by Will Jordan
Franklin gave him a curt nod, resisting the urge to swallow. Too late to worry about it now, he thought as the door swung open.
The room itself was devoid of features – just bare brick walls, padded rubberised flooring and a small table in the centre, fixed into the floor. One wall was dominated by a mirror that was clearly more than just a mirror. Cain was on the other side of it, watching every move he made. The thought was not a reassuring one.
The lighting remained low, leaving her face half hidden by shadow. Her eyes were still sensitive to bright light and would take time to adjust.
Maras remained seated when he entered, didn’t look up, barely moved a muscle in fact. She was just sitting there, oblivious to what was happening. And yet, just by sitting there she seemed to exude an air of quiet, brooding menace. She was far from oblivious to what was going on.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he approached.
‘Good afternoon,’ he began.
No response.
‘My name’s Franklin. I’m here to handle your debriefing.’ There was a seat opposite her at the table. Clearing his throat, he gestured to it. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
Still she said nothing.
Taking her silence as acquiescence, he eased himself down, trying not to show any sign of discomfort or difficulty. His already knotted back muscles sent ripples of pain through his body.
‘I understand you’ve been through a lot today. This must all be very difficult for you, so if there’s anything you need during this process, just let me—’
‘Anything I need?’ she suddenly asked, lifting her gaze from the featureless table surface to focus on him.
‘That’s right.’
Her intense blue eyes hardened, and he noticed the muscles across her shoulders tightening. ‘How about four years of my life back? Can you give me that, Franklin?’
He swallowed and glanced away for a moment, feeling as though she was drilling right into him with those eyes.
‘What happened to you was … regrettable,’ he said, knowing how feeble those words must have sounded. ‘But it’s over now. You can put it all behind you. We’ll make sure you get all the help you need.’
He shifted position in his hard plastic chair, trying to find a comfortable way of sitting. The woman sat motionless, watching him as a predator might observe a weaker animal falling behind the herd.
‘A lot has happened while you were away. We don’t have much time, so let’s get—’
‘What do you do, Franklin?’ she asked, interrupting him.
He frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
The barest flicker of a smile lit her face. ‘What do you do? For the Agency, I mean. That’s who you work for, isn’t it?’
‘I’m … the director of Special Activities Division.’ He had hesitated just an instant too long, and he knew it.
‘A little young, aren’t you? What are you – thirty-five, thirty-six?’
‘Thirty-eight,’ he corrected her. For some reason he felt like a teenager trying to buy liquor for the first time, nervous and self-conscious.
Again that strange, knowing smile. ‘What happened to Marcus Cain?’
‘He retired.’
‘Why?’
‘Health problems.’
‘What kind of health problems?’ she pressed, enjoying his discomfort. The questions were flowing out as fast as he could answer them. She was testing him, trying to make him sweat.
It was working.
‘Heart attack; hardly surprising given his age and workload. The doctors warned him he’d be dead within a year if he didn’t quit, so for once he actually listened. I spent a month working alongside him before he retired. He was a good man,’ he said, giving her the full story he had rehearsed in his head. ‘Now, if you’re finished with Cain’s life story, maybe we can move on to the issue at hand …’
‘Why am I being kept in a holding cell?’ she demanded.
He sighed in exasperation. ‘For protection.’
‘Yours or mine?’ she asked, allowing the question to hang in the air. When he didn’t answer, she looked down at her hands, slowly clenching and unclenching them. ‘I could kill you right now, with my bare hands. You would be dead before the two MPs on the other side of the door could even buzz themselves in.’
Franklin stiffened. She wasn’t even close to joking.
‘Or maybe you’re worried I would smash that observation window over there and find Cain watching you make a fool of yourself?’
‘I told you. Cain’s gone.’
