The Gulfstream was ready. The team walked across the tarmac to the idling jet with their black holdalls packed. They boarded the plane and took their seats, ready for take-off.
Pope looked around the cabin. ‘Where’s the bloody bar?’
‘You think Gilmore’s going to let us drink?’ Baptiste replied.
‘A pint’s not gonna make a difference,’ said Pope. ‘Settles the nerves.’
‘Why, Bambi, you nervous?’ Rios asked.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Pope said, throwing his weight into a seat. Suddenly his eyes lit up. ‘Peanuts,’ he said, finding a packet left behind on a side table. ‘You little ripper.’
As Pope tore into the packet, Driver found a seat by the window. She slid down low.
Wells appeared on the seat facing her. ‘You okay?’
‘Sure, why?’
‘You seem quiet, since Serik.’
‘I’m tired, aren’t you?’
Wells gazed out of the window. ‘I know what it’s like to have someone taken from you.’
‘We all do,’ Lim said, seated across the aisle. She rested her feet on the seat opposite, pulled down her black baseball cap and closed her eyes.
Driver looked out of the window. Serik was dead. It was what she wanted. So why wasn’t the wound healing?
The wheels of the G8 left the ground. The private jet climbed high into the sky, cutting through a mist of clouds. Traffic shrunk to miniatures on roads circling the airport. The jet banked right and climbed to cruising altitude.
Driver looked around the cabin. Wells appeared to be meditating. Lim slept on command. Rios rocked her head back and forth, earphones plugged in. Baptiste read a tattered French classic, while Pope slept like he’d been hit with a tranquilliser dart, tongue out and peanut crumbs down his front.
Of course, Driver knew the answer to the Serik question. The man who’d driven her to the Russian border and handed her to the SVR wasn’t to blame for Tom’s death. She was. Tom and his SEAL unit wouldn’t have been in Kazakhstan at all if it wasn’t for her relentless pursuit of Serik. Needless to say, a scalp like his would have sent her shooting up the ladder at Langley. Yet her obsession with her damn career had led her down a deep dark hole from which there was no escape. And Tom had paid the ultimate price.
As the plane levelled off above a bed of clouds, Driver rested her head against the seat. She wanted to scream at herself for her own dumb-ass hubris. Sure, they’d let her out of Siberia, but no one was ever truly free of their past.
Driver felt the pain of Tom’s loss like it was the first time. Not wanting to cry in front of the others, she stared out of the window and tried to recall a happier time.
‘Afternoon, ma’am.’
The young military officer on the gate opened the barrier and waved Driver through. She snapped her CIA badge closed and slipped it inside the inside pocket of her black suit jacket.
‘Anyway, back to my point,’ Caroline said over the hands-free. ‘I just think a little romance in your life wouldn’t kill you. At least consider going on a date. Get yourself out there, online—’
‘Tinder, Caroline? Really?’
‘What, it’s against CIA policy?’
‘It’s against my policy,’ Driver said, pulling into her allocated long-stay visitor space. She parked her silver Ford Fusion and transferred the call back to her phone. Caroline continued to make her case as Driver lifted her small black travel case out onto the tarmac. ‘You’re forgetting I’m getting on a plane to Afghanistan,’ she replied.
‘Only for a week,’ Caroline insisted. ‘When you’re back, we’ll set you up a profile.’
Driver stopped mid-stride under a blue Virginian sky. ‘No,’ was her answer.
Caroline sighed on the end of the line. Driver sensed victory, only for her friend from Langley to perk up. ‘How about a little live action, then?’
‘God no.’
‘You’re spending a week working out of a forwarding base,’ Caroline said. ‘Those places are full of buff guys.’
‘I’m not dating a jarhead.’
‘And what the hell’s wrong with a US marine?’ Caroline wailed. ‘You’re such a snob!’
‘I’m not a snob, Caroline. I’m just not interested in anything they have to say.’
Driver continued on her way towards the gun-metal cargo plane, ready and idling across the tarmac of Langley Air Force Base. It was a Boeing C-17, its loading ramp down and a small troop of soldiers in desert fatigues climbing on board.
‘Come on,’ Caroline pleaded. ‘A relationship, with a guy, what’s the worst that could happen?’
