5. Vaughn, Michael C.
There was a delicious sense of languid, liquid warmth. Early morning sunlight spilled in through the open curtains across the bed as she drifted on the edge of wakefulness.
Not that there had been any sleep during the night. Oh no.
Her whole body seemed to ache, but it was a blissful ache. An ache she had not experienced in far, far too long. She stared across at him through heavy lidded eyes.
His eyes were closed. She thought from the rhythm of breathing that – like her – he wasn't quite asleep though, just drifting. For a time she simply watched him – listened to him – revelling in the quiet sensations, the wonderful closeness, feeling safe.
The knowledge that she would have to get up soon – to move and break this wonderful spell was a tiny nagging itch in the back of her mind. Eventually she spoke. "How are we going to stay awake today?"
At the sound of her voice he smiled dreamily at her, eyelids flickering open. "Who cares?"
Their eyes locked, holding each other. She could feel the slight stirring of her heartbeat, the fractional quickening of her breathing, but her body told her that – for the moment at least – it was too raw and weary for any more assertive response.
He reached out, gently touching her shoulder. Her skin was warm, still slightly damp from their repeated couplings. Lightly he traced his fingertips down her back, dormant nerve endings stirring briefly in tiny flickers of delight.
"Vaughn?" She asked after a long pause.
"How come you never call me Michael?"
She jolted awake. Vaughn. Michael.
She clung onto that name as though her life depended on it even as the rest of the dream faded slowly away.
* * *
"I haven't thanked you yet for saving my life." Tchéky was neatly besuited as always, though this was marred slightly by the fact that his right arm was in a sling. He looked pale and perhaps slightly sickly in the meeting room's electric lights.
Svetlana looked away, not quite able to meet his eyes.
"How did you know? I never sensed anything at all. Not even a hint. The bastard caught me completely cold." He shook his head. "If it wasn't for you . . ."
"I didn't know anything." She cut him off. Her voice was quiet – only just audible.
"What?"
"I didn't know. I didn't sense anything. I was taken just as much unawares as you were." She swept a hand distractedly through her hair.
"But when you got up . . ."
She shook her head. "It was that song. That blasted song. I don't know . . ." Again a shake of her head. "It wasn't a flashback. Not really. But . . . I know that song somehow. From my past. When I heard it, it was like I couldn't breathe. Or think. Or anything else. It just overrode everything."
Tchéky looked at her and she could see disquiet in his eyes. After a moment he forced a smile. "But anyway, you still saved my life because of it."
"I screwed up." Her voice was hard. Angry. "Don't try to coddle me. Gregor's dead, and thanks to me so is his assassin." She started to turn away.
Tchéky put his good hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "What could you have done differently, Svet?"
"I could have tried to tackle him, after he ran out of bullets." She shrugged free of him.
"You had a gun. Hardly sensible to put it away, hmm? You put two non-lethal bullets in him when he refused to stop. You did all you could."
"Then 'all I could' is not good enough, is it?"
"Don't beat yourself up about it. We have a body. Forensics are doing an autopsy as we speak. Hopefully they can pull up some leads. Who he was for starters."
She let out a breath. Something else occurred – about the dream she'd had last night. "Did they have CCTV at the club?"
"On the entrance. We checked. Someone pulled the tapes." He didn't sound at all surprised by this fact.
A soft grunt. "Maybe some of that group cheering him on were accomplices. I can remember a few faces. I'll see if I can pull up anything from the identikit system. I've got a hand-to-hand session in a few minutes, but I'll do it straight after."
Tchéky just nodded. "Good idea. I'll keep you posted on any other leads."
She turned around and walked out. It had been surprisingly easy to tell a barefaced lie to him. Part of her was slightly disturbed by that.
* * *
"We may need to send her in for more reconditioning." Tchéky spoke quietly into his cell phone.
"Oh?" The distorted voice was as unreadable and unrecognisable as ever. "And what, pray tell, leads you to this rather . . . presumptive conclusion?"
"There was a song playing in the nightclub last night. She recognised it. Recognised it from before, I mean. It provoked a very strong reaction in her."
"Really?"
Tchéky got the impression that the voice was unimpressed by the revelation. "There was also a dream. A dream in which she remembers being in America. Remembers speaking with an American accent."
"And she told you all this voluntarily?"
"Yes," he agreed.
"There is nothing more?" the voice persisted.
"Not that she told me. But then, if she did remember more she might no longer trust me."
