by Will Jordan
And serve under him Drake had. One of the unwritten rules for new inductees into the SAS was that they should pick a more senior and experienced trooper, follow him, do what he did and learn from him. Cunningham had been Drake’s choice. He’d been a mentor during his time with the Regiment; a teacher and a guide.
And more than that, Drake had come to regard the man as a friend.
But friends came and went all the time in the military as people switched deployments, priorities changed and task forces were reshuffled. Following Drake’s departure from the Regiment, the two men had gone their separate ways and lost touch.
It was nothing personal – it was just the way such things panned out.
Cunningham released his grip so he could look at Drake properly. ‘How long has it been, anyway? Six years?’
‘Seven,’ Drake corrected him.
‘Jesus, you’re right,’ Cunningham realised. ‘Enough to make you feel old, aye?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he lied.
‘Tell it to the mirror, son.’ He looked Drake up and down, comparing the man before him with the one from his memory. ‘I almost didn’t believe it when I heard you were coming here. I thought it must have been a different Ryan Drake – had to come down and see it with my own eyes.’
Drake glanced around, taking in their surroundings once more. ‘So you’re working for Horizon now?’
It was phrased as a question, though it was plainly unnecessary.
‘Aye, got out of the Regiment three years ago. They wanted to transfer me to a desk job, so I gave them the finger and fucked off.’ Cunningham shook his head. ‘Never fancied shining a seat with my arse, know what I mean?’
Drake knew all too well. He disliked the reports and the paperwork and the meetings that went along with his job as much as the next man, but he at least recognised their necessity. Cunningham was of another sort. He was a soldier through and through, as if it was bred into his DNA. He could no more change his profession than he could change the colour of his eyes.
Still, one could only play that game for so long. Most SAS operatives quietly retired from front-line service by their late thirties, either because of declining fitness or a desire to start a family. Some moved into training and administrative roles, some took jobs on Civvy Street, but the majority drifted into the private security sector.
It seemed Cunningham was one of the latter.
‘Anyway, what about yourself?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Working for the Yanks now, are you?’
‘More or less,’ he admitted, feeling somehow embarrassed about it. The Matt Cunningham he remembered would have ribbed him mercilessly for becoming a ‘spook’.
To his surprise, however, the older man nodded approval. ‘Got yourself a decent gig there. One thing they’re not short of is money.’ He flashed a wry grin. ‘You did better than me, anyway.’
Drake wasn’t so sure about that. If Cunningham knew about the debacle last year and his now tenuous position within the Agency, he might have revised his opinion. ‘Mostly I put that down to my boyish good looks,’ he said, forcing a grin.
‘Must be doing something right, at least. The Old Man doesn’t agree to meet just anyone.’ He gestured towards the main building he’d just come from. A door was standing open, bright light spilling out onto the tarmac outside. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to his office.’
On entering the old building, Drake quickly discovered that its outward appearance of a battered, scarred, decaying relic of a previous regime was nothing but a facade. Based on what he’d seen outside, he had expected dingy corridors, cheap strip lighting and bare crumbling concrete.
Instead the interior was modern, clean and spacious, reminding him more of a newly constructed office block than a military facility. Numerous internal walls had been knocked down to make way for glass-fronted conference rooms and state-of-the-art communications centres. There was even carpet underfoot.
‘Nice place,’ Drake remarked.
‘Aye, it puts Hereford into perspective, eh?’ Cunningham said, stopping beside an elevator at the end of the corridor.
The SAS were experts at accomplishing a lot with very few resources, and this outlook was reflected both in their headquarters at RAF Hereford, and in their rigorous training process known as Selection.
Drake would never forget the ordeal known as the Long Drag; a 64-km forced night march through the Brecon Beacons in February, hauling a 70-pound pack through wind and snow, with nothing but a compass and an outdated map to navigate by.
Pressing the call button, Cunningham added, ‘Used to be a Soviet prison. The kind of place people got disappeared, know what I mean?’
