Ghost Target (Ryan Drake) Page 10
‘All right. I’m going in,’ Cain decided, tucking her dossier under his arm.
Making his way into the short hallway leading to the adjacent room, he flashed his ID to the security agent on duty there. There was a loud buzz as the electronic lock disengaged, and the door swung open.
Only then, as he approached the table, did the young woman at last look up, affording Cain his first proper look at her.
With a strong jawline, high cheekbones and straight forehead, her facial structure was faintly Nordic in appearance, characteristic of peoples living in the Baltic states, as opposed to the oval shape that was more common amongst ethnic Russians. Her blonde, slightly wavy hair was worn long, reaching well past her shoulders, with loose strands falling on either side of her face. Her full lips were closed, her chin raised slightly as if in quiet defiance of the authority he represented.
She was seated, and wearing a plain white T-shirt and slacks, so her height and build were hard to judge, but in her exposed arms he saw the lean, wiry muscles that spoke of an active, physical life. He had little reason to believe the rest of her body was any different. He also spotted a number of small scars on both hands, which he’d come to recognize easily enough in those who had fought up close and personal.
But most of all, it was her eyes that caught his attention and held it. Stark blue and cold as glacial ice, they were fixed on him with an unwavering intensity that was almost disconcerting, as if she were somehow seeing right through him. The look in those eyes spoke of a soul that had witnessed a great many things in its short life.
Taken as the sum of her parts, this woman seated before him was both strikingly attractive and oddly beguiling, her appearance somehow combining youthful prettiness with the harder edge and confidence that came with experience and age. She was a strange but compelling contradiction – young and impetuous yet cunning and resourceful, beautiful yet tough, calm and composed yet apparently no stranger to violence and fighting.
Who was she? What did she want? And what had brought her here?
‘Good morning, Anya,’ he began, settling himself into the chair opposite. ‘My name’s Mike Cunningham.’
‘No,’ she said simply.
‘Excuse me?’
She was looking at him curiously, as if he were a puzzle that would require a little work to solve. ‘That is not your real name. I think you were not telling the truth.’
She spoke English quite well for one so young, though with an obvious accent. Some words clearly took some effort to pronounce.
‘What makes you say that?’ he asked, keeping his expression carefully neutral.
‘When you say the name, you hesitate, it does not come naturally to you. I think this name was not true. And I saw your identification for a moment as you entered the room.’ Her lips parted slightly in the beginnings of a smile, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in her mind. ‘It was a test, yes? You were testing me.’
Cain’s brows rose for a moment in surprise at how easily she’d seen through the ruse. Sharp and observant. He made a mental note to add those to the list of attributes he was compiling about her.
‘Very good, Anya,’ he allowed, setting the dossier down on the metal surface. ‘My real name is Cain. Marcus Cain.’
That seemed to satisfy her. At least, she didn’t try to correct him.
‘You are in charge here?’
Cain chuckled at this notion. ‘Not exactly. But I’m about as far up the chain as you’re going to get. You can speak with me, or we can put you on a flight back to the Soviet Union. Fair enough?’
She shrugged, conceding to his terms. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Good. So…’ He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. ‘Let’s talk about you, Anya. You went to a lot of trouble to get here. What exactly do you want from us?’
‘I want to work for you.’
‘Why?’
She swallowed, glancing down for a moment before carrying on. ‘Because I want my country to be rid of the Soviets for ever. I want my people to have freedom and decide their own future. America was born from the same ideas, yes? Well, I want the same thing. And I am willing to give everything I have to make it happen.’
Cain hesitated before replying. Coming from another person, such words might have seemed overblown and idealistic, nothing more than youthful fire and passion. But in this woman, he saw something more. He saw purpose and iron determination behind the rhetoric.
‘That’s quite a goal,’ he said, hoping it didn’t sound like mockery. ‘What makes you think you could work for us? Do you have any skills? Technical expertise? Connections in the Soviet regime?’
She shook her head.
Cain let out a faint sigh of disappointment and flipped her dossier closed. ‘Then I’m sorry, Anya.’
‘Wait,’ she said, reaching across the table with surprising speed to clasp his hand. Glancing up, Cain found himself staring into those hard, intense blue eyes. ‘You do not understand. I have no family, no friends, no one who depends on me. No one who can be used against me. The State saw to that,’ he added with a bitter look. ‘I have nothing, so I have nothing to lose.’
‘Just your life,’ he pointed out. ‘You really so eager to give that up?’
She thought about that for a moment. ‘What did your General Patton say? It is better to die for something, than live for nothing.’
‘I think it was fight rather than die,’ he mused. Still, he had to commend her on her enthusiasm if nothing else. ‘You understand that even if I was to consider this for a moment, it could take months just to vet you, not to mention the training that comes after. Being a field operative isn’t like working at a 7-Eleven.’
At this, her blonde brows drew together in a frown. ‘A seven-what?’
