Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

Treason. It’s not a terribly fashionable word is it? Bland’s voice was as clear in Sam’s head as if he were actually there. I would say, in circumstances such as this, that a man might become bitter.

Sam found himself having to control his anger again.

They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.

How could he forget that? How could he believe them? Jacob was his brother. He deserved the benefit of the doubt. But he also had some explaining to do. For a moment, Sam considered contacting Bland again, telling him what he knew. But he put that thought from his mind. The memory of the Spetsnaz troops in Kazakhstan, of Craven’s death, was still fresh. Nobody had yet explained to him with any degree of satisfaction how the Russians knew they were coming. The Regiment had been expected and in Sam’s book that meant one thing: a tip-off. Go singing to MI6 and the chances were that every word of his conversation would end up on a transcript roll somewhere in Moscow. He shook his head as he continued to look out at the night sky.

Sam needed to see Jacob. Face to face. To ask him the questions that needed asking. His brother deserved that at the very least. And mole or no mole, he needed to do it without the interference of MI6. They would be heavy handed in their questioning. They would more than likely torture him to get the truth. They would do to Jacob what Sam had done to Dolohov, or something like. And he wasn’t prepared to let that happen.

He turned to Dolohov.

‘Can you contact him?’ he asked abruptly.

Dolohov, bleary eyed, raised his head. Jesus, he looked like shit. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

‘Jacob Redman.’

Momentarily, a wily look crossed Dolohov’s face. It disappeared as soon as it had arrived, to be replaced by that sombre expression; it did not, however, go unnoticed by Sam.

‘Yes,’ Dolohov replied. ‘I can contact him.’

‘How?’

‘By e-mail.’

Sam nodded. He thought for a while longer before speaking again. ‘Do you often contact him?’ he asked.

Dolohov gave him a contemptuous look, as though it were a stupid question. ‘It has never happened yet.’

‘But if you asked for a meeting, would he come?’

Dolohov shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He could be anywhere in the world.’ A pause. ‘But yes, I think he would come. I am a man of a certain importance.’

Sam approached the chair. ‘I’m going to untie you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got your gun and mine. One of them will be pointing in your direction all the time.’

The Russian sneered.

‘I mean it, Dolohov. You won’t even be able to take a shit without me being there. Just in case you had any plans to play silly buggers.’

‘To play what?’

‘Just do what you’re told, Dolohov. If you want to make it through the day, that is.’ Sam walked round to the back of the chair and untied the flex. It fell from around Dolohov’s body. The Russian raised his arms and for the first time looked at his hands. They were a mess. The skin was stained and smeared with blood and the stumps where his fingers used to be glistened painfully. Dolohov looked bilious.

‘Count yourself lucky you didn’t go the way of the red-light runners, Dolohov,’ Sam told him, pointing his gun nonchalantly in the Russian’s direction. ‘But there’s still time, so let’s not fuck around. Where’s your computer?’

Dolohov looked towards the main doors of the room, out on to the hallway. ‘In my bedroom,’ he said.

‘Get moving.’

The Russian pushed himself weakly to his feet. He was unable to walk in a straight line as he staggered out of the room with Sam following behind – close, but not too close. The guy was a trained assassin, after all.

The bedroom was large and high-ceilinged. It was dominated by a big iron bed with an elegant patchwork quilt. There was a fireplace in this room, too; and next to it, against the wall, a large oak desk with a laptop computer neatly placed upon it.

‘Sit down,’ Sam instructed. ‘Open up the computer.’ Dolohov did as he was told. Sam paused as a thought hit him. ‘If you send e-mail from here, is it secure? Can anyone tap in?’

Dolohov shook his head. ‘Of course not. I have a virtual private network. I can communicate with Moscow, or anyone, without the risk of my communications being intercepted.’ He placed his wounded hands flat on the table. ‘I assume from your question,’ he said shrewdly, ‘that you are not involved with the security services.’

Sam remained dead-eyed. He put his gun against the back of his captive’s head. ‘Just do what you’re told, Dolohov. Write it now. Request a meeting. As soon as possible.’

He watched as Dolohov slowly and painfully used one of his remaining fingers to type a message. With each stroke of the keyboard he winced, leaving a moist trail of red where the stumps brushed against it. The message was short and to the point. MEETING NEEDED. URGENT. REVERT WITH TIME AND PLACE. DOLOHOV. The Russian slid one finger over the mouse pad, inserted an e-mail address into the address field, then directed the cursor towards the send button.

‘Stop,’ Sam said.

Dolohov froze.

‘Put your hands on the table. Both of them.’

Sam removed the gun from the back of Dolohov’s head, walked round to his side and pressed the weapon against the back of the Russian’s right hand. Dolohov looked up at him in horror.

‘You think I’m stupid?’ Sam growled.

‘What do you mean?’ Dolohov’s voice was little more than a breath.

‘I think you might have forgotten something,’ Sam pressed; and from the way Dolohov jutted out his jaw involuntarily, he could tell his suspicion was on the money. Dolohov would have some way of raising a distress signal in a situation like this. A phrase to be inserted into any communication or, more likely, a phrase to be omitted. ‘Are you going to alter that message so that it doesn’t raise any alarms?’ Sam demanded. ‘Or are you and I going to start talking about how useful your thumbs are again?’ He pressed the gun down harder. ‘It’s up to you, Dolohov. But I think you know I’m not fucking around.’

A pause. And then, slowly, Dolohov’s free hand slid once more to the keyboard. At the beginning of the e-mail he typed an extra sentence: ALL IS WELL AT THE UNIVERSITY. His breath was shaking as he waited for further instruction from Sam.

Sam gave it a few seconds. Then he raised the gun and put it to the side of Dolohov’s head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, his voice grim.

Dolohov’s body slumped. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Either he was a brilliant actor, or Sam had scared all the remnants of duplicity out of him.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Send the thing.’

It looked to Sam as if it took all of Dolohov’s energy to raise his hand again. But he did it and with what looked like a superhuman effort, he moved the cursor once more to the send button.

And then he clicked. The window disappeared. The e-mail was sent.

It could be an hour before they received a reply. It could be a day. It could be a week. All they could do now was wait.

FSB Headquarters. Moscow.

In the era of Communism, the huge, austere yellow-brick building on Lubyanka Square had housed not only the offices of the KGB, but also their prison. Many people who came to the attention of the secret police could expect to end up in this building, where torture and forced interrogation were commonplace. Not far from the centre of Moscow, it served as a constant reminder that the state would accept no dissent. Now, however, its reputation was less severe. It was still an administrative building, and no doubt it harboured many ghosts for those Muscovites who still remembered those dark days, but people could now walk past it without feeling a nervous chill that was nothing to do with the weather. Without feeling that the building itself was watching them.