8. Jesus Christ Pose

A battered old Russian army surplus 4x4 drove slowly and carefully along the heavily rutted dirt track, wheels raising a thick spray of muddy water behind it, its engine working overtime. The thickly forested northern foothills of the Tien Shan Mountains in Kyrgyzstan were heavily overcast; drizzle falling steadily from a leaden coloured sky.

After several miles and many minutes driving the track reached a turnoff, which the 4x4 took. For a moment its wheels span in the thick, glutinous mud, and it looked as though it might get stuck. Then it lurched forwards again, engine growling, exhaust spewing thick black smoke. A few hundred yards further and there was a checkpoint, a chain link fence topped with razor wire cutting through the woodlands as far as the eye could follow on either side.

A yellow and black barrier was down across the road, and the 4x4 slowed to a halt in front of it. After a pause a uniformed man stepped down from the guardhouse, hands thrust in the pockets of a heavy greatcoat, Kalashnikov assault-rifle slung across his back. He walked unhurriedly round to the driver's side door and tapped on the window, which descended jerkily.

The guard grunted as he got a look at the driver. "Mr. Ibramhov. You were expected several hours ago."

The driver – Ramazan Ibramhov – fixed the guard with a longsuffering look. "Have you seen the condition of the roads? You're lucky we made it up here tonight at all."

The guard shrugged, as if that was neither here nor there to him. He peered across at the person sitting in the front passenger seat. "That her then?"

"That's her," Ramazan confirmed, stifling a weary sigh.

"Another of the boss's loons, eh? You'd have thought he'd collected enough of them by now, wouldn't you?"

Ramazan just looked at him. "And I'm sure the 'boss' would just love to hear you referring to them as his 'loons'."

The guard sneered and spat. "Ask me if I care."

Ramazan snorted. "One might almost think you weren't a true believer."

"I'm a true believer in the contents of my pay packet." He gestured. "Now have her step outside so I can take a look at her."

"Is that really necessary? For god's sake man, it's pissing it down."

The guard just chuckled. "I don't see why I should be the only one getting wet then. And was that blasphemy there, Mr. Ibramhov? Careful. The boss don't like that sort of thing." Another chuckle, followed by a sharper gesture. "Now have her get out. My job see? I have to make sure that no one tries to sneak an assassin in."

"Is that what passes for a sense of humour in these parts?"

Nevertheless Ramazan lent across and unlocked the passenger side door. When he spoke again his voice was soft and soothing, as if he was addressing a very young child. "Step outside for the nice guard here, please Lena."

For a moment the woman simply looked at him, face half hidden behind a mane of unruly blonde hair, seemingly unable to comprehend what was being asked. Then she slid smoothly out of the seat and stepped into the rain, movements conveying a weirdly fey grace.

"So, what's your name?" The guard asked as he stepped round the vehicle to stand in front of her.

"Lena Sharapova," Ibramhov answered from inside the 4x4.

"She can't answer for herself, eh?"

There was a fractional hesitation from Ibramhov. "Not . . . not on a reliable basis, no."

"Yep, another loon all right," the guard muttered beneath his breath. He took one of his black leather gloves off, then reached out and brushed her hair back from her face as she stood, placidly unmoving, in front him. She seemed completely unconcerned by the falling rain. "Let's get a better look at you."

His breath caught in his throat. Hazel eyes stared off into the middle distance, not focussing on his face – or any other visible object for that matter. Droplets of rain glistened on her cheekbones like jewels.

"Quite a looker, this one. Clean her up a bit, give her some nice clothes and a touch of make-up, and I'd be willing to bet you'd have something pretty stunning. Eh, Mr. Ibramhov?"

"If you say so."

The guard began to pat her down. She was wearing a baggy colourless jumper over a long, shapeless grey dress. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't necessarily kick her out of bed, know what I mean?" A pause. "Pretty well built too, although I usually go for a little more up top."

"Please." Ramazan sounded contemptuous. "She has a mental age of nine."

