ANOTHER DAY
II: The Second Face
Zoe Corlani, a wealthy heiress of an internet businessman in case anyone asked, codenamed Puma, was waiting for her date to the St Petersburg opera. In a plain black ball gown, its only adornment a thick belt mid-waist, with simple pearls at her neck, heels out of sight under the long dress' skirt, almost no one noticed her. In her ordinary-looking glasses, nothing made her stand out of the crowd, so no one noticed that her eagle eyes never not noticed the movements of one Colonel Alexei Gransky.
Gransky was former KGB and current FSB, high-ranking amongst those who didn't really exist on paper. Puma had been watching him for two months, waiting to find out who he was selling FSB secrets to. Normally this wouldn't be IMF's concern, or rather not something they had the authority to act on - it wasn't their turf, so to speak - except the secrets being sold pertained to IMF as well. IMF didn't exist on paper either, but they still had business that they would prefer not to be known to certain individuals, individuals they wanted to have no business with, only to fight for justice over. So Puma was waiting for Gransky to make contact with whoever his buyer was, and then await for IMF's subsequent instructions.
There was a catch though.
Since the Kremlin was blown to ash a few years ago, all American operations on Russian soul had trickled to an absolute minimum out of sheer diplomatic necessity. This was one of the very few missions to be based in a major city in Russia, and so all electronic communication was kept to a highly strict minimum. The FSB was studying all date being transmitted through cyberspace from home sources, listening into all telephone conversations, particularly any that tried to secure themselves against eavesdroppers. So IMF had gone back to using old Cold War tactics, of hidden messages and codes and unsuspecting meetings in the open. The Russian government knew that they were there, partly because the Secretary had told them they had a vested interest in recovering the stolen secrets, but also from their own investigating, having flagged the agents' passports and tracking the dead ends they inevitably lead to. They were carrying out their own operation to discover the true depths of Gransky's treachery, but given his occupation as an internal affairs officer, they were having to tread exceptionally carefully.
This was the first time Puma had been seen out in the open so close to the Colonel. For the last couple of months she'd been hiding in the shadows, amongst crowds, keeping her reputation as a ninja.
So when she held her composure as her 'date' appeared before her, Agent Brandt couldn't help but feel proud of Agent Hume; save for her fleetingly frozen eyes, she showed no other sign of complete surprise.
They greeted each other formally, melted into the crowd of miscellaneous faces, and followed a few steps behind Gransky and his wife, talking quietly in Russian about the opera they were about to see. Her accent was perfect, inpenetratable. To his amusement, the moment they were in their own private box, Hume dropped the Russian immediately.
"Thank Christ we're so close, I was running out of bull to spin about..." she checked the opera's pamphlet. "I'm not actually sure how to pronounce that, let alone how to pronounce that in a Russian accent."
Still in full view of the audience in the concert hall however, they still had parts to play. Keeping Gransky in sight, she let Brandt lead her to her seat, and spoke in whispers again.
"I didn't know you were in St Petersburg," she said softly.
"I'm not, so to speak," Brandt whispered back, watching the crowd below them slowly herd in and the neighbouring boxes. "I wanted to get eyeball on our mark, see what we're up against."
"I'm not so sure you'd like what you find," Hume told him quietly. "In two months he'd met up with four different mistresses, only one of which his wife is aware of, bought a party's worth of coke from a dealer down the smelliest alley I've ever had the displeasure of standing above, and beaten up one of his colleagues and two more men in a bar over a drink that spilt over a line." Her eyes quickly flickered over Mrs Gransky and her tight, unhappy, masked face. "None of the people he's come into contact with, in my opinion, are likely to be the buyer. All that's passed out of his hands is cash taken out of the FSB's evidence room, and I haven't spotted anything more covert yet." She glanced across to Brandt. "In fact, this is the oddest thing he's done this whole time; he never takes his wife to the opera, he can't stand it, and he's not that kind of husband."
Brandt frowned, noting her warning tone. He blinked three times in quick succession, activating the camera lens in his left eye. He hated having it on, but immediately it started recording faces from the crowd as Brandt scanned over every person in the room as the doors closed to start the performance. Later he'd upload the images saved, and send them from his operations base. For now however, he enjoyed the dramatic opera playing below, and savoured the feel of Emma's fingers laced with his.
He hadn't seen her since Mauritius. He'd missed her.
