The Killing Game (19 page)

Dempsey started back up the hillside.

The tracks were fresher now, the edges of the kidnapper’s boots more sharply defined, less eroded by the elements. Dempsey remounted. He daren’t go faster than a walk because sound carried along these narrow canyons. He dismounted again before climbing over the ridgeline and scanned the next valley for sign of his quarry.

Cresting the ridge in the distance was a small caravan of pack animals, and Dempsey would bet his service medals that the black shape tied to that last animal was a woman with bottomless brown eyes and a stubborn jaw.

The clouds billowed like angry sails in the sky. “You can run, you nasty old bastard, but you can’t hide.” Not from him. Not for long.

***

Dmitri knocked the woman out with another dose of tranquilizer he’d stolen from a doctor’s surgery in Pakistan, and hoisted her limp body across his shoulder before propping her against the wall of the cave. He left her bound. Magdalena wouldn’t have approved of his rough handling of the girl, but then there were many things Magdalena wouldn’t have approved of over the years.

Not that it mattered. Not anymore. Thoughts of his wife brought the usual swift pain that resonated and amplified over time. He’d told her to forget him. To move on. But he’d never looked at another woman the way he’d looked at her. Never wanted another woman in all the years since.

She’d asked him to find a way to save their grandchild. This was the only way he knew how.

Dmitri hobbled the animals inside the wide open cavern. The entrance was narrow and the cavern tapered into a maze of tunnels behind him. The roof was decorated with beautiful stalactites and mineral deposits that glittered in his torch beam.

He’d first found these caves more than thirty years ago. The fact he’d never recorded them on any official Soviet map said more about the swiftness of his fall from grace than the sloppiness of his cartography. He had no doubt who was behind the destruction of his once-exalted career in Vympel. He took a satellite phone from his pack and went to the entrance of the cave.

Dmitri had honed his grievances over the years, used them to teach others how best to fight back against the crushing might of the USSR, but he hadn’t been able to control who those people targeted once the Soviets left. He’d paid a price worse than death for his petty revenge, and regret had long since morphed into bitterness.

For long years he hadn’t known the real name of the Englishman. The irony of how many people had died because he hadn’t put a bullet in the man before he’d opened his mouth was not lost on Dmitri. Such a small humanitarian mistake had been catastrophic.

If he could reverse time, he’d go back and kill him twice.

After several years of searching, he’d lost hope of ever seeing the man again. Then, in the late 80s, he’d been watching a news report on a bombing of the British Embassy in Rabat and he’d spotted the
mudak
being interviewed. He’d been stunned at first, and then his anger had simmered. Revenge
was
, after all, a dish best served cold.

By the time Dmitri had tracked him down and set his plans in motion, twelve more years had passed. He looked at the stubby digit on his left hand, a constant reminder of his failure. Killing the Englishman was supposed to have been his last act of violence. He was sick of death. Sick of killing. He’d sacrificed his finger as both a way of claiming the death of that bastard and of retiring.

It hadn’t worked.

After 9/11, and the death of the son he’d never laid eyes on, he’d retired to a remote region of China, trying to drink himself to death.

That hadn’t worked either.

He sat huddled in a blanket, looking out at the snowstorm that had snaked unexpectedly out of the Himalayas. Holing up in these caves was part of his plan, so it didn’t matter—in fact, the storm would hinder any pursuit. He dialed the number and listened to the echoing ring while looking at the savage beauty of the mountains rapidly disappearing behind a veil of snow.

The connection crackled and there was a time delay.

“Yes?” The snap of impatience in the man’s voice ripped the scab off Dmitri’s heart and made him bleed afresh. “Who is this?”

He cleared his throat. Spoke in Russian. “I wonder if you remember me?”

“Volkov?” The voice sounded tinny, strained.

“I am flattered.”

There was silence. Dmitri’s heart squeezed painfully. He could never trust this man, and yet he had to ask him to save the thing he loved the most in the world. It all came down to who had the most to lose. “I found the daughter of an American diplomat in the Wakhan Valley. You need to check your email.” He’d arranged for it to send automatically at a certain time from the woman’s computer. He heard a strangled breath. Knew he wasn’t the only one suffering now.
Good
. “I sent instructions about what you need to do. Obey them and I’ll release her—alive.”

