by Will Jordan
Cain could practically feel the muscles across his shoulders tightening, while his headache seemed to grow more insistent. ‘What about back-channelling?’
‘We’ve tried every channel that’s open to us, sir,’ Quinn apologized. ‘I’m afraid if we push much harder, they’ll turn against us.’
Cain had long suspected that elements of the Pakistani military and intelligence community were sympathetic to al-Qaeda’s cause. Unfortunately, one couldn’t simply accuse America’s only tenuous ally in the region of double-dealing. Not without starting another war.
Cain closed his eyes as the pain in his head threatened to overwhelm him, blood pounding like some great drum inside his skull.
‘Sir, are you okay?’ he heard Quinn’s tinny voice echo down the line. ‘Did you hear my last?’
It was at that moment that Cain made his decision. A decision there would be no coming back from. One way or another, he was going to break the stalemate.
‘Yeah, I hear you, Quinn. Don’t worry, I’m sending someone to help you out.’
‘Sir?’ There was outright fear in his voice now. The fear of a man watching his career dissolve before his eyes, as he was quietly moved aside and a replacement brought in.
‘Trust me, he’ll get the Pakistanis to play ball. But I want you to extend him your fullest cooperation. No matter what he needs, you make it happen. And you do it quietly. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but—’
Without waiting for Quinn’s stunned response, he killed the line, reached for his private cell phone and dialled another number from memory. A number known only to a select few.
If Quinn couldn’t get results, Cain knew of one man who could. The kind of man who wasn’t bound by the same rules as Quinn and his contemporaries. The kind who was ready to do what others weren’t, without question.
‘Yeah?’ came a low-pitched, gravelly voice after the third ring.
‘Hawkins,’ Cain began. ‘Get yourself ready to travel. I’m sending you on a little errand to Pakistan.’
Chapter 4
Marseille, France
As far as food and drink went, there were worse places to spend an evening than Bar Mele. An outdoor café specializing in seafood and local delicacies, it was situated right on the waterfront of the ancient trading port that had long been the heart of Marseille.
The port itself was still as busy as it had been a few hundred years ago, but these days the wide harbour was home to luxury yachts, speedboats and other pleasure craft instead of the traditional fishing fleet and cargo ships.
Many of these yachts were now strung with decorations and lights, music from a dozen different cultures drifting across the water. Smaller craft moved constantly between the big ships, carrying passengers and cases of booze to keep the festivities going.
Further out near the northern end of the harbour mouth, huge and indomitable, lay the ancient fortress of Fort Saint-Jean. It was joined on the southern side by Fort Saint-Nicolas, their towering walls and gun ports lit by floodlights in a dazzling display of colour. Two hundred years ago they had protected the vital trading port from the Royal Navy. Today they were just tourist traps.
Sitting at a table with only a bottle of Corona for company, Drake stared out across the harbour, watching as light from the moored yachts and crowded buildings glittered across the waves. The air had cooled with the onset of evening, and lamps had been lit along the perimeter of the seating area, providing both heat and light for the small groups of patrons that were slowly filling the place up.
He had chosen this particular bar for a couple of reasons. For a start, it was situated on one of the old piers, so there was only one way to approach it on foot. His seat faced towards the main concourse, allowing him a good view of anyone coming his way.
Another less dramatic but more practical reason for meeting here was simply because he was hungry, and he saw no reason he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.
If he’d been on an actual op, he never would have arrived here first. It was always best to hang back and let your contact get there first, allowing you to observe their body language, looking for the subtle indications that something might be wrong. But he knew J. Doe was likewise trained and far more paranoid than himself, and he was in no mood to waste half the night in a pointless stand-off.
He took another sip of his beer and allowed the noises of the busy city at night to wash over him, mingling with the gentle lapping of the waves and the distant music from the party boats. Up until today, the storm that had beset his life for the past couple of years had seemed far away indeed, hidden beyond the horizon and almost forgotten.
Almost.
As it turned out, he didn’t have long to wait. A couple of minutes past eight, he spotted his contact coming towards the bar, moving with the unhurried pace of a trained field agent pretending to be out for an evening stroll. Drake felt himself tense involuntarily.
Anya had always elicited that reaction in him.
Tall, tanned, athletically built and with finely sculpted but indescribably exotic features, Anya cut a strikingly attractive figure that neither men nor women could fail to notice, somehow embodying everything vital about her gender all at once. Now in her mid-forties, she nonetheless possessed the toned physique and youthful energy of a woman half her age, though the subtle grace and quiet confidence of her movements spoke of the experience that only age could impart.
But what set her apart in Drake’s eyes went far deeper than mere physical appearance. He had always thought that anyone who doubted whether women had the killer instinct, the resourcefulness or the sheer ruthless determination needed to make it in the world of covert operations, need only spend an hour in Anya’s company.
Actually, ten minutes would probably do the trick.
Once a decorated field operative with the Agency, he’d first encountered her nearly three years ago when he’d been tasked with breaking her out of a maximum security Russian prison. That had been the easy part, as it turned out. At the time, he never could have imagined the web of conspiracies, betrayals, murders and cover-ups his actions would unleash.
