Something to Die For

by Will Jordan

  Looping the descender around the still-jerking cable, she gripped the leather straps tight, closed her eyes and threw herself off the roof.

  The sickening moment of plunging vertigo was halted by a violent snap as the cable took her weight, very nearly tearing the straps from her grasp. She was weakened and disoriented after the fight, and quite possibly nursing a concussion. In short, she was in no condition to attempt a fast rope descent like this, but there was no alternative. She either went for it, or she died.

  Another burst of gunfire crackled somewhere behind, but Anya paid it little attention. Every ounce of willpower and strength was now focussed on maintaining her grip as the ground soared by below, every second carrying her further from the rooftop and the armed men sent to kill her.

  She could feel her grip weakening, the strap beginning to slide through her fingers. Desperately she tried to hold on, but her body was reluctant to obey her commands, and little by little she could feel herself losing her hold.

  Up ahead, she saw the perimeter fence rushing towards her, with Alex crouched down beside it, and gritted her teeth as she fought to keep hold for a few more seconds.

  It was no good. The strap slipped through her hand and disappeared. She fell, plunging through the air, waiting for the crushing impact as the ground rushed up to smash her like a giant fist.

  But to her surprise, she tumbled to the ground a mere moment later, pitching forward and instinctively rolling to absorb the impact and bleed away some of her forward momentum.

  ‘Anya! Are you okay?’ Alex asked, hurrying over to her.

  Picking herself up with difficulty, Anya gingerly moved her limbs. Pain radiated from a dozen bruises and cuts where sharp stones had gashed her skin, but she couldn’t feel anything broken at least. What she hadn’t realised was that her weight on the line had caused the weakened railing to buckle outward, adding enough slack to lower the height of the cable and save her from serious injury.

  It had been a lucky escape indeed.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she confirmed, not entirely sure how true that was.

  Alerted by distant shouts on the rooftop, Alex pointed towards a gap in the dilapidated fence. ‘We can’t stay here. Come on!’

  As they slipped through the ragged gap in the chain links and into the darkness beyond, Anya spoke up. ‘I have to warn Ryan.’

  ‘Ryan?’ Alex exclaimed. ‘I thought you wanted nothing to do with him?’

  ‘Things have changed,’ the woman replied. ‘Everything has changed.’

  Part Four

  Something to Kill For

  He who seeks revenge should remember to dig two graves.

  Chinese Proverb

  Chapter 48

  CIA Headquarters, Langley – May 1st

  At just after one p.m., Marcus Cain’s desk phone bleeped with an incoming call. Steeling himself, he lifted the receiver. ‘Director Cain.’

  The crisp, efficient voice of a female operator greeted him. ‘Please hold for the president, sir.’

  The line went silent again. He heard a few distant clicks and buzzes as the lines were synched up and the encryption software at both ends did its thing. Then a second or two later, Cain was connected with the president of the United States.

  ‘Marcus, good to speak with you again,’ POTUS began, speaking in the smooth, measured cadence he’d become so well known for. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been just fine, Mr President,’ he lied. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a feeling your day’s about to get a whole lot better,’ POTUS said, clearly pleased with news he was about to give. ‘The vote just came in from the Senate Select Committee. It’s my honour to inform you that they’ve approved your appointment as permanent director of the CIA. Congratulations, Director Cain.’

  Cain closed his eyes and exhaled, allowing it to sink in. Allowing himself just a moment to appreciate the accomplishment.

  ‘The honour is mine, Mr President.’

  ‘Look, I know you’ve worked long and hard for this. And I know you’ve given a great deal in service of your country. I’m confident you’ll make an excellent director, and I have a feeling we’ll be needing men like you in the years ahead.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Good man,’ POTUS said, and Cain had the impression he genuinely meant it. ‘Now, I believe the DNI will be in touch shortly to invite you for the confirmation ceremony later today. It’s a formality of course, but we have to go through the whole nine yards. If you don’t mind heading over to this side of the Potomac one more time, that is?’

  Cain managed to force a laugh. ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Good. My people will arrange the swearing-in ceremony at Langley once you’ve finished at the Senate. We’ll try to keep press involvement to a minimum, given everything else that’s going on right now. And maybe then we can get down to some real work, huh?’

  Cain smiled at the thought. Yes, there was indeed a lot of work to do.

  ‘Thank you, Mr President.’

  * * *

  Barely twenty minutes after Cain’s momentous call with the White House, Drake’s cell phone started buzzing. Bracing himself, he hit the Receive Call icon.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Starke announced. ‘Cain’s office just took a call from the White House. It’s happening today.’

  Standing in the midst of their makeshift base, Drake raised his free hand and snapped his fingers to get everyone’s attention. All work and conversation ceased as the others looked expectantly towards him.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The confirmation ceremony is at six p.m.’

  Drake looked at his watch. Barely two hours to have everything in place. It would be tight, but they could do it.

  ‘You know what you have to do?’

  ‘I do,’ Starke confirmed.

  ‘Good. Activate your comms unit and get to Langley. We’ll talk you through it.’

