Sacrifice

by Will Jordan

  Somehow he had to find the evidence that Mitchell had amassed.

  Chapter 42

  Inter-Continental Hotel, Kabul

  ‘Someone talk to me. What do we have so far?’ Crawford said, striding across the hotel roof with Keegan and McKnight flanking him, and a couple of security agents close behind. With the elevators out of service, they had ascended via the fire escape, and all three were out of breath after the hard climb.

  There were Afghan police everywhere, but the Agency had their own presence amidst the organised chaos. In this case, a tall, well-built man with greying hair named Faulkner, the leader of the security team sent to apprehend Drake.

  ‘Both bodies are still in the elevator,’ he reported, falling into step beside him. ‘Both male Caucasians in their mid-forties. One died from gunshot wounds, the other had his head caved in.’

  ‘Have we ID’d them yet?’ Crawford asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir. This place is a goddamned zoo, and the Keystone Cops over there aren’t making things any better,’ he added, gesturing to several Afghan National Police officers who seemed to be arguing over who was in charge.

  Still, they had at least managed to cordon off the scene. Making their way past the ANP guards with no small amount of badge-waving, Crawford and his companions were at last able to enter the winch house.

  As described, two men lay dead inside the metal box, with clear evidence of a violent confrontation. The wall panelling was broken in places, a television camera lay wrecked on the floor, and both men had certainly been killed in brutal fashion. One had died from a gunshot wound to the head, while the other seemed to have been beaten to death by a blunt, heavy object, probably the camera.

  ‘Quite a mess,’ Crawford remarked as he surveyed the elevator, unconcerned by the two dead men inside. He had witnessed many such scenes before.

  McKnight picked her way through the debris and knelt down to examine the man with the gunshot wounds. He was dressed as a camera operator, but it was clear that wasn’t his true profession. His body was too muscular, his face too hardened, his hands calloused and marked by small scars.

  Noticing a mark on his forearm, she reached into her pocket for a pen and used it to raise his shirtsleeve a little, allowing her a better look.

  The tattoo marking his tanned skin confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘This man was military,’ she said, allowing the shirt to fall back into place as she glanced up at Crawford. ‘Special Forces judging by the tattoo, and I’ll bet it’s the same story for his friend over there. What are the chances of two guys like that sharing an elevator with a guy like Drake?’

  Crawford said nothing. There was no need.

  ‘So, they were either here to meet him or to take him down,’ she concluded.

  His dark eyes swept the elevator again. ‘I’m guessing the latter, given how they both ended up.’

  ‘The question is, who sent them?’ Crawford chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Get their prints over to the Pentagon as soon as you can. If these two were military, I want to know everything about them, especially what they were doing here.’

  They were interrupted by Keegan, who was standing near the door inspecting a tray of evidence already recovered. ‘Hey, come take a look at this.’

  Crawford hurried over. ‘What you got?’

  The sniper held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside were four empty shell casings. ‘Four shots were fired in there. One went into the wall – probably a negligent discharge in the struggle – one was used to blow open the access panel for the roof, and the third went in our friend’s head.’

  Crawford frowned. ‘Your point?’

  ‘My point is we’re missing a bullet.’

  McKnight saw where he was going, her eyes reflecting the pain and worry she now felt. ‘Ryan took a hit.’

  ‘That’d be my guess,’ Keegan confirmed.

  ‘If he was hit, he might have gone somewhere for treatment,’ Crawford concluded. ‘Faulkner, get over here.’

  The big field agent was by his side within moments. He didn’t say anything; just waited for instructions. It seemed he wasn’t big on small talk.

  ‘Notify all hospitals and medical clinics in the area to be on the lookout for a man matching Drake’s description,’ he began. ‘He’ll likely have a gunshot wound.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘And you’d better draw up a list of all doctors, pharmacies and vets within the city limits. Have agents or local police check them for signs of break-ins. Move.’

  As Faulkner hurried off, Keegan stepped forward to speak to Crawford. ‘I want to take a look at the room, see what happened down there.’

  Crawford nodded. ‘Okay. Go.’

  Keira Frost was hanging several inches off the ground, her bound hands looped into a metal hook fixed into the ceiling. How long she had been suspended like that, she couldn’t remember, but it had to be at least an hour. The pressure on her shoulders was slowly building, pain flowing outwards from the joints in waves, yet she remained stubbornly silent.

  That wasn’t the only pain she felt. Bruises marked her face and body where her captors had laid into her with fists and boots, beating her into submission when she fought back. One or two had even taken a free shot when she was bound and suspended from the ceiling, unable to do anything but scream obscenities back at them.

  And yet she was alive. Whatever they wanted, it wasn’t to kill her. Not yet.

  She could hear footsteps in the corridor outside. Moments later, the deadbolt holding her cell door closed was withdrawn and the door swung open to reveal a tall, craggy-faced man who she recognised immediately as Carpenter.

  He was followed by three Horizon operatives, one of whom was carrying a bucket of water.

  ‘Keira Frost,’ he said, slowly circling her. ‘You’ve been causing a lot of trouble for my people. I assume you know computer hacking is a crime?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ she spat, glaring at him as he circled around in front of her again. ‘Spare me the James Bond villain routine, because I ain’t giving you shit.’

