by Will Jordan
That had eventually changed of course, and the months since then had seen him push through a gruelling rehabilitation and physical therapy programme, determined to return to work as soon as possible. He’d made great progress since that first day when he’d managed to wiggle his toes, but the doctors had warned him that he might never walk again without a stick.
‘Fuck that. I’ll never walk with one.’
That had been his reply at the time. Brave words, driven as much by fear as bravado, and since proven all too wrong. Nonetheless, Franklin was determined to get himself back in shape, to reclaim the life that had been limited by injury for so long.
One step at a time. That was the best he could manage right now.
His train of thought was interrupted by the buzz of a cell phone in his desk drawer. Not one of the secure encrypted phones he used as part of his day job, but a cheap burner he’d bought a few months back. The kind of phone whose number was known only to a precious few.
Glancing at his office door to make sure it was closed, he leaned over and used his personal key to unlock the drawer, then felt around the underside until his fingers brushed against the plastic casing taped in place.
Removing the burner and keeping it out of sight, he brought up the messaging service and quickly scanned the list. Only one new message was waiting for him, and he knew who it had come from.
A single word confronted him when he opened the message.
DOWNFALL
‘Shit,’ he breathed, realizing that Drake had at last decided to put his desperate plan into action. Months of inactivity had almost convinced him that his old friend had given up on the scheme, opting instead to vanish and live out the rest of his life in relative peace.
Such had been his hope.
Something must have happened to change his mind. Something big. Franklin had no idea what was going on, but he knew Drake wouldn’t put this plan into action if there was any other choice. All he could do was play his own part.
Leaning in a little closer, he typed out a brief acknowledgement.
I’ll be in touch.
With that, he returned the phone to its resting place inside the drawer, pushed it closed and locked it. As he did so, his eyes rested once more on the walking stick.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Ryan,’ he whispered.
Chapter 18
US embassy – Islamabad, Pakistan
Quinn was just leaving his office when he ran into Bill Barratt, one of the senior analysts with the Agency’s Pakistan mission. Tall, silver haired and sporting the kind of moustache that would have made Clarke Gable proud, Quinn had always thought the man had missed his calling as a matinee idol, perhaps having the ill luck of being born a couple of decades too late. Still, he’d been with the Agency for ever and was probably one of the most knowledgeable men on the payroll when it came to making sense of the complex political, tribal, ethnic and military landscape in this part of the world.
Normally laconic and easy-going in his manner, he looked uncharacteristically on edge today. ‘Quinn, you got a minute?’ he asked, speaking in a hushed tone.
Quinn frowned, wondering what he was about to hear. As if the situation here couldn’t get any more difficult, he thought bleakly.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, beckoning Barratt into his office. ‘What’s on your mind, Bill?’
The old man made sure to close the door behind him before talking. ‘NSA just intercepted a report over the local police network. You know that ISI agent you asked me to check up on?’
‘Majid Reza? What about him?’
‘He’s dead. Found in his apartment this morning. Died of an overdose, apparently.’ Barratt’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe that for a second. ‘Just thought you ought to know.’
Quinn could feel himself paling at the realization. It didn’t take a genius to see that Stryker – if that was even his name – had had a hand in Reza’s demise. He’d had a bad feeling about that man from the moment he’d met him, waltzing into his office with an access-all-areas endorsement from Marcus Cain.
But this was taking it to the next level. What the hell did Stryker think he was doing – trying to provoke an international incident with an already tenuous ally? If he’d been seen entering or leaving Reza’s apartment building…
‘Has there been a reaction from the Pakistanis?’ he asked instead, hoping his concern didn’t show.
Barratt shook his head. ‘It’s too soon to say. I’d guess they’ll want to know all the facts before making their next move, but they tend to circle the wagons when they lose one of their own.’ He regarded Quinn in thoughtful silence for a moment or two. ‘You want to take any precautions? Tighten security here?’
No doubt he was wary of a reprisal attack on the US embassy. It had happened right here in Islamabad 30 years ago when protestors, believing the US had been involved in the bombing of a mosque, had stormed the walls and burned the place to the ground.
‘No,’ he decided at last. ‘We don’t want to tip them off that we know something.’ Taking a breath, he turned to face the old analyst once more, pasting on a fake smile. ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Bill. And… let’s keep this between us for now, okay?’
Barratt hesitated for a moment, torn between loyalty to his station chief and concern over a potentially brewing conflict with Pakistan. Still, he’d played this game long enough to know that the one person you didn’t want to piss off was the head of operations at your own posting, and wisely left without another word.
Quinn, however, was not so confident in his position. Ever since his posting here, he’d sensed the ominous weight of Cain’s expectations hovering over everything he did, even from seven thousand miles away at Langley. The deputy director was pushing hard for results, and when conventional means failed, he’d turned to more unorthodox channels.
And he was knee-deep in it. It was obvious enough that if this whole thing turned into a clusterfuck, then as station chief it would be his head on the chopping block. Was Cain setting him up for a fall? Was he witnessing the beginning of the end of his career?