‘Doesn’t matter. The point is, we get a lot of people like you. People who want to play spies. Most don’t even come close to making it.’
‘Yet you are talking to me now,’ she observed. ‘And I did not come here to play games.’ She sighed, looking him right in the eye, her former defiance and confidence gone now. ‘Please, Marcus Cain. I do not want pity, just a chance to prove myself. So far my life has meant nothing to anyone. Let me do something with what I have left.’
The intensity, the determination, the sheer force of will behind this final plea was startling. Cain could practically feel it emanating from her, and wondered once more about what had driven this young woman to make such a dangerous gamble, to come all this way and risk everything.
And much to his own surprise, he found himself wanting to agree with her. There was something compelling, almost magnetic about her. The simple but heartfelt ideals she held, the drive that lay behind them, the determination and confidence of youth seemed to resonate with him. It was a stark contrast to the cynical and pragmatic old men he was so used to dealing with.
Perhaps she did deserve what she was asking for. Didn’t everyone at least deserve a chance?
‘Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch,’ he promised, retrieving the dossier and standing up to leave.
* * *
CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia – March 2010
Cain was in his office, engrossed in the classified intelligence dossier that the Agency had compiled on Vizur Qalat, the Pakistani intelligence operative Hawkins had singled out for further attention. It was fragmented and incomplete, but even the list of career postings began to paint a picture that Cain could make sense of.
An interesting man who had lived an even more interesting life, much of it intriguingly entwined with the Agency itself. Forty-seven years old, he’d started his career in the Pakistani army, quickly rising through the ranks before being promoted to their military intelligence division. He’d played an active part in aiding US operations against the Soviets in Afghanistan back in the 1980s, helping funnel intelligence on Russian troop deployments and even to smuggle arms across the border.
That was why the name had struck a chord with him the first t
ime Hawkins mentioned it. Cain remembered Qalat from personal experience, especially now he’d seen a recent photograph. He might have aged somewhat since their last encounter, but it was unmistakably him. What a strange sense of humour life seemed to have, Cain reflected, throwing this man back into the mix after two decades.
Intrigued, he carried on reading. In 1999, Qalat had helped orchestrate the military coup that had seen the overthrow of Pakistan’s democratically elected Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif. By the time of the September 11 attacks, Qalat had already moved into ISI – Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency. From there he had overseen a number of joint operations against Taliban cells hiding in the mountainous tribal regions near the Pakistan border, most of which had been successful.
Little was known about his personal life, save that he was unmarried and had no close next of kin. A grey man, then, often to be found at the periphery of major events but never at the epicentre. A man who had somehow remained under the Agency’s radar for most of his life, but who might now hold the key to destroying their greatest enemy.
If they could get him to cooperate.
Cain blinked, brought back to reality by the buzz of his cell phone. Laying the folder down on his expensive mahogany desk, he fished the phone out of his jacket and hit the accept call button. As he’d hoped, it was coming from one of his field ops teams in Italy.
‘The police took the bait, sir,’ the man reported, his voice surprisingly soft and quiet considering his profession. ‘They moved in on Mason’s safe house just like we predicted.’
‘Did they get him?’ Cain asked with mild interest.
‘Negative. Seems he was prepared for an assault. They’re expanding their perimeter, but it looks like he gave them the slip. We no longer have eyes-on ourselves.’
Mason, like his comrade Frost, was a wily one, employing every trick in the book to stay under the Agency’s radar and rarely letting his guard down. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the clues provided by Cain’s mole, he suspected both operatives might have remained at large for some time. As it was, Cain’s agents had finally tracked him down about a month ago, and had been discreetly watching him ever since.
‘Doesn’t matter. We know where he’s heading.’
A few discreet tip-offs, first to local thugs in Munich and then to the police in Milan, had yielded exactly the kind of results he needed. Now both of Drake’s comrades were on the run, and he knew exactly where they would run to.
‘Get yourselves out of Italy,’ Cain ordered. ‘And get ready for Phase Two. I want you ready to launch within the hour. Clear?’
‘Crystal, sir.’
Satisfied, Cain closed down the phone and pocketed it, before turning his attention back to Qalat’s dossier. The pieces of this puzzle were moving into position almost of their own accord, needing little more than the odd nudge now and again to keep them on course. Soon enough, they would be exactly where he wanted them.
All he needed was the final piece. The one vital element that still eluded him.
Anya.
Chapter 15
Marseille, France
It was early evening in southern France, the sun slanting towards the western horizon and setting the sky alight in a blaze of colour, as Drake prepared a simple dinner in the villa’s kitchen. He had too much on his mind to be hungry, and in truth he wasn’t a great cook at the best of times, but they all needed to eat regardless. Anyway, even he could reheat a can of beans, some potatoes and a bit of tinned meat without killing someone.
They would be leaving soon to rendezvous with Mason at the Alamo, staying only to give Frost a little time to regain her strength for the journey. After that, they would have to decide their next collective move. Drake already had a plan in mind, based on the very real threat they now faced, but whether the others would agree to it was another matter.
