Betrayal (58 page)

There was no other answer to give him.

‘I will.’

‘He told her everything she wished to hear – that she was special, that she was capable of great things, and that her country needed a young woman with her potential. He showed her the first true kindness she had known in years, and it was not long before she started to warm to him. Once he had established her trust, he offered her a deal – early release from prison, money, a new life, whatever she wanted. All he asked for in return was her obedience, and above all her loyalty.’

‘Obedience at what?’ Drake asked.

‘Spying, of course. She was intelligent, beautiful and resourceful enough to survive in prison. Most importantly, she had a talent for spotting liars – a valuable skill which he believed he could use.

‘Of all the agents he recruited, she was his favourite,’ Kamarov went on. ‘The longer he spent with her, the more he grew to trust and care for her. In time, he decided to use her for a very special project he had in mind. He wanted her to defect to the United States, to work her way into the CIA and become one of his key assets within the US intelligence community. Naturally she agreed to his plan.’

Drake was aghast. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Anya had told him the grim story of her early years: the loss of her parents and her struggle to survive in the State care system, her arrival in America, her induction into the Agency and her close relationship with Cain. She had spoken with absolute conviction, and she had made him believe every word.

‘Imagine then the pain and betrayal he felt when she severed all contact with her handlers and disappeared, only to show up again in Afghanistan as part of a paramilitary group, assassinating Russian officers and causing huge damage to the war effort. Surovsky flew into a rage and vowed to have her brought back in chains, even drafting in an entire Spetsnaz unit to hunt her down.’

Drake saw a momentary flicker in his otherwise impassive eyes, saw the shadow of an old memory being replayed. It didn’t take a genius to work out what he was thinking.

‘You,’ he said. ‘He brought you in.’

The older man nodded. ‘We were handed intelligence that Anya and her group were leaving Afghanistan, and that they intended to cross the Pakistani border through a remote mountain valley. That was where we sprang our trap. But even outnumbered and surrounded, they fought like nothing I had ever seen. In the end we took only one prisoner – Anya. She had sacrificed herself, holding us off until the others could escape.’ He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. ‘Brave but foolish. If only she had known what was waiting for her.’

Drake knew what was coming. Anya had made vague references to something that had happened to her in Afghanistan twenty years earlier, though she had refused to elaborate. But Drake still vividly recalled the spider’s web of scarring across her back when she was getting dressed. To his eyes, they had looked just like lash marks.

‘Surovsky showed no mercy once he got his hands on her. He demanded to know why she had betrayed him, who had turned her, but she never gave him anything. No matter what he did. No matter what he made others do to her, she never spoke a word.’ He was silent for a time, taking another draw while he stared out across the city. ‘Never in my life have I seen such resolve. Never. I always asked myself why she resisted, what she was fighting so hard to protect. And … after a time, I began to feel ashamed. Ashamed of what we were doing to her.’

‘What happened to her?’ Drake asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Kamarov swallowed, then raised his chin a little. ‘She escaped, and against my expectations she made it out of the country alive. I had hoped that would be enough for her, that she would leave the CIA and find a new path. I was wrong.’ He sighed, looking around the room. ‘And twenty years later, I was brought in to hunt her down again. History repeating itself, as they say.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

He looked around, and Drake could see the weight of the regret he still carried with him. ‘Because I am getting too old for secrets, and because I know now the man I’ve been serving. I saw the recording of Surovsky’s interrogation.’ The look of disgust in his eyes was obvious, even in the dim light. ‘I can’t undo the mistakes I have made, but I can stop myself making another today.’

He pointed off eastwards, towards the towering walls of the Kremlin.

‘The US embassy is about half a mile in that direction,’ he said. ‘Even you should be able to make it that far. I suggest you get yourself out of Russia, and think very carefully before coming back.’

Drake couldn’t believe it. After everything that had happened, Kamarov was letting him go. ‘What about you?’

The older man took one last draw on his cigarette before flicking it away. ‘I will do what I always do. Survive.’