She smiled again. ‘You’re lying to me, Franklin.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It is not difficult. The muscles in your throat and shoulders tighten just a little, you straighten your left index finger, and your rate of breathing increases,’ she explained, like a doctor making a diagnosis. ‘You’re consciously aware of not glancing to your left like most people do, so instead you stare fixedly at something, a point of reference, like a cracked brick eight rows up in the wall directly behind me?’ She looked at him a little closer. ‘You’re sweating. Is it warm in here?’
Franklin exhaled and leaned back in his chair. To protest further would be worse than pointless, it would be humiliating. He had failed spectacularly in his task. He could almost feel his stock plummeting in Cain’s mind.
‘Don’t feel bad, Franklin,’ she said, gentle and consoling now. ‘You are probably an honest man in daily life, maybe even an honourable one. Lying doesn’t come naturally to you. You should be proud of that.’
His eyes narrowed, irritation flaring up within him. She was patronising him, treating him like someone to be pitied. A helpless cripple. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Really?’ That smile was still there. ‘You have the look of a military man, Franklin. I should know – I have met more than a few in my time. The way you wear that expensive suit …’ She shook her head. ‘You would much rather be in uniform, which means you didn’t join the Agency out of choice. You had trouble sitting down, and even though you try to hide it, I can see you’re in pain.’
He clenched his fist, trying to hold in check his mounting anger. She was pressing his buttons, exposing his weakness without mercy.
‘You’re too young to have back problems, so I’d guess you were injured in the line of duty. Shrapnel, maybe? Spinal injuries? Tell me, does it make you feel less of a man, knowing you can’t do the things you once did? Run, fight, make love to a woman …’
‘That’s enough!’ he snapped. Before he could stop himself, he had slammed his fist down on the table with enough force to send the shock of the impact travelling up his arm.
She watched him with mild interest. She had broken him as easily as swatting a fly on her arm.
Maras leaned forward across the table, lowering her voice in a mock conspiratorial tone. ‘He’s watching us right now, isn’t he? The man behind the curtain, as you say.’
Without waiting for an answer, she pushed away from the table and strode over to the mirror, pacing back and forth along its length as if gauging its strength. But even her icy blue eyes couldn’t penetrate the reflective surface.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are, Marcus,’ she said mockingly. ‘I know you’re in there.’
Franklin rose from his chair with difficulty. ‘This is going nowhere …’
She ignored him. ‘It’s been a long time since we spoke face to face, Marcus. Don’t you have anything to say to your “old friend”?’
But staring into the mirror, she couldn’t see the man she was looking for. All she saw was herself, aged and depleted by her years in captivity. Broken down, robbed of her former power and strength.
Suddenly her face twisted in anger, cold fire burning in her eyes as she glared at the mirror.
‘Come out, you coward!’ she snarled, drawing back her fist and slamming it into the glass with such force that the impact reverberated around the room. ‘Come out and look me in
the eye!’
Half a second later the cell door flew open, and the two MPs rushed into the room with their weapons drawn. Maras whirled around to face them, fists clenched, body already aligned into a defensive posture. She was unarmed, weak, diminished, but she didn’t care. She was still more dangerous with her bare hands than many fully armed soldiers.
‘Wait!’ Franklin cried, holding up a hand to stop the two men. She was no good to them dead.
Maras made no move to attack them, but neither did she back down. She was watching, and waiting.
‘We went to a lot of trouble breaking you out of Khatyrgan,’ Franklin said, struggling to keep his tone even. ‘You owe us your life.’
‘I owe you nothing, Franklin,’ she spat. ‘You didn’t break me out of prison. You didn’t risk your life to bring me home. Get out and don’t come back.’
Franklin had heard enough. She wasn’t going to cooperate. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room. He hadn’t realised how hard his heart had been beating, or that he was perspiring.
‘Goddamn it,’ he said under his breath, loosening his tie as the door clanged shut behind him.