He glanced out of his window at the sprawling city that lay beyond the heavily fortified embassy compound. 200 million people in this country, most of whom already distrusted America. For a moment, he felt a cloying sense of claustrophobia as he imagined those same streets filled with thousands of angry protesters, armed and fired up and baying for blood.
It took him about thirty seconds of fraught, anxious contemplation to reach his decision. Snatching up his encrypted cell phone, he strode out of his office, making sure to lock the door behind him. With the phone secure in his pocket, Quinn made his way through the network of corridors, office space and conference suites that represented the beating heart of the Agency’s operations in Pakistan. He paid the other employees little notice as he made for the stairwell leading up to the roof.
Like most big US embassies, the Islamabad compound had its own heliport for bringing in high value personnel at short notice, and more importantly in case an emergency evacuation was ordered. It was empty at the moment of course, and mercifully the big open rooftop area seemed to be deserted.
Fishing out his phone, Quinn enabled the encryption mode, preventing anyone from eavesdropping on the conversation, and hurriedly dialled a number back in the US. A number he’d hoped he would never have to use.
‘Franklin,’ came the answer after a few rings.
Quinn swallowed hard, knowing he was about to cross a line, knowing his career might be over either way. But if he had to go down, he’d rather do it for the right reasons.
‘Dan, it’s Hayden. We need to talk.’
Chapter 19
The coffee house was bustling at such an early hour, as patrons queued to collect their takeaway cups en route to work, while others with more time on their hands sat at tables along both walls talking, eating, smoking and drinking together. The air was filled with the buzz of conversation and the heady aroma of to
bacco smoke and steaming beverages, the atmosphere relaxed and genial.
For Vizur Qalat, however, the outlook was less agreeable.
‘Your problems don’t concern me, Rashid. What concerns me is losing control of our northern provinces because we don’t know what the hell is going on. So I’ll make this very simple – either get me the information I asked for today, or I’ll find someone who can. Do I make myself clear?’ he demanded, forced to lower his voice as he spoke into his cell phone so that his words were lost amidst the general hubbub.
‘You do, sir,’ his subordinate agreed, his voice charged with determination and something else – fear. Fear was what motivated men above all else, because losing what you had was far worse than failing to gain something new. ‘It will be done.’
‘See that it is,’ Qalat said, snapping his phone closed just as his takeaway cup was presented to him. It was an uncouth state of affairs to have to gulp down coffee on the move, but his demanding schedule no longer permitted a leisurely morning visit here. The best he could manage was to drop in briefly on the way to ISI headquarters, as always accompanied by his two personal bodyguards.
Both men were veterans of the Pakistani army, chosen specifically by him because he was more inclined to trust men from a military background, and had already fought in more campaigns than most men would see in a lifetime. He trusted them about as much as he trusted anyone in this world. Giving the barista a nod of acknowledgement, he turned away with the coffee in hand and headed for the exit.
It was already shaping up to be a warm and sunny spring day outside, but in truth he had little appreciation for the fine weather. His thoughts were turned inward, brooding on the problems that now beset him. Namely, the CIA and their never-ending meddling in affairs that didn’t concern them.
Their drones flew over Pakistani airspace on a daily basis, often striking at targets deep within the republic’s sovereign territory, while their special operations teams roamed with impunity through the mountains and remote passes along the Afghan border. Their embassy in the heart of Islamabad was nothing but a front for their spies and systems of surveillance. And all of it was tolerated by the Pakistani government. Where was it going to end?
The suicide bombing at Camp Chapman had dealt them a blow and curtailed their ambitions to be sure, but it was only a matter of time before they regrouped. And there was no telling whether he’d be able to stop them again.
His contemplations were rudely interrupted when someone tried to enter the coffee shop just as Qalat was leaving, bumping right into him. The ISI officer winced as a splash of scalding hot coffee landed on his hand, and turned angrily towards the oaf who had walked into him.
Whoever he was, he was big. Far taller than Qalat’s five feet ten inches, and heavily built beneath an expensive tailored suit. His shirt and belt strained against his ample stomach, while his fleshy neck and jowls were largely hidden beneath a greying beard. His hair was blonde, or had been once, and was now turning that dusty brown colour that blonde hair often does in middle age. A Westerner.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he stammered, looking down at Qalat through a pair of thick lenses that magnified his eyes to almost ludicrous proportions. ‘I didn’t—’
His sentence was cut short when one of Qalat’s bodyguards thrust himself between them, shoving the big man backwards onto the street with the brute force that only two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle allowed. The man was zealous if nothing else, alarmed that someone had gotten so close to his principal unchecked.
‘Hey! Steady on, old boy. It was an accident,’ the fat businessman protested in a pronounced English accent, his expression bordering on panic at the violent reaction.
Qalat’s second operative, obeying the unspoken agreement made between the two men, hovered protectively close to his boss.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ the bodyguard asked, speaking low and fast, eyes darting in every direction. His hand was on the concealed weapon inside his suit jacket, ready to draw down in case the seemingly accidental encounter had been intended merely as a diversion for something more sinister.