The elevator doors slid open with a crisp ping. Drake almost expected soothing music to be playing within.
Exiting at the top floor, they strode down a short length of corridor, with Cunningham leading the way. He stopped when he reached a big set of double doors, reached out and knocked.
It was several seconds before the reply came, during which Drake began to wonder if they’d missed him somehow.
‘Yeah!’ a gruff voice finally called out.
Cunningham glanced at his companion. ‘Quicker than usual. Must be in a good mood today.’
That didn’t bode well for his chances, Drake thought as his friend swung the door open and led him inside.
The room beyond reminded him of a luxury hotel suite as much as an office. There were coffee tables, leather sofas and even a small drinks bar set in one corner. The wall opposite was lined with several bookshelves crammed with thick volumes, most of which were concerned with military history and philosophy.
Big floor-to-ceiling windows – made from bulletproof glass, no doubt – provided excellent views of the assembly yard below and the chaotic urban sprawl of Kabul beyond its walls.
It took Drake a moment to realise that this place reminded him so much of a hotel suite because, for its occupant, this room more than likely was home.
The man himself was seated behind a wide steel-and-glass monstrosity of a desk, much of its surface covered with computer monitors, cables and hard drives. Clearly he was hard at work, and it was several seconds before he even glanced up from his screen.
When he did, Drake found himself confronted by a set of piercing grey eyes, powerful and intense despite their lack of colour.
Unlike the operatives Drake had seen in the assembly area outside, he wasn’t wearing a shred of military clothing. Instead he was dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled back to reveal muscular forearms. A light brown sports jacket was slung over the back of his chair.
‘So you’re the joker who’s driving my switchboard operators crazy,’ he said. He spoke with an American accent, his voice low and authoritative in a way that only comes with age and experience.
Finishing up what he was doing, he pushed his chair back and rose up from behind the desk. He looked as old as his voice suggested, easily in his sixties, his hair silvery white and thinning a little on top. His face was lined and careworn, etched with the memories of a long life spent making hard decisions.
Despite his age, he stood straight and walked with the vigorous, purposeful stride of someone accustomed to getting places quickly and efficiently. There was little evidence of thickening around the midriff, and his shoulders were still broad and square. For a moment Drake almost felt like a young squaddie again, about to receive a kicking from a senior officer.
He smiled, perhaps amused that he still had the ability to intimidate men thirty years younger than himself, and held out a hand to Drake. ‘The name’s Richard Carpenter. I’m head of our operation out here in Afghanistan.’
‘Ryan Drake,’ he replied, shaking hands.
He couldn’t help but glance over Carpenter’s shoulder at the trio of glass display cases set against the wall. Each was filled with an assortment of weaponry from all ages of warfare, from swords and knives to muskets, revolvers and automatics, all p
olished and gleaming.
Seeing his interest, Carpenter raised a greying brow. ‘You like my little collection?’
‘It’s very impressive.’ He’d never really understood the appeal of military memorabilia, but even he could see that the contents of those cases were likely worth more than most people made in a lifetime.
‘It’s become a hobby of mine,’ Carpenter said with entirely false modesty. Turning aside, he gestured to a long basket-hilted sword. ‘French cavalry sabre, used at Austerlitz and Waterloo.’ Then he nodded to a heavy six-shooter pistol that looked like it had come straight out of a Spaghetti Western. ‘Colt Army Model 1860, used at Gettysburg.’
Smiling, he glanced at Drake. ‘This might be of interest to you, Mr Drake,’ he said, sliding open the last display case and carefully lifting out an ancient flintlock pistol. ‘British officer’s pistol, taken at the Battle of Yorktown.’ He laid it down on the desk, the heavy weapon giving off an audible thump as it rested on the glass surface. ‘I believe the British surrendered not long afterward.’
He was smiling, but Drake detected a faintly challenging look in his eyes.
As if sensing the tension, Cunningham cleared his throat. ‘I believe they had other wars to fight, sir,’ he said, perhaps hoping to lighten the mood.