With that, he returned to his parked car, opened the driver’s door and eased himself in before firing up the engine. Lowering the window, he leaned out and regarded the younger man thoughtfully for a long moment.

‘You are a brave man, Ryan Drake. Not very wise, but brave,’ he decided. ‘I think I understand what she saw in you.’

Drake never got a chance to reply as Kamarov swung the vehicle around and drove off, leaving him alone.

To date, no Russian official of any rank has been reprimanded for the handling of events at Beslan.

Aspen Hill, Maryland, 29 December 2008

McKnight’s home was a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Aspen Hill, about 10 miles from central DC. She had moved in only a couple of months ago, yet she seemed to have made the transition as easily as she handled everything that life threw her way.

The place was well ordered, tastefully decorated and furnished to take full advantage of the floor space on offer. It was a stark contrast to Drake’s cluttered, untidy home with its mismatching furniture and heating system that never quite seemed to work properly.

The TV was on, tuned to CNN, though the volume was muted so as not to intrude on their conversation. Beyond the living room’s bay windows lay the distant lights of DC, partially shrouded in sombre grey clouds. It was early evening in December and getting dark fast, with flurries of sleet pattering against the window.

Neither he nor Samantha was much concerned with the weather, however.

‘Any good?’ Drake asked as McKnight took a sip of the Sauvignon Blanc that he’d finally got around to delivering. It might have been ten days late, but he hoped the original intent hadn’t been lost.

She smiled. ‘Well, as far as peace offerings go, you could do worse.’

Drake wasn’t about to argue. When it came to wine, he could have been drinking a glass of paint stripper and not known the difference.

‘So we’re even now?’

‘Not even close,’ she said with a playful grin. However, it soon faded as her thoughts returned inevitably to the events of the past few days. ‘On the subject of peace offerings, I assume you’re still on Langley’s shit list?’

Drake made a face. His return from Moscow hadn’t exactly been a triumphant affair. No sooner had he stepped off the flight than he’d found himself hauled back to Langley for a lengthy debriefing, starting with ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’

The questions had continued in that vein for some time, with Drake being as evasive as possible about Anya while doing his best to make his actions appear justified. He’d been fighting a losing battle right from the start, and yet just when it seemed as though he was staring at a summary dismissal and a prison sentence, the debriefing had come to an abrupt end.

He couldn’t say for sure, but he suspected this change in attitude was due in no small part to Dan Franklin taking the heat off him.

‘I think someone up there likes me,’ he remarked. ‘God knows who or why, though.’

She snorted in amusement at that. ‘And Surovsky?’

Drake’s expression darkened at the mention of his name. He had seen and heard nothing of the man since his departure from Lubyanka, and for now at least he was content for it to remain that way. Challenging him directly was a quick way to get killed.

‘He’s going to get away with this, isn’t he?’ McKnight asked, taking another sip of wine as she looked out the window. ‘Everything Atayev accused him of was true, and he gets to walk away like nothing happened.’

Drake didn’t respond immediately. His attention had been drawn away from her, to the TV that was still playing news coverage from CNN. It was muted to allow them to talk comfortably, but Drake had a feeling she would want to hear the latest news piece.

‘Maybe not,’ he said, reaching for the remote.

Frowning, McKnight glanced around. And straight away found herself confronted by unnervingly familiar images of a short, withered-looking man being escorted out of a secure building and into a waiting vehicle, with crowds of reporters pressing in on both sides. The flashes from their cameras formed an almost continuous burst of light, starkly illuminating the aged, pockmarked face of Viktor Surovsky.

Beneath the video footage, a bold, urgent news feed scrolled across the screen.

Beslan Massacre – Russian cover-up?

