Black List

by Will Jordan

  ‘I’ve been doing that for the past half hour,’ the young man protested. ‘Come on. Somehow I doubt they’ll catch up to us now.’

  Rolling his eyes with impatience, Halvorsen turned off the road and drove a short distance down a bumpy dirt track until they were out of sight.

  Sinclair sighed, staring thoughtfully out at the dusty, scrub-covered hillside in front of them. ‘Tell me something, Kristian. Is there anyone you won’t fuck over to get ahead?’

  Halvorsen glared at him. ‘Watch your tongue, boy. You’ve been useful so far, but don’t push it.’ He shifted position in his seat, the automatic in his jacket digging uncomfortably into his hip. ‘Now get on with it. Make it quick.’

  ‘It will be,’ Sinclair promised him.

  Then, in a sudden darting movement, his hand leapt out. Before Halvorsen could stop it, the automatic had been yanked clean out of his pocket. He whirled around, making to grab for it, only to find the barrel staring him in the face. A pair of wild, remorseless eyes stared back at him.

  His last thought before Sinclair pulled the trigger was that at least he no longer had to worry about Anya’s vengeance when she finally caught up with him. Perhaps he even deserved what was coming.

  Exiting the car with his ears still ringing from the crack of the gunshot, Sinclair wiped a splash of blood off his face, then used a handkerchief to wipe down the gun. Circling around to the driver’s side, he opened the door, gripped Halvorsen under the arms and heaved him out; no easy task considering the man’s size and weight.

  Nonetheless, with some effort Sinclair managed to drag him a short distance, then placed the gun in his meaty hand.

  Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the memory stick and held it up. The Black List, the file that Anya, the Circle, even Halvorsen were willing to kill for, and it was all his. A world of power in the palm of his hand.

  He smiled, pocketed the memory stick and returned to the car, already reaching for his cell phone and dialling a number from memory.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said simply, eager to keep the call as short as possible as he started the engine up once more. ‘I have what you need. Meet me at the agreed place.’

  *

  ‘It was all for nothing,’ Anya said, staring absently off into the distance as traffic rumbled past on the main road nearby, engine fumes mixing with the smell of manure, human bodies and cooking food. The glass of ice water on the table in front of her sat untouched, despite the intensity of the midday sun beating down on them.

  After leaving the crippled van behind, the two of them had started the long walk along the deserted coastal road, largely staying out of sight lest a police car pass by and notice them. At last, tired and wilting in the hot sun, they had decided to chance their luck and flagged down a passing station wagon that looked like it was older than Alex.

  Miraculously the elderly couple onboard had bought their story of being lost tourists, with Anya explaining away the cuts and bruises on her face by claiming she’d been mugged a couple of days earlier. The woman had cast a suspicious glance at Alex, no doubt harbouring her own thoughts on that matter, but nonetheless had allowed them to collapse gratefully into the back seat.

  Despite some misgivings on the part of their hosts, their rusty and dilapidated ride had brought them as far as the small town of Corlu, where they had stopped at an outdoor cafe for a much-needed drink, and to plan their next move.

  Anya however seemed to have run out of plans. Indeed, Alex had never seen her so despondent. She looked beaten, plain and simple. Everything she’d risked so much for had come to nothing.

  He on the other hand was harbouring quite different emotions.

  ‘Cheer up, mate. It could be worse,’ he said, taking a gulp of his beer. The ice-cold liquid tasted better than he’d imagined, and before he knew it he’d drained the entire glass. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh of absolute satisfaction. ‘Bloody hell, that was worth waiting for.’

  Anya regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation as he motioned to the waiter to bring over another. ‘I don’t see why you’re so happy.’

  He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Oh my God, I think this is the moment,’ he exclaimed. ‘Right here, right now. Knowing something the other person doesn’t. This is what it must feel like to be you.’

  Her blonde brows drew together in a frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Reaching into his back pocket, Alex laid something down on the table. Something that prompted a wonderfully satisfying look of disbelief from his normally stoic companion.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’

  Alex nodded, then thanked the waiter as he laid another bottle of Efes Pilsen down in front of him.