The old man’s smile broadened as he glanced at Cunningham. ‘Of course. There are always other wars to fight,’ he said, then turned his attention back to Drake. ‘So what can I do for you, Mr Drake? I assume you didn’t come here to discuss military history.’
Indeed not. Drake was interested in far more recent events. ‘I’m investigating the Black Hawk that got shot down two days ago.’
Carpenter’s expression turned more serious. ‘A shitty business,’ he remarked.
Walking over to the bar, he opened a crystal decanter. Even from several yards away, Drake could smell the peaty aroma of malt whisky as Carpenter poured himself a glass.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
Drake could have murdered a whisky, but now wasn’t the time. He shook his head.
‘Always on the clock, huh?’ Carpenter grinned and swallowed a mouthful. ‘One of the perks of running this company – I get to make my own hours.’
Rounding the desk, Carpenter settled himself in his chair, threw his feet up and took another sip. Clearly he wasn’t a man to stand on ceremony.
‘So how do I fit into all this?’ he asked at length.
‘One of your security teams was covering the crash site today,’ Drake began.
‘That’s right.’
‘They pulled out against orders and destroyed the site before we’d finished gathering evidence.’
The old man stared at him for a long moment. ‘Yes?’
‘I’d like an explanation, sir.’
Carpenter took another sip as he surveyed Drake, sizing him up. ‘According to Colonel Vermaak’s report, the site came under fire from an insurgent sniper.’
‘That sniper was killed before your men pulled out,’ Drake reminded him. ‘They withdrew for no good reason.’
‘You’re aware, I’m sure, that snipers often work in pairs?’ Carpenter countered, his tone making it plain that he wasn’t at all sure Drake knew such things. ‘Taking out one is no guarantee of safety.’
‘My people didn’t report any incoming fire after the sniper was taken out. That would suggest he was acting alone,’ Drake reasoned. ‘On that subject, Colonel Vermaak and his men didn’t bother to recover the sniper’s body.’
‘That wasn’t their job. They were there for security, not to act as a strike team.’ He tilted his glass, allowing light from the afternoon sun to filter through the honey-coloured contents. ‘We have a very narrow remit in this country, I’m afraid. We have to be careful we don’t exceed it.’
Drake frowned. ‘But I assume they understand the concept of gathering intel. That sniper might have had documents, phones, maps … all kinds of things on him. He might even have helped us find the people who shot down the chopper. Now, because of your men, we’ve got nothing to go on.’
A slow smile had begun to form on Carpenter’s craggy old face. Whether it was a smile of amusement, derision or grudging respect, Drake couldn’t say.
‘You know, despite what you might think, we take our responsibilities here seriously. We’re not a bunch of thugs with guns – we’re professional soldiers, here to do the jobs the US military can’t or won’t do for themselves, and a lot of people hate us for it. That’s our reward for risking our lives every goddamn day, so you’ll pardon me if I don’t welcome people inviting themselves into my facility to question how we go about it.’
Drake was in no mood to be preached to. If Carpenter expected to sign up another member of the Horizon appreciation society, he was in for a disappointment.
‘It’s my job to question everything, sir. And with all due respect, I didn’t come here to debate the morality of your operation in Afghanistan.’
Setting his glass down on the table, Carpenter leaned forward, fixing Drake with his hawk-like stare. ‘Then why did you come here, Mr Drake? What are you looking to find, huh? Some kind of conspiracy? A cover-up? A mercenary group trying to take over the country? Believe me, I’ve heard it all in my time. PMCs are the new boogeymen, just like the CIA was twenty years ago. No one trusts us, no one likes us, but everyone needs us. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘All I came here for is the truth,’ Drake said, meeting his accusing stare evenly. ‘And believe me, I’m good at finding it. If Vermaak was acting under orders we weren’t briefed on, it would be better for everyone if you told us now.’