  His response was no pithy verbal comeback, but rather a fist driven into her exposed solar plexus with a strength that belied his age, knocking the air from her lungs. Coughing and trying desperately to curl up into a ball, Frost couldn’t even scream back at him.

  ‘I think you will,’ Carpenter said, then glanced at his subordinates. ‘Strap her down.’

  Still struggling for air, Frost was powerless to stop them as they lifted her down from the hook and laid her out on the steel-framed bed that sat off to one side. She tried to struggle free, but both men were far larger and stronger than her. In under ten seconds they had secured her hands and feet to the posts, making further movement impossible.

  Carpenter stood over her with his arms folded. ‘Last chance.’

  Frost said nothing. Instead she arced her head back as far as her situation would allow and spat at him.

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he said, giving the man beside him a nod.

  A moment later, Frost’s world went dark as a towel was placed over her face, held down hard on either side so that her head was pinned against the bed, unable to move. She braced herself, knowing what was coming.

  The moment the third man started to empty his bucket of water onto the towel, she felt it. She could close her mouth and hold her breath, but there was nothing to stop the water trickling down her nasal passages and into her lungs, inducing an immediate urge to gag and choke.

  Straight away her heartbeat skyrocketed, her body rebelling instinctively against the feeling that it was drowning, yet still she remained silent, holding her breath, trying to keep herself under control.

  She lasted about twenty seconds before panic set in. She bucked and kicked with desperate strength, the bonds cutting into her wrists and ankles until they bled, but still she found no escape. The cloth was held down even harder, forcing her head back, and all the while the steady
deluge continued.

  She could hold her breath no longer. Letting out an explosive gasp, her lungs greedily tried to suck in more air only to be met with an influx of water.

  Now there was no stopping it. Coughing and screaming, she thrashed wildly, pain building in her brain as her body desperately sought oxygen. She was going to die. She knew it. They would just keep on pouring the water until her struggles eased, as darkness overcame her.

  She was going to die here.

  Then, finally, the flow of water stopped and the cloth was withdrawn. Sucking in what little air she could, Frost coughed and choked violently, expelling a mixture of water and bile. Tears were streaming from her eyes, hidden only by the soaking she had received.

  ‘You know it was the Spanish Inquisition who first invented this technique?’ Carpenter said, watching her struggles with satisfaction. ‘Old tricks are the best tricks, huh? We can just keep doing this all day long. Feel like talking now?’

  At least regaining some semblance of self-control, Frost glared at him with absolute hatred. ‘You piece of shit! Fuck—’

  She was silenced when the cloth was placed over her head and the agony started again.

  The hotel room was, as Keegan had expected, bland and impersonal, with cheap furniture and mass-produced pictures adorning the olive-green walls. Still, the decor was of no concern to him as he knelt down near the centre of the room to survey the scene.

  The evidence of a struggle was plain to see. A broken coffee urn lay on the floor, pieces of shattered glass all around it. It had clearly been flung with some force, perhaps used as an improvised weapon. The sort of thing a young woman would resort to when taking on a pair of far larger and stronger assailants.

  He felt a sudden pang of guilt for not insisting on accompanying her, but quickly forced it down. Guilt could come later. Action and logical thought were needed now.

  Looking closer at the coffee stain, he saw other marks on the carpet nearby. Whoever had attacked her must have walked through it, leaving foot prints behind. Judging by the size and depth of the prints, he guessed a pair of size 11 boots, their owner weighing well over 200 pounds.

  And for a moment he was reminded of the prints he had seen out at the crash site. Same size, same weight, same height. In fact, about the same as one of the men lying dead in the elevator on the roof.

  He rose slowly to his feet, glancing back towards the door.

  If Frost’s attackers hadn’t killed her here, which he was assuming they hadn’t, then they must have found a way to get her out of the hotel. But how? The stairwells were fitted with security cameras, as was the main lobby. They couldn’t have jumped from a window; someone would undoubtedly have seen them.

  Carefully stepping over the coffee stains, he moved out into the corridor beyond. A couple of Agency security operatives had accompanied him in case he had any mad ideas about running away, though both men were under orders not to impede his work, and moved aside to let him through.

  They must have brought Frost out here, Keegan thought as he looked around, but where then? A man carrying an unconscious woman would have been seen by someone. They couldn’t have allowed themselves to be exposed for long.

  ‘Keira, what the hell did they do with you?’

  Frowning, he looked around as if seeking inspiration.

  Then, just like that, his eyes came to rest on the laundry chute opposite.

  Chapter 43

  CIA Training Facility ‘Camp Peary’, Virginia,

  27 November 1985

  Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven …

  Once again Anya found herself on that same muddy training field in the middle of the night, enduring the same grim exercise regime, feeling the rain hammering down on her while Carpenter strode amongst the ranks of recruits, safely protected from rain by an oilskin cape.

  ‘I will endure when all others fail!’ he yelled, repeating the mantra that had been drilled into them from the moment they had arrived here. ‘I will stand when all others retreat!’