  Anya was oblivious as she gently picked up the memory stick with the reverence of a sacred relic. ‘How can this be?’

  Alex shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I just did what Kristian said – the smart thing. No way was I giving that fat prick the Black List after everything we went through. I’m just glad he didn’t have a computer with him.’

  That was when he saw it. The smile. The smile so rarely seen, but so welcome when it finally came.

  Leaning back in her chair with a weary sigh, Anya shook her head in amusement, though there was something else in her eyes as she regarded him across the table. Something he hadn’t seen before – respect.

  ‘I will say one thing for you, Alex Yates. You never cease to surprise me.’

  He grinned and held out his bottle in a toast. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said as they clinked glasses.

  Clearly however one thing still troubled his companion. ‘But if you didn’t give Kristian the Black List, then what was on that memory stick he took from you?’

  At this, Alex merely smiled and took another sip of his beer.

  *

  Samsun, Turkey

  It was a beautiful evening in the port city of Samsun, a warm breeze sighing in from the Black Sea across the wide harbour crowded with yachts, speedboats and countless other pleasure craft.

  Glancing out the window, Arran Sinclair watched a motor launch filled with young men and women heading out to a much larger vessel moored out in the bay, no doubt to party the night away before heading off to their next destination. All were tanned, all good-looking, all rich.

  He caught himself wondering if he might find himself in such company before too long. With this heartening thought in mind, he turned off the main road and into a small private airfield overlooking the coast.

  As he’d expected, there was only one plane sitting parked beside a small hangar at the far end of the runway. A private jet, sleek and expensive.

  Its owner was waiting for him as he pulled Halvorsen’s car into the hangar, flanked by a pair of stocky bodyguards. All were dressed in civilian clothes, though Sinclair knew well enough that they were anything but civilians. They were Pakistani intelligence operatives, but more than that, they were rich Pakistani intelligence operatives, who were willing to part with 3 million US dollars to get their hands on the Black List.

  Not bad for a few days’ work.

  Bringing the car to a stop, Sinclair killed the engine and stepped out. The inside of the hangar was just as warm as the balmy evening air outside, but the steel shell overhead provided at least some respite from the sun’s glare.

  ‘You are late,’ his contact remarked, checking his watch.

  Sinclair shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalant confidence that stood in stark contrast to what he was feeling at that moment. ‘But I’m worth waiting for.’

  ‘We shall see.’ Vizur Qalat was a tall, neat-looking man in his mid forties, with dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and clean-cut features that somehow made him seem younger than his years. His English was impeccable, perhaps the result of a higher education in the UK, making it almost possible to forget the sinister agency he represented.

  But there was an edge to him. Something hidden beneath those suave good looks that put Sinclai
r on edge, warning him this was not a man one ever wanted as an enemy.

  ‘I assume you have brought it with you, Arran?’ he prompted.

  Reaching into his pocket, Sinclair held up the memory stick for inspection.

  At a nod from Qalat, one of the bodyguards strode forward and plucked the device from his hand, while the other unpacked a laptop from a carry case and set it up on a small work table nearby.

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I verify the contents,’ Qalat said, clearly unconcerned whether Sinclair approved or not.

  ‘No problem,’ Sinclair assured him. ‘When will my money be transferred?’

  Qalat didn’t look at him as he waited for the laptop to start up. ‘As soon as we have confirmation, you’ll get your reward,’

  In the tense moments that followed, Sinclair found his thoughts drifting back to Alex, and particularly his female companion. It was a shame that Halvorsen had insisted on leaving her alive, perhaps clinging to some mistaken belief that she would one day understand and forgive his betrayal. Although he knew little of her, Sinclair was troubled by that woman. He had faith in his own ability to disappear and leave no trail, but he’d sleep better at night knowing she was out of the way.

