Sentinel (30 page)

Will pulled away from the street, desperately trying to work out what to do. Even if he fired shots at them, he would draw only a few of the two hundred or so troops toward him. Roger was right. The situation was hopeless. He glanced again into the street containing the soldiers and his team. He spoke to his men. “I’m sorry. Stop fighting. We’ve failed. Surrender to them.”

There was silence for a while.

Then Roger spoke to his comrades. “Switch your comms systems to any other channel and smash the kit so that they can’t monitor William and Korina. No matter what the soldiers do to you, keep your mouths shut.”

A few more seconds passed before Markov shouted out words in Russian. Then he walked out of a doorway, his hands placed on his head. Laith appeared from another doorway and tossed his handgun onto the street. Roger moved into view from behind a vehicle, his arms outstretched, his palms facing the soldiers, blood dripping from one of the limbs. Vitali came to his side, arms high in the air, and shouted more words at the soldiers. The troops and police moved close to the four men; all of them had their weapons pointed at the team. One of the cops barked instructions at them. Roger got to his knees; then the rest of the team followed suit. The troops rushed forward. As they did so, Roger looked toward Will and smiled.

The police and soldiers grabbed the men, wrenched their arms behind their backs, and placed plastic handcuffs on each of them. A soldier smashed the butt of his rifle into Laith’s head, causing the CIA officer to crash back to the ground, his head now a bloody mess. Another jabbed the muzzle of his gun into Markov’s gut, forcing the Spetsnaz operative to double over and vomit. A police officer wearing captain tabs stepped forward, shouting at the soldiers, clearly berating them for their brutality. Some of the troops and cops grabbed the team and yanked them to their feet. At the far end of the street, a four-ton military truck pulled up. The captain pointed at it and shouted orders. Will’s team was slowly walked toward it, hands gripping them, the rest of the army and police units continuing to point their weapons at the joint Russian-American intelligence unit. As they were placed into the back of the truck, Will looked at his men one last time, knowing that they would be imprisoned, brutally tortured, and executed.

He turned away from the street, feeling sick, and more than anything wishing it was himself rather than his team who had been caught. Secreting his gun, he turned and walked. His face smarted from the bullet wound, but he didn’t care.

Snow fell faster. The air grew colder. He passed pedestrians who were now reemerging onto the streets and were calling to one another, ignoring him and pointing in the direction of Novokuznetskaya Ulitsa. Men, women, children, old and young.

He heard Korina’s voice in his earpiece, telling him where she was, telling him what to do. With every step he took toward her location, his stomach tightened and cramped.

He had one remaining option to capture Razin. But the thought of taking it repulsed him.

Chapter Thirty-seven

T
hey were driving south, away from Moscow, and had been on the road for two hours. Korina was in the driver’s seat; Will was next to her. It was midmorning, though the sky was dark and the snowfall heavy.

Will had no idea where Korina was headed. He had not bothered to ask her as he did not care. He just sat in silence, feeling sick with failure. During the journey, the scenery had changed from urban to suburban, and now they were moving through forested countryside. As Will looked at his surroundings, he knew that ordinarily the snow-covered trees and rolling hills would seem pretty. But right now he could only imagine how the countryside around him would look in a devastating war.

Korina slowed her vehicle and turned off onto a thin track that took them into the forest. She drove for another ten minutes before stopping in front of a large eighteenth-century house. She glanced at Will. “My father’s house. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

Will got out of the car and retrieved his bag and Bergen rucksack from the open trunk. Grabbing her bag, Korina approached the front door, tried the handle, realized it was locked, and looked at Will. “Stay here.” She disappeared around the side of the building, returning a minute later. “Dad always kept a spare key hidden in the shed.” Korina unlocked the door and stepped into the building. Will followed her.

He walked through a wide hallway containing gold-framed paintings, passed the base of a majestic, red-carpeted staircase alongside a study, a large kitchen which had a breakfast table set for six, and into a big open-plan dining and lounge area. At one end of the room was a Bechstein grand piano, lying on its surface were a violin and bow, and fixed in a stand next to it was a cello. Korina moved beyond an ornate oak dining table topped by a candelabra, stopping by a sumptuous leather three-piece suite, dropped her bag on the floor, and slumped into one of the armchairs.

