by Will Jordan
‘What’s it to you?’
‘A matter of professional interest. I make a point of knowing the people I work with, and I know a good deal about you, Ms Frost. A teenage runaway, living homeless on the streets for almost a year, a string of criminal convictions…’
‘We’re not here to swap tragic life stories,’ she said tersely.
Sensing he’d made his point, Starke turned his attention back to Drake. ‘So, what do you need from me?’
‘Access to Cain’s communications,’ Drake explained.
Reaching into her pocket, Frost fished out a cell phone and held it out. To the untrained eye it looked like a standard, commercially available smartphone.
‘There’s a custom tracking program built into this unit,’ she explained. ‘It’ll automatically lock onto and clone the SIM details of any other phone nearby. With this, I can make a copy of Cain’s private cell. I can read any incoming or outgoing communications, and track his movements just like with any other cell phone.’
Starke raised an eyebrow. ‘Very impressive. What’s the catch?’
‘The catch is you have to be close to him for it to work.’
‘For how long?’ he asked.
‘Sixty seconds at least, maybe more.’
Starke eyed the device dubiously, mulling over what he’d been told. ‘Say I do this,’ the NSA director asked. ‘What then?’
‘Let us handle the rest.’
The less Starke knew about their plans, the better.
‘Last chance to back out,’ Drake prompted him, sensing the doubts creeping in. ‘Whether we go or not depends on what happens in the next ten seconds. Are you in or out?’
‘If it’s discovered that I was complicit in this…’
‘Then you go down, just like us,’ Drake finished for him. ‘Either we’re all in this together, or none of us are.’
This was the crucial moment. If Starke backed out now, Drake would need to find two things – a whole new way of approaching his plan, and a place to hide Starke’s body where it would never be discovered.
The NSA director stared at him long and hard, as if trying to see the future that lay ahead with this man. Then, reconciling himself to the risks and uncertainties, he reached out and took the cell phone from Frost.
Drake let out a barely perceptible breath and relaxed his grip on the weapon.
Before either man could say anything more, Frost handed Starke a concealed radio earpiece set inside a clear plastic case. ‘You’ll be needing this. It’s encrypted, and pre-tuned to our frequency. Don’t power it up until you’re ready to make your move. The battery only lasts a couple of hours.’
‘I’m familiar with the routine,’ he replied, slipping both items into his coat pocket.
‘Cain’s confirmation could come at any time. I assume you’ll know before they make it public?’ Drake said.
The NSA director gave a wry smile. ‘It’s my business to know things.’
‘That’ll be your chance. Contact us when you’re ready.’
‘I will.’ Glancing back the way he’d come, he nodded to himself. ‘I’m out of time here. For all our sakes, I hope you know what you’re doing, Ryan.’
He wasn’t the only one, Drake thought.
‘You do your part. Let us do ours.’
Saying nothing more, Starke turned and strode out of the building.
Chapter 44
Alaska – September 27th, 2001
The morning sun rose on the ancient primeval forest, the boles of towering spruce and birch trees casting long shadows across the rich, loamy ground, still damp from overnight rain. Bees and small insects circled in the hazy green light, while golden leaves drifted down from the canopy above.
The seasons were turning, the brief, vibrant flourish of summer slowly fading.
At the base of a shallow valley, a small Sitka black-tailed deer lowered its head to drink from a stream. A buck, his antlers small and unimpressive compared to the elaborate displays found on other species. He too was changing with the turning of the seasons, shedding his reddish-brown summer coat in favour of a thicker dull grey covering that would see him through the bitter Alaskan winter.
A faint breeze sighed through the trees, carrying with it an unfamiliar scent. He paused, stretching up his long neck, his dark and sombre eyes scanning the woodland around him for predators. His nostrils flared as he breathed in, seeking the source of the elusive smell.