The guard just laughed. "Well I'm not proposing to fuck her mind, am I?"

"Enough," Ramazan snapped. "You do not talk about her like that. She's not a piece of meat, and she can understand everything you say."

"You don't mind, do you sweetie?" He stroked her chin.

Her eyes focused on his face for the first time and she smiled, the expression strangely eerie. "Mikhail."

The guard jolted – stepped back from her so suddenly that he almost lost his footing in the slippery mud. He glanced back at the 4x4 – at Ibramhov – and forced a deeply unconvincing laugh. "You know, that was pretty good. Almost had me going there, Mr. Ibramhov. But you told her my name, didn't you?"

"You've been listening the whole time. I haven't used your name once."

"I mean before."

Ramazan's lips twisted. "And how the hell would I do that? I didn't know who was going to be on duty."

Mikhail glanced back at her. She was still smiling, expression completely unchanged. Creepily unchanged. He grimaced, then gestured back towards the 4x4. "Okay, get back inside."

She blinked, smile wavering slightly – as if she understood that something was wrong, but wasn't sure what.

"I said get back in the car!"

"It okay Lena," Ramazan interjected soothingly. "Come here and do as the nice guard says. He's not angry with you. You haven't done anything wrong."

Eventually she nodded, still smiling, and got back inside the car. From there she gave the Mikhail a shy little wave that had him turning away from her quickly

"So, going to let us in then?" Ramazan prompted.

"Bah!" Mikhail stalked back into the guardhouse, shaking his head. About half a minute later the barrier lurched upwards, opening the way forward.

Ramazan Ibramhov glanced at 'Lena' sidelong as he put the 4x4 in gear – broke into a grin. "Mikhail. Nice touch. Almost pissed myself laughing when I saw the look on his face."

Svetlana said nothing – tried to rid herself of the feeling of foreboding as they started driving forward again.

* * *

"Agent Romatsev," Svetlana's greeting was coolly formal – distant. It had been four days since she'd last seen him. Four days of endless nothing.

Tchéky dropped one of the two files he was holding on the table between them. She looked at it, but made no move to pick it up.

"Go on, take a look," he prompted. After several seconds of silence he took out his pen/bug killer, twisted the cap and laid it next to the file. "Go on. I've violated more laws and trusts than I care to think about getting my hands on that, and I'm violating several more showing it to you now. The least you can do is take a look at it."

After a moment Svetlana nodded and picked the file up, opening it.

"It relates to the Obruskaya mission. You remember that one?"

Again she nodded as she skim-read rapidly. According to what she'd read previously, the Obruskaya mission had involved tracking down a source of mob funds being channelled into Russia from the US and then eliminating it. It hadn't been an overly informative read.

"Well that file was incomplete. Part of the operation was classified beyond you current clearance level. Beyond my current clearance level."

She looked up at him, startled. "Then how did you . . .?"

He grimaced, looking agonised – pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead. "I stole it. Svet, to all intents of purposes I damn well stole it."

She stared at him.

"I stole it for you. In the hope that it might give you some peace of mind. Put to rest these ridiculous theories you're trying to fill the gaps with."

Uncomfortable, Svetlana looked down again and went back to reading.

"To summarise, it identifies the fact that Boris Obruskaya was not a real person. It was a codeword that we used to represent a criminal organisation with global reach known as the Alliance of Twelve."

"The Alliance of Twelve?"

"The name means nothing to you?"

After a moment's pause she shook her head. Of course it meant nothing.

"Not surprising. It no longer exists – in large part down to you, Svet. You identified the source of mob funds as being a cell of this Alliance operating out of Los Angeles. A cell called SD-6."

"Section Disparu," she murmured reading the appropriate passage in the file. It . . . there was definite familiarity, stirring somewhere deep in her subconscious. "Yes. Yes, that sounds . . . correct."

"You remember?" Suddenly Tchéky sounded slightly shrill.

"No. No, not really. But . . . I don't know. There's definitely something in here. I know I've heard of it before."