Driver stopped by the ramp of the C-17. ‘All right, I’ll make a deal. When I get back, you can create me a profile. But I get to vet every profile.’
‘What are you gonna do, put a wiretap on ’em?’ Caroline replied. ‘Pull their DMV records?’
Driver laughed. ‘I might… See you soon, dear.’
‘Stay safe,’ Caroline said.
Driver ended the call and pulled her case up the ramp. The last thing she had time for was a man in her life. First there were the crazy hours, then the weeks away, then there was the whole cover story thing. Either the boyfriends got needy, they got bored, or they got it on with someone else. The truth was, terrorists and relationships just didn’t mix. She’d made her choice between the two, but try telling Caroline that.
Driver pushed the handle down on her case and carried it between side-facing seats and a long train of cargo secured under netting along the middle of the plane. At the front of the cargo bay were three rows of forward-facing seats. All the spaces were taken by marines, except two side-facing seats on the end of the row to her right.
She parked her case by the end seat and took her place. Dressed in a black trouser suit, heels and a white blouse, Driver stuck out a mile among the all-male troop of soldiers on board, and caught a few inquiring looks for her trouble. It would have been better if she’d had time to change before the drive over from headquarters. Yet it was nothing new to Driver, and it can’t have been the first time a CIA agent hitched a ride to the Middle East.
As she dug for her belt buckle, the ramp of the C-17 rose with a whir and closed with a shunt. Driver finally traced the buckle end of her belt, lying on the seat to her left. She reached to grab it, only for a marine to flop down in the chair. Driver yelped, her wrist caught under the weight of his rear.
He sprung back up to his feet. ‘Shit, sorry.’
‘Look before you drop,’ Driver said rubbing her wrist. She plugged the belt in and pulled it tight.
The marine was tall and handsome, with sandy hair and intense eyes. ‘You been on one of these before?’ he asked.
‘An airplane?’ Driver replied. ‘Yeah.’
‘It can get a little bumpy, just so you know.’
Driver rolled her eyes. ‘Are you always this condescending?’
The marine shrugged. ‘Only when I’m nervous.’
‘Around planes?’
‘Around government suits,’ he said. ‘What are you, State Department?’
Driver reached into her jacket and flashed him her badge.
The soldier fixed her with an irritatingly charming grin. ‘Operations Officer Driver… Do I call you sir or ma’am?’
‘Call me Sam,’ Driver said, fighting the urge to smile. She checked the name on the breast of his uniform. ‘Commander McNeil.’
‘Tom,’ he replied, extending a hand as the plane rumbled along the runway.
Driver put her hand in his as they locked eyes. Was that a spark?
No, she had a rule. No military personnel. No one remotely connected to work. She’d seen it, done it, burned the T-shirt. But damn if she didn’t feel something.
As the C-17 rose into the air, Driver turned into her seat and allowed herself that smile.
It didn’t last. Turbulence snapped her back into the present – a jolting return to a loneliness beyond repair and the thunder of a snoring Pope.
It had been a long time since Driver had held anything resembling an eyeliner in her hand. It felt alien to see herself in anything other than a prison outfit or combat gear. Even the utility wear she’d slipped into for the mission felt strange. So looking at herself in the bathroom mirror of her hotel room was like an out of body experience. There, in the large, lit mirror stood a complete stranger. Her time in prison had done wonders for her hair and skin. Cold water and medical soap had cleared up all the minor ailments she used to fuss and fret over. And that extra inch around her waist? Gone. A natural consequence of boiled cabbage, raw cabbage and when the prison cook was feeling generous, cabbage with an egg.
Driver stared at the stranger in the mirror. Her long blond hair blow-dried and straightened. Her strappy black dress tight to her figure and halfway up her thigh. Smoky eyes, defined cheekbones and lip glossed in a subtle peach.
She slipped on her black high heels and stood tall. Driver would have preferred the security of a Beretta in her silver clutch bag. But where they were going, a pat-down and search were inevitable.
She turned off the bathroom light and left the hotel room, wobbling towards the elevators, once more getting used to the feel of heels. Fortunately for Driver, the corridor was long. Unfortunately, Wells was waiting at the end of it, pushing a button on the elevator.
‘Shit,’ Driver whispered to herself, checking her look as she passed by a large mirror.
