Moscow, Russia
Jay Lindegaard stepped into the hospital room and closed the door softly. He turned around and looked at the young woman lying on the bed in front of him. Her eyes were shut. White sheets were draped neatly over her body, covering her all the way up to her shoulders, her arms resting on top. There was a cannula in the top of her hand, the connecting tube winding up to the clear plastic bag suspended high above the bed. The heart monitor on the opposite side beeped away, the blips regular and calm, the peaks on the machine’s screen shallow and consistent.
Lindegaard stared at her. He couldn’t help but think how stunning her face was, even without make-up, even after the ordeal she’d been through. He was a proud man. Proud of her. He had his faults, sure. Who didn’t? He knew he was crass, arrogant, a bully if truth be told. He got all that. It was, in his eyes, what made him so effective at his job. But he was also fiercely loyal. To his country. To his family.
All he’d ever wanted to do was work hard making a living to protect those interests. The CIA was of course where he could put his strengths and values to best use. He’d worked for the CIA for God knows how many years – his first and only employer. Lindegaard saw it as a mutually beneficial relationship. His role at the JIA? That was something else.
The JIA’s existence was a necessity. In the modern world, the secrecy of the CIA was no longer secret enough. There were too many laws and rules by which its employees needed to live, and too much scrutiny from government, the press and the outside world for it to operate freely like it had done in the past. The JIA was a step further removed. A step further from prying eyes. In many ways, it was exactly the organisation Lindegaard wanted to be involved with.
Yet he’d always felt uncomfortable about his role as one of the four members of the JIA committee – effectively the four men who had the final say over everything that happened at the organisation. There was something about the way the JIA worked that didn’t quite sit well with Lindegaard.
Perhaps it was the fact that control of the JIA was shared between the US and its biggest ally, the UK. Maybe it was simply the people he had encountered since working with the JIA. They were … well. Just not CIA. Just not quite American enough for him.
Lindegaard snapped out of his thoughts and moved over toward the window. He pulled the thin blue curtains together, blocking out the bright sun that had been shining through and had heated the room to a beyond comfortable temperature. Then he turned and headed to the simple armchair next to the bed. As he slouched down onto the seat, she murmured and wriggled, then opened her eyes.
He continued to sit, staring at her face, waiting to see whether she would drift back off or come around. After a few moments, she turned her head toward him, grimacing with pain as she did so. Her eyes registered surprise when she saw who her visitor was.
‘Uncle?’ she said.
‘Hi, sweetie. Sorry. I thought you were sleeping.’
He spoke to her in English. His Russian was patchy at best. Her English was perfect. Better than his even and yet it was his first language.
She shifted her position, trying to sit up. Her face wrinkled in pain. It didn’t appear to him to have been worth the effort – she only managed to move herself a few inches before she gave up.
‘Put me upright, will you?’ she asked.
Lindegaard nodded and leaned forward. He pressed the button on the side of the bed and there was a whirring noise as the back third of it began to creep up, lifting her head and torso.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘How do you think?’ she responded, managing a half-smile.
‘I know, silly question. The doctor said there hadn’t been any complications in surgery, though. You’re going to be fine.’
‘To be honest, that really doesn’t make me feel much better right now.’
‘So, tell me what happened?’
She tutted and closed her eyes for a couple of seconds. ‘I was wondering how long it would take for the pleasantries to wear off.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘You’re not here because you’re concerned about me. You’re just concerned about what might have happened. Concerned about yourself.’
‘Can’t I be concerned about both?’
‘You could be, but I don’t think you are.’
‘Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think then.’
‘Quite frankly, I don’t really care.’
‘I know you don’t mean that.’
She huffed and turned away from him, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Please, just tell me what happened,’ he said, trying his best to sound sincere. ‘We can still get through this. But I have to know what we’re working against.’
‘Logan doesn’t know!’ she snapped.
Lindegaard didn’t say anything for a few moments, waiting to see whether she would add to her blunt answer. She didn’t.
‘You’re sure about that?’ he said.
‘I can’t be one hundred per cent, how could I be? But I can’t believe he wouldn’t have told me, used it against me, if he’d known.’
‘Why do you think he let you live?’
The question hung in the air, the room falling deathly silent except for the hum of the monitor and the bleeps coming from it with every beat of her heart – they were noticeably faster now.
Lindegaard stood up and moved over to the bed. He sat down by her side. The bed was set high and his legs dangled off the side, his feet barely touching the floor. He reached out and pushed a wave of silken hair away from her face.
She’d been shot twice. Once in the shoulder, once in the gut. She’d suffered terribly. She’d very nearly bled to death before the paramedics had got to her. And yet, despite what had happened, her skin and features remained sublime. He gently brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin, noticing the look of unease in her eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered eventually, almost a whimper, her usual confidence and bravado non-existent.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he said.
His hand moved slowly down to her neck, almost caressing. But then, suddenly, he clenched, pushing down hard. His fingers squeezed around her windpipe.
‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’ he said through gritted teeth, pushing his face down only inches from hers.
She began to writhe, slow, awkward movements. There was little strength in her small frame – a combination of her ordeal and the drugs she’d been given. He knew he could quite easily crush the life right out of her. She was entirely helpless. He squeezed harder. Her eyes bulged; her face contorted and turned red.
‘How did you fuck it up?’ he said, feeling the anger building up, channelling it down into his clenched hand.
‘I’m sorry!’ she managed to say through panicked, pained breaths.
‘You can see how this looks, surely? You can see why I’ve got to do this?’
‘Please! Please, stop!’
He ignored her feeble protests, focusing on her cringing and crinkled face as he steadily choked her. He was almost enjoying the moment. But after a few more seconds, he pulled his hand away and then watched curiously as she slowly regained her composure.
As if a switch inside him had suddenly been flicked, Lindegaard’s features quickly softened and he once again began to gently brush her hair with his hand.
‘You look so much like your mother,’ he said, smiling at her.
She sank her head down lower, as if trying to get away from his touch.
‘You’re my niece and I love you,’ he said.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘And we can still get through this. But you have to tell me if there’s anything that could threaten my position. If there’s anything at all that could get in the way.’
‘I would,’ she said. ‘You have to believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ he said, leaning in close. ‘But don’t think for a second I won’t kill you if you’re lying to me.’
She looked away from him and he could see tears forming in her eyes. He wasn’t sure whether they were from sadness or fear. It was unusual to see her so vulnerable, so weak. So emotional. She was usually so strong and in control.
But rather than feeling for her, her weak and emotional demeanour worried him.
He had meant what he said. He did love her. And he wanted to protect her, just as he had vowed to his sister, her mother, that he would all those years ago.
If she had been anyone else, he would have killed her already. For now, he would give her the benefit of the doubt.
But he knew he would have to keep a careful watch on her. She had failed once and who knew what damage that had already caused. And as long as she was stuck in here recuperating, and Carl Logan and Angela Grainger were still out there alive, Lena Belenov, the FSB’s finest, was nothing more than a loose end. A complication.
Without saying another word, Lindegaard got up and headed for the door.