37 Hours

He headed off. His face would be posted at every border crossing, even though he was officially dead. He could easily slip into Afghanistan, but he had no desire to work with the Taliban any more, training them to fight against the Americans. He knew where he must go. The one place they would not look for him, because no one wanted to go there.

Chernobyl.

One of his Special Ops commanders, Borya – who’d saved Vladimir’s life more than once and taught him most of what he knew – had been summoned there back in April 1986. He’d flown those helicopters in and out, in the desperate effort to bury the glowing, split-wide-open reactor core in cement. Borya had been lucky, had lasted longer than most, but cancer got him in the end. His widow still lived there, in one of the surrounding ghost towns.

‘Go see her, Vlad,’ Borya had pleaded. ‘I played the hero, but she will pay the price longer than I.’

He’d not seen Borya again. His funeral had been seven years ago.

Vladimir began walking.

Time to make another man’s choice right.

Part One (#udf8a0755-e809-586a-bcc2-80cc42d1292a)

The Barents Sea

Chapter One (#udf8a0755-e809-586a-bcc2-80cc42d1292a)

Nadia heard the familiar rattles and clanks down the corridor. Steel bar gates unlocked, opened, locked again. Distant footsteps. Coming her way. She stopped her third round of push-ups and sat back on the wooden bench in the cell she’d barely left in almost two years. No visitors, no phone calls, no internet, no television, no papers. Books occasionally, classics. Minimal human contact.

They kept her in the dark, because they still weren’t convinced she’d given up all her secrets, and had classified her ‘need to know’ status as zero. They kept her hidden, afraid she’d talk about the Rose, and shame the British government over what it had created and almost let loose on its own kingdom. Afraid she’d let the public know they’d narrowly dodged a nuclear war with Russia. The government could invoke plausible deniability. Just another foiled conspiracy. But it wasn’t over. Cheng Yi was dead, but the unknown client was still out there. The threat was still real.

He would try again.

Maybe they’d keep her there for good. She’d killed two people. The world was better off without them, but British justice took a dim view of unlawful killing. British justice… She’d not seen a lawyer, nor been charged as far as she was aware. No visitors. She tried not to reopen that particular can of tarantulas; it never helped.

In the first six months, the thought of someone visiting her, Jake, maybe, or Katya, kept her going. But after a year the pain became unbearable. Nobody came. Nobody cared. And so she worked out, she read, and the rest were just bodily functions. She often sang the Cossack lullaby before lights out, just to practise using her voice, and to reach out to her older sister who used to sing it to her when they were young, soothing her while their parents screamed at each other downstairs. Nadia prayed Katya was all right, and comforted herself that above all, Katya was a survivor.

The sounds drew nearer, the telltale rattle of iron keys on a large ring. She knew the routine. She wiped sweat from her forehead with a mouldy towel, and stood to attention at the end of her cot, next to the washbasin. No mirror, no glass anywhere, a metal sink and lavatory in the corner. Light filtered through the misted glass and steel bars. She faced the solid metal door. Maybe she’d get coffee today. It would be cold, but that didn’t matter.

Footsteps grew closer. Two sets, not one. Another routine medical inspection? There hadn’t been an interrogation for months. Jake’s ice-bitch ex-lover and current boss, Lorne, had come regularly in the first nine months, until she could extract nothing new. Initially Nadia had played tough, until Lorne showed her photos of Ben’s funeral – the man who had helped her so much in the Scillies, yet asked for nothing in return – whereupon she’d cracked and told Jake’s MI6 handler everything she knew.

Lorne informed Nadia she would receive no visitors, because no one knew where she was: some British military high-security facility. Probably not even on the books. Nadia doubted anyone would visit even if they did know, after what had happened back in the Isles of Scilly. Unless it was to spit in her face, something she’d welcome after two years of solitary. But Jake must have known, and yet he never came. That was a kick in the stomach. And inevitably, she’d become angry. Now, after two years, it had cemented into a deep resentment. She might just lash out at the first unfortunate soul who came to see her.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A double-clank as the deadbolts retracted. A small scratchy noise as someone slid the latch and peered through the glass eyehole. The door didn’t open. Nadia stayed absolutely still. Come on, you bastards, give me my bloody breakfast! The routines of each day were sacrosanct, propping up her sanity. Still the door didn’t open. Voices, muffled, she couldn’t make anything out. A high-pitched cry, female, stifled.

Nadia was suddenly gripped by panic. What if they were going to kill her? Take her outside, shoot her and bury her? Nobody would know; no one would care. She clenched her teeth and fists, suppressed the fear. This was England, not Russia. But her arms and legs tensed like coiled springs, just in case.

The heavy door swung open slowly. She smelled her sister Katya before she saw her, the perfume she knew so well. Katya walked around the door, into full view, tears sliding down her cheeks as she held out her arms.