If he was hoping to intimidate the old man, it didn’t work. ‘Colonel Vermaak’s team were there to provide security. Their orders were to police the site, prepare it for demolition and avoid unnecessary risk – that’s all. As far as judgement calls go, they had the final word on security. If Vermaak decided it was too dangerous to stay, then I support his decision.’
‘Then maybe we need to speak to the colonel ourselves,’ Drake suggested.
Again, Carpenter’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘Be my guest. He’s out on front-line operations for the next two days, but I’ll be happy to set up a meeting just as soon as he gets back. In the meantime, Mr Cunningham here will act as your liaison with Horizon,’ he said, gesturing to his subordinate. ‘I believe the two of you know each other already?’
‘We do,’ Drake confirmed.
‘You need anything from me or my company, you go to him in the first instance. Good enough?’
There wasn’t much he could say to that. ‘Good enough.’
‘All right. Now, unless there’s anything else, I have a lot of work to get through today.’ Carpenter downed the last of his drink and turned his attention back to his computers. ‘Cunningham, please see to it that Mr Drake gets back to his vehicle.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cunningham replied.
The interview, such as it was, was over.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Drake said, turning to leave.
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Carpenter called after him. ‘Oh, and one more thing, Mr Drake.’
Drake halted and turned to look at him.
‘We’re both on the same side here. You find the guys who shot down that chopper, you let me know,’ Carpenter said, his gaze as intense as ever. ‘Then we’ll have that drink.’
Saying nothing, Drake turned away once more and walked out, leaving the old man alone in his office.
‘Well, that was … interesting,’ Cunningham remarked as the two men walked back across the vehicle marshalling area to McKnight’s Explorer.
‘Is he always like that?’ Drake couldn’t help asking.
‘The Old Man? Aye, you bet he is. Carpenter’s an old-school arse kicker. You have to be in a game like this.’
Drake flashed a wry smile. ‘I doubt I’ve made his Christmas card list.’
‘Come on, Ryan. You pushed him, and he pushed back. How did you think he’d react when some arsehole
marches in and starts throwing his weight around?’
Drake shrugged. ‘I didn’t come here to make friends. I came to get answers.’
‘Bollocks,’ his friend retorted. He knew Drake better than that. ‘You wanted to see his reaction, didn’t you? You wanted to push him, see what he’d do.’
Drake only hoped his intentions hadn’t been as obvious to Carpenter. ‘I wanted to know what kind of man I was dealing with.’
‘Aye? And what kind of man is that?’
Given the company he was in, Drake thought it best not to voice his most immediate thoughts. Cunningham, however, knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking.
‘You don’t trust him. As far as you’re concerned he’s a mercenary, a war profiteer.’ He gave his friend a sidelong glance. ‘Why do you think companies like Horizon are in Afghanistan, mate?’
Drake shrugged. ‘Security. That’s their mandate.’
‘Ryan, for a spook, you’re pretty fucking naive.’
‘Really?’ For a moment, a flash of irritation showed in Drake’s vivid green eyes. ‘For a start, I’m not a spook.’
‘But you are missing the big picture. ISAF should have left Afghanistan years ago. We weren’t set up to fight this kind of war, to be police instead of soldiers. Too many guys are getting sent out here and too many are coming home in coffins.
‘America will have a new President this time next year, and you can bet your arse the first question they’ll ask is when we’re pulling out of Afghanistan. So when we leave – and we will leave – who’ll take over? The ANP?’
Drake thought about the sloppy, unmotivated group of men calling themselves police officers that he’d encountered on the way here. The moment a serious contact started, he’d be willing to bet that half of them would drop their weapons and flee. The other half would likely be killed.
‘We leave those arseholes to stand on their own, and you can bet the Taliban will be back in power within the year,’ Cunningham went on. ‘If we can’t stay, and the Afghans can’t hold their own, PMCs are about the only option we have left.’
‘So you’re fine with guys like Vermaak being a law unto themselves?’ Drake asked with more heat than he’d intended.