She tousled her hair with both hands and looked around. “I haven’t been here for a while, but nothing’s changed. I still pay Dad’s cleaner to come in once a week, and I even keep the freezer and cupboards stocked with food in case—well, I don’t know why.” She nodded toward the instruments. “When I was a girl, Dad would accompany my violin recitals.” She half smiled, though the look was sad. “I think he tried his best to make me into a true lady, but in the end, he gave up and allowed me to pursue my own path.” Her smile faded. “But it must have been hard for him to see his little girl be like that.”

Will nodded slowly, looking around. There were photographs on the walls, and, after dropping his Bergen and travel bag, he walked up to them. One of the shots was of a younger Korina; she looked to be in her early twenties. She was wearing an army uniform and had tabs showing she was a junior lieutenant.

Handwritten, in black ink in one corner of the photo, were some words in Cyrillic:

To my dear Korina, I am so proud of you.

Korina called out, “It was taken on the day of my graduation from the GRU training academy.” Her voice grew quieter. “Even though Dad was shocked at my career choice, he seemed so proud of me on that day.” She said in a louder voice, “I need to look at your injury.”

Will was about to speak, but Korina wagged her finger, got to her feet, and walked to him. Grabbing his hand, she said, “The house contains plenty of medical supplies.” She walked him out of the room, up the red-carpeted stairs, and into a big bathroom. Turning her back on him, she removed some items from a wall cabinet and placed them by the sink. Then she took off her jacket and blouse to reveal a white tank top and stuck a cigarette in her mouth. After lighting the cigarette, she washed her hands, grabbed some implements, and moved to him. “Sit on the floor, please.”

“I can dress the wound myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” Korina said while clenching her cigarette between her teeth. “Or you can allow me to do it. You choose.”

Will looked at her for a while before lowering himself to the ground.

Korina crouched opposite him, carefully rubbed disinfectant-doused cotton wool swabs over the cut on his face, used more of them to wash away the caked blood around the injury, and finally applied butterfly Band-Aids to close the wound. “It will still scar.”

Will got to his feet, and so did Korina. She moved back to the sink, extinguished her cigarette, stripped out of her tank top and bra, and filled the sink with hot water. With her back to Will, she began washing. “I’ll bathe properly this evening. But first I want to prepare you some food, and I can’t do that without a wash.” She applied soap to her body before cupping her hands and splashing water to rinse herself. Grabbing a hand towel, she turned to face Will and stood still. Water from her naked upper body dripped down to the waistband of her pants.

Will looked at her face, her long black hair, her slender arms and shoulders, and her full breasts. He stood still as she walked up to him, dropped the towel on the floor, and wrapped her arms around him.

Bringing her lips close to his, Korina whispered, “Vitali and Markov will not break in interrogation, but it’s a matter of GRU record that I requisitioned them from their Spetsnaz unit. That means the FSB has issued a warrant to arrest me.” She raised a hand to his face and gently brushed her fingers against his cheek. “Unless I can get out of Russia, my life is over.” She pulled him right against her body, kissing him fully on the lips, holding him tight, pressing her breasts against his body.

For the briefest of moments, Will wanted to forget about everything, to hold on to Korina, to lift her body and cradle her in his arms, to take her to a bedroom and gently lower her onto the bed. Instead, he pulled away from her and said, “Get dressed.”

Korina frowned; her eyes moistened. “I thought—” She stared at him for a while before grabbing the towel from the floor, positioning it over her chest, and shaking her head. Her expression now held anger. “I was stupid.”

Will sighed. “No.” Momentarily he looked away from her, silently cursing himself. Then he locked his gaze back onto her. “I need to freshen up and get into clean clothes. Then I’ll help you cook.”

H
aving bathed and changed into his clean arctic warfare clothes and combat boots, Will walked into the kitchen. Korina was there, defrosting a whole chicken and prepacked vegetables in a microwave. She gathered the food together and laid it out on a large bench.

Staring at it, she muttered, “I now realize that I’ve never cooked for a man before.” She kept looking at the food and seemed uncertain what to do.

