Volgograd Oblast, Russia
Logan stared into the distance, squinting his eyes as though it would help him make out the dark road ahead. They were travelling on a single track lit only by the headlights of the car and the dim moonlight reflecting off the snow on the pine trees and in large mounds at the side of the road.
Traffic was sparse and they had gone for miles at a time without seeing another vehicle. Every time a car approached in the opposite direction, both of them would hold their breath, the tension in the car rising to bursting point as they waited for an attack to come. So far, every car had simply disappeared into the blackness behind them.
‘Where will we go?’ Grainger asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Logan responded, not taking his eyes off the darkness in front. ‘We have to get out of Russia first.’
‘Is there anywhere safe we can go? Anybody or anywhere in Russia you know that you could take us to?’
‘Right now, I don’t think there’s anyone, anywhere I could trust.’
‘There must be someone.’
Logan had been racking his brain for hours. He’d been on missions to Russia before. To many of the surrounding countries too. Along the way, he’d worked with various people: a small number of other JIA agents, with double agents, informants. But there was no one he’d become close to, or stayed in contact with. That just wasn’t the way the JIA worked, and it certainly wasn’t the way Logan worked.
But he knew he needed help. They were being hunted on multiple fronts. Following his escape from his prison cell in Siberia, Logan had been tricked into luring Mackie to his death. He’d been set up for murder. Someone had betrayed him and there was no one left he could trust, it seemed. Not long after Mackie had been killed, the JIA had stripped Logan of his identity, his possessions. Now, neither he nor Grainger had anything in the world except the clothes they were wearing, the car, the gun stashed in Logan’s waistband and the wallets he’d stolen from the bodies of the dead CIA agents outside Grainger’s apartment. What they had was enough to keep them safe and on the run for a few days if they kept their heads low and stayed in the shadows. But then what?
A thought struck Logan, a saying that had come to mind when he’d first learned of the deal the FSB and the CIA had struck to kill Grainger: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
He didn’t need to find someone he could trust. All he needed was someone who was willing to work against his enemies.
And in his time, he’d certainly come across a few people who fitted that criteria.
Logan looked down. The fuel indicator on the car was edging closer and closer to empty. They had no map, no GPS, but Logan knew they were still bearing south because of the position of the moon and stars he glimpsed every now and then through the thin clouds. There were also sporadic road signs that gave the names of larger towns many hundreds of miles in the distance. Volgograd – one of the largest cities in Russia and the site of famous battles during World War Two when it was known as Stalingrad – was a little under two hundred miles away.
Logan didn’t want to go there, but he knew that as long as they were closing the distance to the city, then they were still heading south, away from Moscow and edging closer to the border. But there couldn’t have been more than fifty miles left in the tank. So when they spotted a sign indicating a petrol station a mile further ahead, Logan was both relieved and suddenly filled with tension.
‘We have to stop here,’ Grainger said. ‘We’ll not make it to another one.’
‘I know,’ Logan said. ‘Let’s just hope it’s still open.’
The time was just short of two in the morning. Given how quiet the road was, Logan thought it likely that the place would be shut. As it was, the service station was positioned just off a junction with a larger carriageway running overhead and so was open twenty-four hours a day. Despite its proximity to the other road, it was just a solitary petrol station with a small, plain building – no shops or other amenities like you would find on a major motorway. Logan was pleased about that.
He drove the car up to one of the pumps and turned off the engine, then opened the door and stepped out into the bitter night. A blast of cold air smacked against his face and he shivered as he looked up at the pump’s display. When the numbers were set to zero, he began to fill up. By the time the tank was full, he was shivering vigorously. He put the nozzle back onto the stand and walked toward the building, where he could see a solitary worker standing on the other side of the window.
Inside, Logan grabbed some refreshments before heading to the teller. Behind the desk, both detailed road maps and GPS units were for sale. The maps would be cheaper but they only covered certain parts of Russia. And he wasn’t planning on staying much longer.
‘How much is the GPS?’ Logan asked in Russian, which he could speak fluently, albeit with a slight accent that would tell any native that Logan wasn’t.
The man turned and pointed to the three choices in turn, giving Logan a brief description as to why one was more expensive than the other. It was the mid-priced one that Logan wanted. The one that had the most extensive pre-loaded maps. But he wasn’t sure the paltry cash he had would stretch.
He took out everything he had and began to count out the notes onto the teller’s desk. By the time he got down to coins, he was still two hundred roubles short. He’d hoped the cash he had would last a few days. He was hungry and thirsty, but he knew over the coming days the GPS unit would be more valuable than snack food. And he would just have to hope that the full tank of petrol would take them at least over the border, because they wouldn’t get the chance to fill up again before then unless they came across more money.
In the end, Logan put back some of the food and settled the balance with the teller, leaving the shop with less than a hundred roubles in his pocket.
As he approached the car, Grainger wound down her window, a questioning look on her face. Logan didn’t say anything, just dumped the goods down onto her lap through the open window.
‘Take a look back where we came from,’ Grainger said, peering into the wing mirror next to her, her warm breath clouding around her face as she spoke.
Logan didn’t respond. He continued around to the front of the car, eyes fixed down the dark, unlit road. His hand was on the door when he spotted a glint in the distance. He stood still, searching the darkness. He spotted it again when a large truck thundered past on the overhead carriageway behind him, its wide beams catching and reflecting off the distant metallic object.
He looked through the car window at Grainger, who nodded at him.
It was just as she’d said it would be.
And that was why he’d already guessed what the object was when the bright white headlights of the vehicle were turned on and the growling engine of the four-by-four was brought to life.
Logan stood motionless, waiting, calculating, as the vehicle, fifty yards in the distance, lurched away from where it had been hidden, heading toward him.
When it was caught in the light of the petrol forecourt, Logan wasn’t at all surprised to see what type of vehicle it was: a gleaming, black BMW X5. The exact same type of vehicle that Lena and her men had driven to the exchange with the CIA in Moscow.
Logan knew even before the car came to a screeching halt just five yards from him, the front passenger opening his door, gun in hand, pointed toward Logan, that the occupants had been tailing them. And that they were from the FSB.