‘We see here images of Director Surovsky being escorted from the FSB headquarters building in Moscow,’ the news anchor announced, an edge of excitement in his voice at what was clearly a major story. ‘Neither Mr Surovsky, the FSB nor the Russian government have issued any statements yet in response to the videos which were released over the Internet in the past hour, but sources in Moscow have suggested that an official statement will be forthcoming later today. Once again, a number of video recordings have been released via the Internet which appear to show senior FSB agents admitting their involvement in the hostage crisis which claimed the lives of nearly four hundred civilians in Beslan in 2004. These recordings are too graphic to show on television, but they—’

The voice was cut off abruptly as McKnight muted the TV and turned to Drake, her expression one of incredulity.

‘You?’ she gasped.

He said nothing to this, just took a sip of his wine. Not too bad after all, he thought.

‘How did you know?’

In response, Drake reached into his pocket and held up a little memento of his encounter with Atayev. The little white chess pawn that the man had given him as a parting gift, the top broken off in a jagged point, which held more significance than Drake had ever imagined.

A simple twist allowed him to unscrew the base, revealing a small hollowed-out compartment within.

Taking Samantha’s hand, he turned the pawn upside down and allowed a little Micro SD card to fall into her palm. The sort of memory card used in digital cameras all over the world. The sort Atayev had used to record Demochev and Masalsky’s confessions.

The contents of that memory card, while not enough to conclusively prove Surovsky’s guilt, had nonetheless ignited a media firestorm. Within the hour, every major news network worldwide had picked up on the story and was running it continuously as reporters and investigators clamoured for more information. No amount of threats or intimidation or political manoeuvring could stop it now.

Men like Surovsky were untouchable.

Well, almost.

It wasn’t mercy or compassion that had kept him from killing Surovsky in that interrogation room, but rather the growing realisation that he didn’t have to. A far worse fate awaited Viktor Surovsky.

He would have to watch as everything he’d worked for, everything he had compromised and sacrificed to achieve, collapsed around him, until he was left with nothing but the memory of the power and influence he’d once wielded. The shadow of his former glory would consume him.

‘He was right,’ Drake said quietly, still holding Samantha’s outstretched hand. ‘Even a king can be brought down by a single pawn.’

It happened almost without either of them being aware of it. Tilting her head back slightly, Samantha leaned in a little closer, her lips parted as she stared into his eyes, willing him to respond in kind. And moved by an impulse that went deeper than he’d ever consciously acknowledged, he did.

All of the things they had left unsaid were forgotten in that moment, all of the admissions that should have been made were cast aside as they at last gave in to their need for each other.

The news report continued to play on the TV, but neither of them paid heed to it now. They had seen enough.

Moscow Oblast, Russia, 29 December 2008

‘Listen to what I’m telling you, Sasha!’ Viktor Surovsky growled into the phone. His angry pacing across the luxurious study was reduced to a shuffling limp by the recently treated bullet wound in his leg. ‘They have nothing on me. Their evidence is non-existent. These confessions were extracted under torture, and we both know men will say anything if you hurt them enough.’

Accompanied only by a couple of loyal bodyguards, he had retreated from Moscow and the media firestorm engulfing the FSB to the isolation and comparative safety of his luxury dacha east of the city. Very few people knew the exact location of the sprawling house, set within acres of woodland purchased under a fake identity, and he had worked hard to keep it that way. It was his safe haven, his fallback position from where he could plan his next move.

The darkened snow-covered forests and the frozen lake beyond the big windows of his study were a deceptively peaceful counterpoint to the turmoil now raging within his organisation.

‘I’m sorry, Viktor, but this is out of my hands. It’s out of all our hands now,’ replied Aleksander “Sasha” Polunin, the head of the FSB’s Internal Security Directorate. ‘The Kremlin’s up in arms – they’re already talking about appointing a special commission to investigate the claims. You have to step down as director, at least until they can make their assessment. You can’t carry on like this.’

Surovsky snatched his glass of vodka from the table and took a deep gulp, hoping it would stop his hands from trembling. It probably wasn’t a good idea to be mixing alcohol with the potent painkillers he’d been taking, but that was the least of his concerns at that moment.