by Will Jordan
Straining under the weight, she managed to hoist the unconscious man up and half-carried, half-dragged him over to the van. He smelled of tobacco and cheap cologne, neither of which could disguise the underlying odour of stale sweat.
He wasn’t heavy, but the human body is an awkward shape for carrying alone, especially when it isn’t cooperating, and she was perspiring by the time she reached the vehicle.
The panel door on the side was unlocked. A final heave was enough to get the unconscious man up over the edge, after which she released her grip and allowed him to fall onto the bare steel floor.
She left the giant where he was. He was far too heavy to move, and she already had what she needed.
Slamming the door shut once more, she settled herself in the driver’s seat, glanced at the dashboard to familiarise herself with the make and model, then pushed the reluctant stick into first gear and drove off at a steady pace.
Chapter 16
Drake was feeling tired and strung out by the time he made it back to the Agency compound at Bagram. The journey north from Kabul had passed without event or mishap, despite his being stopped several times at ANP checkpoints for a game of twenty questions.
Much as he hated to admit it, he was running on empty. It must have been at least 48 hours since he’d had anything approaching a decent sleep, and his body was starting to remind him of that fact with increasing urgency.
Still, there was no thought of resting yet. His mind was buzzing after the day’s events, not to mention the fact that they were a day closer to Kourash’s deadline and no closer to finding Mitchell.
What he really wanted was a quiet room in which to think over everything he’d seen and heard, and as he approached the conference room that served as their base of operations, part of him hoped his teammates would have turned in for the night.
No such luck. All three of them were waiting for him as he pushed the door open, and none of them looked happy.
‘Jesus, Ryan, where the hell have you been?’ Frost demanded. ‘What happened at Horizon?’
‘Breckenridge wants to tear you a new asshole,’ Keegan added at the same time. ‘He’s been chewing my damn ear off demanding updates—’
‘We tried calling you,’ McKnight chipped in. ‘I’ve had some results back on the Stinger—’
‘All right, all right. One at a time,’ Drake said, making a beeline for the coffee urn. It looked as if it had been switched off a while ago, but still had a cupful of sludge at the bottom.
He looked at Frost first, reasoning that her question was easiest to tackle. ‘I turned my phone off for a reason – I didn’t want to be disturbed. And no, I didn’t get anything useful out of Horizon. They’re giving me the big fuck-off.’
Frost eyed him in silence for several seconds. Knowing how volatile her temper could be, there was a good chance she might tell him to ram it.
Still, even she knew when to back down. Pouting, she retreated to the other side of the conference table and sat down, throwing her feet up on the surface as if in a show of rebellion.
Just then, Drake’s cellphone started ringing. He had only powered it up five minutes ago, and on checking the caller ID he was unsurprised to note it was Breckenridge. No doubt the man was wondering why Drake hadn’t submitted an end-of-day report.
‘Deal with that,’ Drake said, tossing the phone to Keegan. He had no patience to take such a call tonight.
‘What am I – your secretary?’ the sniper asked, holding the cellphone as if it were a ticking bomb. However, one look from Drake was enough to dissuade him from further protests. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Tell him to fuck off and let me do my job,’ Drake snapped, gulping down his tepid, bitter-tasting coffee.
‘Hey, George,’ Keegan began, switching immediately to a quiet, efficient tone. ‘Ryan’s tied up right now, but I’ll have him call you back just as soon as he can …’
While he attempted to placate Drake’s superior, McKnight moved closer and lowered her voice. ‘So Horizon were hiding something?’
Drake nodded. ‘I spoke to their CEO – some bloke named Carpenter. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he’s keeping something under wraps. Maybe your theory about the Stinger was right after all?’
‘No such luck,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I got the report back from Langley about an hour ago. According to them, the ejector motor I found belongs to one of the Block-E Stinger variants. They weren’t introduced until the late nineties.’
Drake said nothing. At a stroke, Anya’s theory had been proven right, and their own working hypothesis had vanished. The question that now surfaced in his mind was what exactly Horizon had been trying to protect, if not a link to a dirty war two decades earlier.
McKnight was quick to pick up on his lack of surprise. ‘Why do I feel like I’m telling you something you already know?’
‘I had my doubts about our theory,’ he said, unwilling to elaborate. ‘So if this weapon wasn’t brought in by the Agency back in the eighties, how did it end up here?’
McKnight paused a moment, looking as though she might well press her earlier point before deciding against it. Instead she moved over to the conference table to consult the dossier she had printed off.
‘According to the report, our missile was manufactured by Raytheon Systems two years ago. It was delivered to the US Army a few months later, where it stayed in the Hawthorne Army Depot for the next year or so. Then, two months ago, it was shipped.’
‘Where?’
‘Here,’ was the simple answer. ‘Or rather, it was delivered here at Bagram, then ferried out in a supply convoy to Firebase Salerno near the eastern border. As far as we know, it should still be in the armoury out there.’
‘Clearly it isn’t,’ Drake pointed out.
‘Clearly.’ He saw a flicker of a smile. ‘But that’s where the paper trail goes cold, I’m afraid.’