At length he nodded. She almost thought he looked relieved about something. About her not remembering? "This Alliance," he went on. "This SD-6. They proved to be several orders of magnitude bigger and better resourced than anything we had remotely anticipated, and certainly beyond your ability to deal with on your own."

"So . . .. You're saying I what? I worked with the CIA?" Convenient.

"Not just the CIA. With a joint US intelligence taskforce, comprising agents of the CIA, FBI and NSA, specifically tasked with countering Alliance activity. You contacted them with full directorial approval, conveying the intelligence we had gathered and working with them as our liaison officer."

She carried on reading. "And that is how I know this Michael Vaughn?"

"The file makes no specific mention of him. The reports you filed make no specific mention of him."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?"

"Of course it doesn't strike me as odd!" he snapped. "If you were having an inappropriate relationship with a foreign agent you wouldn't write it up in a damn report!"

"But?" She prompted after several seconds drawn out silence. He'd been going to say more, she knew.

"But someone named Michael Vaughn was assigned to that taskforce at the same time you were co-operating with them," he said heavily.

Svetlana laid the file carefully back down on the table, looking up at him again – tucking a stray stand of hair behind her ear.

He sighed. "Okay Svet, so it broke protocol. Fraternisation between fellow agents is frowned upon; never mind fraternisation with agents of foreign power. And if anyone had found out about it at the time, I'm sure that both of you would have been in some pretty serious trouble. But . . . your husband had been dead for nearly two years and you needed to move on – everyone knew that. So good for you, I say. You slept with a CIA agent. Big deal."

She snorted.

"But that's all you did. There was no elaborate honey trap, and it has nothing to do with your memory loss. As strange as it all seems, there is no conspiracy. I hope . . . I hope you can accept that."

She tilted her head slightly to one side, looking at him critically. And it took you four days to come up with this lie, did it Tchéky? Four days to fake this file?

The pen beeped. She slid the file back to Tchéky, though she hadn't really read more than about a third of it. No, she realised. Not four days simply to craft a lie. Four days to craft a lie that had enough truth to it that it wouldn't jar with any other details she might have remembered without telling him.

SD-6. Perhaps something else to work with. Perhaps not. Finally she gave a nod.

Tchéky forced a smile that wasn't remotely real. "Good. Now perhaps we could move onto something more work related?" He laid the second file down on the table.

"Does this mean I've been cleared to resume active duties again?" She pulled the file over.

"We're still investigating leads on your tails if that's what you mean."

"So, nothing then, in other words."

There was a wry twist to his lips. "Not nothing precisely. Just nothing of great usefulness. Anyway, I pointed out to the director that having you sitting around in a state of what amounts to house arrest for the duration is not a very productive state of affairs for any of us."

"Thank you."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean it. Really."

He coughed. "Well. The director agreed with me. For once. Makes a change, I have to say. She thought that it might be sensible for you to spend some time away from St. Petersburg right now, and . . . something urgent has come up which we could use you on."

Svetlana opened the cover of the file. "So where am I off to then?"

"Your mission, should you choose to accept it, will take you to north-eastern Kyrgyzstan."

"Kyrgyzstan," she repeated. She sounded dubious.

"I hear it's nice this time of year. Honestly."

"Nice. Right."

"Or do I mean wet? Nice. Wet. I so often get those two confused."

She managed a small smile at that, which vanished quickly as she began reading the file. "So what is there in Kyrgyzstan that's got us excited?"

There was a pause before he answered. "We decoded some of the contents of a CD you and Anna recovered from Barbets. It . . ." He hesitated. "Well, it seems to suggest that the missing pages of the Rambaldi manuscript give details of a particular virus and how it can be modified into an extremely unpleasant form of biological weapon."

She looked up sharply. "A biological weapon? A five hundred year old document containing details of a biological weapon. Tchéky, do I have to even begin to tell you how utterly impossible that is? The concept of a virus simply didn't exist before . . .."