Will moved to her side, ignited the adjacent gas burner, placed a deep frying pan onto it, and reached for a large kitchen knife and chopping board. Expertly, he peeled and diced shallots and tossed them into the pan with olive oil and butter. Then he deboned and portioned the chicken, pan-fried it with crushed garlic, pepper, and finely chopped herbs, splashed red wine into the pan, and allowed the alcohol to burn off before tasting the liquid and adding some salt and sugar.

He looked at Korina. “It’s not five-star cuisine, but it will work with rice or potatoes.”

Korina looked surprised. “It looks and smells better than anything I could have prepared. Where did you learn to cook?”

Will shrugged. “For one of my lessons at school I had to choose between metalwork and cookery. I opted for the latter because I knew I’d be the only boy in a classroom of teenage girls.” He smiled. “It gave me certain advantages.”

Thirty minutes later they were sitting at the dining table and eating their meal in silence. Korina looked distracted and unsettled. When they finished, she looked out of the window and muttered, “I need some air. Will you join me?”

As they walked into the spacious garden, the snowfall was lighter, though large flakes still drifted slowly through the air. They reached a big oak tree. Hanging from one of its branches was a child’s swing. Korina sat on it and looked at the snow-covered ground. “My father loved his country but secretly hated the way it was being run. He believed that after the collapse of communism, Russia was supposed to be a better place. Instead he felt it had become a breeding ground for the worst excesses of capitalism, for mad dogs who would do anything to make money. Over the last few years, I’ve seen that his views are right.”

Will watched her for a while, staying silent, before moving in front of her. “So that’s how my MI6 colleague got you. He discovered that, like your father, you hated your country’s regime.”

I
t was evening. Will was alone in the dining room, emptying the contents of his rucksack onto the large table. He realized that it had been packed for a Spetsnaz man to operate in harsh, rugged terrain. Carefully, he laid out two mountaineering ice axes, vertical-framed steep-ice crampons, a small spade, a pure down sleeping bag, inner and outer gloves, thermal tops, a white fleece jacket, a fleece-lined woolen hat, tactical goggles, waterproof pants, a compass, a first-aid kit, and a military knife. He stripped down and reassembled the workings of his AS Val assault rifle, attached the sound suppressor, checked his MR-445 Varjag pistol, unpacked and repacked magazine clips, and tested the tactical communications systems that he and Korina had used in Moscow earlier in the day.

Korina came in, barefoot and dressed in loose flannel pants and a baggy V-necked sweater with nothing underneath. Her hair was damp; she smelled of shampoo and soap. Moving to the fireplace, she put firelighters, twigs, and logs onto the grate and struck a match to get the fire burning. At the liquor cabinet, she poured large slugs of Château de Beaulon cognac into two big brandy glasses and handed one of the glasses to Will before taking a seat on the floor in front of the fire.

She took a gulp of the spirit and looked at him. “You call him Sentinel; I know him as Gabriel. I’ve always known it’s not his real name, just as William’s not yours, but that’s never mattered to me.” She glanced at the fire, wafted the cognac under her nose, and took another gulp of the liquid. As the fire crackled, its flames cast flickering light over her face. “Of course, I don’t know the identity of his other Russian agents, but I bet they all think about him in the same way that I do. He gives us so much hope.”

Will sipped his drink slowly, his gaze fixed on Korina. “He’ll crack under torture very soon. And when he does, there’s something you need to know. He’ll call and ask to meet you. He’s going to do the same with two other agents. Then Taras will try to kill all of you.”

Korina looked shocked. “I—”

Will held up a hand. “I’m not going to let you get anywhere near Razin. As soon as I get the time and location of the meeting, I’ll go there alone and watch the place.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

Korina looked sharply at him. “I’m a professional intelligence officer. I don’t need to sit here doing nothing.”

Will sighed. “It’s too risky.”

“So is staying here! GRU or FSB could come looking for me here while you’re away. Plus”—she placed her glass on the floor, spilling some of its contents—“Taras killed my father. I want to be there.” She stared straight at Will. “I’m
going
to be there.”