Cain was waiting for him when he returned to the observation room, a cup of coffee in hand. ‘Well, that went pretty much how I expected.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not a soldier – she doesn’t respect you,’ he explained, completely matter-of-fact. ‘And you lied to her. That’s a big no-no. She can read body language better than anyone I ever met, spot a liar as fast as our best interrogators.’
Franklin stared at him in disbelief. ‘You knew all that? And you let me go through with it anyway?’
‘I had to give her someone to vent her anger on, make her think she’d rumbled us.’
‘I didn’t much appreciate being insulted,’ Franklin pointed out with more heat than he’d intended.
Cain shrugged and took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s a dirty game we play, Dan. Sometimes you have to take one for the team. Man up and grow a pair.’
Franklin glanced back into the observation room. Maras had returned to her chair as if nothing had happened, though the two guards remained by the door, hands on their weapons. She paid them not a glance.
‘What happens now?’
‘Let me show you something.’ Turning to his laptop on the desk, he opened a video file and clicked the play button.
The image that appeared on the screen was a wide-angle shot of the interior of an aircraft. It took Franklin a moment to realise it was the Chinook that had brought Drake’s team back from Russia. Cain must have installed hidden cameras throughout the aircraft, allowing him to see and hear everything that went on.
The image zoomed in on Maras, sitting on a bench at the rear of the aircraft. Drake was beside her.
‘Like I said, we’re here to help,’ he said, his voice grainy against the ambient background noise, but perfectly recognisable. ‘You don’t have to trust us, just don’t threaten any of my people. We’ll try to make your trip back as comfortable as possible. If you need something, ask. Okay?’
He was just turning to leave when she spoke up again.
‘What is your name?’
‘Drake. Ryan Drake.’
The woman was silent for several seconds, then Franklin saw a nod. Not much, but a genuine expression of thanks for respect. Something she had never come close to showing him.
‘Thank you, Drake.’
Closing down the video, Cain turned to the younger man. ‘We need to have a word with Mr Drake.’
Chapter 27
‘CHRIST, I WISH it would shut up out there,’ Frost groaned, glaring up at the vaulted hangar roof so feet above as if it were her mortal enemy.
It was raining hard outside, massive droplets hammering off the tarmac runways and, more annoyingly, the building they were sheltering in. The noise was like being inside a washing machine filled with nuts and bolts.
With their operation concluded, the team had been ferried out to an isolated hangar on the east side of the base while they waited for their flight back to Washington. Their aircraft was currently refuelling for the long-haul journey, leaving them to do what any good soldiers do most often – sit around and wait.
Keegan, propped up against a stack of wooden cargo boxes, glanced up from the crossword he’d been working on. ‘Hey, anyone know another word for irritant? Eight letters.’
‘Asshole,’ Frost offered.
‘That’s seven letters.’
‘No, I was just calling you an asshole.’ She shifted position, trying to find a comfortable way of lying on the three chairs she’d lined up to form a makeshift bed.
Like the others, she had changed back into civilian clothes now that they were no longer on deployment. Jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and a black overcoat were the order of the day now. This might have been summer, but it was still Alaska. The hangar was cold and draughty, the air heavy with the smell of fresh rain and salt.
Keegan ignored her. Inspiration had struck. ‘Abrasive! That’s it,’ he said, filling in the entry. ‘Goddamn if I don’t have this finished by Thanksgiving.’
‘Now you’re getting ambitious,’ Frost retorted.
At the back of the hangar was a small admin area with a couple of offices and some restrooms. Dietrich was in one of them at that moment, his left shirtsleeve rolled up and a piece of rubber tubing wrapped around his upper arm, causing the veins and arteries to stand out hard against the skin.
In his other hand he held a syringe, loaded with a murky brown liquid that he’d just rendered down using a spoon and a cigarette lighter. Diamorphine, also known as heroin.
It was ready to use.
His injured leg ached. When they’d touched down this morning, the base medics had taken him away, stitched him up and bandaged the wound properly. He’d been lucky – the round had only grazed him, causing little damage to the muscle beneath. He walked with a painful limp, but he was told he’d make a full recovery.