For Drake, the answer seemed logical. ‘Then that’s where we pick it up. Can you get in touch with the CO out there, find out what he knows about it?’
She shook her head. ‘These are difficult questions we’ll be asking, Ryan. In my experience, it’s best to ask them face to face.’
‘Are you volunteering?’
McKnight flashed a grin. ‘Any excuse to get out of the office,’ she quipped, though her playful look soon turned more serious. ‘First thing in the morning I’ll see about hitching a ride out there.’
‘All right. Stay on it.’ Satisfied that he could do no more with McKnight, Drake turned his attention to Frost.
The young woman had settled herself on one of the chairs lining the conference table, not looking altogether pleased by his quick dismissal of her earlier question. In fact, she reminded him of a sullen teenager.
‘Keira, I need your help.’
‘Funny how that works, huh?’ she replied without looking at him.
‘I’m serious. I need you to do some research for me.’
That piqued her interest at least. When Drake said research, what he really meant was covert snooping. Both of them knew and acknowledged it without explicitly saying it.
‘On what, exactly?’ she asked, sitting up.
‘On Horizon. I want to know everything you can find on it. When it was formed, who owns it, what they do and what their capabilities are. And I especially want to know about Richard Carpenter, the man who runs the show. I want to know his background, his experience, his training, his favourite ice-cream flavour. Make it happen.’
The young woman cocked a dark eyebrow. ‘I see. Any reason?’
‘I’m curious.’
‘That’s not much of an answer, Ryan.’
‘I don’t have much to go on. Yet,’ he replied. ‘Horizon and Carpenter. Everything you can find. Got it?’
‘Yeah. I’ve got it,’ she replied in a tone devoid of emotion.
Drake wanted to apologise for being so hard on her earlier, but he couldn’t summon the words. Anyway, he sensed
she didn’t need to hear it. Frost was many things, but sensitive wasn’t one of them.
Leaving her to get on with it, Drake turned his attention to Keegan, who was closing down his phone after what had clearly been a fraught phone call.
‘How did things go with Breckenridge?’
‘Safe to say I won’t be making the Christmas card list,’ the older man replied, tossing Drake’s phone back to him.
‘Join the club,’ Drake said, flashing a weak smile. ‘Listen, Sam’s following up on the Stinger and Keira’s looking into Horizon. Meanwhile, our priority is Kourash. First thing tomorrow, you and I are heading into Kabul.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ Keegan grinned. ‘What are you expecting to find?’
‘Clues,’ was his simple response. ‘He’s around here somewhere. He’d want to be close so he can watch us fumble around trying to find Mitchell. He wants to prove how superior he is. What better place to operate from than Kabul, right under our noses?’
‘You sure you’re not tempting fate, putting yourself out in the open like that?’ McKnight asked. ‘If you’ve got a history with him, chances are he’ll remember you.’
For a moment, she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes that sent a chill through her. They weren’t the eyes of a Shepherd team leader sent to rescue a man from his captors. They were the eyes of a man with only one objective – to kill.
‘I’m counting on it,’ he said.
Chapter 17
Pulling the van into an ancient farm compound that looked as though it hadn’t been inhabited in her lifetime, Anya killed the engine and switched the lights off, allowing the cool darkness to envelop her.
As a child she had been deathly afraid of the dark. She could still remember the fear that had charged through her veins when she lay cowering in her bed in the middle of the night, convinced that horrific unseen monsters hovered all around her. Power cuts had been a common occurrence in Lithuania during her early years, and more than once she had let out a shriek of fright when the dim electric lights went out, plunging the house suddenly into darkness.
How things changed.
Now she was perfectly at home in the dark. It was a friend, an ally, a tool that she had often used to her advantage. Lack of light heightened her already keen senses, affording her an unusually complete picture of the world around her. Twenty years ago, Red Army soldiers had learned to fear the darkness because it brought her.
Reaching into her pocket, she fished out the phone she had confiscated earlier. A quick glance was enough to tell her it wasn’t a standard commercial model. It was thicker, heavier, designed for rough handling. She had seen enough of them in her time to recognise a crypto phone.
Designed to prevent electronic eavesdropping or tracking, crypto phones used a simple but effective key-exchange algorithm to encrypt their transmissions. Such a system only worked between phones using the same encryption mode, with the same session key, which was why they were so popular between small groups of covert operatives.
If she needed further evidence that her attackers were more than petty criminals, this was surely it. Powering the unit up, she found herself confronted with a six-digit password screen. She tried a few obvious possibilities like 000000 or 012345, but her attempts were firmly rebuffed.
She would need the access code if she wanted to uncover whatever secrets lay on that phone.
The takedown man was stirring in the back. She had checked her force when she struck him with the butt of the pistol, wanting only to incapacitate him. Now it seemed he was starting to come around.
She picked up the Makarov from the passenger seat and pulled the slide back just far enough to see the faint brass gleam of a round in the chamber. After checking the safety once again, she pulled her door open and stepped outside.
They were a good 5 or 6 miles east of Kabul, parked up in a former agricultural area that had turned to wasteland after the irrigation system had been destroyed. The orange glow of electric lights hovered over the distant city, reminding her of another time, long ago, when she had sat on a wind-blown hill surveying that same capital, wondering if it would ever see peace.