  He always chose to push them hardest when the weather was bad, and she had learned that it frequently was in Virginia at this time of year.

  Thirty-nine, forty … Come on, almost there.

  ‘Weakness will not be in my heart! Fear will not be in my creed!’

  She had thrown herself into her training with renewed vigour over the past week, refusing to break, refusing to submit. The old fire of defiance that had kept her alive as an adolescent, fighting to survive in prison, was burning inside her again. It was a test, Luka had told her. A test that she would pass.

  Ignoring the pain in her arms and shoulders, she kept going, pushing herself up from the ground and lowering herself down again and again.

  Forty-three, forty-four …

  ‘I will show no mercy! I will never hesitate!’ Carpenter halted in front of her. She could see his muddy boots through her rain-blurred eyes. ‘Recruit Thirteen, what’s the last promise you made to me?’

  ‘I will never surrender, sir!’ she yelled, forcing the words from her throat even when it seemed she had no breath left in her lungs.

  Forty-seven …

  She was slowing down as her body reached the limits of its endurance.

  She saw him kneel down in front of her, saw his eyes watching her movements, saw the the knife he always kept sheathed at his waist. ‘I can’t hear you, Recruit.’

  Forty-eight …

  ‘I will never surrender!’

  Forty-nine …

  For a moment she faltered, her strength wavering, her resolve failing in the face of utter exhaustion.

  Anya’s head rose up, her eyes locking with Carpenter’s, burning into them with hatred and anger and defiance. You won’t beat me, you bastard. You can’t beat me because I’m stronger than you.

  With a final effort of sheer will she forced her arms to extend one last time.

  Fifty.

  She had done it! Relief and exhilaration surged through her veins. She had done what had been asked of her, and even he couldn’t take that away.

  She saw a flicker of a smile on his face as he stood up.

  ‘Well done, Recruit,’ he said. ‘Now get up.’

  Like many such buildings in central Kabul, the office block was still under construction, with the top two floors nothing more than big open spaces littered with building materials. Power tools, electrical wiring, air-conditioning ducts and plumbing fixtures were everywhere, the work crews having finished up for the day.

  The air smelled of new plastic and sawdust.

  In the midst of it all sat Anya, as motionless as a statue, her eyes glued to a pair of high-powered binoculars as she surveyed the desert landscape beyond the construction site. The sun was already dipping towards the western horizon, glowing like fire through the wind-blown dust and tingeing the high thin clouds scarlet with its dying rays.

  To a casual observer she might have appeared oblivious to her surroundings, all her attention focused on what she was seeing.

  The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. Though her eyes were occupied, her other senses were painfully alert, constantly relaying information to her conscious mind about even slight changes in her environment. If a human body approached, she would smell the scent of sweat or cologne in the air. The slightest echo of a footstep on the bare concrete floor would bring a swift and deadly response.

  Her only weapon was an M1911 semi-automatic holstered against her left thigh. Of all the weapons she had used over the years, she had yet to find a more effective and reliable side arm than the venerable Colt .45. It had served through two world wars, through Korea and Vietnam, through the Gulf and countless other conflicts before and after. Nearly a century after its introduction, it remained a deadly weapon in the right hands.

  It was hot in the half-built office. The dry dusty air irritated her throat, a faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. Her lower back was starting to stiffen up from holding the same position so long, and even
the muscles in her arms were aching from supporting the heavy binoculars.

  She ignored it all. She had long since trained herself to put aside discomfort, to disregard pain and fatigue. None of those things were important. Survival was what counted.

  The object of her preoccupation sat about a mile distant, protected by perimeter fences, watchtowers, bastions of brick and concrete and razor wire. It was a fortress, old and scarred by past conflicts, but tall and indomitable, able to withstand almost any attack.

  The Horizon headquarters building.

  For a moment her magnified gaze strayed to the building’s upper floor, to the big floor-to-ceiling armoured windows that marked the boundary of Carpenter’s world. Such vanity, to have insisted on such a feature. Only a man like him would have desired it, to stand behind them with the world laid out below, as remote and invincible as a god.

  She wondered if he was standing there at that very moment, gazing out across the city. Even Carpenter wasn’t stupid enough to permit people an insight into his private domain; the windows were mirrored, showing nothing but a volcanic sunset and distant, indistinct mountains.

  In any case, her attention soon turned downward, towards the compound’s main gate. She watched as the armoured barricade swung open and, in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes, a column of four armoured vehicles rolled out, bristling with weapons and Horizon operatives. The convoy picked up pace once clear of the gate, swinging north-east to head deeper into Kabul.

  It was a third such sortie in the past fifteen minutes. Whatever operation they were mounting, they looked to be throwing all of their available manpower and resources at it.

  Her contemplation was interrupted when she felt something buzzing in her pocket. She didn’t need to look at the phone to know who was calling. Only one man on earth knew this number.

  Without taking her eyes off the target, she enabled the Bluetooth earpiece she was wearing and hit the receive-call button on the phone.

  ‘What have you found, Ryan?’ she asked, her voice calm and controlled. Whatever she was feeling inside, she had long ago learned to suppress it when communicating during operations.