by Will Jordan
Skirting the Capitol building, Drake headed west through Henry Park towards the Washington Monument.
Lit from below by floodlights, the vast marble obelisk stood stark and white against the dim backdrop of the early-morning sky. For a lot of people, this structure was a symbol of America itself, an indomitable monument to democracy and all that other good stuff. For him it meant he was almost finished his run.
Everyone was a winner, then.
Beyond lay the Lincoln Memorial building at the end of the Reflecting Pool, backed right up against the Potomac. That was his finish line.
Summoning his flagging reserves of energy, he pushed himself in one final effort down the length of the Reflecting Pool.
Almost doubled over, he ascended the fifty-eight steps to the base of the memorial. Fifty-eight steps, each one sending a stab of pain through his tired and aching muscles, and drawing deep from his meagre reserves of strength.
At last he staggered to the top, winded and exhausted, clutching one of the stone columns for support.
He felt like shit, plain and simple. His muscles ached, his lungs burned and his head pounded with a vicious headache. Still no sign of those elusive endorphins either, he thought with a wry smile. But the smile soon faded when he checked his watch – a minute slower than yesterday.
Ten years ago, back when he’d been a young soldier in the Special Air Service, he’d done runs like this just to warm up. Now he was killing himself trying to make it through.
He closed his eyes for a moment as the blood roared in his ears and a wave of nausea hit him like a brick wall. But this was no injury or fatigue brought about by exercise. It was a hangover.
It was a good couple of minutes before the nausea abated and he felt composed enough to stand up straight. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off the pillar and descended the steps once more, heading north-west to the Roosevelt Bridge, and crossing over from Maryland into Virginia.
Stopping off at a coffee shop along the way, he ordered a bottle of water, a white coffee with no sugar and a bacon-and-cheese bagel. Hardly the breakfast of champions, but what the hell – nobody was here to lecture him.
He downed the water in one gulp, and was just exiting the shop with his bagel in hand when he felt his cellphone vibrating in his pocket. Frowning, he fished it out and checked the caller ID: Dan Franklin (Work).
Shit.
Once a friend from his former life in the military, Franklin was now a combination employer, manager and occasional financial lifeline. As reluctant as Drake was to admit it, Franklin was the reason he had a job and a roof over his head.
He was calling from his desk at Langley, which Drake took to be a bad sign. If your boss called at 6.00 on a Sunday morning, it was unlikely that it was to invite you over for tea and biscuits. Especially if that boss worked for the Central Intelligence Agency.
There was shit brewing. He could feel it in his bones.
He hit the receive button, already bracing himself for bad news.
‘Dan …’ he began.
‘Ryan, where are you right now?’ Franklin asked, wasting no time in greetings.
‘Good morning to you, too,’ Drake replied with unveiled sarcasm. He was starting to wish he’d left the phone at home.
‘I’m serious. We need to talk.’
Drake frowned. ‘About what, exactly?’
‘Not over the phone. We need you to come in.’
‘Come on, mate. It’s a Sunday,’ Drake reminded him. ‘And it’s my first day off in three weeks.’
Jesus, he’d only just finished with the debriefings and reports and testimonies and all the other bullshit from his last operation. If this was to go over some mismatching statement or lost document, he was ready to tell Franklin where to ram it.
‘Excuse me while I break out the violin,’ Franklin replied without sympathy.
‘Very funny.’ Drake took a bite of his bagel as he walked, covering his other ear to muffle the sound of traffic on the main drag nearby. ‘Is it a debriefing issue?’
‘I wish. No, this is something new. It’s important. There are some big pay cheques overseeing this, if you catch my drift.’
Yeah? I bet none of them come my way, Drake thought with a momentary flash of resentment. Considering the kind of work he did, the payments were unsatisfactory to say the least.
‘This could be a big opportunity, Ryan.’
‘For who?’ Drake couldn’t help asking.
Franklin said nothing for a few moments. ‘Look, I was asked to recommend someone for a job. I told them you were one of our best case officers. Don’t be an asshole and prove me wrong.’
‘You’re so good to me, Dan.’
‘What are friends for?’ Franklin asked with a brief flash of humour. ‘Look, come in and hear what we have to say. I want your professional opinion on this one. If you’re interested, we’ll take it from there. If you think it can’t be done … well, we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.’
Drake sighed. He hadn’t planned anything for today, which in itself was a welcome novelty. For the first time in a long time, he had no work to do, no reports to file, no briefings to attend or plans to review. He could afford to relax.
He had a feeling he could kiss goodbye to that idea.
‘No promises,’ he grunted.
Chapter 3
Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
APPROACHING THE CONFERENCE room where Franklin was lurking, Drake glanced down at the dark grey business suit he’d thrown on, resisting the urge to pat down a crease on the left sleeve. After taking a cab home, he had showered and quickly donned his suit before jumping in his car and battling through the morning traffic to get here. He hadn’t even had time to shave.
Sunday it might have been, but dress-down days were an urban myth at Langley. Business suits, freshly ironed shirts, ties and gleaming shoes were the order of the day here. Everyone looked as though they belonged in an office-wear catalogue, and somehow it made him feel as though he never quite measured up.