He raised his hand. "Nevertheless, alleged source not withstanding, the contents of the disc have been enough to get some people very worried indeed. The CD shows something not dissimilar to the Ebola and Hanta viruses that can be synthesised relatively simply in a reasonably well equipped lab. It certainly appears easier to produce than either anthrax or small pox, and is several orders of magnitude more deadly than either."

Svetlana grimaced. "But we have the disc? That means it wasn't passed onto a buyer, right?"

Tchéky shook his head. "Evidence suggests that the disc was a back-up copy. We also have details of several meetings that took place, suggesting that any transaction has already been completed."

"And this information leads us to Kyrgyzstan, right?"

"Right. To a cult we've been aware of for a while now." Tchéky reached across and turned several pages ahead in the file to a rather blurred looking photo. "And in particular the information leads us to this man."

She stared at the photograph – blinked once. "You have absolutely got to be kidding me."

* * *

Svetlana dropped to her knees before Jesus and, feigning awe, began to tremble. Cold water, standing in puddles on the stained concrete floor, began to seep through her dress at the knees. She ignored the discomfort though, simply staring up at Jesus's serene face through the strands of wet hair falling untidily across her face. Her eyes looked huge and dark, her fair pale in the artificial light.

Jesus looked down at her and smiled beneficently. "Peace, my child. You need not be afraid." He laid a hand tenderly upon her brow.

"I – I am not afraid." Her voice was small and childlike, drowned by the huge underground cavern and the weirdly echoing sounds of dripping water.

"Then why do you tremble so, dearest one?"

"Because I see . . ." She trailed off abruptly gaze dropping to the floor and the hem of the robe he wore.

"What do you see?"

She wouldn't look up at him again. "People don't like it when I say what I see. It makes them angry."

His smile broadened. "I won't be angry, little one. I promise you that."

"That's what they all say. But they all get angry anyway."

He brushed the scraggly sweep of blonde hair back from her face and lifted her chin with one hand so that he could look her directly in the eye. She tried to flinch away, whimpering, but he held her firm. "You can trust me. I will never get angry with you; I give you my word on that. Now please, tell me what you see."

"I see . . .. I see . . .." She was trembling like a leaf. "I see . . . a giant."

"A giant?" He looked almost surprised, though his serenity remained unruffled.

"A giant of light. Behind you."

His smile returned and he nodded. Then he stood up again, extending a hand to her. "You are scared often, aren't you Lena? Scared by what you see. Come with me and I will take away the fear."

Hesitantly she accepted the hand and let him lead her deeper inside the mountain.

* * *

"His name is Andrei Tcharenko," Tchéky stated matter-of-factly. "Though more often now he is known as the Christ of the Tien Shan, or simply Vissarion – the Teacher. He used to be a rather unremarkable and uninteresting individual working in a low-grade job in the IT sector – a junior 'C' programmer with few friends and a nonexistent love life, who still lived with his mother at the age of thirty-two. Then one morning he woke up and decided he was the second coming, and it was his divinely given duty to lead mankind to a new and brighter future. Rather surprisingly more than ten thousand people – and that number is rising every day – actually believed him."

Svetlana's brow furrowed. "I think I've heard of him."

"Not surprising. Occasionally the media like to point at him and snigger – look at the loony and his weirdo followers. Generally he's regarded as a joke figure."

"But he's more than just a harmless nut, I take it? Hence our interest."

Tchéky nodded. "A harmless nut who's managed to purchase several thousand square miles of Kyrgyzstan's more desolate countryside and founded quite possibly the largest religious community on the planet. A harmless nut, who to all intents of purposes governs his own mini-country as all powerful dictator, answering to no one save the divine visions that he claims guide him."

"So how does a one time computer programmer afford all this then?" Svetlana continued to leaf through the file.

"Benefactors. It's not just the young and the impressionable who have joined his cause. We know of three billionaire businessmen – the details are in one of the appendices – who all claim to have seen the light and placed there entire fortunes at the his disposal. It was at this point we began to take him rather more seriously."