He didn't have long in her company. Activating the night-vision in her glasses, Hume watched Gransky leave his seat and slowly make his way towards the lavatories, a few doors down from their booth. She placed a hand on Brandt's shoulder, keeping him in his seat, and headed to cross paths with Gransky. She just managed to catch sight of him going into the men's, and ducked into the women's. She quickly checked that the room was unoccupied, and strode over to the cubicle on the far left, next to wall between the two lavatories. She quietly pulled out a loose tile behind the toilet and fished out a small bag from under it. She unzipped it, and dusted off the iPad inside, plugged in a set of earphones, connected another device, and stuck the device to the wall.
"-re you weren't followed?"
The voice speaking through the earphones might as well have been in the women's bathroom, it was so clear. On the iPad, a figure leaned against the cubicle wall facing the familiar outline of Gransky, who remained near the door. They were just shadowy black and white ghosts on the screen, but Gransky's silhouette was unmistakeable. The other man however...
"No. The FSB are monitoring all data connections in the city however, the Americans are here, they think it's Sidorov," Gransky informed the unidentified man. The man nodded, shifted slightly.
"Unlikely. Sidorov is more loyal than a dog. But no matter." He stepped forward, and held out a slip of paper. "You'll find the funds in that bank account..." As Gransky reached out, the man snapped the paper away. "... after you give me what I'm paying you for."
Gransky cleared his throat irritably. "If anyone ever finds out..."
The two men stood in silence. Then, as quick as a crocodile, the man slapped Gransky in a vicious backhand. He grabbed Gransky's lapels and hissed right in his face. "The FSB would be the least of your worries," the man told him menacingly.
He sounded familiar...
Gransky finally spilled. "The CIA operate a substation in Moscow -"
"You've told me this," the man reminded, his temper not dissipating with the appeasement.
"- But they're not the only ones who have a base there," Gransky spluttered.
Neither moved, nor spoke. Then... "Go on."
Gransky visibly swallowed nervously. "There's another agency, an American one, it's called -"
There was a knock on the door of the men's, but Hume barely watched as she fished another object out of her kit, dropping the heels out of her collapsable shoes. She had all she needed. "Boss, there's a spook in one of the booths."
The man abruptly let go of Gransky and yanked the door open, admitting a bodyguard. "Who?"
The bodyguard held up a smartphone, undoubtedly showing an image on its screen to the man. "He was meant to have been killed when Sidorov shot an American diplomat's car into the river for the Kremlin."
Hume froze for a second, and carried on screwing the pieces of her Glock together, albeit faster, attaching the silencer last.
The man took one look at the image on the phone. "Kill him."
Hume was out of the cubicle fast, snapping in the clip as she moved, got to the door, listened carefully as the bodyguards gathered just outside. She heard one go past the door, headed towards the entrance to her and Brandt's booth, gripped the Glock tighter, waited. Then she heard exactly what she wanted to hear; silenced gunshots, a Russian accent yelping in deathly pain, and the guards right outside her door swearing loudly, moving forward.
The next moment was a blur. She wrenched the belt of her dress open, burst the door open, heard it collide with someone's nose behind it, and swept out her detached skirt like a matador's red flag, whacking another bodyguard in the face with the black material, blinding him as Brandt shot him for her in the distraction as she shot the others. The moment ended, and there was five heavy bodies on the floor.
And she stared in horror at Tom Hobbes, standing next to a horrified Gransky.
She would never know how long she stared at him, but she was frozen, absolutely rooted to the spot. So was he. Even though he'd never seen her face before, by sheer instinct, it was obvious that he knew who she was as well: the woman responsible for the constant tail, years of failed deals, years of being hunted like a rat through the sewer by worst scavengers.
It was Brandt who got her out of the freeze. "Puma."
Instantly her eyes narrowed and she aimed her Glock. "Freeze!"
But that only served to wake Hobbes from his shock. "Run!"
Gransky pulled a gun from his jacket, about to fire, and Brandt shot him, but he spun with the force of the bullet, blocking Hume's aim as Hobbes sprinted down the hallway to the emergency exits. Cursing, she ran straight past Gransky's writhing body on the floor and after Hobbes, deafened by her determination to make sure he didn't get away. She didn't really hear Brandt call after her, or activate and speak into his comm to seek assistance with Gransky. She didn't really see the members of the building's security who tried to stop her from chasing Hobbes. She did hear the screech of wheels on tarmac and watched as he ducked into a car and swerved out into traffic to escape her.
She didn't care about whose car she stole in order to chase him. Or about the cars that blared at her as she cut across them at break-neck speed. Or, after she'd caught up with them as the car tried to lose her in the maze of St Petersburg's docklands, about the driver who she shot dead after he tried to shoot her.