Wells stood straight-backed in a dark-blue suit and a crisp, white open-neck shirt. He turned with a beaming white grin. ‘Well hello, Agent Driver.’
Driver flashed a brief, embarrassed smile in return. ‘Shut up.’
She followed Wells into the elevator. As the doors closed and the elevator descended, they stood shoulder to shoulder. There was an uncomfortable silence Driver could have stabbed with the end of a fork. Or perhaps the tension was between her and her own self-consciousness. She tried to think of something to say. But Driver had never been any good at small talk. Even less so after two years in solitary.
Wells straightened his jacket and talked to himself under his breath. ‘Yeah, Sunny, you look damn good in that suit… Oh hey, Sam, thanks for noticing…’
Driver laughed, feeling the tension break. She looked up at Wells. ‘You look very handsome. Happy now?’
‘It would just be nice to be told once in a while,’ Wells said, offering her an arm.
‘Asshole,’ Driver smiled, hooking her arm around his as they stepped out into the lobby.
With her feet feeling their way into her heels, the pair glided across the limestone floor together. They met the others at the hotel entrance beneath a grand, sparkling chandelier. Pope wore a light-grey suit and the same style of shirt as Wells, while Baptiste was more showy in a deep burgundy number complete with waistcoat and black tie, a combination only he could have pulled off.
Driver sized up Lim and Rios. While Lim seemed at home in a white strapless dress sprayed onto her slender figure, Rios tugged awkwardly at a slinky, shimmering gold number.
‘Wow, you all look great,’ Driver said to the group. ‘Even you, Pope.’
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ Pope replied, ogling her in return. ‘You’re a bit of all right when you make an effort.’
Driver sighed. ‘And then you go and open your mouth.’
Pope turned to Lim and Rios. ‘Don’t worry, girls, you’re a couple of fine-looking sheilas as well.’
‘Oh thank God,’ Lim said in mock relief.
‘All right, let’s not keep the night waiting,’ Wells said, leading the way through the front entrance.
They gathered on the kerb as a doorman stepped out into the road. Wells flagged down a cab and opened a passenger door. Baptiste tipped him as he and Driver climbed inside the car. She ran a comms check as the taxi cruised through the rain-slicked streets of St Petersburg. The rest of the team checked in loud and clear from the backs of their own cabs. Gilmore had come good with the new and improved earpieces. Now Driver hoped Baptiste knew Yedmenov as well as he claimed.
The ten-minute journey across town ended in a steep fare and a swanky nightclub called Sugar. Its vertical neon sign glowed in effervescent pink. A line gathered inside a red rope and a pair of bald doormen stood guard. An elegant six-foot woman in a black trouser suit oversaw the admittance of clientele. She held a tablet and a cold look on her face, giving a nod of approval or a shake of the head.
Driver took Baptiste’s arm as they crossed the street, an inch taller than him in heels.
‘You’re making me look short,’ he said in Russian.
‘Sorry, darling,’ Driver replied.
Baptiste nodded in approval. ‘Your accent is pretty good, if a little generic.’
‘Watch it, shorty.’
Baptiste chuckled as they joined the back of the line. Two other cabs pulled up alongside the pavement. Lim and Rios climbed out of one, Pope and Wells the other. Driver saw the others join the queue behind them, keeping a few club-goers in between. The line moved fast. They were soon at the front.
‘On the list?’ the woman with the tablet asked, her thin face glowing in the light of the screen.
Driver knew the drill at these kinds of clubs – the ones with the overpriced drinks and inflated egos. If you weren’t a regular, they had to like the look of you. If they didn’t like the look of you, then you had to be on the list. It was the kind of place she hated. Give her a beer and a bar stool any day of the week.
‘Why would I be on the list?’ Baptiste snorted. ‘I’m a friend of the owner.’
The woman smirked. ‘You and everyone else.’
‘Tell him it’s Yuri Baptiste.’
‘Sorry, not tonight,’ the woman said, returning to her tablet.
One of the doormen unhooked the rope and invited Baptiste and Driver to leave.
‘Fine, I’ll call him.’ Baptiste said, pulling his phone from inside his blazer. ‘But he’s going to be pissed—’
Driver watched as Baptiste scrolled through to an empty contacts list. His thumb hovered over the screen. He looked up at the woman and held her eye. She took out her own phone and made a call. Her back turned, she muttered low into the handset. As she came off the call, her face lit up with a delicate smile, as if she was a whole new person. ‘Apologies, Mr Baptiste, please come in.’