  ‘I’m on my way there now,’ the NSA director confirmed. He paused before adding, ‘This is it, Ryan. Don’t let me down.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Closing down the call, he looked around at his companions. The small group of friends, of family, who had followed him all this way, who had risked their lives for him more times than he could count. The people he was asking to help him one last time.

  They were watching him now. Waiting. Ready.

  ‘We’re on,’ he stated. ‘Get ready.’

  Chapter 49

  Golyanovo District, Moscow – March 10th, 2003

  Marcus Cain inhaled, tasting the frigid night air as he stood in the shadow of a half-built concrete wall, waiting for his contact to arrive. The construction site in which he was standing had been started when the hammer and sickle still flew over the Kremlin: a grand housing scheme for the good workers of the city that had never come to fruition.

  With the fall of the Soviet Union, construction had halted in the early 1990s and never restarted. Ghostly frames of half-finished buildings stood everywhere, most covered with graffiti, their concrete supports crumbling away to expose the steel reinforcing rods beneath. Everything of value had long since vanished, leaving just the bare bones standing as silent reminders of what might have been.

  Not for the first time, he caught himself reflecting on his own involvement in that. Were it not for the actions of himself and others, might the hammer and sickle still be flying? Might Europe still be divided, and the Cold War still be raging?

  He shook his head, banishing the notion. He wasn’t here to reminisce about past wars, but to avert future ones.

  He reached beneath his coat to feel the solid shape of the Glock pistol he’d brought with him. When someone arranged to meet with you in waste ground on the outskirts of Moscow in the middle of the night, the chances of a violent confrontation were high. Especially if that man was Viktor Surovsky.

  Cain had done his research on the man. A career KGB agent, h
e had served as an intelligence officer in Afghanistan in the 1980s, conducting a brutal and highly effective campaign against the Mujahideen. He’d gone quiet after the dissolution of the USSR, falling off the Agency’s radar, only to re-emerge during the recent conflict in Chechnya where, by all accounts, he’d continued the ruthlessly efficient tactics learned in Afghanistan.

  A hard, dangerous man who had lived a hard, dangerous life.

  ‘A cold night, my friend.’

  Cain whirled around to see a figure standing in the shadows of a gutted apartment block. It took most of his self-control not to reach for the pistol on instinct.

  The figure moved, resolving itself into the shape of an elderly man in a black overcoat and an ushanka, the traditional fur hat ubiquitous in Russia. Even in the poor light, Cain could make out the sallow, gaunt face of Viktor Surovsky.

  ‘In my country, we are well used to the cold,’ the Russian went on.

  His English was excellent, with only a mild accent. Smiling, he reached into his coat pocket, and again Cain resisted the temptation to grab for the pistol.

  An anxious moment later, Surovsky produced a small hip flask, undid the stopper and took a generous swig. Satisfied, he held it out to Cain, who shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t come all this way to share a drink.’

  The Russian snorted with amusement. ‘Indeed not. You’re here because you want information from me. Information that could prove extremely valuable to you.’

  Cain’s look was dubious. ‘That depends on what you want in return.’

  ‘We will talk about what I want in a moment. First, let’s talk about what you want, Marcus Cain,’ he said. ‘The United States is preparing to invade Iraq. The war could start within days.’

  None of this was a secret, of course. The build-up of military forces in the Gulf had been well documented by the world’s news media.

  ‘We both know this invasion will be a costly mistake,’ Surovsky went on, speaking with absolute confidence. ‘Believe me, we Russians know the cost of ill-conceived invasions.’

  There was a glimmer in his eyes as he said this. An old fire of anger and hatred kindled briefly into life by the humiliating defeat in Afghanistan. Another event that Cain had played a part in orchestrating.

  ‘You are here, Mr Cain, because you’re looking for a way to stop this war before it happens. A way to save hundreds of thousands of lives.’ The man smiled, though it was as cold as the night around them. ‘What if I told you I could give it to you?’

  Now they were getting down to it. ‘What are you offering?’

  ‘I am offering you the president of Iraq.’

  Cain’s eyes lit up. Saddam Hussein was the rock on which the Iraqi regime was built. Without him, the government would collapse within days, allowing more moderate successors to take over. Removing the need for armed invasion.

  ‘How, exactly?’ he asked warily.

  ‘One of the members of his inner circle is willing to trade his location in exchange for money and a guarantee of freedom. Once you know this, a simple drone strike would be all it takes to eliminate him. You could go down in history as the man who stopped a war and saved thousands of lives, Mr Cain. Is that not a legacy to be proud of?’

  It was indeed. America had already been drawn into one costly and fruitless foreign war in Afghanistan. They had been fighting for two years already, with no end in sight. The last thing they needed was to start another.

  ‘That’s what you’re offering,’ he said. ‘What do you want in return?’

  The FSB agent took another drink from his flask, relishing both the drink and the moment that was about to come. ‘What do I want?’

  * * *

  Cain was making his last-minute preparations before departing Langley when his desk intercom buzzed. It was his personal secretary in the outer office.

