by Will Jordan
‘It’ll stop transmitting if someone tries to search me for bugs,’ Drake explained.
‘More or less,’ Frost agreed. ‘The downside is a less powerful signal. You go inside a heavy concrete structure, or underground, I won’t be able to track you. Same with your comms unit.’
Opening a small plastic case, she held out a little flesh-coloured earbud that resembled a miniaturised hearing aid. Designed to fit inside the ear canal, it would be virtually invisible to anything short of an invasive search.
‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’ Jessica asked as Drake fitted it.
Frost held up her hands. ‘Can’t change the laws of physics. You can have small and covert, or big and powerful. Pick one.’
‘This’ll do fine,’ Drake assured her, tapping the comms unit to activate it. ‘Radio check. Testing. Testing.’
‘Got it,’ Frost confirmed, checking the output on her computer.
Just as she said this, an odd rumbling sound echoed up from deep beneath them, the vibrations shivering through the old building’s structure. A half-finished cup of coffee on the workbench rattled slightly, tiny ripples appearing on its surface.
‘What’s that?’ Jessica asked, glancing around for the source of the disturbance. As far as she knew, Virginia wasn’t prone to earthquakes.
‘Subway train,’ Frost explained as the vibrations and noise faded away. ‘One of the main Metro lines runs right beneath this place.’
With Drake’s tracking and communications set up, Dietrich stepped forward with a compact semi-automatic handgun.
‘Here,’ he said, holding it out. ‘9mm Glock 26. Small but effective. It won’t penetrate body armour, but it’s the best concealed carry weapon we’ve got.’
Drake regarded it, then shook his head. ‘No weapons.’
The veteran operative frowned. ‘Tired of being alive, Ryan?’
‘That was our agreement. No weapons.’
‘You really think he’ll honour it?’ Mitchell chimed in dubiously. ‘I’d rather have it and not need it.’
Drake looked at them both. ‘If he wants me dead, then he’ll make it happen. One Glock isn’t going to change that.’
Neither of them could think of an answer to that. Sensing their wavering confidence in the meeting, Drake carried on.
‘Have a little faith. He wouldn’t go through all this just to kill me.’
With the matter decided, if not entirely resolved, Drake snatched up the jacket Frost had prepared and threw it on, turning towards the used car they’d brought inside. They’d bought it from a dealership in one of the less affluent areas of town, paying cash in exchange for minimal paperwork, and had already swapped out the license plates.
The only question now was where the meeting would take place. Drake had been told only the city and the date. The rest would be given when it was required. He knew the drill, and the reasoning behind it, but it didn’t make him feel much better.
‘Ryan.’
Jessica had approached, wishing to speak in private. She looked tense and uneasy, and he didn’t blame her. He just hoped she didn’t want to revisit last night’s debate.
‘You know I have to do this alone, Jess.’
‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘I just… want you to be careful.’
He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked his sister square in the eye. ‘I’m going to find him, I’m going to get the answers we need, and I’m coming back in one piece. Okay?’
Swallowing, she nodded. ‘Okay.’
On Frost’s workbench nearby, Drake’s encrypted cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. Hurrying over, he picked it up and read it. As expected, it was from his contact, giving the first waypoint in his journey.
‘We’re on,’ he announced. ‘Let’s get it done.’
Chapter 39
CIA Headquarters, Langley
‘Talk to me, Chris,’ Franklin said as soon as he and Kennedy were alone, making their way across the central square of the Agency’s main campus. The look on Kennedy’s face told him the man had news for him, and he wasn’t to be disappointed.
‘Some serious shit went down in London,’ he began. ‘The building they assaulted was put on complete lockdown after the attack, total news blackout. We did some digging into the place, and it looks like it was owned by a front company. No records of any business dealings or activity in all the years they were operating.’
‘Okay, but a front for what?’
‘We’ve heard of a place like this once before, during an op in Ukraine. Highly secured but totally invisible. A black hole of intel that everyone can see but nobody knows about, like it doesn’t even exist.’ He paused, before adding, ‘I think Ryan was in a Vault.’
Franklin halted abruptly. Vaults were reserved for the highest of high-level operatives; major global players with the cash and the connections to qualify for access. The idea that Ryan Drake would have gained entry to such a place was outlandish at best. The further notion that Cain might have sanctioned a raid against such a protected space was even more so.
‘How could Ryan have found a place like that?’
Kennedy threw up his hands. ‘That, I can’t tell you. But whatever he found in there must have been pretty fucking important, because Cain mobilised just about every resource in London to stop him.’ Glancing around, he added, ‘I spoke to a buddy of mine seconded to British intelligence. He says the op was led by an American with top-level clearance, the authority to requisition anything he needed.’
‘Who, exactly?’
‘Man by the name of Hawkins.’
Franklin felt his heart rate rise further. Jason Hawkins, Cain’s own personal attack dog. The man responsible for a string of murders, assassinations and unsanctioned operations all across the globe.
‘You know him, then?’ Kennedy remarked, reading his expression.
‘Yeah,’ Franklin replied quietly. ‘Yeah, I know him.’