He was an outsider here, and always, just beneath the surface, he felt it. A Brit working for the CIA – rare enough, and not altogether welcomed by some. He also had no real background in the intelligence game.
He was a soldier, not a spook. At least, he had been once. Now he occupied a curious middle ground where those hard-won skills were still put to the test, just by different employers.
He hesitated outside the door. Who the hell was going to be in there with Franklin? What were they going to ask of him? What could be so serious that they needed him in this early on a Sunday?
He was far from at his best today. His mind was still fogged by a combination of fatigue and hangover.
Well, too late to back out now. Just get it over with. Steeling himself, he reached for the handle and opened the door.
The conference room was designed to accommodate at least ten people in considerable comfort, with a long wooden-topped table running down the centre, its surface polished to a mirrored shine. Flat-screen televisions were mounted on the walls at each end, no doubt used for teleconferencing and presentations.
The decor was the height of corporate luxury: pristine carpets, wood-panelled walls, expensive leather-backed chairs, the works. Even the coffee set was made of silver instead of the cheap plastic Thermos units Drake was accustomed to.
The entire wall opposite consisted of tinted one-way windows that allowed for impressive views over the surrounding woodland and the Potomac river beyond. The sky was lightening now as the sun crept higher, slowly burning through the early-morning fog. It was shaping up to be another hot, humid day, but one would never know it in there. The air conditioners kept the room at a steady 18 degrees Celsius no matter what the weather.
Despite its size, the room was occupied by only two men, both of whom were sitting at the table with several files and folders laid out in front of them.
The first and younger of the two was Dan Frankl
in.
Thirty-eight years old, Franklin had served much of his career in the US Marine Corps. He came from a distinguished military family and bore all the baggage that went with it; a graduate of West Point, top 10 per cent of his class, the whole spit-and-polish routine.
He’d served in an elite Special Operations group hunting bad guys in Afghanistan, and had looked set to have a long and distinguished career until a roadside bomb took out the Humvee he was riding in, leaving him with lumps of the device and the vehicle embedded in his legs and spine.
After a difficult rehabilitation, he’d transitioned into the Military Intelligence Corps for a brief time before the CIA headhunted him. That wasn’t the kind of offer you refused, and so for the past five years he had been working out of Langley.
Desk work might have been more suited to his physical abilities these days, but Franklin was still lean and fit despite the injuries that had ended his military career. His dark blond hair was always cut short, his suits were always well pressed, and he carried himself with the confidence typical of his military heritage. His grey-blue eyes sparkled with quick intelligence as he nodded in greeting.
The second man was older, probably in his mid-fifties. His greying hair was receding a little at the sides, and there were lines around his mouth and eyes. He was still in good shape though judging by his trim waist and broad shoulders, with no sign of the middle-aged spread that such men often struggled against. His face had the ruggedly handsome look of a movie star, and the slender reading glasses he was wearing suited him perfectly.
There was something oddly familiar about him too, but Drake couldn’t place it. Still, one look was enough to confirm that he was one of the ‘big pay cheques’ that Franklin had alluded to. His suit looked as if it cost more than Drake’s monthly wage, and he had the imposing bearing of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. This guy moved in circles that Drake would never be a part of.
Both men rose to greet him as he entered, Franklin moving a little slower than his companion but trying to hide it. Several spinal operations had failed to undo the damage done by that roadside bomb. Sitting in one position for more than fifteen minutes resulted in painful muscle spasms, so he was often found pacing the room during long meetings.
‘Ryan. Good of you to join us.’ He gestured to the man beside him. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Marcus Cain, director of Special Activities Division.’
Drake’s heartbeat shifted up a gear in that moment. Now he knew why this guy seemed familiar.
Marcus Cain was one of the big players within the CIA’s complex power structure. As head of Special Activities Division, he was responsible for sanctioning black operations all across the globe. Basically, just about anything the US Government needed done, but could never admit to.
Cain smiled as he rounded the table to shake hands. ‘Sorry to haul you in here at such short notice, Ryan. From what I hear, you were taking some long-overdue R and R?’
His grip was strong, his smile easy and confident. He was like a movie star pressing flesh with eager fans.
Franklin gave him a hard look, as if to forestall any objections he might have been mad enough to voice. For some reason, Drake felt foolish about his earlier complaints on the phone. Had Cain been listening in?
‘It’s no trouble, sir,’ he lied.
Cain’s amused smile suggested he wasn’t fooled for a moment. Still, he said nothing further on the matter.
‘Well, I appreciate your getting here so fast.’ He gestured to a vacant chair. ‘Please, take a seat. Coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
As Drake sat down, Cain returned to his own seat and poured himself a cup. ‘Dan here tells me you’re very good at what you do,’ he remarked conversationally, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘In fact, I’m led to believe you’re one of the best case officers on the payroll. Would that be a fair assessment?’
Drake was leader of a Special Investigation Team, a small but prolific sub-unit of Special Activities Division formed to investigate, track down and, if possible, bring home missing CIA operatives.