Svetlana looked up. "Even so, nothing so far suggests that he's the kind of person to purchase – let alone use – the type of bio-weapons we're talking about."

"You know about the Aum Shin Rikyo sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway back in 95? There's precedence for you. And if you start to look carefully at the new age fripperies the Vissarion espouses, you eventually start to see that some of his ideas have much darker undertones. Some are downright apocalyptic."

"Such as?"

"He believes that Saint John's writings in the book of revelations are in truth a metaphor for a real conflict that is about to begin, here and now. He also believes that it is his duty to establish a community of the righteous and the worthy who will live on as a blazing beacon of humanity in the gathering darkness. He says we should not seek to avoid the upcoming conflict, but embrace it, for it heralds a great and awe-inspiring change that is part of God's ineffable plan."

"Hmph," Svetlana snorted. "And this makes him different from assorted other cult leaders of dubious mental stability in what way precisely?"

"In that he has more than ten thousand devoted followers and many billions of dollars of disposable cash to help make his visions come true," Tchéky answered dryly.

"Point," she conceded.

"We were concerned enough about him that we placed an asset in Tcharenko's organisation three years ago, tasked with gaining a place in his inner circle and keeping us informed. Lately some of the things that have been reported back have been . . . well disturbing." He gestured to the file. "Look forward a couple of pages. The photo of the mountain."

She did so.

"Not a lot to see from the outside. Most of the facility is inside the mountain itself, but you'll note the road, and the small cluster of buildings there. It used to be a military bunker – one of twelve similar facilities dating from the sixties and scattered throughout the former USSR. They were designed, in the event of nuclear war, to be able to house an entire government in waiting for an indefinite period of time. There's a vast system of artificial caverns that could house close to a thousand people long term. Tcharenko purchased this place from the Kyrgyzy government a couple of years ago. They were only too glad to be rid of it."

"What does he use it for?"

"Now that's the question," Tchéky conceded. "Tcharenko is being very secretive, even with his most trusted aides, and our man is not entirely within the loop on some things. But he's seen memos and purchase orders for equipment that could be used to set up a lab of the sort necessary to synthesise the virus we found on Barbets' CD. And we know for definite that a pair of senior scientists from a 70s USSR bio-weapons programme have recently 'seen the light' and joined Tcharenko's commune. There's also been mention of some project referred to as the 'Breath of God', though again our man can't say for sure what it is."

She stared at the mountainside photograph. "So – if it's not a completely stupid question – what's my mission?"

"Break in. Destroy the labs. Retrieve or assassinate the scientists, as appropriate. Kill the Vissarion."

She gave a soft grunt. "Simple as that, eh?"

* * *

They walked steadily through tunnels blasted deep in the mountainside, artificial lights humming and flickering intermittently, water dripping incessantly.

Svetlana was being guided by a kindly looking middle-aged gentleman with thinning hair and chunky plastic framed spectacles. He looked a bit like someone's old geography teacher and talked to her soothingly about this and that, though tone of voice seemed more important than subject matter. She feigned a degree of claustrophobia as she walked, shoulders hunched, trembling and occasionally murmuring some nonsense syllable or other as her eyes darted this way and that. Her companion gently stroked the back of her hand in an effort to keep her calm, continuing with his gentle background patter. It was to the conversation taking place behind her that she was truly listening though. 

"She is a . . . truly fascinating one. I have a good feeling that she has exactly what we are looking for." The Vissarion's voice filtered back to along the tunnel, which acted almost like a whispering gallery. "Tell me, honoured Ramazan, where did you find her?"

"A village in rural Georgia, Vissarion." Ramazan's voice was polite; humble even – far different to its normal world-weary cynicism. "I have told you that my mother's family came from there originally, yes?"

"Yes indeed. And how is your mother? I hope you extended my blessings to her?"