‘I’m fine, damn it,’ Qalat replied irritably, flicking the coffee off his hand. His bodyguard handed him a handkerchief without saying a word, and he accepted it in similar fashion.
Outside, the first operative was briskly frisking the fat businessman, who had already turned red with embarrassment. Qalat could hear his protests as he made his way out onto the busy street.
‘Now look here, I’ve had just about enough of this Gestapo routine,’ he said indignantly, though it was clear these words were just empty bluster. ‘It was an accident. If it’s about the coffee, I’ll happily buy your man a new one.’
As Qalat approached, his bodyguard tossed him the man’s wallet. Qalat flipped it open, glancing at his identification. Colin Davies, a stockbroker for Millennium Brokerage, operating at the Islamabad Exchange.
‘Colin Davies,’ he said, eyeing the man for a moment or two.
‘That’s right,’ Davies replied, flashing the kind of crooked-toothed smile that could only belong to an Englishman, as he glanced nervously at the two bodyguards. ‘Look, I think there’s been—’
Qalat tossed the wallet back to him, and Davies caught it with the awkwardness of a man who hadn’t done anything more physical than climb a set of stairs since he was a child. He didn’t need the hassle of dealing with buffoons like this. People were already staring at the potential confrontation brewing; Qalat saw no sense in giving them a show.
‘Perhaps you should take more care in future, Mr Davies,’ Qalat replied acidly before strolling past him, heading for his parked Mercedes SUV. His two bodyguards took up flanking positions beside him, hovering a little closer than usual after the tense encounter, and leaving the stunned foreigner in their wake.
‘Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time here,’ Qalat said as he settled himself into the plush, air-conditioned rear seating area.
As the SUV sped away from the sidewalk and merged with the busy traffic, Colin Davies turned away and walked purposefully over to his own car, parked just a short distance away. Starting up the engine, he pulled away from the scene as if he were consumed with embarrassment over the awkward scene he’d created.
Only when he was a block or so away, and quite certain he wasn’t being followed, did he reach up and peel off the fake beard he’d been wearing. The theatrical wig went next, and the glasses that made his eyes hurt, then the false teeth. The fat suit was too awkward to remove now, so he’d have to settle for turning the air conditioning up to maximum.
Christ only knows how fat people survived in this country, Hawkins thought as he wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and loosened his tie. Just pretending to be overweight had left his shirt damp with perspiration.
Still, it had been worth it to accomplish his task. Qalat was a careful man, but he was also predictable and therefore vulnerable. A couple of days spent observing him and learning his habits had been enough to discover the location of his favourite coffee house, visited with almost regimental punctuality every morning. What else could one expect of a military man, after all?
Enabling the car’s Bluetooth system, he punched in a phone number.
Half a mile away, Qalat frowned at the unexpected sensation of something vibrating in his jacket. He always kept his phone in his left trouser pocket.
Reaching inside, he found a cell phone that hadn’t been there before. A cheap burner of the kind sold everywhere in Islamabad. The kind that was perfect for surreptitiously making contact with someone.
Instantly his mind flicked back to his encounter outside the coffee shop, the chance collision with the fat Englishman which hadn’t been chance at all.
Not many operatives could pull off such a piece of legerdemain in the half second they’d been close enough to make it work, and certainly not without his knowledge. This man, whoever he was, was good at his tradecraft. That made Qalat nervous.
Hesi
tating a moment or two, he hit the accept call button and held the phone to his ear. ‘I presume your name is not Davies,’ he began.
‘Bingo, Mr Qalat.’ The voice that responded was American; brash and confident as only those people could be.
If he was trying to rattle him by mentioning his name, it wasn’t going to work. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, my friend,’ he said, keeping his voice smooth and relaxed. ‘You know my name, but I don’t know yours.’
‘We’ll get to that,’ the American assured him. ‘Let’s talk about you first. I already know a few things about you.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ He wouldn’t have gone to such trouble if he didn’t.
‘I know that last year you chartered a private jet from Pakistan to Turkey, and that subsequently you ordered all copies of the flight plan destroyed. Of course, you didn’t take into account the AWACS jets that were tracking the movements of all suspected ISI flights, but who can blame you? Nobody really knows if someone’s watching.’
‘Quite impressive.’ Qalat had to work hard not to show how much the man had rattled him with this revelation. ‘But I’m sure my travel history is not why you made contact today.’
‘Very true. I’m not interested in where you went, but what does interest me is why you went there. I want to talk to you about the Black List, Mr Qalat.’
At this, Qalat felt a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the cool air blasting him from the car’s air vents. How could this man know about that?
The failure of his errand in Turkey still lingered with him, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. The Black List was an encrypted directory of the CIA’s blackest of black operations. Only the highest echelons of their command structure even knew of its existence, and even fewer had access to it. Qalat had paid a great deal to find out the truth of its origins and purpose, and had risked even more for a chance to steal it. To have access to their darkest secrets would have given him almost unlimited leverage over them, allowed him to bend them to his will, and paved the way for his rise to true power.
