Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

Jacob Redman, emerging from the car that had been waiting on the tarmac for him at the airport, looked up at it. The car’s windows were tinted, so he squinted as the bright daylight hit his eyes. He’d managed to get some much needed shut-eye on the plane that had transported him directly from Baikonur to Moscow, under the watchful eye of the two Russian soldiers that had accompanied him. Even now they were escorting him from the car up to the main entrance of the building that now housed part of the FSB’s offices. Jacob walked briskly and with purpose. The heels of his shoes echoed on the hard floor of the cavernous entrance hall, which still bore signatures of its past – a lack of natural light and a kind of facelessness that hid the terrible things that had once gone on here. A suited official recognised him immediately and, with a nod first at Jacob and then at the two soldiers – an indication they were no longer required – he led the Englishman silently up three flights of stairs, along a corridor, which Jacob knew looked like every other corridor in this building, until they reached a door. The suit knocked, then held the door open and Jacob walked in. The door was closed tactfully behind him.

It was a large office, more comfortable than might perhaps have been expected given the basic nature of the rest of the building, but hardly luxurious. Thin carpet tiles on the floor. A leather sofa, but old. And a functional desk in the centre of the room, behind which sat a man. Nikolai Surov was a thin, sallow-faced man with sharp eyes and perfectly white hair. It was impossible to judge his age. Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? Any of these were possible. He was reading a report of some description; as Jacob entered, he raised his eyes. There was no expression in them, but that was usual. Jacob had met the director of the FSB enough times to know that he played his cards very close to his chest.

Surov indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘Sit down,’ he said. His English was thickly accented, but very good. Jacob took a seat as Surov laid his report on the table and gazed at him with his inscrutable eyes.

‘We had not expected to see you in Moscow for a long time,’ Surov said finally.

‘Thanks for the warm welcome.’

His sarcasm was lost on the director. ‘They did not offer you a shower and some clean clothes at Baikonur?’

Jacob was unshaven and dirty. ‘I guess they must have forgotten their manners. They told you what happened at the training camp?’

Surov nodded. ‘How can you be sure it was the SAS?’

‘I recognise their handwriting.’ He hadn’t mentioned Sam in his report. There were some things the man sitting opposite him didn’t need to know. ‘What happened to your Spetsnaz boys who were supposed to be keeping watch in case something like this happened?’

‘Dead,’ the director said shortly. ‘Along with all the recruits. Your former colleagues did their work well.’

Jacob remained stony-faced. ‘I told you a four-man unit wouldn’t be enough.’

The director appeared not to hear. He sat silently for nearly a minute before he spoke again. ‘Your agent in London…’ He scanned his desk for another piece of paper. ‘Jamie Spillane?’ His rendition of the name, couched as it was in his thick Russian accent, made it almost unrecognisable.

Jacob nodded.

‘He has been activated. We have supplied him with what he needs. You are sure he is…’ Surov’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are sure he is fitted for the task?’

‘As well as any of them,’ Jacob said shortly.

‘He will be discreet?’

Jacob shrugged. ‘Who knows? As discreet as any of them can be. Once you hand him over to the Georgians, he can be as indiscreet as he likes.’

‘And you are confident he believes he is working for MI5?’

‘He has no reason not to.’

‘Good. This is a very important operation for the continuing security of the Russian people. There will be a medal for you.’

‘I’m not interested in medals. Just the money.’

Surov nodded. ‘There will be that, of course. The assassination will be the last operation for your students. Now that the British know what is happening, I am ordering the immediate elimination of all unactivated agents in the field.’ He smiled. ‘All except Jamie Spillane, of course.’

Jacob remained expressionless. ‘Sounds like Dolohov’s going to be busy.’

Again Surov nodded. ‘Dolohov. Yes. We need to speak about Dolohov. You have received a communication from him.’ For a split second Surov’s eyes showed signs of amusement at Jacob’s flicker of surprise. ‘You did not know that we monitor your e-mails? Of course we do.’

‘Of course,’ Jacob replied flatly. ‘What does Dolohov want?’

‘To meet you.’

Jacob raised an eyebrow in suspicion. ‘Bit of a coincidence?’

‘It is worrying. We can rest assured that Dolohov does not know the details of the Georgian operation. But it is unusual for him to make any contact with us at all.’

‘Any distress signals?’

‘On the contrary, he included his identification code with the message. It’s definitely from Dolohov.’

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Jacob replied. ‘If I wanted to get him to do what I said, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.’

The director looked perplexed. ‘Tricks up your sleeve?’ he asked before shaking his head in momentary annoyance at his lack of understanding. ‘There is,’ he said, once he had regained his composure, ‘every possibility that Dolohov has been compromised.’

‘Then you need to take him out,’ Jacob said. ‘Now.’

Surov’s eyes narrowed. He put his arms in front of him and pressed his fingertips together. ‘Dolohov is a valued agent,’ he said. ‘He has worked for this service – and the service that preceded it – for many, many years. Even before glasnost and perestroika.’ He smiled. ‘ Especially before glasnost and perestroika. In the days of the old regime, he was a most committed patriot. That is not a quality you value highly, I know…’

Jacob gave him a dark look. ‘Patriotism’s a two-way street, Surov.’

‘Dolohov performed many…’ He inclined his head. ‘Many operations .’

‘Perhaps he just likes killing people.’

‘Perhaps,’ Surov acknowledged. ‘But he continues to be of great use to us even now. If he has truly been compromised, then yes, I would agree that action needs to be taken. But we owe him the courtesy of finding out. As you say, patriotism is a two-way street.’

‘Fine,’ Jacob said shortly. ‘Good luck.’

The director looked at him meaningfully. ‘Dolohov is an unusually skilled operator,’ he continued. ‘If he has requested a meeting with you, then a meeting with you is the only thing that will satisfy him. Anything else will scare him off. The Georgian operation will reach its conclusion in five days’ time. And with the end of your operations in Kazakhstan, it would seem that you are available to us for other purposes. Assuming, that is, that you remain committed to helping us?’

Jacob looked away for a moment. He felt the muscles in his face tense up. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Surov didn’t take his eyes from him. ‘Go to England,’ he said. ‘Determine whether Dolohov has been compromised. If not, speak to him. If he has, in that case you know what to do.’

‘So much for your two-way patriotism,’ Jacob muttered.

The FSB director answered immediately. ‘We are at least giving him a chance. That is more than the British government ever did for you, is it not?’

Jacob stood up. Already his mind was turning over. Getting to England would not be child’s play. He didn’t want to risk a fake Russian passport with UK immigration. If the alert had gone out about him, his likeness would have been distributed to all the ports of entry. No. He’d have to do something different. Get entry to another country using false papers and make his own arrangements from there.’