He didn’t see the arrow coming. He was aware only of a sudden movement behind a stand of bushes in the distance. The deadly missile arced through the air and struck him in the neck. Instinct took over and he tried to flee in panic, only to stumble and fall in a heap of flailing limbs.
His killer was moving before he’d even hit the ground, sprinting across the valley floor towards him, boots churning the muddy ground, leaping nimbly across exposed roots. There was a scrape of metal on metal as a knife was drawn.
Skidding to a halt beside the stricken animal, Anya grasped the antlers and yanked the head back, exposing the vulnerable throat.
‘I thank you for your sacrifice, brother,’ she whispered in her native language, before severing the arteries in its neck.
An hour later, Anya returned to her log cabin overlooking a fork in the river below, with her hunting bow in hand and the deer carcass slung over her shoulders. Though belonging to a smaller species than most, the buck was still heavy and bulky, fattened for winter, and hauling it over a couple of miles of rugged terrain had been no easy task. Really it should have been a two-man job, but there was no man to assist her. It was just her out here. Alone.
That was exactly how she wanted it.
She had spent more than a year in this place, purchasing a dilapidated old cabin the previous summer and resolving to fix it up. Though she considered herself only a mediocre carpenter, she had set about her task with steady determination, working late into the long summer days. By the time winter rolled around, she’d made the dwelling more or less habitable.
In truth, the simple, strenuous work was exactly what she’d needed. It had been easy to lose herself in it, to slowly forget the disastrous events of the year before, when she’d been forced to fight and kill her own men. Her unit was effectively destroyed, her power wiped out, her plans in ruins.
And now she was done. Done with the Agency, the Circle, the life she’d once had. Done with people. Out here in the primeval wilderness that reminded her so much of her childhood home, where her only concerns were the practicalities of survival, she had found a measure of peace. Maybe she would live out her days here, growing old in contented isolation.
She detected the distinctive thump of rotor blades off in the distance and instinctively stopped, turning her head slowly until she picked out the source. A small dark shape had appeared on the horizon, emerging from behind one of the towering peaks that dominated the region. A chopper.
Maybe it was nothing to do with her, she told herself. There were gold mining operations off to the west, which often used choppers to ferry in personnel or equipment. Maybe that was all it was.
Her heart sank as the chopper swung towards her, following the course of the river valley. As it drew closer, she saw the distinctive drab grey paint job. Military.
In response, Anya drew an arrow from the quiver over her shoulder as the Bell Huey circled overhead, the thump of the rotors and the shriek of the engines deafening.
Finding a suitable landing spot at the far end of the open meadow, the pilot eased the Huey lower until the skids touched down. As the engines fell silent and the big blades slowly spun down, the side door slid open and a lone man leapt out.
Anya’s throat tightened as Marcus Cain approached. He moved slowly, warily, his eyes on the notched bow. He looked older, she thought. His face drawn and lined, strands of grey showing at his temples.
‘You’re not an easy woman to find,’ he remarked.
‘Go home, Marcus,’ she warned him. ‘There’s nothing for you here.�
��
He halted a few feet away, looking her up and down. Perhaps thinking the same thing about her as she’d thought about him. ‘I need your help, Anya. We need your help.’
‘No.’ Anya shook her head. ‘No more help, no more missions. I’m finished with the Agency, and with you.’
‘Things have changed—’
‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ she said, turning on her heel and striding away. She had nothing more to say to him. No more anger or pain. She just wanted to be left alone.
‘There’s been an attack.’
Anya halted, struck not so much by his words, but by the gravity of them. This wasn’t something normal, the kind of predictable tragedy that people like Cain had long since become numb to. This was something more.
‘In New York, two weeks ago,’ he went on. ‘The World Trade Centre, the Pentagon… Thousands are dead, tens of thousands injured. It was the worst terrorist attack in history.’
Anya was no stranger to loss and death, but the scale of this was far beyond anything she’d experienced. And she’d been completely ignorant of it. Out here, cut off from the world, she might have lived out the rest of her life, never knowing.