“Britain does not negotiate with terrorists.” The spy grasped at that futile worn-out line. Perhaps his phones were tapped? All the more reason for the spy to cooperate quickly.

“So noble to toe the British line. What a loyal subject you are. Luckily, I don’t need your British connections; I need your Russian ones. Otherwise I’d have already called the Americans.”

“What do you want?”

He heard the calculation in the man’s voice. He glanced over to where the woman slept. He’d given her enough drugs to knock out a horse—for her own benefit.

“Follow the instructions you receive. Get my family out of Russia, get my grandson a new liver, give them new, better lives in Europe or America. I’ll keep your dirty secret.”

There was a long pause followed by a snort. “That’s it?”

That was
everything.
“You only have forty-eight hours. If you fail in this I’ve arranged a dramatic…news event…that will ensure I have the world’s attention when I tell my story about two
British
spies I encountered years ago in Afghanistan.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word after I get your wretched family out of Russia?”

“I’ve kept it for this long,
mudak
. Unlike you, I am a man of honor.” A rustle brought him around, his finger tightened on the trigger of his rifle. The woman was awake. She met his gaze with keen brown eyes that looked sharp enough to pick the secrets out of his soul.

He turned away. His secrets were the only thing he had left.

***

Jonathon Boyle sipped brandy in the Vauxhall Cross offices of the Chief of MI6. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the glass. Everything was falling apart. Just as he was about to pull off the biggest coup since the Cold War, this phantom rose from the grave and threatened
everything
. He needed to stall Dmitri’s “event” until after he’d visited Aldermaston’s top-secret division—a few days at most. Agents were scouring Russia for what remained of Volkov’s offspring and they would find them. Once Volkov was dead he’d make sure every one of them followed the same path. In the meantime, he had to at least look like he was toeing the line. A lifetime of toeing the line was starting to grate on Jonathon’s elderly nerves.

“You’re telling me that in 1979, Dmitri Volkov shot Sebastian Allworth in cold blood while you and he were distributing anti-Soviet material in Afghanistan?” Christopher Gleeson’s eyes gleamed as he fingered the typewritten pages of the old file one of his lackeys had finally unearthed in the murky depths of the building. “What were you doing while he was getting shot?”

Jonathon put down his glass and tented his hands meekly over crossed knees. “Running for dear life, old boy.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I was lucky. I made it to the ridge and caught up with the local guides who had the horses.”

“You outran a squad of Vympel soldiers?” The director’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“It
was
thirty years ago.” Jonathon pointed to his thinning pate. “Don’t let the gray hair and short legs fool you—show me a gun and I’d still be able to outstrip you in the hundred-yard dash.”

Gleeson grunted.

“There was a rock fall. It caused enough of a distraction to let me get away.” Jonathon shuddered. “Poor Sebastian wasn’t so lucky.”

“Our new PM thinks his father died in a plane crash over Kashmir.”

Jonathon nodded and sipped his drink slowly, trying to savor the smoothness of expensive brandy, ignoring the heartburn he knew would follow. Old age wasn’t for wimps. Maybe Sebastian was the lucky one.

“And now Volkov has surfaced again only weeks after David Allworth is elected Prime Minister? It does seem like an odd coincidence.” Gleeson pursed his lips. “You know, of course, that there are people searching for him?”

Jonathon lifted one lazy lid. “They don’t know the threat he poses to Britain’s national security.”

“Do you know where he is?” Gleeson watched him closely.

His nostrils flared. “If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t need you,” he retorted.

Gleeson laughed. “Still got connections with some of the more unseemly side of the Foreign Office?”

Jonathon’s smile thinned. “Don’t pretend those in SIS are all law-abiding citizens, Director.” His eyes narrowed. “We’re both too long in the tooth to bother with such a preposterous two-step.”

Gleeson held his gaze. “Why didn’t you work here rather than for the diplomatic corps?”

Jonathon swirled the golden liquid in the heavy crystal glass. “I admit I prefer life’s creature comforts—plus, I had a family at the time.” His brow plummeted. “The point is if the SAS do capture this Russian alive and we end up putting the bastard on trial, it puts our PM in an extremely awkward position.”