Dismissing such memories, she rounded the vehicle, tucking the weapon down the back of her trousers as she did so. She didn’t imagine she would need it to defend herself, but force of habit wouldn’t allow her to leave a weapon unsecured.
Hauling open the sliding door, she leaned in, switched on the internal light and surveyed her prisoner. The jolting movement of their passage over rough roads must have pushed him up against one corner of the vehicle. He was a mess, his clothes stained with blood and dirt, his thinning hair damp with sweat, his lean pinched face tight with pain.
His eyes flickered open at the sound of the door sliding on its rollers, and suddenly went wide when they fastened on her. No doubt the hazy memories of his failed takedown had resurfaced, and it was now dawning on him just what kind of situation he was in.
Clambering inside, she pulled the door shut behind her. She didn’t think there were any people nearby, but she didn’t want the light to draw curious onlookers.
She stared at the older man for several seconds, saying nothing, just allowing the tension and fear to build within him. It was almost palpable. He had seen what she was capable of, and knew she had him at her mercy. He was afraid, and he had good reason to be.
‘You tried to abduct me tonight,’ she said at last, speaking in Pashto since she knew he understood the language. ‘Why?’
He said nothing to this, though she saw something else in his eyes besides fear now. Hatred, anger, impotent rage. She was only a woman, and she had hurt him worse than he’d ever been hurt before.
‘I killed your friend,’ she added. ‘I cut his throat like slaughtering an animal, watched him bleed to death before my eyes. It took a while, of course.’
The simmering anger flared up inside him, yet still he said nothing. It must have taken a great effort of will to keep silent.
‘Why did you try to abduct me?’
His dark eyes glimmered, filled with hatred, but he did not speak.
Anya had suspected as much. She was going to have to persuade him.
She understood the utility of torture, had studied the psychology and methodology behind it in depth as part of her training, but she had never enjoyed it. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t good at it. As with all aspects of her profession, she had absorbed a wealth of knowledge and experience on this particular topic, and been obliged to put it into practice many times.
She thought to use her knife. Knives were good because they allowed far more control than firearms, but he had already lost blood from the slash wound on his arm and she didn’t want to risk him passing out again, or even dying.
No, she needed something else.
Glancing around, she caught sight of something that she had noted absently when she first dumped him in the van – a toolbox, fixed against the sidewall with bungee cords. Either her two attackers had stolen the van from a tradesman of some kind, or they liked to be prepared for breakdowns.
Regardless, she undid the metal hinges holding the lid down and flipped it open. It didn’t take her long to find what she needed.
Anya had few memories of the man who had been her grandfather. He had suffered a series of strokes when she was still a young girl, leaving him crippled and embittered for the final year of his life. But in his prime, she recalled him as a tall, imposing man, gruff and blunt and practical, his hands huge and square and immensely powerful to her young eyes.
A carpenter by trade, he had imparted to her one piece of advice she would never forget – there were few problems in life that couldn’t be solved with a good hammer.
How right he’d been, she reflected as she lifted the battered claw hammer from the toolbox, testing the weight and getting a feel for it. It was a sturdy implement, easily 3 or 4 pounds of tempered steel, with a black rubber hand guard for better grip.
Armed with the tool she n
eeded to solve this particular problem, she turned her attention back to her captive.
‘I will only ask you politely once more,’ she warned. ‘Why did you try to abduct me?’
No response.
Without hesitation, Anya raised the hammer up, took aim and brought it down hard and fast on his right knee. She considered herself only mediocre in the art of carpentry, but she’d never had trouble driving a nail into a piece of wood, and her aim hadn’t failed her today.
She heard a muted pop, and felt a slight yielding through the hammer as his kneecap gave way beneath the blow. She didn’t think she had broken the patella itself, since it was basically a solid piece of bone, but she had certainly torn the ligaments holding it in place, and probably driven it deep into the joint between his femur and tibia bones.
A good strike. Her grandfather would have approved.
A heartbeat later, the van was filled with the man’s howls of pain as a million nerve endings lit up, announcing the terrible damage that had just been inflicted on his knee.
Anya waited in silence until his screaming died down, her face a mask of cold detachment. She might as well have been listening to a weather report, such was the lack of emotion his cries elicited.
‘You forced me to be impolite,’ she said at last, holding up the hammer for emphasis. ‘That was your choice.’
‘You’ll die screaming for this, you bitch,’ he said, hissing the words out through gritted teeth. This time he had spoken in Dari, and she sensed from his fluency that this was the language he had been raised with.
Good, they were making progress.
‘We all die, my friend,’ she replied in the same language, noting with a certain satisfaction the look of shock her words elicited.
On first arriving in Afghanistan twenty years ago, she had soon discovered to her dismay that the Mujahideen, coming as they did from countless different tribes, regions and ethnic groups, spoke a bewildering array of different languages and dialects. To communicate, she had been forced to painstakingly master each of them in turn. She was far from fluent in them all, but could at least carry on a basic conversation in most.
