Ghost Target (Ryan Drake) Page 9

He couldn’t move.

  The moment Reza’s mind at last drifted back into consciousness, he knew something was terribly wrong. His arms and legs were spread out wide, and he could feel his wrists and ankles restrained by something. But it wasn’t until he looked up that he realized he’d been tied to the sturdy metal bars of his own bed.

  The second thing he realized was that he couldn’t speak. A rag had been forced into his mouth and a strip of duct tape used to secure it in place. He tried to cry out, but all that emerged was a feeble, muffled groan.

  Panicking, heart pounding, he thrashed and bucked, pulling desperately on his wrists and ankles in a vain effort to break free. Muscles strained and burned with the effort, but nowhere did he even come close to freeing a limb. That knowledge only increased his fear.

  ‘Wouldn’t keep that up if I were you, Majid,’ a voice warned. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

  The realization that his attacker was in the same room sent Reza’s heart into overdrive, and his struggles became frantic.

  ‘Hey! Hey! I told you to stop it,’ the voice called out. ‘Calm down, or I’ll have to shock you again.’

  Reluctantly his struggles dissipated. Glancing over at the doorway, Reza was at last afforded a look at his captor. The man was big, both tall and broad, and dressed in civilian clothes – jeans, scuffed hiking boots, a casual shirt and a worn-looking leather jacket. He could have been anyone, if not for his face.

  His face and head were covered with a black cloth balaclava, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. Clearly he didn’t want Reza identifying him later, which kindled a tiny spark of hope in him that there might actually be a later.

  He spoke flawless Urdu, but without the thick apartment door to muffle his words, the foreign lilt to his voice was unmistakable. American – it had to be. What on earth did an American want with him?

  ‘That’s better,’ his captor went on, recognizing that he was calming down. ‘Work with me here, Majid. No need for us to get off on the wrong foot.’

  Leaving the doorway, he approached the bed, the slow measured tread of his boots thumping on the bare floorboards contrasting sharply with the wild, frantic beating of Reza’s heart. But rather than attack him, he simply pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed, as if Reza were a sick relative he’d come to visit.

  ‘Right now, you’re probably wondering why I’m here. We’re both busy men, so I’ll make it quick. All I want from you is information. That’s not too hard, is it? Just give me a little honesty, and I’ll be on my way.’ He leaned forward, the chair creaking under his solid weight. ‘I want to know who was responsible for the attack on Camp Chapman, and I want to know where al-Qaeda’s senior leaders are hiding.’

  Reza’s heartbeat quickened once more. This man was asking for something he couldn’t possibly give; not just because of the potential fallout from such an admission, but because he simply didn’t know. He wasn’t nearly important enough.

  ‘Now, I know your first reaction will be to deny it,’ the American went on. ‘After all, we’re playing for high stakes here. It’s like a game of poker – everybody’s bluffing, but everybody knows it. We know the ISI’s been helping to shelter them for at least the past five years, and you know that we know. But you pretend you don’t know, and for the sake of diplomacy, we pretend we believe you. Well, I’m here because it’s about time everybody showed their hands. I’ve come to call your bluff.’

  ‘We both know you’re not a big player in this particular game, Majid. That’s a shitty deal, but it’s a fact, my friend. You don’t hold any real cards, but I’m guessing you know a man who does. So what do you say? Will you point me in his direction?’

  Reza shook his head, trying to shout through the gag that he knew nothing, that he was simply a low-level administrator with no knowledge of the ISI’s higher echelons. But it was a wasted effort. The gag prevented more than a low groan to escape his lips.

  ‘Thought you might say that,’ the American conceded with disappointment. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve got something to help motivate you.’

  Reaching into his leather jacket, he pulled something out. Something that glinted in the wan street light filtering through the grimy bedroom windows. Something that made Reza’s guts twist in terror.

  It was a knife, but a knife unlike any Reza had ever seen. The blade was curved almost at right angles, forming a strange L-shape that negated any potential as a weapon. It looked more like something used by a surgeon or a butcher.