But now she did know.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she whispered.
Cain sighed. The pained, weary sigh of a man forced to confront his own failings. ‘The attack was staged by al-Qaeda.’
Anya closed her eyes, her mind immediately grasping the shattering implications. Al-Qaeda, the terrorist organisation born from disaffected Mujahideen fighters embittered by the perceived betrayal by America. Operating under the protection of the Taliban, who had seized power after the long, brutal civil war in Afghanistan.
Just like they’d predicted.
‘I warned you this would happen, Marcus,’ she said, her voice cold and dangerous. ‘I begged you not to abandon Afghanistan, and you ignored me.’
‘I did what I could—’
‘We had a chance to help them!’ she shouted, rounding on him. She’d been wrong earlier – she did have anger for Marcus Cain. She had a great deal of it, and it had all come rushing to the surface in this moment.
The lies, the excuses, the hubris… all of it had made this happen.
‘Afghanistan tore itself apart in civil war, terrorists and fanatics took over, and we stood by and did nothing. Nothing! You used them to fight your dirty war, just like you used me, and then you threw them away when it was over. Their blood is on your hands.’
‘Goddamn it, three thousand people are dead!’ he exploded, grabbing her by the jacket and pulling her close. ‘And who knows how many more are going to die before this is all over.’
‘You mean…’
‘We’re going to war in Afghanistan,’ he said bluntly. ‘Congress is screaming for it. The Pentagon’s already drawing up invasion plans.’
‘And you want me to run off and join them, just like before,’ Anya said, laughing bitterly. ‘Sorry Marcus, but I’m not that young, or that idealistic, anymore.’
‘We’re calling up every asset we have left,’ he explained. ‘You fought in Afghanistan for years. You know the land, you know the people—’
‘And now you want me to go back there and kill them.’
Whatever their affiliation now, the prospect of fighting and killing the same men she’d once fought alongside was abhorrent to her.
‘I want you to save lives,’ he countered. ‘The invasion will be a bloodbath, for them and for us. People like you are our only chance to prevent it.’
‘What more do you want from me, Marcus? Haven’t you taken enough already?’ Backing away, Anya spread her arms to encompass the wilderness around them. ‘This is all I have now. I’m not a soldier anymore. I… can’t be that person again.’
She saw a brief flicker of something in him then. Compassion, regret, she couldn’t say. But it was soon gone, replaced by something colder and more pragmatic.
‘Task Force Black are going in,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m offering you command of the unit, if you want it. We both know you can lead them better than anyone else.’
Anya could feel it now. The invisible tendrils of her past, reaching out for her, grasping, tearing her away from the new life she’d tried to build. The killer she’d tried to leave behind, stirring out from the dark recesses of her psyche.
‘Just like the old days,’ she said, her voice bitterly mocking.
‘I’m asking you to go in one last time.’ His voice was quieter now, softer. ‘Help us end this thing. Help us make this right. After that…’ He glanced around at the forests, the river, the mountains. ‘You can rest.’
Anya turned away, taking in the same view, thinking of the life she had here. The life she was about to give up. She closed her eyes to hide the tears that threatened.
Islamabad, Pakistan – April 30th, 2011
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Qalat’s voice echoed around the empty warehouse, deceptively calm and composed given his situation. ‘My people are on their way as we speak. If you have any sense, you will run and pray they never catch up with you.’
Anya wasn’t listening to him. Not yet at least.
Secluded in a small, disused storage area, she winced in pain as she stripped off the bulky ballistic armour that had kept her alive during the ambush, unlatching straps and dropping the chunks of reinforced steel plate and Kevlar on the ground, revealing the all-too-frail human body beneath.
The armour might have protected her from fatal injuries, but all that kinetic energy still had to go somewhere. The multiple high velocity impacts had inflicted a series of painful welts and deep bruises across her torso, arms and legs. She felt like she’d been held down and pummelled relentlessly by fists and boots.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Alex gasped at the doorway. ‘How much more of this can you take?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Anya replied, her voice strained. ‘We knew this would happen.’