He’d never known much about Anya’s private life, or her time before joining the Agency, which seemed to suit her. But gradually, through his own experiences and her reluctant admissions, he’d begun to fill in the blanks on a life that was as shocking and tragic as it was remarkable and mysterious.
Part of him wondered if he truly wanted to know the full story.
Her sharp, icy-blue eyes were on him already. Giving him the kind of look that he suspected lions gave antelopes just before they pounced, she angled towards his table and slipped into the seat opposite without saying anything. Once there, she stared at him for a long moment, as if comparing him with the mental picture she had stored in her memory.
He couldn’t help but do the same.
It had been nearly a year since their last meeting, and it didn’t seem like a great deal had changed about her since then. Her light blonde hair, once cut short for practicality rather than style, was longer now, and styled differently. Perhaps in an effort to blend in better amongst civilians, she had opted for a pair of white trousers, grey tank top and a fitted dark blue jacket.
It was warm enough to not need one, but Drake knew she wouldn’t take it off. Doing so would expose the network of scars that criss-crossed her back; mementos of an ordeal many years earlier she would no doubt rather forget. She never made an issue of them, but he sensed they made her feel self-conscious all the same.
Apparently satisfied with what she saw, Anya nodded in greeting. ‘It’s good to see you again, Ryan. You look… rested.’
By her standards, that was the equivalent of a tearful, joyous embrace.
Drake flicked his eyes towards a group of young men and women walking past on their way to one of the party boats. All tall, slim, tanned, well dressed and well groomed, they looked like they had strolled right off the set of a French tourism commercial.
/> ‘Just keeping up with the Kardashians.’
Uninterested in his attempt at humour, Anya glanced around, taking in the lines of moored yachts, the medieval fortresses, the bustling bars and cafés. She looked like an astronaut surveying the surface of some alien world.
‘I did not picture Marseille as your kind of place,’ she said at length.
He managed to stifle a grim laugh. Where the hell had she expected him to wash up? New York? London? Washington? It wasn’t as if the world was one of boundless opportunities for a disgraced former CIA operative wanted for treason.
‘Any port in a storm, matey. Besides, I think it’s growing on me.’
‘So I see. Tell me, what have you been doing these past six months?’
‘Keeping busy,’ he retorted, raising his beer to take another drink before laying it down a little harder than he’d intended. ‘Listen, all this how-you-doing stuff is great, but let’s be honest, small talk’s not exactly your style. So can we skip to the part where you tell me why you’re actually here?’
She tilted her head, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’
‘Well, I’m hoping you came to thank me for rescuing that woman Mitchell from federal custody for you. As far as favours go, that one was stretching it a little. Did I ever mention that my team and I almost lost our lives pulling that one off?’
He hadn’t known it at the time, but the woman Anya had asked him to recover from a hospital in Istanbul had been a fellow CIA operative. Badly injured and in intensive care following a gunshot wound to the abdomen, she must have done something to piss off the wrong people, because getting her out of the country alive had proven challenging even for Drake and his team. A fact he’d made sure to impress upon Anya once it was over.
‘Repeatedly,’ she assured him. ‘And for that, you have my gratitude.’
It was hardly gushing praise, but at least it was honest.
‘But we both know that’s not why you’re here,’ he continued. ‘So thrill me.’
Glancing down at the hand that was clutching his beer, she noticed the bloodied grazes along his knuckles. ‘If I’m not mistaken, those are the kind of injuries a man picks up from fighting. Run into trouble?’
‘Depends what you define as trouble,’ he evaded. ‘Why do you ask?’
Anya leaned back a little in her chair, those pale blue eyes shimmering in the light of the fire lamps as she watched him. ‘Because I was the one who sent him after you.’
Drake didn’t react immediately, because he thought it best not to voice his most immediate thoughts in such a public place. Instead he raised the bottle to his lips and took a slow, thoughtful pull, marshalling his thoughts and his composure before taking on this particular conversation.
‘If there’s some kind of explanation waiting in the wings, now would be a good time to bring it centre stage, Anya,’ he said, his voice now carrying a dangerous undercurrent of hostility. ‘And for both our sakes, it had better be good.’
Another person might have been intimidated by his hostile tone, by the thinly veiled anger boiling away beneath the surface, just waiting for an excuse to explode. Another person, but not Anya.
‘It was a test.’
His brows drew together in a frown. ‘A test of what, exactly?’
‘You, Ryan. I was testing you.’
Drake could feel the muscles in his jaw tightening. It was well for Anya that she had been born a woman, otherwise his knuckles would have a few more grazes after tonight.
‘The man tried to kill me,’ he said icily. ‘Suppose he’d succeeded. What then?’
‘Then I would have known there was nothing left of you worth saving,’ she decided. ‘The Ryan Drake I once knew would never have been in danger from a simple street thug… assuming he is still in there somewhere.’
‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
Once more Anya’s cool gaze took in their surroundings. The bars, restaurants, party boats, the young couples out for an evening stroll and the groups of friends on their way to dinner. Normal scenes in a normal enough city.
