“Do you see anyone?” he asked Ross.
“No,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t see anyone,” she said.
Milton felt an itch in the centre of his back, right between his shoulder blades, a sensation of exposure and vulnerability. His skin was clammy and sweat started to bead on his scalp. It was hot, but that wasn’t it.
It was the dream.
It wasn’t far away.
Michael Pope was in the back of the van. It was a GAZelle, a commercial van made by Gaz in Nizhny Novgorod. It bore the livery of a local wholesale grocery business, the logo and script barely visible beneath a layer of dirt and crud. The vehicle was parked with its rear end facing the entrance to the station, and the filthy windows in the double doors offered a view of the steps, the pedestrianised area and some of the cars that had been parked nearby.
Bryan Duffy was sitting in the driver’s seat. He had stolen the van earlier that morning. Duffy was Number Eleven. Pope had worked with him before, but knew very little about him beyond his name—Duffy had revealed it at a bar in Vienna while they worked an operation two months earlier—and his designation.
Pope and Duffy had tipped the crates of produce out of the back of the van before they had driven to the station, and now there was enough space for him, their equipment and three or four others. Pope was dressed in black, with a black balaclava covering his face. He had a UCIW on a sling that he wore over his shoulder, the automatic cradled in front of his body. The gun had the shorter barrel and Pope had screwed a suppressor onto it. He had two spare magazines in the pouches of his combat trousers and a full magazine in the weapon.
Pope saw Milton and Jessie Ross arrive in a hire car. He watched as they stepped out and made their way to the station. He scanned the other vehicles and checked out the men and women who were gathered in the vicinity of the station. He knew, of course, that some—perhaps many—of them would be SVR agents waiting to snatch Anastasiya Romanova should she dare to show her face. How many? He had no idea.
“You think she’ll come?” Duffy asked over the radio.
“I don’t know.”
“Midday,” Duffy said.
“Check,” Pope said, and then, before Duffy could speak again, he saw her. “Coming out now.”
He reached for his radio and depressed the broadcast switch two times.
Here we go.
The radio squelched twice in Milton’s earpiece and then he saw her. He recognised Anastasiya Romanova from the photograph that he had been shown. She crossed the station concourse and stepped outside, coming down the broad steps that led into the pink-painted building. She was wearing jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a sunhat shielding her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. A train wheezed as it pulled away and Milton wondered whether she had arrived on it. That would have been clever; the SVR would have expected her to arrive from the town itself, to make her way into the station rather than coming out of it. It wouldn’t have made a difference—they would have recognised her either way—but perhaps she was thinking, acting cautiously, and that would be a good thing.
She paused on the steps, looking left and right.
Milton took Ross by the elbow. “Stay close to me. Do what I tell you and I’ll get you out alive—you have my word.”
Ross didn’t reply. Milton spared her a quick glance and saw that she was pale, sweat beading on her brow. No time to worry about that now. She was resilient—a survivor—and he had no option but to hope that she had calculated her odds and come to the conclusion that she was better off with him.
Milton set off again, headed for Anastasiya. The woman saw him coming, squinting in the sunlight despite the hat. She looked down at the newspaper, then back up at him. Her face flickered with fear and uncertainty. Milton smiled at her, as if that might make a difference.
“Hello,” Milton said in English when he was close enough for Romanova to hear him.
“Are you…?” Her English was halting, and the words trailed away.
Milton spoke slowly and firmly. “I’m here to get you out. Do you have the data that you want to sell?”
She looked confused. “My English,” she said. “Not good.”
Ross spoke in Russian. Milton didn’t know what she had said, and had no choice but to hope she was playing straight. He watched Anastasiya’s face and saw understanding, and then a nod. She replied in Russian.
“She has it,” Ross said.
“Tell her we’re going to get her out,” he said to Ross.
Ross started to speak, but, before she could finish, Milton saw movement all around them. It happened at once, on command, a coordinated response. The SVR thought that their prey were in the trap, and now they were rushing to close it. An old man wearing a cloth cap stood up from the bench that he had been sitting on. A couple sitting on the grassy knoll away to the left stood up, too, the woman taking a weapon from the cloth bag at her feet. The bum slumped against the building, playing drunk, now stood up straight and took a pistol out from the folds of his rags.
Milton counted four of them, with the man in the Mercedes making five.
“Don’t move!”
The order was barked out in English and Milton turned to face the speaker. He was out of the car, a pistol in his hand aimed straight at them.
Milton raised his hands.
“Do as they say,” Milton said quietly, his instruction intended for both women. “Stand still and put your hands above your head. It’ll be all right.”
Stepanov gave the command and Mitrokhin knew that it was time to move. He opened the door and stepped out into the midday heat. Stepanov was out of the car, too, his carbine aimed at Smith and the two women.
“Don’t move!” Stepanov yelled out.
The others swept into action now, abandoning their disguises as they pulled weapons and aimed them toward the entrance to the station.
Mitrokhin lowered his Vikhr, took out the Beretta that he had been given and took a step forward so he could aim over the hood of the car. He slid his finger through the guard, sighted, and fired three times.
He couldn’t really miss. Stepanov’s body jerked as the bullets punched him in the back. He stumbled ahead, his arms splayed out wide, and then he fell to his knees.
72
Milton had seen BLUEBIRD get out of the car and knew what was about to happen. He reached out for Romanova and Ross and held onto their shoulders, drawing both closer to him as BLUEBIRD aimed his pistol and drilled Stepanov in the back. His shirt bloomed red as the bullets punched out of his chest and he fell to the ground.
Milton had seen the other SVR agents: the tramp, the old man, the couple on the knoll. The shock of the gunshots froze all of them in their tracks, their attention drawn to the body of Stepanov and then to the man who had shot him.
Distraction was what their plan had demanded. Now they had it.
Pope came out of the parked van wearing a UCIW on its sling. He aimed at the SVR agent dressed as a bum and fired a burst. The volley stitched the man in the torso and he stumbled back against the wall, sliding down it until he was slumped back against it once again. Pope swivelled and sighted the old man who had pulled a pistol from his jacket and fired again, another three-round burst. Two shots cracked into the wall, blowing out puffs of mortar and brick dust, but the third drilled the man in the cheek. His head snapped back and he went down, poleaxed, and didn’t move.