The ambush plan had been neither elegant nor sophisticated. Anya had opted for a brute force approach that she never would have contemplated before, eager to get her hands on her target. Perhaps too eager, she reflected, holding in a gasp as she stretched her bruised muscles.
‘Keep watch on Qalat. I need to finish up here.’
‘He’s handcuffed to a chair,’ Alex reminded her. ‘He’s not going anywhere. Anyway, I scrambled the ISI’s alert system, sent them on a dozen wild goose chases all across the city. They won’t be finding us any time—’
‘Just go, Alex,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ll join you soon.’
Alex backed away, knowing better than to debate the matter.
As soon as he was gone, Anya’s facade of strength and composure slipped away, and she wilted visibly as pain and fatigue clawed at her. Head low, she clutched at the wall for support, breathing slow and deep as she fought to maintain control.
Not now, she told herself. Not now.
Reaching into her pocket, she popped the lid on a jar of painkillers and dry-swallowed several. Then, digging deep, she slowly and defiantly straightened up.
When she emerged onto the warehouse floor a minute or two later, she walked tall and confident, her bruises hidden beneath fresh clothes, her face an impassive mask as she approached the prisoner.
Qalat glanced at her with mild interest, but this professional curiosity quickly gave way to something else. Recognition. Even though Anya was certain they’d never met.
‘I must admit, I’m surprised,’ the ISI director began, quickly masking his lapse. ‘Most people in our line of work are not so… feminine. Tell me, what—’
Drawing her sidearm, Anya took aim at his left leg and pulled the trigger. The dull thud of the suppresser was followed by a startled cry of pain from the bound man as blood began to leak from the torn skin of his thigh. It was superficial injury at worst, but a painful reminder of who was in charge here.
‘Stop whimpering. It’s a flesh wound,’ Anya explained, adjusting her aim so that the weapon was traine
d on his groin. ‘The next one will be more… permanent.’
She had run plenty of interrogations before, and knew how important it was to establish dominance right away. There were few better ways than the prospect of a .45 calibre round in the genitals.
‘What do you want?’ Qalat demanded.
‘I want information.’ Picking up a battered old wooden chair lying near the wall, she took a seat in front of him. ‘Before we begin, know that I’m very good at spotting liars. No matter how good you think you are, I will know. And every time you lie to me, I will put another round in you.’ She gestured to the silenced M1911 in her lap. ‘I have seven more bullets in this magazine, Vizur. You really don’t want me to use them.’
Qalat said nothing. She sensed her point had been made.
‘Now, tell me how you know me.’
His eyes narrowed, but the man remained silent.
‘Don’t test me, Vizur,’ she warned. ‘You recognised my face when I walked in. How do you know me?’
Qalat sighed, raising his eyes towards the ceiling before he finally spoke.
‘I’ve known you for a long time, Maras,’ he admitted. ‘Marcus Cain’s little protégé, his pet project. The beautiful young woman who caught his eye.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Not quite so young now, of course, but I can see why his head was turned.’
Anya’s jaw tightened. ‘Go on.’
‘When you were captured by the Soviets in 1988, Marcus was all set to rescue you, no matter the cost to himself. But you had a little secret of your own, didn’t you?’
Anya could feel her heart beating faster as he spoke.
‘You were a KGB agent, sent to infiltrate the CIA. And you did an exceptionally good job – getting your case officer to fall in love with you, no less.’ He smirked. ‘After all, who would ever suspect a woman?’
‘Clearly you did,’ she prompted him. This man knew things about her that even the Agency still hadn’t discovered.
Qalat nodded. ‘You had made a lot of enemies for yourself by then. The Soviet handlers you betrayed, the American military who never fully trusted you, the factions in the CIA who wanted to see you fail…’