‘This is a… comfortable place for a man to lay low, yes?’ she went on. ‘Good weather, good food, good wine. The sort of place a man like you could disappear for a long time, if he chose. Maybe for ever.’
‘I’m still waiting for that point.’
Anya laid her arms on the table and leaned forward, her gaze one of accusation. ‘You’re becoming soft, Ryan. Soft and complacent. Too much sun, too much drink… too much rest. You are losing your focus, forgetting the mission. Before you know it, this false life will swallow you up, and you’ll forget who you really are.’
Drake could feel the anger and indignation rising within him as her words sank in. How dare she accuse him of growing soft? How dare she put his life at risk just to prove a point? What fucking right did she have to invade his life and start telling him how to live it?
Her accusations were doubly hard to accept because deep down, he sensed that she was right.
‘And who exactly do you think I am?’ he challenged her, far too incensed to acknowledge the truth now. ‘What do you really know about me? My birthday, my past, my favourite ice cream flavour? Nothing. I’m just a guy who risked his life to save yours. And shit like this makes me wonder if I did the right thing.’
He could have sworn he saw a blush rising to her cheeks. ‘I did not ask you to do that.’
‘Would you rather I’d left your arse to freeze in that Russian jail?’ he asked with brutal honesty. ‘Because your life wasn’t exactly party central before I got there.’
Anya said nothing. She had no answer for him. At least, not one that she was prepared to give. It gave him a small measure of satisfaction to know he’d backed her into a corner for once.
‘Didn’t think so,’ he said, feeling that he’d made his point. ‘But here’s the thing, Anya. With all the fighting and the running and the killing, what have we actually accomplished? Cain’s still out there, he’s stronger than ever, and the list of people who want us dead is getting longer all the time. It’s hard to keep playing the game when you do nothing but lose.’
‘So what do you intend to do, Ryan? Run and hide? Hope that it all goes away?’ She sighed and glanced away, reflecting on an old memory. ‘We both know it doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t matter how far you run, or how well you hide. Sooner or later, our world always catches up.’
‘Stop it,’ he interrupted. ‘Don’t start comparing us, because we’re not the same. Maybe I have learned to like it here. Maybe I’ve gotten more used to it than you’d prefer. Maybe I’ve had a taste of a normal life; a life without bullets flying over my head and fucking lunatics trying to kill me, and maybe I like it. And you know what? You’re afraid of that.’
At this, he saw a blonde brow raised in silent question. No doubt it had been quite some time since anyone accused her of that. ‘Afraid?’
‘Yeah, afraid. Not of the mission or the danger or the bullets… You’re afraid of what comes after. If we somehow take down Cain and put an end to this bollocks for good, then you’ll have nothing left to fight for. You’re afraid of what you’ll do when all the dust settles, and what’s left isn’t fighting and killing, but living. All those long years stretching out in front of you, trying to fit in, trying to be something you’re not. Trying to be… normal. You want to talk about losing focus and perspective? Maybe you should take a look in the mirror.’ He gestured around him, taking in their surroundings. ‘So you can sit there and judge me all you want, but I need this. I need it because I don’t want to end up more afraid of living than dying. I don’t want to end up like you.’
He knew his words had been brutally harsh, knew it was unfair in some ways to lay into her like this. Part of him even regretted saying it, but it had come out all the same. It had come out because it had to, because three years of fighting and killing and watching good people sacrifice their lives in this increasingly desperate struggle h
ad taken its toll on him. More than that, it had taken a toll on the people he cared most about in this world.
Sometimes he wondered if Anya even gave a shit about any of that.
But if he’d been in doubt, then her reaction to his stinging rebuke sank in told him otherwise. She was hardly an emotional person at the best of times, but he saw it all the same. He saw the hurt, the shock and the embarrassment flare.
Like his own reaction earlier, the words had cut all the deeper because on some level, she knew that he was right too.
‘I took you for a lot of things, Ryan,’ she said at last. ‘But never a coward.’
‘Then I’m happy to disappoint you.’ Taking a breath, Drake downed the remainder of his beer and stood up from the table, laying down enough euros to cover the bill. ‘Sorry you had a wasted trip.’
‘Wait,’ she said, gripping his arm. She too had risen to her feet, eager to make her point before he left, though for a moment she struggled to find the right words. ‘Maybe… maybe you were right about me,’ she finally acknowledged. ‘But that doesn’t mean I was wrong about you. Think about what I said, Ryan.’
‘Likewise,’ Drake advised, pulling free of her grasp.
Saying nothing further, he turned and strode off along the waterfront. He needed to think, he needed to work out the conflicting emotions her reappearance had stirred in him.
Most of all, he needed to be alone.
Chapter 5
Gripping the edge of the chipped porcelain sink, Samantha braced herself as her stomach constricted into another painful knot, forcing up a surge of acrid tasting vomit. She felt like she’d already emptied the contents of her stomach, but apparently that wasn’t good enough. All she could do was keep her breathing under control and let her body do what it had to.
Finally the most intense feeling of nausea began to abate. Turning on the faucet, she rinsed her mouth out and spat the last of the foul-tasting mucus into the bowl.