  ‘You know what this is?’ he asked. ‘It’s a gelding knife. See, horse breeders often have problems with their herd stallions. All that testosterone pumping through their blood makes them wilful, aggressive, impossible to control. You can’t break a stallion like that; no matter how much you whip or collar him, he just keeps fighting back. What you’ve got to do instead is take a little something away, then he’s as good as gold. And you know what? I’ve found it works just as well on men like yourself.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled on a pair of rubber surgical gloves, having to wriggle his fingers a few times to find the right holes. This done, he leaned over and yanked down Reza’s underwear, exposing his genitals.

  ‘The good news is that the bleeding’s really not as bad as you’d expect,’ he explained as he brought the knife closer. ‘You won’t die from it, at least. Infection could be a problem later, of course, but that’s the least of your worries. The pain though… well, put it this way, I’ve never known a man who didn’t talk afterwards.’

  Restrained as he was, there was nothing Reza could do to cover or protect himself. Nothing except scream into his gag with absolute terror, buck and thrash around much like a horse trying to unseat its rider. But there could be no escape from this. Nothing he could do to prevent it except give the man what he wanted.

  ‘Nod if you have something you want to tell me,’ the American prompted, positioning the curved knife blade beneath Reza’s testicles so that a single upward thrust would do the job.

  Frantically he nodded, jerking his head with such force that it jarred his neck.

  ‘I’m going to take off your gag now. If you’re thinking about screaming, don’t,’ he warned. ‘Believe me, this knife works just as well on tongues.’

  Reza groaned in pain as the duct tape was ripped free, taking stray hairs and a layer of skin with it. Nonetheless, the feeling of relief as the rag was pulled from his mouth was tangible. Greedily he sucked in air through his mouth, filling his lungs.

  ‘Who in the ISI knows?’ his captor prompted. ‘Give me a name. And don’t even think about lying to me.’

  ‘He’ll kill me,’ Reza protested weakly.

  ‘Then you should probably think about leaving Pakistan once this is over.’ He saw a dangerous glint in those eyes. ‘You won’t have a job, but at least you’ll still have your balls. So… the name.’

  Reza closed his eyes, knowing he could well be signing his own death warrant if he complied, knowing this man would certainly kill him if he didn’t.

  ‘Qalat,’ he said at last. ‘Vizur Qalat.’

  ‘Who the hell is he?’

  ‘A senior field agent with Covert Action Division.’ CAD, as it was known, was the most secretive and elite branch of Pakistan’s intelligence service, tasked with undertaking missions most rank and file officers never even learned about. ‘I don’t know the man, but I know he is well connected. If anyone can help you find them, it will be Qalat.’

  The American eyed him suspiciously. ‘Not holding out on me, are you, Majid?’

  ‘It is the truth. I swear it.’ Reza was staring right into his eyes, pleading with the man to show mercy. ‘You must believe me.’

  After several seconds of anguished silence, the American finally nodded. ‘I do,’ he confirmed. ‘You’ve done well, Majid. Thanks for your help.’

  Replacing the gag in Reza’s mouth and securing it with tape, he laid the knife down and instead picked up the biscuit tin in which Reza had stored his syri
nge and other equipment.

  ‘And because you’ve been so good, I’ve prepared a reward,’ he explained, lifting out the syringe. ‘I added a little something of my own, free of charge. Gives it an extra kick, if you know what I mean.’

  Holding Reza’s arm steady lest he struggle and break the delicate instrument, he carefully inserted the needle into a prominent vein and depressed the plunger.

  ‘Happy trails, buddy,’ he said, speaking in English this time.

  Reza barely had time to question the meaning of his words before he began to feel the effects of the potent cocktail. For a few moments, he felt the characteristic rush and euphoria so familiar from the heroin he was used to, but then something else began to creep in. A darkness seemed to be enveloping the room, creeping in from the edge of his vision, slowly engulfing the world around him.