  On the other hand, he felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for Alex. His former friend had been a great asset, and was undeniably skilled at what he did. But for all his great abilities and intellect, he’d remained a naive and trusting fool right to the end. Perhaps now he’d wise up.

  He let out a breath as Qalat waited a few seconds for the contents of the memory stick to load up. Straight away the computer’s automatic virus-checkers went to work, sweeping the memory stick for any sign of malicious code, then promptly advising that it was clean.

  Smiling, Sinclair watched as his benefactor clicked on the file to open it. However, his smile soon vanished as the laptop froze for a moment, a dialogue box appearing on screen to inform him the file couldn’t be opened.

  Sinclair felt his heart beat faster, his palms growing moist with perspiration. Qalat tried to open it again, only to meet with the same result.

  Turning on Sinclair, the Pakistani intelligence officer regarded him with an almost disappointed look. ‘Would you care to explain this, Arran?’

  ‘Let me see it,’ Sinclair said, hurrying forward and attempting to open the file himself. It didn’t take long to confirm that his efforts were wasted.

  Only then did the realisation finally hit him. Only then did he realize that it was Alex who had scored the final point in their battle of wits. He had been duped in the most pathetically simple way possible.

  ‘Alex, you bastard.’

  The conditional access module, the very same piece of software he’d mailed to his friend when this all started, was now running on this computer. The same tool used to entrap and manipulate Alex had now been used against him.

  He reached out and closed down the laptop with trembling hands, knowing it was a futile gesture since the damage had certainly been done, then backed away and turned to look out of the hangar.

  ‘I’m annoyed with you, Arran,’ Qalat remarked, though Arran barely heard him. Just as he barely heard the click of a safety catch being disengaged. ‘I had such high hopes for you.’

  Once more Sinclair stared out across the sunlit bay, watching the distant pleasure craft and the holidaymakers and the rays of the evening sun glinting off the water. The world was as it had been before, but not for him.

  Not now. Not ever.

  He closed his eyes for the last time as the dull thud of a silenced gunshot shattered the peaceful silence of the hangar.

  Chapter 50

  ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’ Alex asked, holding the memory stick containing the Black List at the ready. The laptop computer they had purchased less than an hour earlier from a budget electrical retailer was humming away, awaiting a command.

  Anya raised her chin a little, squaring her shoulders as if she were facing up to a firing squad. The answers she’d sought for so long, as difficult and potentially devastating as they might have been, were now at her fingertips. She had but to reach out and take them.

  ‘I’m ready,’ she replied after a moment.

  Alex took a breath. He had disabled the laptop’s wireless communications system, ensuring there would be no repeat of what had happened to him in London if the Black List had somehow been booby trapped, but nonetheless he was nervous.

  After everything they’d been through, he almost refused to believe they finally had what they needed.

  ‘Here goes nothing.’

  Inserting the stick, he waited a few seconds while its contents were scanned and read. Then, sure enough, a window popped up on screen with a single file.

  D1189

  Hovering his cursor over the file, Alex sent out a silent prayer, then clicked to open it. Anya leaned in close, her eyes staring intently at the screen. He could almost feel the tension and anticipation radiating out from every taut muscle in her body.

  Then, at last, the file was opened, allowing them both to view its contents.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned.

  There were no secret dossiers contained within it. No incriminating pictures. No mission reports or debriefings. No signed presidential orders.

  All that was displayed on screen was a single line of numbers.

  Straight away Alex’s heart sank. He closed his eyes and sank back in his chair, his short-lived triumph destroyed. He felt utterly and crushingly defeated.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered, holding his head in his hands. ‘A fucking number. All this for a number. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I do,’ Anya said, her voice heavy. ‘It’s an invitation.’

  Alex looked up at her. ‘For what?’

  ‘For me.’

  Reaching into her pocket, she fished out a cell phone. A cheap burner not unlike the one she’d given him in London.

  Pausing a moment to read the number on screen, she punched it in, took a breath, then waited for the call to connect.

  It rang for nearly ten seconds before it was answered.