"Of course Vissarion. Lena here came from a village a couple of miles along from my mother's childhood home. I'm told there were complications during her birth – the umbilical cord became wrapped around her neck, cutting off the supply of blood for a time. Unfortunately the result was irreparable brain damage."

The Vissarion murmured something Svetlana didn't quite catch. It might have been: "So sad."

Ramazan went on. "She was a strange child. Had a knack for finding things that were lost. Knew in advance when bad weather was coming. That sort of thing. She got a reputation for being a bit weird – touched, they say – and it spread. You don't keep many secrets in those parts. People used to come from miles away to see her when they'd lost something – she was about ten then I think – and things got worse. She kept coming out with little details she couldn't possibly know about these people, and some reacted badly to it. You've seen already the way she looks at you – through you rather than at you, like she's seeing someone – or something – standing just behind your shoulder. Eerie if you don't know what to expect. Eerie even if you do sometimes. Her parents started to keep her isolated; locked her away and didn't let anyone see her. They were frightened, if that's an excuse."

"Well I'm sure I can help her, Ramazan. I'm certain I can bring her peace of mind and spirit, and give her a place where she belongs . . ."

Abruptly the tunnel opened out into a vast cavern and the whispering gallery effect vanished rendering the conversation behind her inaudible. They had emerged what must have been at least fifty feet above the cavern's floor onto a railed catwalk, which clanked and vibrated in time to their footsteps. Electric arc lamps lit up scaffolding and machinery below; packing crates secured under camouflage nets. Dozens of men were working, drills and other machinery clanging and clattering raucously.

Svetlana's gaze was held by one towering structure in particular though, to the point that everything else went almost unnoticed. She stopped in her tracks and stared at it. It felt like a freezing cold metal blade had been driven through the base of her skull – paralysing; agonising.

The structure resembled a gigantic horseshoe, black metal arms reaching well above the catwalk they were on, the tips almost scraping the cavern's ceiling. Suspended between these arms, unattached by any visible mechanism, was an enormous red sphere, dimpled somewhat like a humongous golf ball. The sphere rotated slowly but steadily, producing a low droning hum as it did so.

Images flashed inside her head. She couldn't remember who she was, let alone where or when.

Vaughn, it's bigger than I thought. She let out a low moan and then collapsed.

* * *

"Ramazan Ibramhov. He's our man on the inside and your contact."

Svetlana looked at the photograph – a thin clean-shaven man in his forties with a deeply tanned hatchet face and close cropped brown hair. "How is he going to get me in?"

Tchéky's lips switched to form a slight smile. "That's the interesting bit."

"Well?" she prompted.

"It seems that the Vissarion has been conducting a search to find his . . . for want of a better word, apostles. Christ had his disciples, and the Vissarion feels that so should he."

Svetlana stared at him. "You're not suggesting . . .."

"He's been conducting a search, not just within Kyrgyzstan and Russia, but throughout much of Europe and Asia as well, to locate people who show evidence of psychic or paranormal abilities. Apparently he believes that such people – like himself – have been touched by god, only unlike him they haven't accepted this yet."

"Psychics and people with paranormal abilities?" The look she shot him was sceptical.

He spread his hands. "Hey, I'm just a messenger – reporting the facts. It doesn't mean I'm a believer. Anyway, the Vissarion has been gathering these alleged psychics and bringing them to his Kyrgyzstan bunker facility to run tests and establish their credentials."

"He's been what? Kidnapping them?"

"No, no. He hasn't had to resort to anything so extreme. It's amazing what a substantial cash incentive from a beardy lunatic will persuade people to do entirely of their own free will."

"So I'm going to be a psychic." She snorted. "Not to rain on your parade or anything Tchéky, but I may have spotted one teeny little flaw with all this. Namely my complete lack of any kind of psychic talent."

Tchéky laughed. "Svet, Svet. You've been trained to read people – their body language and expressions – and Ramazan will prep you with all the inside information you could possibly need. I absolutely guarantee you will be the most psychic person the Vissarion has ever encountered. You'll blow him away."