  Reza cried out in fear, the gag rendering his final effort useless, as the darkness swallowed him up and his vision faded away.

  In total, it took nearly three minutes for him to go into respiratory depression, and his vital signs to fade away completely. Longer than the typical administration, but Hawkins supposed the man’s body had built up a tolerance to drugs like this.

  Untying Reza’s limbs from the bedposts, he carefully arranged the man in a foetal position on the bed, making sure to lay the empty syringe beside him. When he was eventually found, the cause of death would be obvious enough, and a toxicology report would confirm he’d died from a massive heroin overdose. Just another junkie who’d taken a little too much.

  Packing away his remaining gear, Hawkins removed his rubber gloves, fished the cell phone out of his pocket and dialled a number back in the States. It was answered within moments.

  ‘Cain.’

  ‘I have a name,’ Hawkins reported. ‘Vizur Qalat. He’s a field agent for their Covert Action Division.’

  Silence greeted him for a couple of seconds. Tense, brooding silence, broken only by the drone of traffic outside and the occasional blare of a car horn.

  ‘That name mean something to you?’ Hawkins asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Cain said without elaborating. ‘How solid is this lead?’

  Hawkins glanced at the dead man lying curled on the bed. ‘Pretty solid.’

  There was a momentary pause. He didn’t expect thanks or congratulations, but he knew Cain would be mulling over the implications of this new development.

  ‘Find out everything you can about him,’ the deputy director instructed. ‘And set up a meeting.’

  Hawkins smiled, wondering if Qalat was the sort of man to deal rationally, or if he’d get a chance to put the gelding knife to use after all.

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Chapter 13

  Half an hour after her arrival, and Frost’s condition had mercifully stabilized. The hastily applied sutures used to close the bullet wound seemed to be holding, and the bleeding had slowed enough that Drake was able to move her to the couch and apply a fresh dressing. Infection was still a danger, but that was a chance they’d have to take for now.

  ‘Here,’ McKnight said, handing the young woman a cup of sugary tea.

  Frost took an experimental sip, wrinkling her nose as if it were poison. ‘I’d settle for something stronger.’

  ‘I bet you would. But you’re dehydrated, in borderline shock, and you’ve lost God knows how much blood over the past twelve hours,’ Drake said sharply. ‘You need fluids, and lots of them. So stop bitching and drink.’

  Frost knew when she was outmanoeuvred. Steeling herself as if she were about to down a shot of absinthe, she went to work on the mug of tea.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ McKnight asked.

  ‘Well, aside from having a hole in me that wasn’t there yesterday, pretty good.’ The young woman glanced around at their surroundings and managed a grin. A real one this time. ‘By the way, I like what you’ve done with the place.’

  Her momentary smile soon faded, however. It was clear from her expression she had more she wanted to say.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry for showing up like this,’ she finally managed. More than anything else in this world, she hated being indebted to people. ‘I wouldn’t have come here, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’

  Now they were getting down to it. Drake lowered himself into a chair opposite her. ‘Tell us what happened.’

  ‘Some fucking assholes jumped me in a club in Munich last night, tried to haul me off in a van.’ Reaching down, Frost absently gripped one of the fragments of glass between her thumb and forefinger, yanked it from the flesh of her arm and laid it on the coffee table as if it were an empty chocolate wrapper. ‘It was my fault. I let my guard down. They’re dead now, but I got pretty messed up in the process. I knew I couldn’t stay in Munich in case they’d been watching my apartment, and the police might be checking the local hospitals, so I patched myself up as best I could and got the fuck out of Dodge. Pretty much came straight here after that.’

  ‘You mean you rode all the way from Munich to Marseille in one night?’ McKnight asked, impressed by such a feat of endurance. ‘With a wound like that?’

  ‘It’s okay, I had my little friends here to keep me company,’ Frost said, reaching into her back pocket and holding up an almost-empty strip of painkillers. ‘Goes down smooth with a can of Red Bull. The bleeding wasn’t too bad at first, but it got worse the longer I rode. Have to admit, I was pretty glad to see this place when I pulled up. I’m just sorry for pussying out on you and fainting, though.’

