Anatoly Bogdanov, seated alone at a table for two, leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. Rather than eating at one of the hotel’s restaurants, he had ventured out for dinner tonight, selecting the most expensive restaurant in the city. The meal was exquisite and well worth the price: terrine of quail breast with shiitake mushrooms to start, followed by veal medallions in raspberry truffle sauce, then sea scallops with pureed artichoke hearts. He had skipped dessert, since he was carrying several extra pounds and had decided to shed the weight. As a new—and wealthy—bachelor in Sochi, he was certain there would be a few attractive women vying for his attention, and getting into shape wouldn’t hurt.
After leaving the restaurant, he returned to his hotel, not far away. Upon entering the lobby, his attention was immediately drawn to two persons at the counter: a tall Arab woman and a well-built Caucasian man. What caught his eye was that both of them locked their gaze on to him almost simultaneously.
He turned around and stepped back onto the sidewalk, increasing his pace. He glanced over his shoulder to spot the man and woman exit the hotel, then head in his direction.
His pulse began racing. Somehow, he had been tracked down, and he wondered whether he was being followed by Russian authorities or mercenaries hired by the American to eliminate loose ends. Either way, he had to give them the slip, followed by a trip to someplace far away. South America sounded like an excellent idea after all.
Bogdanov glanced over his shoulder again. The man and woman were catching up.
As he passed a dark opening along the street, he bolted into the alley. He had no idea where it led, but there wasn’t time to formulate a plan; he’d have to make things up as he went.
The man and woman were sprinting down the alley behind him, and by the sound of their footsteps, were gaining on him.
Ahead, a brick wall loomed. He had charged into a dead end.
The wall was only three meters tall, though, so he gave it a go. He jumped and got a grip on the top with both hands, then struggled to pull himself over as the man and woman closed the distance. With one final heave, he got his hips over the top and he spilled onto the ground on the other side. After pushing himself to his feet, he sprinted down the alley. His lungs were burning and his legs felt like rubber, but the adrenaline coursing through his body kept him going.
Behind him, the man had been in the lead, but the woman was over the wall first, leaping over the top like a freakin’ cat. The man followed, catching up to the woman, while both gained on him. It was obvious he was going to lose this footrace.
Up ahead was a building being renovated, illuminated by a string of construction bulbs dangling from the exterior. He broke through the yellow barrier tape into the unfinished ground floor, disappearing into the darkness shortly after entering. He stopped behind a column to catch his breath, peering around it as the man and woman entered the building. Each was silhouetted by the alley lights; both had a pistol drawn and one went left while the other moved right.
As Bogdanov’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he examined the rest of the ground floor. It looked like he was in the lobby of an old hotel. He searched for exits, but found only one—the entrance he had come through. He debated whether to hide in the building or keep moving, then decided on the latter. Much of the building interior had been torn out, leaving nowhere he could successfully hide if the man or woman passed nearby. His only hope was to leave through the entrance unnoticed.
The lobby between him and the alley was fairly well lit from the construction lights, and he had to choose between a quick dash into the alley or a slow, stealthy journey across the floor. Neither the man nor woman were visible; they must have moved deeper into the building.
He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, then took a few tentative steps toward the alley, doing his best to move silently. He was halfway across the open space when a man’s voice reached out to him.
“Stop where you are,” the man said in Russian.
He stopped and turned toward the voice, spotting the man with a pistol pointed at him. He heard movement behind him and turned as the woman raised her pistol toward him as well.
Bogdanov raised his hands. “Don’t shoot!”
Harrison was about to approach the man when an uneasy feeling swept over him; alarms were going off in the back of his mind. He scanned the surroundings for anything amiss, his eyes settling on Khalila, who was staring at him. It was then that he noticed Khalila’s aim was off by a few degrees. Her pistol wasn’t pointed at Bogdanov, it was aimed at him.
He pieced everything together in a split second. He had learned too much. During the meeting with the first Syrian arms dealer, Khalila had revealed she wasn’t an ordinary woman—she had some sort of status in the Arab world. He recalled Kendall’s words the day they met at Langley—Be careful while working with Khalila. Her partners have a habit of ending up dead.
Khalila’s arm was extended, her pistol aimed at him, but she hadn’t pulled the trigger. As he wondered why, he saw the indecision in her eyes.
Harrison considered adjusting his aim and neutralizing Khalila with a bullet in her firing shoulder, which should provide enough time to subdue her. But if he swung his pistol toward her, she’d be forced to decide and would likely pull the trigger. Harrison concluded the better option was to talk his way out.
“I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done, Khalila; only whether you’re well trained and that you’ve got my back. I’m certain of the first. What about the second?”
Khalila didn’t answer, and he could tell she was struggling with her decision.
“If you shoot,” Harrison said, “you had better take me out with the first bullet.”
Bogdanov interjected. “It looks like you two have some things to work out. I don’t want to complicate things, so I’ll be on my way.”
Harrison replied in Russian with his eyes still on Khalila, “Take one step and I’ll put a bullet in both knees.”
Bogdanov raised his palms in a placating gesture. “I’m happy right here.”
Harrison addressed Khalila again. “Make up your mind.”
Khalila’s aim remained steady, but a sheen of perspiration had formed on her face.
Maxim Anosov and two other men surged into the building, pistols drawn. When they saw that Khalila and Harrison had the situation in hand, with Bogdanov pinned between them, they holstered their weapons.
Khalila did the same, slipping her pistol into the shoulder holster inside her business suit, then retreated deeper into the building, disappearing into the darkness.
“Well done, Harrison,” Anosov said. “One of my men spotted your pursuit and we got here as soon as possible. We’ll take it from here.”
The other two men approached Bogdanov, each grabbing an arm. They escorted him toward the exit as a van pulled up outside the hotel. A side door slid open, shutting again once Bogdanov and the two men were inside.
Anosov looked around, presumably for Khalila, who was nowhere to be found.
“Join us at the safe house,” he said, then he jumped into the passenger seat of the van, which turned around and headed toward the main street.
Harrison searched the surroundings for Khalila, spotting her in the shadows, seated on a worn bench pushed up against the wall, bent over with her face in her hands. He started toward her, his pistol still drawn. As he approached, Khalila gave no indication she noticed. He stopped in front of her and she still didn’t acknowledge his presence. After evaluating how best to proceed, he holstered his weapon and sat beside her.
Khalila still had her face in her hands, and Harrison noticed her slow, steady breathing.
“Look at me, Khalila.”
She sat up, placing her back against the wall. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but there didn’t appear to be any emotion on her face; just the glint of her eyes, focused on him.
Harrison had already decided he wasn’t going to work with Khalila again. But he needed to ensure he made it back to the U.S. alive, and without being forced to kill her along the way.
“I don’t have a beef with you, Khalila. There’s a saying, ‘What happens on travel, stays on travel.’ I intend to follow that rule while working with you. Anything I learn about you is no one else’s business. Your secrets are safe with me. In return, I need to be able to trust you; know that you’ve got my back.”
There was no visible reaction from Khalila, who said nothing as she stared at him.
“Deal?” Harrison asked, extending his hand to shake on it.
After a long moment, Khalila nodded, then stood and walked away, leaving Harrison with an outstretched hand.
He closed it into a fist.