"If that were the case then she wouldn't have told you anything at all." There was a very short pause. "I don't see a problem. The conditioning cannot sweep away every trace of who she used to be. Not without destroying the very thing that makes her the weapon we need. There was always going to be the occasional detail that slipped through."
"So we do nothing?"
"The situation is manageable. Keep an eye on her. Report anything unusual right away. But for now any action would be premature."
"As you say," Tchéky agreed quickly, secretly relieved.
"What was the song you mentioned?" the voice inquired.
Tchéky was slightly surprised. He'd been expecting the voice to just hang up. "Something old and cheesy. 'Build me up Buttercup', I think it's called maybe?"
"Ah yes." The voice sounded untroubled and completely unsurprised. "That would provoke a reaction. Tell her this . . .."
* * *
Svetlana rained in kicks and punches on the heavy bag. Her face was tight, eyes fixed and focussed.
"Harder! Harder! More aggression!" It was unclear if the trainer's words even registered on her though. "Good. Good. Nice combination. Now go with it."
A spinning heel kick flowed into a sequence of fast jabbing punches that were almost too quick to follow.
"Harder . . ." Another kick and trainer made gave a stifled ooph, apparently caught unawares by the force of it. Svetlana continued to rain in blows without pause.
Sweat poured down the side of her face. She was vaguely aware of a door opening behind her – of footsteps approaching behind her – but she ignored it. Her concentration was fully on the bag in front of her and the movements of her body, and she continued to deliver punch after punch; kick after kick. It was cathartic – a welcome distraction where all her other troubles could just disappear.
The person stopped just a few paces behind her. Svetlana ignored them, though she noticed an abrupt change in her trainer's expression and attitude.
After one more spinning heel kick he said: "Enough. That will do for today, Svetlana. A good workout."
He stepped back from the bag and left the gym with rather undue haste. Breathing heavily Svetlana bent over and retrieved a towel, using it to wipe the sweat from her hands and brow. Then she picked up a water bottle and took a long swig from its neck. Only after that, finally, did she turn around.
Standing in front of her was a woman she didn't know.
She was black; very similar to herself in size and physique – possibly about ten pounds heavier. Long hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She was attractive, but Svetlana was more interested in the way she stood – the easy poise and power she radiated. Agent trained and very good at what she does.
The woman lips curved in a slanted, slightly sardonic smile. Her eyes glittered with scarcely contained amusement. "Svetlana Borushka, right? We've met a couple of times before, briefly, but I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. I'm Anna Espinosa." She extended a hand.
They shook. Anna's grip was firm; perhaps overly so. Are you the person that had Gregor Todorov terrified just with the mention of your name? "I think Agent Romatsev might have mentioned you in passing. You seem to have quite a fearsome reputation."
Her smile broadened, brilliant white teeth reminding Svetlana of something predatory. "I just do my job."
"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Anna. I apologise if I seem a little . . ." She started as if to walk around Anna towards the exit.
Anna blocked her way, seemingly accidentally. "No need to apologise. I know about the accident. Losing all of your memories must be particularly hard."
She sensed this was more of a probe than an expression of concern or sympathy. "I'm coping. I've resumed field work."
"I heard." The smile was now most definitely disturbing, though it was difficult to pinpoint why. Again Svetlana started to walk away. "Perhaps you'd consider sparring with me? Bag work is all very well, but it gets a trifle . . . dull, don't you think? I'd consider it an honour to get some pointers from the person with the highest rating we've ever recorded."
No. That was what Svetlana intended to say. She had no intention of getting into any games of one-upmanship – and that was what this most definitely was, she sensed. What came out was: "Now?"
Anna shrugged. "Well you know what they say . . . no time like the present. I'll understand if you're too tired . . .."
"Okay." Again mouth overrode brain, which was telling her again to simply walk away.
The walked together to the centre of the mats, standing face to face, a few feet apart. After exchanging minuscule formal bows they both fell into defensive posture and began to slowly circle each other. The smile had gone from Anna's face, but Svetlana still had the distinct impression she was somehow still smirking.
With no change of expression, Anna exploded into action, aiming a flurry of punches at Svetlana's head and chest. The blocks flowed reflexively, and none of the blows got through, but by the end of it her forearms were bruised and aching from the force of the rapid impacts. Several quick, probing kicks were blocked shin to shin. Then a snaking jab finally found a way through Svetlana's guard, hitting her in the stomach with enough force to knock most of the breath from her lungs. She fell back rapidly, gasping to regain her breath.
Their eyes met as they resumed circling and Anna favoured her with a tight smile. This wasn't simply going to be sparring.