Lucky him.
His hand was shaking as he brought the syringe to his arm. It had been a good twenty-four hours since he’d last shot up, and the withdrawal effects were becoming more apparent with each passing hour.
Hesitating a moment, he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink, taking in his gaunt and haggard appearance, his pale clammy skin and dishevelled hair.
That’s the reason you fucked up last night, part of him knew. You didn’t search that guard properly or you would have found his radio. You almost got everyone killed when you couldn’t find the right key. You were shot because you weren’t thinking straight. You deserved to lose the entire leg.
You stupid bastard. You could have gotten everyone killed!
He looked down at the syringe again, seeing it as if in a new light. It wasn’t the solution he so often believed it to be. It was the reason his life had gone to shit.
Last night had been a revelation, a sobering reminder of how much of a mess he’d made of himself, about the countless other missions that had come so close to failure.
Because of that innocuous little syringe.
He didn’t even pause to think about what he did next. If he had, he might well have reconsidered. In a moment of sudden anger, he dropped it on the floor and stamped on it, crushing the delicate instrument beneath his boot, then looked back up at his pale, drawn reflection.
No more.
Never again.
Chapter 28
‘RYAN, GOOD TO see you again.’ Cain smiled in greeting as Drake entered the modest conference room that served as his makeshift office. He was in casual mode now, or as close as he came to it, having removed his suit jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie.
‘First of all, I just want to say that you did a hell of a job—’
Drake cut him off with a raised hand.
‘With all due respect, I don’t need to be congratulated. I’m here because I was ordered to come. But if you want me to debrief Maras, I w
ant to know who exactly she is and why we risked our lives to save her, and I want to know right now.’
Cain said nothing for several seconds. There was no angry retort, no exclamation of anger or censure like Drake expected. Cain just stood there looking at him, taking the measure of the man.
The silence grew oppressive in those few moments, and Drake’s own surge of resentment and indignation paled in the face of such cool, controlled menace.
He felt colour rise to his face. The whisky he’d drunk earlier had made him surly and belligerent, yet now he perceived his actions for what they were. He was acting like a moody teenager faced with some unhappy chore, and shit like that didn’t play too well with men like Cain.
Then, to his surprise, Cain smiled. ‘Are you finished?’
Drake said nothing, and the older man was perceptive enough to take his silence for what it was. ‘Good, because as it happens, I had a feeling you’d say something like that. Take a seat, Ryan,’ he said, gesturing to an empty chair.
Drake did as he was asked, and Cain settled himself opposite, positioning himself behind the room’s one and only desk. It was a cheap affair – metal frame with a wooden veneer top – but somehow his mere presence invested it with a sense of significance and authority.
The director of Special Activities Division studied Drake for several seconds. In other men, it might have seemed as if he was composing his thoughts, marshalling the information he wished to convey, but Drake knew better. Cain was the sort who always knew exactly what he wanted to say long before he said it.
He was keeping Drake waiting, because he could.
Then, at last, he started talking. ‘Her real name is Anya – at least, that’s what she answers to. You’ll have guessed by now that she isn’t a US citizen. She was born in Lithuania when it was still part of the Soviet Union, but she defected to our side when she was eighteen years old.’
Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story. Suffice to say, she wasn’t happy with life behind the Iron Curtain, and knowing what I know, I don’t blame her. She crossed over the Baltic to Sweden in eighty-three, and from there she made her way Stateside. She came to our attention about a year later,’ Cain went on. ‘She was young, resourceful, intelligent and eager to sign up. The military wasn’t interested in her, so we put her to work.’ He sighed, looking almost wistful. ‘She exceeded our expectations in every way possible. Eventually she was even given her own paramilitary unit to command. No matter what we asked of her, she always came through. We ended up using her more and more.’