“Whereas if he’s dead no one can accuse the PM of acting out some personal vendetta.”

“Exactly, because no one will know there’s cause for a vendetta.” Jonathon nodded. “As long as Allworth remains ignorant of how his father died, then he can maintain his righteous indignation because we both know…”

“Allworth can’t act worth a damn.” Gleeson chuckled.

“How he ever became Prime Minister I’ll never know. The man is far too honest.” Jonathon swilled back the rest of his liquor and stood. David Allworth was a soft-hearted idealist. Would that change if he discovered his father had been shot in the back? Always interesting to force people up against their principles.

Gleeson leaned back in his leather chair and rubbed a jaw that needed the kiss of a razor. “I’m not sure the SAS will go for an assassination assignment.”

“Don’t they take orders from you?”

Gleeson looked down at his desk. “I wish.”

Jonathon knew the man had E Squadron to use if he wished. Plausible deniability. Black Ops. It was a question of whether he’d pit them against their own operational SAS soldiers and risk a friendly-fire incident.

Morals were a bitch.

Jonathon had dedicated his whole life to Moscow.
He
wouldn’t waver just because no one else knew how to make a sacrifice. “What about those weaponized drones?”

“Even
if
we knew where he was for sure, we have more important targets to focus on.” Gleeson arched a brow.

“More important than the man who killed our Prime Minister’s father and taught Islamic militants the fine art of explosives?” Jonathon gave him a sardonic smile. “If you think so.” He pulled on his jacket. “Anyway, I’ve done my duty. I’ll leave the decision in your capable hands as the whole incident is still covered by the Official Secrets Act.”

Gleeson inclined his head and Jonathon strode out of the building wishing, not for the first time, he’d been born less of a ruddy patriot.

***

The blizzard smashed him in the face like a C-130 transport. He stopped and pulled on more layers of clothes, including his white snow gear. He held tight to the horse because it was spooked now the wind had started to bay. Tracks were obscured and he knew his squad would need to find cover or hunker down.

It was so cold the air sank into his lungs and burned soft tissue. Dempsey pushed on, needing to get himself and the horse out of the elements and into some shelter before they fell off the side of a cliff. He shielded his face against the onslaught and stilled as he saw a movement off to his right. For a split second there was a mirage of the tall spare-framed man they’d been chasing for days. A sweep of horizontal flakes obscured his vision before clearing again and the figure was gone. He stared harder through the whiteout. There was a narrow fissure in the side of the mountain—a fissure where someone had stood moments before.

Holy fuck. He pulled out his GPS unit and entered the coordinates of where he stood, along with an estimate of the position of the cave, then he pulled the horse onward, grateful for the gelding’s smoky coloring that faded into the blizzard, and the howling gale that blew their trail into oblivion. He rounded a craggy boulder, his boots slipping over the slick surface, and spotted another opening in the side of the mountain big enough for himself and the horse to squeeze into. His boot crunched and he looked down to see pale bone shards scattered about the floor. The horse’s nostrils flared.

“Easy, buddy, relax.” Dempsey rubbed his hand over the animal’s soft nose until he settled. In the dimness he saw more bones and scraps of fur. The irony of ending up in the lair of a snow leopard wasn’t lost on him.

He kicked the bones out of the way and walked a little further into the cave, letting his eyes adjust to the murk. There was an empty, unused feel to the den. Maybe it belonged to one of the poor bastards the Russian had shot.

He undid the horse’s girth, sliding the saddle free from the animal’s back and taking it to the opening of the cave where the blizzard battered his face and made his ears hurt. He dumped the saddle and his bergen on the floor and pulled out the satellite phone. He tried the PRR first but got nothing but static. The rest of the team was miles behind, possibly days away in these conditions. He was on his own.

His thoughts turned to Axelle. Was she hurt? Of course she was hurt. Shit, she was in a cave, which was her worst nightmare—not to mention having been kidnapped. Anger squeezed him inside and he forced himself not to think about her. He’d get her out of there. He’d save her and catch the old bastard who’d been running them in circles for days.