The CIA employed thousands of operatives – they were never, ever referred to as agents – all across the globe, doing everything from intelligence gathering to espionage, kidnappings, political interventions, assassinations and undercover work.
Inevitably, some of these operatives would ‘go dark’ and stop reporting in, either because their true identity had been uncovered, they had been killed or injured in the course of their mission, or on rarer occasions, because they had turned against their former employers.
Whatever the reason for their disappearance, it was vital to know what exactly had happened to them. If they had been captured or uncovered, had they talked? If they were being held hostage, was it possible to recover them? If they had turned rogue, what were the chances of apprehending them before they did any serious damage?
Answering those questions was the task of a Special Investigation Team. Colloquially known as Shepherds, their job was to piece together whatever clues were available on missing operatives, find them and, if possible, bring them back into the fold.
The CIA could call upon six permanent Shepherd teams. Or rather, six permanent case officers, of whom Drake was one. Each was the core around which the rest of the team was built.
Again he felt his heart beat a little faster. Cain was putting him on the spot, seeing how he would react. ‘I’d say you’re better placed to make that assessment than I am, sir.’
Cain smiled. ‘Typical Brit, always underplaying things. Well, you should consider yourself lucky that your reputation precedes you.’
Opening a folder on the conference table in front of him, he leafed through the pages with the mild interest of a man studying a novel he has already read. It took Drake a moment or two to realise it was his own personnel dossier.
‘Let’s see … You joined the Parachute Regiment in ninety-seven before moving on to the SAS two years later. You did two tours in Afghanistan, the second with Fourteenth Special Operations Group as part of Operation Hydra,’ he noted with a flicker of interest.
Drake felt himself tense up. There were only a handful of people in the world who even knew about Operation Hydra, and it seemed Cain was one of them. With director-level security clearance, it was only natural that he would have been briefed on it, but still his casual revelation caught Drake off guard. Just hearing the name spoken out loud was enough to elicit a chill of recognition.
‘You received two citations for bravery and a promotion to sergeant before you left,’ Cain went on. ‘You’ve been with the Agency four years now, and you have the highest success rate of any case officer in the past ten years. I’d call that a pretty decent record, Ryan.’
Drake said nothing. There was more to his military record than Cain had mentioned, but the man had tactfully left it unsaid. It seemed he was out to mount a charm offensive instead.
‘Which is just as well, because we need someone with your talents.’ Cain set his dossier aside and slid a single photograph across the table to Drake. ‘Take a look.’
Turning the photo around, he leaned in closer to study it. Drake’s eyes opened wide when he saw the face staring back at him.
It was a woman. She was Caucasian, with a pale complexion and blue eyes. Her hair was light blonde, cut short and styled in a simple side parting that left a strand falling across her face. She wore no make-up.
She didn’t need it.
She was beautiful; strikingly beautiful in fact. Her mouth was full and rounded, her cheekbones high, her nose narrow and finely chiselled. Her straight, clean jaw-line tapered down to a firm, well-defined chin. The shape, symmetry and arrangement of her features combined in elegant harmony to create a face that was almost captivating in its perfection.
Her age was difficult to tell, but there was something about her face that had lost the softer curves of youth and assumed the more definite lines of maturity.
But what he notice
d most of all were her eyes. Icy blue and vividly intense, they held his gaze and wouldn’t let go. Even in a photograph they seemed to stare right through him. Never in his life had he seen eyes like those.
‘This is the most recent picture we have,’ Cain explained. ‘It was taken about six years ago.’
‘Who is she?’ Drake asked, still staring at the picture.
‘Her true identity is highly classified, even for someone with your clearance. What I can tell you is that she’s a former paramilitary operative, working under the code name Maras. She worked black ops from the mid-eighties onward, then four years ago she went rogue and disappeared. In short, she’s a relic of the bad old days. But unfortunately, we need her.’
Drake frowned. That wasn’t exactly a detailed biography. ‘Why?’
‘Times change,’ Cain said with a dismissive shrug. ‘Even relics can have their uses. We need you to find her and bring her in for debriefing. Now, the good news is that we know where she is. But that’s also the bad news.’
With that, he reached into his folder and slid another picture Drake’s way.
It was an overhead, probably taken from a surveillance satellite. The image quality wasn’t great, but it was sufficient to depict some kind of fortified facility surrounded by snow-covered wasteland. The building was a simple, uncompromising square enclosed by a high perimeter wall, with defensive towers at each corner and a large open space in the centre.
It looked like a castle or fortress, and a formidable one at that.
‘Say hello to Khatyrgan Prison.’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ Drake admitted.
Cain cocked an eyebrow. ‘Then you should consider yourself lucky. Most people who end up there don’t come back to tell any stories. It was built to house some of Russia’s most dangerous criminals – murderers, crime lords, terrorists, enemies of the state … You name it, there’s probably some guy there doing time for it.’
That stopped him in his tracks. ‘Russia?’
Cain nodded. ‘Siberia, to be exact. The Sakha Republic. It’s at least a hundred miles from anything resembling civilisation.’