"If you say so. And once I'm in?"

"Ramazan will give you the exact details. Basically he'll disable the security on the area where the labs have been constructed; you'll break in and blow them up. The necessary explosives and other op-tech are already inside the bunker – too risky to try and bring them in with you."

After a moment she nodded. "When do I fly out?"

* * *

"Slightly over the top there I thought," Ramazan murmured, his voice scarcely more than a subliminal vibration against the skin of her neck. "Although the Vissarion's sold completely. You're his new favourite."

Svetlana didn't say anything. Her heart was still tripping over twenty or thirty beats a minutes faster than its normal resting rate, and every time she so much as blinked the images playing inside her head reared up back to the fore. She wondered briefly what Ramazan's response would be if he knew what had happened to her hadn't been in any way an act.

He stood up, leaving her lying on the bed. He glanced back at the door and the two guards who flanked it. "She's okay. She has these turns occasionally. It's nothing unusual. Too much excitement for one day, and I'm not sure she likes being so far underground. Interferes with something up here." He tapped the side of his head.

The guards exchanged a look.

"You can both go now. Everything's fine."

After a slight pause they nodded and left them. The door clicked shut and Ramazan turned back to Svetlana on the bed.

"You'll be okay Lena." His voice was soothing. He glanced quickly towards the small camera in the corner of the room to indicate to her they were still being watched and listened to – that they still needed to maintain their cover. Catching and holding her gaze, he started to blink out rapid Morse code. "Everything's fine." The blinking continued.

She didn't say anything, staring at him wild eyed. He smiled. "I'm going to have to leave you alone for a bit now. There's no need to be afraid." He knelt down beside the bed and touched her shoulder gently as she shook. "Any time you want anything you can press this button here and speak to the nice man on the other end. It's a bit like a phone. You're good at using the phone, aren't you Lena?"

After a moment she nodded – returned the smile tremulously.

The blinking stopped. "I'll see you again soon." He turned and left.

As the door clicked shut behind him Svetlana rolled over onto her side and stared at the wall. Five hours to wait. She should try to get some sleep; try to relax at least. But all she could see was that huge red sphere, turning over and over.

* * *

The intercom beeped three times – the signal that the camera was now being looped and it was time to move.

Svetlana sprang into action instantly, rolling off the bed and reaching underneath it. A quick search turned up a plastic bag stuck to the bed's underside. Quickly she stripped off the dress she wore and pulled on the tight fitting black cold suit the bag contained – designed to render its wearer all but invisible to the facility's infrared camera system. Tearing the scraggly blonde wig off, she replaced it with a balaclava made from similar material, and a pair of night vision goggles.

Then she started arrange wig and pillow in such a manner that anyone looking casually into the room would think she was still in bed, sleeping.

Once that was done she crossed to the door, pausing to listen. After a few seconds she became confident that no one was there and turned the handle. The door opened easily.

Turn left, second door on the right. Crate 47B. Those had been Ramazan's blinked instructions

Unconsciously holding her breath, half expecting an alarm to go off, she tried the indicated door. As expected it was unlocked and she slipped inside.

Shelves rose on either side of her, filled with packing crates. She looked at the nearest crate to her left – 36B – and followed the shelf along.

47B. Moving quickly she pulled it out onto the middle of the floor and threw it open.

On top was a tranq gun and two clips. She slid one of the clips home and holstered it. If things went well it should prove unnecessary. Next to it was an SR-1 pistol fitted with a suppressor, plus a spare clip. That would hopefully be even more unnecessary. The C4 charges were a requisite part of the plan.

The door opened behind her. "You! Don't move!"

She was already moving though, diving behind the crate and pulling the lid up to act as cover. The SR-1 was already to hand and she aimed and fired at the guard silhouetted in the doorway in a single smooth motion.

The gun produced a brittle sounding click. The SR-1 had an automatic safety, so that wasn't the problem. A second pull of the trigger produced no more than another click.