  Drake said nothing to that. As if she needed to apologize for almost dying. ‘The men who jumped you. Were they field operatives?’

  She shook her head. ‘Too fucking stupid and sloppy for that. They were bounty hunters, probably hoping to make a big score.’

  Unfolding a crumpled, bloodstained piece of paper, she held it up for Drake to see. It might have been taken a few years ago, but the printed image on the page was unmistakably that of Frost.

  ‘Looks like I’m famous,’ she remarked with grim humour.

  Drake felt his heart sink, knowing the attacks on Frost and Mason had to be linked to this image. ‘I thought you were monitoring all the Most Wanted sites.’

  ‘I was.’ She looked defensive at the implication that she’d dropped the ball. ‘Doesn’t mean there aren’t others I don’t know about. Shit, maybe there are bounty hunter-only message boards floating around out there.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter where it came from. Either way, someone tipped them off about you,’ McKnight reasoned, giving Drake a meaningful look. ‘Which means the rest of our faces have probably been circulated as well.’

  ‘Cain,’ Frost said, practically spitting the word.

  She didn’t need to say anything more. It was plain that the timings of the two attacks, coming within mere hours of each other, couldn’t be a coincidence. And Cain was the only man with the influence and global reach to make that happen.

  It was then that another thought occurred to Frost. Her face seemed to lose even more colour. ‘Christ, what if he tracked me here?’

  ‘Relax. Nobody tracked you here,’ Drake said, rising from his seat to go outside and retrieve her bike, which he couldn’t just leave sitting there in plain view.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because we’re still alive.’

  Heading for the front door, he glanced over at Frost. ‘You’re staying here until you’re back on your feet. No apologies, no arguments. What happened wasn’t your fault, okay?’

  She was avoiding eye contact, but he could tell his words had struck a chord. And for once she didn’t have a smart-assed comeback for him.

  ‘Whatever.’ He was about to leave when Frost spoke up again. ‘Ryan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  She was holding out her hand. Drake knew what it meant, what she wanted to say but couldn’t. Reaching out, he gripped her hand and clasped it tight. That one gesture meant more to him than any amount of thanks or flattery.

  L
etting go, he nodded gently. ‘Stay here, get some rest. And for Christ’s sake stay out of trouble.’

  ‘No promises!’ she called after him as he strode outside.

  Chapter 14

  CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia – 30 April 1985

  The young woman was being held in an interrogation cell, seated motionless at the metal table in the centre of the room, her hands resting on her lap, her head bowed as if in quiet contemplation. Locks of long blonde hair fell around her face, partially shielding it from view.

  Watching her through the security cameras in the observation room nearby, Cain glanced at the technician manning the room.

  ‘Has she said anything since she was brought in?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He looked like he’d been waiting too long for something to happen. ‘Hasn’t moved a muscle in the past hour. I actually sent a guy in just to make sure the camera wasn’t malfunctioning.’

  Frowning, Cain turned his attention back to her short personnel dossier, which he’d been skim-reading on the way here. There wasn’t much to read. She claimed to have been born in a small village in one of the Baltic republics, and that her parents had died in an accident when she was still a child. Disillusioned with life in the Soviet Union and with no next of kin, she had eventually made the decision to defect to the West.

  Thus she’d made the arduous trek northwards, crossing the border into Finland at night with the intention of reaching Norway and claiming asylum there. She’d been smart enough to know that Finland’s official policy was to deport Soviet escapees back to their country of origin.

  All had gone well until she’d become lost and disoriented in a snow storm, forced to wait several days in an improvised shelter before resuming her journey. Freezing, exhausted and close to death, she’d been picked up by a Norwegian border patrol. The medical report confirmed that she was physically fit and apparently in good health despite her ordeal.

  Aside from these snippets of information, however, she appeared to be a blank slate. The only way to learn more was by speaking with her.