Anna came forward again, but this time Svetlana dropped her shoulder beneath the punch, grabbing her arm and using the woman's own momentum to throw her. Anna went with the move, somersaulting in mid air and landing – cat-like – on the balls of her feet. Immediately her foot snapped up towards Svetlana's head.
Svetlana was already ducking though. She swept a heel round hard at Anna's ankles, but the woman managed to hop over the attack easily and deliver a powerful kick to Svetlana's right hip.
She staggered back, limping badly, but managed to ward off or twist away from the flurry of kicks and punches that rained in, trying to take advantage. By that time she was breathing hard. Anna still looked as fresh as a daisy.
They circled once more. Svetlana tried to recapture some hint of initiative, launching a snapping kick at Anna's face. Anna was ready for it again, catching her and driving her bodily back down onto the mat. She tried to smash an elbow viciously down into Svetlana's ribcage to finish things off, but left herself open in the process. Svetlana arched her back powerfully, legs scissoring up around Anna's torso. The heel of one foot caught her in the face at the same time as the other foot kicked into the back of her head.
As Anna staggered backwards, Svetlana flipped herself agilely back to her feet. Blood was pouring from Anna's nose and any hint of a smirk was well and truly gone. She wiped a hand across her face and spat.
Svetlana went to punch her, but Anna caught her wrist, using it to swing her round in an effort to smash her face first into the wall. Svetlana simply used her momentum to run up the wall though, twisting in mid-air and letting her full weight fall back down in Anna's face. Anna countered by arching her back into a bridge as she toppled over backwards, throwing Svetlana off.
They came up together, and this time both of them were breathing heavily. Svetlana's lungs burned and she could feel the sweat pouring off her. As there eyes met Anna gave a single short nod. Acknowledgement.
As they grew tired their reactions slowed fractionally. More blows started to get through and the fight became less elegant and more brutal. An elbow to the side of Svetlana's head was answered by sharp kick into Anna's midriff. A raking kick down the back of Svetlana's thighs was followed up by a short flat-handed punch to Anna's jaw.
A particularly intense flurry of action ended with Svetlana being thrown over onto her back. Anna tried to stamp down on her, but she managed to roll rather frantically away. A second stamp came even closer. Driven to desperation, Svetlana grabbed hold of Anna's ankle, using it as a pivot to swing her whole body round and sweep the woman's legs out from under her.
They both flipped themselves back to their feet together.
Again they circled each other, both of them wary now – bruised and bloodied.
The door to the gym opened. Neither looked around, concentrating solely on each other to the exclusion of all other distractions.
"Anna. A word. Now." The voice belonged to Director Karpuchin.
Anna let out a breath and broke off. They exchanged another short bow at the centre of the mat. "We should do this again some time, Svetlana." Then she turned and walked away.
* * *
Svetlana stared at the composite face on the screen. The man of my dreams. Or from them anyway.
Almost.
She made a small adjustment to the spacing between his eyes, moving them slightly further apart. Frowning critically at the result, she moved them halfway back again a couple of seconds later. After a pause she narrowed the bridge of the nose ever so slightly, then broadened the forehead a fraction.
It was as near as she was going to get it. Awake the dreams were little more than a blur, like viewing everything through the bottom a half-empty wine glass.
Her finger hovered over the enter button. This was madness really. Paranoia. Chasing ghosts. No, worse than that, shadows from dreams that might never have existed. She was breaking all kinds of regulations too – misusing intelligence resources.
But, in the end, it was all she had. She hit the enter key, submitting the composite against the facial recognition database.
The search took what seemed like an age. For a composite drawn from memory you had to – by necessity – set the error threshold very high, and inevitably you got a lot of false positives. Tension gnawed at her as she stared at the screen. Names appeared in the result box, reflecting in her face as they flicked past. Finally it was done. 1023 possible matches.
Scrolling back up to the top of the list, she stopped suddenly, scarcely daring to breathe. There. Potential match number 47.
Vaughn, Michael C.
Suddenly she was scared. Absolutely terrified. It was the song in the nightclub, all over again. She very nearly hit escape and turned the terminal off there and then. Part of her just wanted to run away.
Closing her eyes she pressed the heel of one hand hard against her brow. She sucked in gulping breaths of air, able to feel tears welling up in her eyes. Quickly, she blinked them away. Do you want to stay blind forever?
Using the mouse, her hand trembling just a touch, she selected the name and double-clicked. The photograph that popped up made her heart lurch. It was him. No question.
Svetlana forced herself to stop staring at the photograph and read the rest of the information on the file. The information under employment in particular brought her up short. US Department of State. She read it again, just to make sure her mind wasn't playing tricks. US Department of State. She knew well enough what that likely meant.