His preparations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and he looked up as Frost emerged from the bathroom, her hair still damp from the shower.
Her bloodstained jeans and bike leathers were gone now, replaced by a pair of jogging pants and a plain white vest that could be pulled up easily to inspect the dressing on her abdomen. She had a towel draped around her shoulders, and was clearly in pain, but she at least looked more like her normal self.
‘Don’t say it,’ she warned. ‘I know I’ve never looked more beautiful than this moment, but try to keep it under control. I’m not up for partying right now.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised. At least her sense of humour was back up and running, though whether that was a good thing or not was questionable.
‘The shower sucks, by the way. Can’t decide if it wants to be hot or cold,’ she remarked as she eased herself down at the small dining table, wincing in pain as her battered and bruised body reminded her once again of the punishment it had taken over the past 24 hours.
‘It’s on my to-do list,’ Drake said with the weary resignation born from long experience. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling?’
‘Tip top. Haven’t had this much fun since my last exorcism.’ She ran her hands through her short, dishevelled black hair. ‘And I’m starving.’
Drake wasn’t surprised. Frost might have been half his size, but she ate and drank like a professional rugby player. He had no idea how her metabolism worked, but it must have functioned very differently from most humans because she somehow remained lean and trim regardless of what she ate.
Spooning some of the mixture he’d been preparing onto a plate, he laid it down in front of her. ‘Here, dig in.’
The young woman eyed the meal suspiciously. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘You Americans call it hash.’
‘Yeah? What do you call it?’
‘Fuck knows, but it got me through army basic training, so it can’t be all bad.’ He handed her a fork. ‘Eat.’
She didn’t thank him, because she knew it wasn’t expected. Instead she set about tackling the food. Though tentative at first, she soon began devouring it like what she was – someone who hadn’t eaten a proper meal in close to 24 hours.
‘You know, this would go down better with a little—’
‘Forget it, Keira,’ Drake cut her off, feeling like an exasperated parent having to deal with a demanding child. ‘Not happening. Deal with it.’
‘Fucking typical,’ she mumbled. ‘Worse than living with my mom.’
It was then that she paused for a moment. To Drake’s surprise, there was a sad, mournful look in her eyes, as if dark thoughts had intruded on her mind. ‘Something wrong?’
She looked around, taking in their modest surroundings. The simple rustic furniture, the old doors with peeling paint, the worktops cluttered with utensils and personal items, the sunlight slanting in through shuttered windows. The silent evidence of two lives entwined beneath one roof.
‘It’s this place,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s all so… normal.’
Drake gave her a wry smile. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No, I mean…’ She shook her head, looking almost angry at herself. ‘Shit, Ryan, I don’t really know what I mean.’
‘Give it a try,’ he prompted. ‘You’re not usually lost for words.’
‘It’s just… you really look like you’re making a go of things here. You and Sam, you’ve got… a home.’ She said that word as if it were unfamiliar to her. ‘I mean, it’s not exactly white picket fences and two-and-a-half kids, but it’s a real place, a real life. I just never expected it, that’s all.’
‘Things change for all of us eventually.’ He spread his arms out to encompass his surroundings. ‘Maybe this place has given me some perspective.’
‘That how you want to live?’
She wasn’t asking that question with her typical sarcasm or disdain, but genuine interest, as if trying to understand the man sharing the room with her.
‘Isn’t that what we all want?’ Drake asked, not even sure if he knew the answer himself. ‘A home. A life.’
* * *
Outside, not far from the villa, McKnight was standing near the cliff edge, looking westward across the bay at the small fishing boats bobbing on the gentle swell. The breeze had risen a little with the onset of evening, stirring up the sea so that it was studded with whitecaps, but air still retained the sultry warmth of the afternoon.
She swallowed hard, trying to fight back the rising tide of nausea that had been growing all afternoon. She tried to tell herself that it was just a result of the tumultuous events of the day, but deep down she knew it was a silent reminder of the secret she was keeping from her companions.
But that would have to wait for now. Too much was at stake for them to be distracted by something like that. Right now, she had other matters to deal with. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Drake couldn’t see her, she dug her cell phone from her pocket and quickly dialled a number. A number she was careful to delete from her phone records every time she used it. A number she was required to call every three days without fail.
It didn’t ring for long before he answered.
‘Yes, Samantha?’
Marcus Cain always called her by her full name. She didn’t know why, but she always sensed an edge of mockery and condescension in it. Because he held all the cards against her. He always had.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded right away.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You know goddamn well what I’m talking about. Frost and Mason. You tried to have them killed last night!’ It took no small measure of self-control to hold her anger and hatred in check. Anger towards him, hatred towards herself.
‘Samantha, I think you need to calm down. For both our sakes.’
He was playing the voice of reason, his tone carefully neutral, almost compassionate. But beneath this veneer lay a harder undertone, warning her such insubordination wouldn’t be tolerated for long.