As the doormen stepped aside, the woman smiled at Driver. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
She smiled back as they joined a group of club-goers filing their way in through the entrance. A second team of bouncers patted down the men and searched the handbags of the women.
Driver turned to see Lim and Rios make it through. She figured it was on account of Lim. The woman had the cool air of detachment that knitted perfectly with the trying-not-trying vibe. Whether it was a trained persona or her true character, Driver couldn’t tell. But her instincts told her there was more to Lim than she chose to reveal.
While a doorman checked her handbag, Driver watched Wells and Pope step up to the plate.
‘No,’ the woman with the tablet said.
‘Why not?’ Pope asked in a London accent.
The woman looked Wells up and down. ‘Just no.’
Something told Driver it wasn’t the colour of Wells’ suit that was the problem. But Pope was persistent. ‘You know who this is, love?’
The woman shook her head.
‘It’s only Danny Akibe.’
The woman shrugged.
‘African footballer of the year?’ Pope said.
‘Runner-up,’ Wells added in a Nigerian accent.
‘Runner-up,’ Pope continued. ‘Scored forty goals in the Dutch league last season. He’s just signed for Zenit Saint Petersburg.’
‘Zenit?’ one of the bouncers said, elbowing the other.
‘Yeah, thirty-five million euros,’ Pope continued. ‘Five million quid a year.’
The woman glanced at the doormen. They pleaded with her to let him in, the pair of them obviously huge Zenit fans.
‘Okay, you come in,’ the woman said, as the doormen took out their phones and took photos of Wells.
‘Nice accent,’ Wells remarked as he and Pope caught up to Driver and Baptiste. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Let’s get to the bar,’ the Australian replied, as if sucking on a lemon. ‘I need to wash the Pom out of my mouth.’
It was a busy night inside the club. Hard electronic music thumped out a chugging bass line as the dance floor heaved with rocket-fuelled clubbers. Driver surveyed the scene. There was a pink-lit bar towards the back, adorned with rich men and statuesque women. Above was a large window looking out over the club. It was just as Baptiste had described during their planning session in Geneva.
‘Take your positions,’ she said over the comms.
On her command, the group split up and melted into the crowd. Lim and Rios first, then Pope and Wells, heading for opposite ends of the bar. Driver and Baptiste remained close to the entrance. She leaned into Baptiste’s ear. ‘Are you sure we just wait?’
‘Give it a moment,’ Baptiste said, nodding to a discreet security camera above.
Within seconds, a man as tall as a tree appeared, dressed like a secret service agent. He had a shaved boulder of a head, caveman-era features and a curling wire extending from his ear into his collar. He placed a giant hand on Baptiste’s back and beckoned them to follow him. Driver noticed gang tattoos peeping out of the man’s shirt collar and cuffs as he pushed through the crowd. She made eye contact with Wells as they followed. He gave her a subtle nod.
The others were already in position. Pope was attempting to pick up a long-legged blonde and Lim was flanked by two men attempting to buy her and Rios drinks.
Driver felt the bass vibrating in her bones. The giant with the tattoos led them through an inconspicuous side door painted the same colour as the black walls of the club. He took them along a dingy spotlit corridor and into an elevator, the music dropping to a dampened thud.
The elevator rose and the door opened. The man stooped as he stepped out into a quiet hallway with black marble tiles. A set of double doors awaited them, flanked by another mean-looking security man. Opening the door, the big man led the way into a large circular space, fronted by the huge window Driver had noticed on entry. It made the entire room resemble a giant fishbowl.
In the centre of the room was a sunken, circular living space with curved cream sofas made of leather.
‘Yuri Baptiste, is that you?’ a voice shouted in Russian from the back of the room. ‘No, it can’t be Yuri. He would never look so old!’
It was Oleksandr Yedmenov. He emerged from behind a private bar with a martini in hand. A small man with dark features and unnaturally tanned skin wearing a gaudy silver shirt with a black dolphin pattern. He swaggered over on short legs with a smoker’s smile as wide and crooked as the Neva River.