The Shepherd team leader studied him a moment longer before carrying on. ‘Well, you should know that Hawkins bailed out of there not long afterwards.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Back here, to the US. He was on a dark flight laid on by the Agency, so there was no record of his transfer, but we did some digging and tracked it to Laughlin Air Force Base in Texas.’
‘Laughlin?’ Franklin said, scanning his knowledge of military bases in that area. ‘That’s right on the Mexican border.’
‘It is.’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Franklin gasped.
‘I know. Join the dots on this one, and…’
‘They’re trying to stop Ryan coming into the country,’ Franklin finished for him. ‘He must be trying to cross over the border from Mexico.’
‘Yeah, but what does he want?’
‘Cain,’ Franklin decided, the disjointed pieces of the puzzle suddenly coming together. ‘He’s coming to DC. He’s coming after Marcus Cain.’
Silence descended between them as the implications of this settled on each man.
‘Look, I know you only brought me in to do some digging, but we’re talking about a credible threat on the CIA director’s life,’ he pointed out. ‘God knows, I got no love for Cain. The man may be dirty, he may be all kinds of things, and he ought to answer for that. But this isn’t the way to do it.’
‘Who else knows about this?’ Franklin asked, his mind racing.
Kennedy hesitated, struck by the man’s change in demeanour. ‘Just my team.’
‘And you trust them?’
‘With my life,’ the team leader promised. ‘They’re solid.’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
Kennedy was silent for the next few seconds, clearly unhappy with his instructions. ‘Dan, if something happens, if it comes out that we knew about this and did nothing…’
‘I know the situation,’ Franklin shot back. ‘And so does Cain. That’s why he’s got his people all over it.’
‘So what do we do?’
Franklin was quiet, trying to decide which was the lesser of two evils.
‘We wait,’ he said at length. ‘Stay on it. Keep looking for Ryan, and call me as soon as you have something.’
Chapter 40
The Washington National Cathedral was a massive neo-Gothic structure situated far to the north-west of central DC. Its towering facades, flying buttresses, soaring windows and grand columned interior had all been constructed to mirror the great religious edifices of medieval Europe. And yet the building itself was barely a century old. A valiant but unnecessary attempt at historical splendour by a young country lacking an identity of its own.
The place, however, had seen a lot of use in the past hundred years, a favoured site for state funerals and other important memorials. Ronald Reagan’s funeral had been conducted there just a few years earlier.
The cathedral was open to visitors throughout most of the week, but now, in the early evening, most of the tourists had trickled out.
That suited Drake just fine as he advanced down the central nave, passing row after row of empty pews. He kept to the right, using the pillars as cover and sticking to the general shadows as much as possible. He was acutely aware of how exposed he was in this place, how easily this could turn out to be an ambush, leaving him with few avenues of escape.
There were no guarantees in what he was doing. He could only hope that his mother’s contact proved to be genuine.
Approaching the far end of the massive vaulted room, Drake paused for a moment, listening and looking around, allowing himself to tune into his new environment. He heard some hushed words between a couple of elderly sightseers over by the main altar, their conversation magnified by the room’s acoustics, but otherwise all was quiet. The air was cool and dry, and smelled of dusty stone.
No sign of any threats.
Satisfied that nothing appeared out of the ordinary, Drake turned left at the transept, where a set of stone steps led down to the cathedral’s crypt. The passage was blocked by a red rope with a brass plaque that read, Closed for Renovation Work – No Unauthorised Entry.
Drake slipped past this minor barrier and descended into the depths.
* * *
Jonas Dietrich sat parked on the street opposite the cathedral, the afternoon sun glinting off the towering stonework. Having tailed Drake across town, he’d finally parked up and watched as his companion ventured alone through the cathedral’s huge carved entranceway. Alone and unarmed, and meeting with a man of unknown intentions – in his view, Drake was either extremely brave or extremely foolish.
Then again, the two things weren’t mutually exclusive.
Reaching up, he hit his radio transmitter to report in. ‘He’s inside.’
‘Copy that,’ Frost’s tinny voice buzzed in his ear. ‘Any sign of activity?’
‘Sure, but I thought I’d sit back and watch.’
Theoretically Dietrich was there as backup, with an MP7 machine pistol stowed in the car’s glovebox, though none of them were under any illusions that he’d be able to save the day if things turned sour. The best he could hope for was to cover the entrance and report on what he saw.
‘Very funny. Sit tight, call out if you see anything.’
‘Roger that.’
Shifting position, Dietrich resumed his tense vigil.
* * *
Drake descended the steps slowly and carefully, his senses straining to detect anything out of the ordinary. The primal instinct that once kept our distant ancestors alive in a harsh world is still remarkably adept at discerning potential threats. The problem is that centuries of safety and comfort have dulled our conscious minds to its subtle warnings. One of the skills an operative like Drake learned was to heed this primitive but effective warning system. In this case, however, there was nothing to concern him yet.