  ‘Hello, Anya,’ a voice said, showing not a hint of surprise or alarm at her call. An American voice. A man’s voice.

  Marcus Cain’s voice.

  Anya closed her eyes for a moment and let out a breath. It had been a very long time since she’d heard that voice, and despite everything, despite all that she’d been through in the intervening years, the sound of it was enough to evoke something in her. A shadow of the young woman she’d once been. The memory of the way she’d once felt when she’d known the owner of that voice.

  ‘Relax, I’m not tracing this call,’ Cain went on. ‘It’s just you and me now, like it should be.’

  ‘You set me up,’ Anya said, her tone accusatory. ‘You let me go through all of this for nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t really think I’d leave the Black List unguarded, did you?’ he chided her. ‘I had the real list deleted a long time ago. But… I had a feeling you’d come looking for it one day. I guess it still served a purpose.’

  Anya turned away from Alex, not wanting him to see the look in her eyes. ‘Why, Marcus?’ she whispered. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to make you an offer. It’ll only come once, and if you refuse then there’s no coming back from it, so I suggest you think very carefully before you answer.’ He paused a moment; a breathless, agonizing moment. ‘I want you to give this up, Anya. Whatever revenge trip you’re on, whatever you think you’re going to achieve… give it up and walk away. Say you’ll do this, and I’ll believe you. I’ll stop looking for you, I’ll call off any searches the Agency or anyone else is making, I’ll end this whole thing today. It’ll be over for good. I promise.’

  Anya said nothing. Somehow she managed to keep her composure, but the look of turmoil in her eyes was impossible to hide.

  ‘I can’t change the things that have happened,’ Cain went on. ‘God knows I wish I could go back
and do it all differently, but I can’t. Neither of us can. But the two of us, right now, can change how this plays out. You’ve spent most of your life fighting, running, hiding… I can’t imagine the loneliness you must feel, or how tired you must be. But you don’t have to do it any more. It’s over. It’s time to let it go.’

  Anya let out a ragged, shuddering breath. Cain, the master strategist, the man who so keenly saw the true nature of others, perceived all too well who she really was.

  ‘You can still have a life, Anya. You can live out the rest of your days in peace, because you deserve it. It’s yours. All you have to say is yes.’

  The woman closed her eyes for a moment, her once iron resolve wavering in the face of his impassioned plea. He was telling the truth. She couldn’t rationally explain it, but deep down in the very core of her being she knew that his offer was genuine.

  She could leave this all behind. This life of fighting, of pain and heartache and loss and sacrifice. She could let go of it all. All it took was a single word.

  And then, unbidden, the old words that had been drilled into her a lifetime ago surfaced from the depths of her mind.

  I will endure when all others fail. I will stand when all others retreat. Weakness will not be in my heart. Fear will not be in my creed. I will show no mercy. I will never surrender.

  ‘Do you remember the day I came back from Afghanistan, twenty years ago?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Anya, what are—?’

  ‘Do you remember, Marcus?’ she cut in, a harder edge in her voice.

  She heard him sigh. ‘I do.’

  ‘I was hurting when I woke up in that hospital in Peshawar. And I was weak. So weak I could barely lift my arm. But I saw you sitting at my bedside, and I felt… I felt like I had come home. For the first time in a long time. I thought you would be happy to see me, but… that wasn’t what I saw in you. You were looking at me, but not seeing me. It was as if you couldn’t bear to look at me.’

  She could feel a tiny warmth on her cheek. The warmth of a tear trickling down her skin. ‘At the time, I thought you were… ashamed of me, like I was tainted and ruined. I thought that when you looked at me, you could see only the things they had done to me, and it disgusted you. I… disgusted you.’ She swallowed hard, maintaining her self-control only through a supreme effort of will. ‘But I was wrong. It wasn’t me you were ashamed of; it was yourself. Because you knew where they were holding me – all along, you knew. You could have found me, but you didn’t, because I wasn’t meant to come home. And when I did, my life, my survival, became an endless reminder of your own weakness, your own failings.’