She pulled her acquired car to a halt just in time to watch as Hobbes' car swerved out of control on the icy tarmac, and slid into the sea, complete with its occupants. She got out, walked almost calmly to the edge to just look at the car bobbing at the surface, about to become water-logged and head down to the shallow bottom. But deep enough to drown anyone stuck in the backseat.
She shivered as she noted the chill of the Russian night on her almost bare legs, the skirt of her ball gown still twisted around a bodyguard's head back at the opera, revealing the tight shorts underneath, and on her bare shoulders. Or maybe the shiver was just a strange discomfort in what she'd just done. She'd just mercilessly hunted down Tom Hobbes, who years ago she'd been given strict orders to spook the wits out of, but leave alive by her superiors. Using the recordings of her iPad in the opera's bathroom, she could easily prove that the man either already dead or now drowning was the buyer she'd been sent to find. She potentially could let him drown...
Then maybe her memories of being so deathly afraid would fade away.
"GET HER! KILL HER!"
Bangkok still haunted her, when she couldn't battle the ghosts back. She'd been a young agent, true, but... She'd felt less afraid doing the halo jump over the Milford Sound, and seeing the timer for a house bomb. She'd even felt less afraid seeing a rocket propeller grenade flying towards her. Every time she'd thought, if you don't do this, you're going to die. If you don't pull your chute in time, you're going to be a pancake. If you don't get out of this house, you're going to blow up. If you don't grab Benji and jump, you'll be blasted to smithereens. Being chased by Hobbes' men, she'd genuinely thought she was going to die. There was no 'if you do this, you'll survive'. All through that long day, she had blissful moments of stunned relief when she thought she'd escaped, barely able to believe it, and then realising it wasn't over yet when she was discovered again. Hobbes had been relentless, and didn't let his men give up. Even when she'd finally left them behind, she knew the bullet in her shoulder was killing her slowly as her blood drained away. She'd never expected to wake up, and when she did, she thought she was in purgatory. Until she remembered that she didn't believe in purgatory.
This man, somewhere in the murky depths of the water, was responsible for making her feel so vulnerable. If there was a hell after all, she had no qualms with sending him there.
Except her instructions were to identify so that the IMF could assist the FSB in detaining the buyer. Now he'd never go to trial for the long, long list of his crimes across the globe. Now he wouldn't be able to rot in a jail cell in the worst hole justice could find for him.
Cursing, she stretched her arms out, took a deep breath, less for oxygen and more for will, and dived into the sea.
She'd endured worse waters. But looking back, she'd rather swim up that frozen river again than dive in these waters.
By the time she'd swum to the car it was already submerged and heading towards the bottom. She dived, yanked at the door, bracing with her legs against the car frame whilst pulling at the handle. Finally it gave way, and she fumbled in the gloomy dark. The moment she felt something, she grabbed it and yanked it toward her, pulling it out of the car. It was Hobbes' arm, and in the gloominess she saw his face. His false, altered, vacant face. And then she saw him no more, and pulled him towards the surface.
Where a reaching arm helped her out of the sea.
"Emma!"
Brandt watched, horrified, as Hume's face transformed, and she sprinted down the corridor after Tom Hobbes. He'd never seen her face turn like that. Blank, save for one force: ice cold vengeance. "Shit..."
He looked down at Gransky, writhing in agony on the floor, swore again, and reached for the comm in his jacket and switched it on. "Mayday comm override, code Alpha One One Three, this is Tiger, subject is down, need immediate assistance..."
He trailed off as he heard voices, saw shadows behind him gather, and abandoned Gransky, sprinting after Hume. Just as he turned the corner at the end of the hallway, he spotted Russian Special Ops arrest Gransky on the floor, and cursed silently. IMF would have to come back for the Russian traitor, once the KGB were done with him. Until then, he had a shark to catch.
He exited the opera just in time to see Hume wrench a driver out of his car, a Mercedes waiting for one of the attendees, and burn tarmac as she drove after Hobbes. Brandt sprinted after her, did the same to the driver parked after her, and sped off after her.
He didn't even think why he was chasing after her. Instinct told him that, one way or another, she was going to need his help.