The man from her dreams was real and not simply a figment. Vaughn, Michael C. And he was CIA.
She heard the door handle turn behind her and quickly hit the escape key twice in succession to exit out two levels up. Her heart was pounding, her palms damp with sweat. "Tchéky." She struggled to compose herself, hoping her voice didn't sound too odd.
He moved across the room to perch on the desk next to her. "Any luck?"
She shook her head. "I've put together a couple of composites, but . . .. Needle in a haystack. I could be at this for months and still not turn up anything useful."
He nodded – laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her instinctive reaction was to flinch away from him, but she managed to suppress it.
"I'll pass what I've done onto technical services. See if they can turn anything up." She shrugged. "That's their job right? What they get paid for."
He nodded a second time, but he seemed to be distracted by something. The hand on her shoulder moved and he lightly traced a bruise on her left cheek with the back of his finger. "You get that last night? I didn't notice this morning."
"It's nothing. I overdid it slightly in this morning's training session. It shows badly? I need to use more cover-up."
"It doesn't show badly."
She forced a smile, though it made it feel like her face was going to split into pieces and fall off. "So . . . How's the arm? I forgot to ask earlier."
"Could be worse. The bullet missed the bone. I lost some muscle tissue but the doctor says I should get 90-95% use back. Maybe even full use if I'm lucky." He grimaced. "Doesn't help right now. I can't even hold a pen. Left-handed my writing looks like a three-year-old's."
There was a slightly uncomfortable lull.
"You know the song from last night?" he asked.
Build me up buttercup. "I don't really think I could forget it Tchéky."
Hah! Don't flatter yourself. You forgot everything else.
"Well I did some checking." He suddenly looked . . . troubled? No, perhaps more sad.
"Oh?" She tried to sound casual, or at least vaguely human. "You shouldn't . . .. You didn't have to . . .. Did you . . . did you find anything?"
After a moment he nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. It seems . . . well it seems that your husband sang it to you when he proposed. Right in the middle of the Royal Park in Peterhof on midsummer's day."
"My husband." Her voice wavered. Daniel Armanov. She closed her eyes, trying to see his face. The only face that came though was the one from the dream. Michael Vaughn. Their eyes meeting as they lay in bed together.
Tchéky stood up, looking ill at ease. "Director Karpuchin's called a briefing. Ten minutes. That's what I really came to tell you."
"A briefing? We've got something on Barbets?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. The director didn't say." He sounded annoyed by that. "I guess we'll find out."
"I'll see you there." She logged out of the terminal and stood up.
* * *
As she entered the briefing room Svetlana stopped in her tracks. Anna Espinosa was already there waiting, sitting in the chair directly to the right of Director Karpuchin's. Their eyes locked, Anna favouring her with a smile and a nod.
Trying to cover her surprise, Svetlana inclined her head a fraction in response and made her way to her own seat. Suddenly her brain was whirring. Something here wasn't entirely . . . normal.
Tchéky's reaction when he entered was even more starkly apparent. He stopped and stared, face pale and tight. Anna simply smirked in response. Svetlana looked from one to the other, trying to gauge what lay between them – aside from obvious mutual dislike.
"I wasn't aware that you were part of this team, Agent Espinosa." Tchéky's voice was cold; icily polite.
"She is now Agent Romatsev." Director Karpuchin entered the briefing room behind him. "Since your injury deprived us of one field operative she has been transferred in to join us. I'm sure you'll agree that we're lucky to have someone of Agent Espinosa's exceptional ability and experience joining us."
"I'm sure." Tchéky sounded anything but as he sat down next to Svetlana, still glaring at Anna.
"Since we're all here now, I won't waste anyone's time." Karpuchin walked around the table to stand in front of the main project screen. "We have managed to identify the body of Gregor Todorov's assassin. One Tomasz Krajcek – a Polish citizen, and highly regarded in his area of expertise." Svetlana was barely able to recognise the photograph that came up as the drag queen.
The picture on the screen changed showing a petite and well-groomed brunette. "This is Julia Volkavitch. She acts as Krajcek's . . . booking agent, if you will. We picked her up a few hours ago, and under interrogation she has proved extremely co-operative. Some of the information she gave us – which has now been independently confirmed – gives us a shot at Vitor Barbets. The window of opportunity is small, and we have to move quickly on this one." Her gaze turned to Svetlana.
"Svetlana, you and Anna have already gotten to know each other, I believe? The two of you will be going in together on this one."