"I said freeze!" The guard stepped forward into the room, seeming to have difficulty seeing her. Three more piled in behind him.

Svetlana darted rapidly forward, rolling through the gap in the shelves the crate had left. She expected gunfire to follow her, though none came.

She drew the tranq gun in place of the SR-1and tried that. Again the only result was a soft click and nothing else. She swore beneath her breath.

"Where is she?" One of the guards muttered

As the guards advanced inside she tried throwing her weight against the shelves in an effort to topple them. They were bolted securely at both floor and ceiling though, and her effort had no effect.

"There! Behind the shelves!"

"Somebody turn the lights on!"

Svetlana sprinted down the narrow gap between wall and shelves, back towards the door. Someone fired something through the shelves that missed, several feet behind her head. It wasn't a bullet, and she didn't waste time working out exactly what it was.

She made it back to the door, snatching up a fire extinguisher from a wall bracket. One of the guards spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled on her. A skull-cracking blow with fire extinguisher's base rendered him unconscious before he hit the floor.

The lights came on.

Sweeping the nozzle sideways, she sprayed CO2 into the faces of the two guards directly in front of her before they could so much as blink. As they reeled back from her she drove the fire extinguisher into the stomach of the nearest.

He doubled over, the breath blasted from his body. Svetlana immediately rolled across his back, kicking the man standing behind him hard in the face as his eyes widened in surprise. He sprawled over backwards with the force of the impact.

The second guard she'd sprayed was clawing frantically at his eyes and coughing, struggling to bring the weapon he carried – a tazer, she now saw – to bear on her. A fraction of a second before he fired she kicked out at his wrist, knocking the tazer sideways. Twin darts shot out, embedding themselves in his still doubled-over companion's leg.

There was a sharp crack of electricity accompanied by the stench of fried ozone, and the man who'd been hit collapsed with a strangled yelp. Svetlana slammed the last remaining guard in the face with the extinguisher and ran.

As she emerged into the corridor she saw that half a dozen more men were approaching rapidly from one direction – again armed with tazers. She chose the other direction, sprinting hard. Part of her wondered how everything could have gone to hell so quickly.

Ramazan, she concluded. He'd been compromised.

She rounded a corner, mind racing, searching for a way out. Four more guards were coming directly towards her, just cresting a flight of stairs at the corridor's end. For a moment she tried to reverse direction, but then realised there was no way back behind her either. She sprinted onwards, directly towards them.

The two in front paused as they caught sight of her and stared. The one on the left was just about collected enough to lift his tazer and aim it at her. He started to yell an order, but she was already airborne, leaping at them.

She caught the two men full on, slamming into them and knocking them backwards into the faces of their two colleagues coming up behind them. Five bodies went tumbling together in a massed tangle of limbs, bouncing down the twelve steps leading onto the landing below.

Svetlana was the first up, her fall broken by the bodies beneath her.

Pain shot through her left hip and her leg almost buckled beneath her. She hissed through her teeth, just about managing to stay upright. Snatching up one of the tazers from a limp grasp, she lurched down the next flight of stairs as fast as her battered body could manage. She could hear her pursuers reach the top of the stairs behind her, but didn't look back.

The corridor she emerged onto looked almost identical to the one above. Taking a deep breath she launched herself into a run again. She was going the wrong way she knew, deeper into the facility, away from the labs she was supposed to destroy. Away from the way out. For the moment though, there didn't seem to be much choice.

Someone stepped out of a door about forty yards in front off her.

Her eyes widened as she saw who it was. "Ramazan!"

"Hey, Svet." Given the circumstances his response was almost preternaturally laid back.

"They were waiting for me! We've been compromised!"

"I know," he said calmly.

"Run . . ." she started to yell at him, but choked off. She saw that he was holding a gun – and that it was pointed directly at her. He was still about ten paces away from her, and he was actually smiling.

 There was something very, very wrong with this picture. Vainly she tried to dive for the nearest door, but she didn't even get half way.

He shot her.