  ‘Yeah, Martha?’

  ‘Sir, I have NSA Director Starke here to see you.’

  Cain frowned. In all the time they’d worked together, Starke had never sought him out at Langley. Their meetings had been conducted in secrecy, far from prying eyes. Why come here today?

  He glanced at his watch. His executive motorcade was already on standby downstairs, ready to ferry him to the Senate. He could ill afford a lengthy delay.

  Still, curiosity compelled him to accept.

  ‘All right. Show him in.’

  Moments later, the door opened and Richard Starke strode into the office. Unusually, he was wearing his official naval uniform rather than the drab grey suits he traditionally favoured. He was even walking straighter and taller, carrying himself with the confidence and bearing of the military man he’d once been.

  ‘Richard, this is… unexpected,’ Cain began, putting extra emphasis on that word as he rose from his desk. ‘Not often we have the NSA director here at Langley.’

  Cain’s secretary discreetly closed the door behind him. Given the gravity of events that were discussed in this office, the room was soundproofed and free of recording devices. They could talk freely.

  ‘Well, it’s not every day we get a new CIA director,’ Starke replied. ‘I hear congratulations are in order, Marcus?’

  * * *

  On the other side of the Potomac, Keira Frost sat hunched in the back of her panel van, doing her best to ignore the steady drumming of rain against the roof.

  They had pulled into a layby along the tree-lined Clara Barton Parkway just over the river, barely 1000 metres from Cain’s office. It was as close as they could get legally.

  ‘I’m ready to begin my sweep,’ she said, speaking calmly and efficiently into her headset. ‘You need to get close to him, Starke.’

  ‘How long is this gonna take?’ Mitchell called from the driver’s seat up front, keeping a wary eye on passing vehicles.

  ‘There are too many variables at play,’ Frost replied briefly, the tension and pressure of the moment obvious. ‘But we get one shot, and that’s it.’

  * * *

  ‘You hear a lot, Richard,’ Cain acknowledged.

  A flicker of a smile brightened the man’s normally stoic features. ‘Wouldn’t be a very good NSA director if I didn’t.’

  He moved forward, approaching Cain’s desk so that the two men faced each other across the shining expanse of teak.

  ‘Officially, of course, it’s tradition for other agency directors to welcome new appointments into their roles. I imagine we’ll be working together closely in the years ahead.’

  * * *

  The modified cell phone, scanning for other devices to copy, finally found what it was looking for and transmitted a result that pinged on Frost’s laptop a fraction of a second later.

  ‘Yo! I got something,’ she exclaimed, leaning forward to study the data on screen. Her elation soon turned to a frown of confusion. ‘Wait, what the fuck?’

  Mitchell twisted around in her seat. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s two cell phones in range,’ the tech specialist replied. ‘Either there’s someone else in the room we don’t know about—’

  ‘Or Cain’s got a hidden burner,’ Mitchell finished for her. ‘Can you clone them both?’

  Clearly the burner was likely to yield the most useful intel. The problem was that they didn’t know which was which, and there might not be time to clone both.

  ‘Yeah, but it’ll take time. Isolating the first one now.’ As the cloning process began and the on-screen progress bar slowly began to fill up, Frost unmuted her headset to speak with Starke. ‘It’s working, Starke. Keep him talking, and for Christ’s sake don’t let him leave.’

  * * *

  Cain raised an eyebrow, regarding his NSA counterpart with curiosity. ‘And unofficially?’

  Starke eased himself into the chair opposite, regarding Cain across the desk. ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Marcus.’

  That was an interesting statement, Cain thought. For all the times they’d met and exchanged information over the years, they had never tal
ked of personal matters. Cain knew the true personality of the man seated opposite no better than a stranger on the street.

  ‘And I’ve always played it straight with you,’ Starke went on, looking oddly uncomfortable now, as if he was struggling to find the right words. ‘Given your new… appointment, I’d like to think you’ll keep that in mind. When the time comes.’

  * * *

  Frost’s eyes were glued to the progress bar on screen as it crept agonisingly slowly towards completion. The tension in the van was palpable as the early evening rain continued to patter off the metal roof.

  ‘First cell is at fifty per cent,’ she said, flexing and tensing her fingers anxiously. There was nothing she could do to hurry the process. All she could do was watch. ‘Keep him talking, Starke.’

  * * *

  Leaning back in his chair, Cain surveyed his counterpart. In official terms at least, they were equals: heads of their respective organisations, commanding considerable authority and influence. But in the true race to the top, Cain was about to pull dramatically ahead of his rival. A fact that was doubtless weighing heavily on his mind now.

  ‘Come on, Richard. You don’t really think I’m that petty, do you?’

  Starke shifted a little in his seat. A minor change in posture, but a significant show of discomfort all the same. He wasn’t a man accustomed to being put on the spot like this.

  ‘The measure of a man is how he treats the people he doesn’t have to be kind to,’ Starke said, paraphrasing the well-known proverb.

  * * *