‘God, Nadia, I’m sorry it took so long.’

But Nadia was already in her arms, squeezing her, gripping her, two years of pent-up emotions erupting. The anger fled, chased away by a deluge of relief. She shook so much she couldn’t speak. Katya whispered soothing noises while the guard waited patiently. Nadia’s face was wet, like the rain she hadn’t felt in two years. She gathered herself, knowing this visit would be kept short. She wiped her eyes and cheeks, and spoke to her sister urgently, taking in every line of her face, details she might have to remember and savour for another two years.

‘How long can you stay?’ Nadia asked. ‘How long have we got?’

Katya bit her lip then pulled Nadia’s face tight to her chest, struggling to get the words out. ‘Time to come home, my Cossack,’ she said.

Nadia’s legs gave way.

***

Nadia gazed through the scratched plane window the whole flight. Not surprising after almost two years with only a barred window with frosted glass. She couldn’t help herself when they rose above the clouds, so her sister Katya held her while the tears came.

A tall man wrapped in a heavy wool overcoat sat in the row in front. He’d been waiting in the car for them outside the military facility. He had a square, black beard and fierce dark brown eyes topped by bushy eyebrows. On the back of his left hand was a tattoo of a hawk, wings spread wide, as if hovering above prey. He occupied two business class seats: on the second one sat his briefcase.

When they’d passed through customs he’d shown a diplomatic passport, so the briefcase hadn’t been scanned. But when he carried it she noted from the way he leaned slightly that it must be very heavy. He didn’t turn around once during the three-hour flight from Heathrow to Moscow. No doubt he had been the one who had gotten her released, a favour in return for Katya’s sexual attentions, perhaps. Nadia sensed he had plans for her as well. Whatever they were, she didn’t want any part of them.

London’s busiest airport had been a nightmare. Luckily Katya had thought ahead and brought dark sunglasses Nadia could barely see through, and an iPod with serious noise-cancelling headphones, blaring out the latest Russian clubbing anthems. Nadia didn’t crave dancing or nightlife. No excitement, thank you. Just an open field, or mountains. To lie down somewhere – anywhere – and watch the sky. To feel the naked sun, wind and rain on her face.

But she needed to know. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, nodding forwards.

‘Bransk,’ Katya answered, a sparkle in her eyes.

Nadia hoped her sister hadn’t sacrificed too much. ‘Is he…a good man?’

Katya’s face hardened. ‘Men are what men are.’

Nadia dropped it, and stared out the window during the descent into Moscow, wondering if she and Katya could finally have some normality. But as they passed through the cloud layer, the world below was grey and full of shadows, and Cheng Yi’s last words came back to her, when he had talked of the client.

‘He is blind, but can see. Water and air are the same to him. He will find you in the darkness. You will not hear him when he comes for you.’

She felt a shiver and reached for Katya’s hand. A thought struck her, something she’d not considered until now. That maybe she’d been kept hidden away in solitary for her own protection. Who would have – or even could have – done that? There was only one person.

Jake.

***

They hung around the baggage carousel in Sheremetyevo airport, but their luggage never arrived. An official walked up to Bransk, flashed a badge, and invited them all into an office with mirrored windows, then left them there. A minute later a group of armed military entered, a straight-backed colonel with a peaked military cap, three gold stars and two red bars on the sleeve of his olive green uniform. He was blond-haired with glacier-blue eyes, and had a boyish face, his cheeks soft and slightly flushed. He looked too young to be a colonel. He was flanked by a striking female lieutenant, a green-eyed brunette whose beauty rivalled Katya’s, and three fully armed commandos.

Nadia didn’t wish to be incarcerated again. The idea of launching a chair at the mirrored glass, diving through it and making her escape flickered through her mind. But how far would she get? She moved behind Bransk, then noticed the sixth member of the group: a man in a grey polo-neck sweater, black leather pants and matching full-length leather coat. On one sleeve was a military insignia: three gold stars and two gold bars. Naval captain. He carried a fur Ushanka hat in his hand, goat-black like his hair, a Soviet-style red star on it.

She wasn’t sure, but didn’t think that was regulation. He had an air of casual authority, as if he was the leader of this meeting. He took a measured look at Bransk, an appreciative and lingering glance at Katya, as any man would. Then his eyes locked on to Nadia, and didn’t budge.

‘Mr Bransk,’ said the young-looking colonel. ‘We have a situation.’

‘Just Bransk.’

It was the first time she’d heard Bransk speak. Talk about a tombstone voice. Yet she couldn’t figure him out – businessman with a diplomatic passport, and the military being almost deferential to him. Questions for Katya later.

The colonel nodded towards Nadia. ‘Is she fit for duty?’

‘What kind of duty?’ Bransk answered.

‘Wait just a minute,’ Nadia began.

But the colonel ignored her, addressing Bransk. ‘As I said, we have a situation requiring…specialised work.’