Speeding behind them, Brandt could see Hobbes' driver's erratically crashing into cars on the road, shoving them out of his way, as Hume weaved through the chaos to keep up. The collisions were slowing Hobbes down though, and suddenly Hume streaked her car up alongside, and Hobbes started firing at her car. Brandt swore as he saw glass shatter in her car, saw the silhouette of her own Glock take aim and fire back. But then Hobbes' car slammed into the side of hers, and again, and then both cars were spinning on the road, out of control.
Behind them, Brandt got a glimpse of the looks on their faces. Of the blinding panic on Hobbes' driver's face as he struggled to get control of his car again, as he struggled to get away. Of the fury on Hobbes' face as, even as his car carried on sliding over the tarmac, he tried to aim at Hume through the blown-out window. And of the ruthlessness and mercilessness on Hume's face.
Oh God... Brandt's face drained. She was going to kill him.
His car was too far behind to get to them by the time they'd got their cars back in gear, Hume still chasing, as Hobbes turned into the docklands. Maybe the driver panicked and took a wrong turning, or thought he could lose her there. Or maybe he knew there was back-up there. If it was the latter, Hume didn't appear to slow down for it, and sped right after him, reloading her Glock against the steering wheel.
Brandt cursed, and drove after her anyway. She needed him, even if right now, she had no idea he was there.
Then suddenly the dockland edge approached, and the driver swerved to turn before it, but Hume was right on his tail, yanked on her steering wheel, swinging the back of her back into his with enough force to push the car out of control and into the water, screeching to a halt at the edge.
Brandt braked hard on his own car, darted out, and peered around him, his gun at the ready. Was this a trap...? Spotting nothing, he darted forward, and saw Hume stretched her arms out and dived into the water.
Amazed for a second, Brandt recovered, ran to the edge, peered in quickly, and turned, checking all was clear. Still nothing.
"Mayday comm override two, code Papa-India-Xray-Alpha-Romeo, Tiger to all units, need immediate evac from current location, execute Omega-Omega-Tango, maintain radio silence. Griffin, what's your ETA for ground? Out."
There was a second of silence, no doubt as several shocked agents acknowledged Brandt's message and moved to carry out their operation. Griffin, the helicopter that should have been masquerading as traffic control, responded quickly. "ETA ninety, get ready for immediate extraction, out."
Brandt heard Hume breach the surface of the water behind him, gasping for breath, just as Griffin returned to silence. He shoved his gun into its holster, and braced himself against the edge to reach down to grab her hand. She stared at him for a split second, and then reached up, grimacing as he pulled both her and Hobbes' weight up out of the water. As soon as she had a grip on the dockland edge, Brandt let go of her and pulled Hobbes out of her grip, dragging him over the concrete as she hauled herself up.
As Hume got her breath back, shivering as the St Petersburg air spiked her wet skin, Brandt checked Hobbes' limp body, searched for pulse, frowned as something beat back at his fingertips, and slammed a fist on his chest. Hobbes immediately spluttered all the water out of his system, weakly turning on to his side to better cough and breathe. When finally he'd noticed his surroundings, he looked up to see two agents pointing their guns at him as a helicopter lowered, slicing at air noisily.
Hobbes would not remember a great deal of what happened as he was arrested. He wouldn't remember being handcuffed, stuffed into the helicopter, shoved into a enforced container, and being flown out of Russian airspace to a base in Germany. He would remember the woman though, and what she repeated as she stood over him, her hair dripping on to his face.
"No matter what you do, or where you go, we will find you."
And then she hit him out cold.
Brandt didn't move to stop her. He just moved forward to grab the prone Hobbes' shoulders as she grabbed his legs, heaved the unconscious man into the helicopter and gently pushed her in as he jumped in too, and slammed the door shut after them. Immediately he started searching Hobbes for anything concealed on him, emptying swiss knives out of hidden pockets and a spare clip for his gun in his shoe. Satisfied, Brandt handcuffed him, pulled him into the container - the 'Coffin', as he liked to call it - locked it, and turned to Hume.
And finally stopped.
She was gripping the edge of the seat, her knuckles white as the skin pushed against her bones. Yet despite her grip, her entire body shook, but not just because of the cold.
As Will took Emma into his arms, she finally burst into desperate sobs, sobs of feelings she could barely begin to name. Maybe it was relief that finally this man who had terrified her so much once was now no longer at large, able to petrify her again. Maybe it was bitter disappointment that she hadn't killed him after all.
"Is she alright?" Griffin - the pilot - shouted back to Brandt.
Even as Emma choked on her tears, as Will held her head to the crook of his neck with his fingers in her wet hair, his other arm tight around her waist, he looked forward. "She is now."