowledge settle on him that he had put his faith in something that was never real.

‘I protected you. I risked my life for you,’ he spat, straining against the cuffs that held him securely in place. ‘Keira was right all along. We should have left you to rot in prison.’

He was livid with rage, his muscles trembling with barely suppressed fury, his green eyes boring into her. But beneath it all Anya sensed something far worse – pain. The pain of betrayal.

Anya knew better than most how it felt to put faith and belief in someone, to risk her life for them only to realise it was all for nothing. And here she was visiting that same betrayal on a man who had shown her nothing but loyalty.

She couldn’t carry on this conversation, couldn’t see her actions reflected in him any longer. Taking a step forwards, she drew back her fist and slammed it into Drake’s face, snapping his head back with the force of the impact. He opened his eyes slowly, struggling to focus as blood dripped from his mouth.

‘There’s something … you need to know,’ he whispered. ‘It’s important.’

Anya leaned forward a little. ‘Tell me.’

‘You hit like a girl,’ he said, forcing a bloody smile.

That was all the incentive she needed.

Moving with slow and deliberate care, Anya circled around behind him. Bound to the chair and unable to turn, he was forced to remain there, heart pounding against the walls of his chest. She could almost feel his fear. He had no idea what she was about to do, but he sensed it was going to hurt.

His suspicion was proved horribly correct a moment later as she seized the little finger of his left hand.

‘You’re still a good man, Ryan,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘In a bad world.’

As Anya began to bend his finger backwards, he closed his eyes and braced himself, knowing what was coming. The joint held for a moment against the pressure, bone and sinew strained beyond their limits. Then suddenly there was an audible pop, and a starburst of agony exploded through Drake’s brain as the joint finally gave way. He gritted his teeth, groaning in anguish but stubbornly refusing to cry out.

He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

Anya had done what she had to do here. Standing up, she backed away and glanced at Atayev. ‘We don’t have much time.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll see you outside.’

Drake couldn’t see Anya leave, but he heard the creak of a door being opened, followed by a harsh metallic clang as it slammed shut behind her. His mind was racing as his captor rose from the table and drew himself up to his full, if modest, height.

‘It seems we are finished, Mr Drake. I don’t imagine we will see each other after today.’ He took a step towards the door, then paused as if he’d just remembered something. ‘By the way, I have a gift for you.’

Reaching into his pocket, he carefully lifted out a single white chess pawn and laid it on the table. Drake had seen two pieces already, one on Demochev and the other on Masalsky, and recognised the style well enough – this one belonged to the same set.

‘Think on this, my friend,’ he said, placing a hand on Drake’s shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture.

Then a moment later he was gone, and Drake was alone.

‘Satellite tracking has locked down his location!’ Pushkin said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engine as their black Mercedes-Benz E-Class wove in and out of slower-moving traffic, its blue light flashing. Two more such vehicles were close behind, each packed with armed agents. ‘It is a heavy goods truck, moving east on the M7.’

‘How far?’ Kamarov asked.

‘Six miles.’

‘I want constant coverage of that truck. Have them launch a drone if we’re going to lose the satellite. And advise all police units in the area to be on standby.’

‘We’re on it, sir.’

Kamarov nodded, satisfied that for now at least, they had the situation in hand. However, all the technology and resources at his disposal would mean little when the shooting started. If the woman they’d been sent here to recapture was waiting for them in that truck, some of the men accompanying him would undoubtedly die.

Twenty years ago in Afghanistan he’d had the element of surprise on his side. He’d had an entire platoon of Spetsnaz operatives at his disposal, and still he had lost three men in the vicious firefight.

And he was old now.

The pain in the joints, the slightly impaired reactions, the gradual loss of strength. He hadn’t felt any of it back then, but he did now. He was old, his body slowly failing him as the years wore on. And yet here he was, once again preparing to take on the most dangerous opponent he’d ever faced.

How could she be anything else?

After all, Anya had been the director’s favourite; his student, his protégée. Her betrayal had cut as deep as any physical wound.

And now he wanted her back.

Drake hadn’t been alone for long before the door swung open once more and another man sauntered into view, holding what looked like a bag of tools. Gratefully laying the heavy burden down on the table, he turned to regard Drake for a long moment of thoughtful silence, as if he were a workman sizing up a job.

He was a small man, lean and wiry, the veins in his exposed arms standing out hard against stringy muscle as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. Remembering his manners, he held the pack to Drake.

‘You want one, my man?’ he asked, speaking in a heavy Slavic accent.

Drake shook his head.

‘Don’t smoke, huh?’ The man smiled with amusement. ‘Very wise, my friend. Bad for your health.’

Helping himself to one, he lit up and took a long, slow draw, still watching Drake as if he was a task to be undertaken.

‘My name is Yuri,’ he said at length. ‘Pleased to meet you, man. You are Drake, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ There was little point in lying to him.

Yuri smiled and nodded. ‘You are English. That is good. I like English, I have cousin there.’ His eyes lit up as an idea came to him. ‘Hey, Manchester United, huh?’

‘Yeah, Manchester United,’ Drake agreed, not sure where this was leading.

‘Ronaldo. He is fucking good player, yes?’

If you say so, Drake thought. He knew as much about football as he did about flower arranging. ‘Good player. Yeah.’

Yuri leaned back and took another long draw, apparently satisfied that he’d broken the ice. ‘I like you, man. We are bros now. Yes?’

‘Yeah.’ Somehow Drake didn’t imagine they’d be Skyping each other when this was over, but he was content to keep him talking.

‘Okay, bro. Here is the deal. You are going to die here in this room. This is bad, I know. But there are lots of ways to die. Some are easy,’ he said, reaching behind his back and pulling an automatic from his belt. Drake couldn’t see it very well in the harsh light, but its small frame suggested a Walther PPK or something similar.

Unzipping the bag, he emptied the contents on to the table before him. An array of electric drills, saws, hammers and knives clattered to its surface, many of them rusted and stained from long use.

‘And some are hard.’

Satisfied that he had made his point, Yuri laid the handgun on the table and turned back towards Drake. ‘I can make this really easy for you, man. One round to the head.
Bang!
And it’s over. I want to do this for you, because you are my bro and I want to help you, but you have to help me too, man. If you tell me everything you know about the FSB, I promise I will make this quick and simple. You won’t even feel a thing. But if you want to be a crazy guy and hold out on me, I think you’ll be having a really bad day.’