Soon enough, the stairway bottomed out into a large chamber deep in the bowels of the building. Despite their sinister connotations, the crypts of most cathedrals are in fact quite unremarkable places, often serving a plainly utilitarian function. In the case of the Washington Cathedral, however, the crypt actually contained an extensive series of chambers and no fewer than three underground chapels, allowing people to worship or reflect in relative privacy, away from the larger crowds upstairs.
Creeping forward, Drake advanced deeper into the crypt, following the signs for the Chapel of St Joseph of Arimathea. He was neither a religious scholar, nor familiar with the cathedral layout, but he did know that this particular chapel was located at the base of the cathedral’s massive central tower, making it the heart of the entire complex.
As he emerged into the vaulted underground chamber, lit by soft lights placed around the perimeter to create an atmosphere of quiet reverence and reflection, it was easy to tell from the huge, squat supporting columns that this place was structurally critical. Thousands of tonnes of stonework rested on those four pillars.
He stopped, held his breath and waited.
It took all of five seconds to realise he wasn’t alone down here. In the cool, dry, sterile air, he caught the faint scent of aftershave. And more than that, he could sense he was being watched.
‘You asked to meet,’ he announced, his voice echoing around the chapel. ‘Here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ a voice repeated.
Drake watched as a figure emerged from the shadows on the far side of the room. A figure that quickly resolved itself into the shape of a man; slender and well dressed, his greying hair neatly combed.
‘Hello, Ryan,’ Richard Starke said. ‘It’s good to meet you, at last.’
* * *
‘Goddamn it,’ Frost said under her breath.
The atmosphere inside the disused garage was tense and fraught as the team waited for news on Drake, none of them quite sure what to do with themselves.
Jessica was by her side in moments. ‘What is it?’
‘Lost his signal,’ the young woman replied, checking the tracking software. ‘No comms, no GPS.’ She shook her head. ‘Ryan’s off the grid.’
‘We knew this might happen,’ Mitchell reasoned, though she was no less anxious for her friend’s safety. ‘His contact chose that location specifically. I guess he didn’t want anyone snooping on them.’
Frost clenched her jaw unhappily. ‘I don’t like it. Shit doesn’t feel right.’
‘We could go in,’ Dietrich suggested over the radio. ‘Recover Ryan and his contact, and bring them back for interrogation. Then we’ll have all the time we need to question him.’
‘Really?’ Mitchell asked. ‘You think a guy like that would let himself be abducted?’
Dietrich was silent for a second or so. ‘He wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.’
Frost was torn, struggling to decide between her concern for Drake and the obvious dangers of blowing the entire operation with a hasty assault.
‘Give him a chance,’ Jessica said, much to her surprise. ‘Ryan knows what he’s doing.’
Frost glanced up at her. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
* * *
Drake watched as the director of the NSA moved out into the centre of the chamber, his hands at his sides, eyes on the only other man in the room.
Unlike the director of the CIA, who often found himself at the centre of various controversies and investigations, Starke had spent much less time in the public eye. Drake had never been in the same room as him, and couldn’t recall much news coverage on the man.
What little he did know had come courtesy of his short official biography. As was mandatory for the NSA, Starke was from a military background, graduating top of his class at West Point in 1973 and going on to serve nearly two decades in the US Army. Eventually he’d transitioned over to the National Security Agency, where he rose quickly through the ranks. Unusually quickly, from what Drake understood.
Because of the complex machinations of government positions like this, Starke was also the de facto head of the Central Security Service, US Cyber Command, and
technically held the rank of a four-star general, though he had long since swapped his dress uniform for a conservative, unremarkable civilian suit.
A career military man who walked and dressed like a civilian. One of the most powerful men in America, who looked as unassuming as a low-level office manager.
‘I’m unarmed, and I came alone,’ Starke said in a calm, composed voice. ‘Just as we agreed.’ He halted and looked Drake up and down. ‘I assume you reciprocated?’
‘If I wanted you dead, you would be.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
The older man’s lined features betrayed a trace of a smile. ‘You know, I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever make contact. After all this time, I figured her message must have been lost.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘So I’ve noticed. Caused quite a stir over the past few years. There are a lot of people who want to see you dead.’
‘I get that a lot,’ Drake assured him. ‘But here I am.’
‘Here you are,’ Starke agreed. ‘So now that we’ve established what we’re not here to do, let’s talk about why we are here. What do you want from me, Ryan Drake?’
‘You worked with my mother,’ Drake stated. ‘Freya Shaw.’
Starke nodded. ‘You look a little like her, you know. I didn’t really appreciate the resemblance until now.’
Drake ignored that. ‘The two of you were part of the Circle.’
‘If that’s how you’d choose to describe it,’ Starke observed coolly. ‘What exactly did she tell you?’
‘Enough.’
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ Starke promised him.
‘Then why don’t you help me out?’ Drake suggested. ‘What were the two of you doing together? What was she trying to achieve?’
Smiling faintly, Starke moved over to one of the pews that encircled the room and eased himself into it with a sigh. ‘That’s… a long story.’
‘I’m used to long stories, mate.’
The NSA director cocked a greying brow. ‘Fair enough.’
