Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  But it was not to be. His chosen agent, a British self-styled computer hacker by the name of Arran Sinclair, had failed to secure the Black List, coming back instead with an empty computer drive he’d been duped into accepting. Sinclair had paid for that failure with his life, but such petty revenge was cold comfort for a man of Qalat’s ambitions.

  ‘All right,’ he conceded at last. ‘You have my attention. What are you proposing?’

  ‘We each have something the other wants. Maybe we can find a solution that benefits us both.’

  Alarmed he might have been, but Qalat couldn’t suppress his curiosity either. Clearly this man was both knowledgeable and well connected – two attributes it was unwise to ignore in this line of work.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Chapter 20

  CIA training facility, Camp Peary, Virginia – 2 August 1985

  Taking a breath, Anya cautiously circled her opponent, hands up and ready to defend herself, waiting for him to make his move. She knew it was coming. He wasn’t a big man, but he was fast, strong and aggressive, and happy to employ all three attributes to their fullest effect, his short and stocky frame commanding a brute strength she couldn’t hope to match. Her body already bore the bruises of several failed attempts to counter this deceptively effective strategy.

  He was playing to his strengths. She had no choice but to play to hers.

  There! She saw the muscles across his broad shoulders tense up, rippling with energy as he prepared to move. Instinctively she readied herself to counter it.

  Sure enough, he came at her a moment later, feinting to the left before switching direction and throwing a sharp jab aimed at her throat. Such a blow to the windpipe could drop even the most hardened operative, and even with the padded gloves they both wore, it would certainly add to her growing collection of bruises.

  But the blow never connected. She had already twisted sideways, neatly avoiding it, before landing a couple of sharp strikes to his unprotected side as he moved past her. Not enough to disable him, but a stinging reminder that she was no pushover either.

  Irritated by the near miss, he lashed out with an elbow, hoping to catch her off guard. But his efforts were hopelessly wasted. Anya had already ducked beneath it, and watched his arm sail harmlessly over her head.

  She was enjoying herself now. She had the measure of this man, knew his favoured tactics and how to counter them, and was already certain she would beat him. Having spent her formative years literally fighting for her life in a young offenders institute in the Soviet Union, these restrained sparring sessions with fellow CIA candidates were positively relaxing by comparison. And at least here she didn’t have to worry about someone trying to shove a knife into her back.

  But even now, she never let her guard down, and that natural wariness served her well. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching fast from behind, and whirled around just as a second opponent launched himself at her.

  Two against one. She’d fought this kind of fight before, and knew the only way to win in a situation like this was to end it quickly, before weight of numbers overwhelmed her.

  Dropping to the ground to avoid the kick he’d aimed at her midriff, she lashed out with her left leg, catching him from behind and buckling his knee. He went down hard, landing on his back. She had leapt on him before he had a chance to recover, driving her fist into the base of his chest with as much force as she could muster. She heard a grunt as the air was forced from his lungs, and knew he’d be out of action for the next ten seconds or so while he tried to get his breath back.

  Enough time to deal with his comrade.

  The first combatant had rounded on her now and threw himself at her in a rough tackle, knocking her to the ground. He was on top of her in a heartbeat, pinning her down with his considerable weight so that he could pummel her into submission. Ground and pound – standard tactic when you had an advantage in both size and strength.

  She saw his clenched first coming down towards her. She couldn’t twist aside or dodge it, so had to settle for turning and allowing her shoulder to absorb most of the impact. She winced as bone and sinew slammed into the flesh of her upper arm with bruising force, but knew her move had nonetheless saved her from being knocked out.

  She knew she could yield at this point. A simple tap of the mat would end the sparring session before any real injuries were inflicted. But doing so would be an admission of defeat; a sign that she couldn’t handle herself. She’d never submitted in a fight in her entire life, and she didn’t plan to start now.

  Watching as the second crushing blow rained down, Anya suddenly jerked her head to the side, causing him to miss by mere inches. Had his hands not been protected and the floor cushioned with crash mats, the impact of fist against floor would likely have shattered bones. As it was, he let out a growl of pain.

  Anya wasn’t about to let him swing at her a third time. The injury to his hand had distracted him for a moment, causing his grip on her to slacken, but his sheer weight was still enough to prevent her escaping. The only way to get him off was to fight dirty.

  Reaching between his legs, she felt the bulge of his genitalia through the fabric of his sweatpants and gripped hard, twisting at the same time with savage force. The reaction was immediate. Groaning in pain, he pitched forward and fell against the floor, trying to roll away from her. Springing up, she threw herself on top of him and grasped one of his arms, managing to twist it behind his back and lock it, preventing his escape.

  That was when she heard it. The slap of his other hand against the mat. The signal of his surrender.

  ‘Time!’ the fight instructor called out from the edge of the training area.

  It was still something of a novelty for her to have fights ended so suddenly, to simply turn off the aggression and the natural survival instinct that came in the heat of the moment. But she knew she had to. Showing restraint and discipline was just as important as the proverbial killer instinct, even though the latter had served her far better in her short life.

  ‘I said break it up!’

  Releasing her hold, Anya rose to her feet and let out a frustrated breath, wiping her arm across her brow. Judging by the way he was clutching at his groin, she suspected it would be a while before her opponent got up.

  ‘Take five,’ the instructor ordered her.

  She shook her head. ‘I am ready to fight now.’

  He glanced at her two opponents, both of them candidates in the same training programme as herself. ‘They ain’t.’

  ‘Then find someone who is,’ Anya said, an edge of impatience in her voice. Rather than feeling elated at her victory against two larger and stronger opponents, she was keyed up and irritable, filled with nervous energy she couldn’t seem to expel.

  ‘I said take five,’ the instructor repeated, staring her hard in the eye as he spoke each word. A simple but potent reminder that she wasn’t the one in charge here.

  Shrugging in reluctant acquiescence, she turned and strode off to the edge of the training area to get a drink of water. But it was obvious from the tension in her posture and her fast, purposeful strides that she wasn’t happy.

  ‘Too much for you guys to handle?’ Marcus Cain asked, mesmerized by what he’d just witnessed from the observation room overlooking the training hall. It wasn’t often one saw an unarmed woman take on a pair of male trainees and come out on top, but this was something else entirely.

  The senior instructor on site glanced at him. ‘You kidding? Those were the only two guys in her selection group willing to take her on.’ He shook his head. ‘Never seen anything quite like this one. She seems to know what her opponents are going to do before they do. And as you can see, she’s no stranger to fighting dirty. Where did you dig her up?’

  ‘Long story,’ Cain said, reluctant to take his eyes off the young woman. Much like that first day they’d met in the interrogation room, there was something compelling, magnetic about her. ‘How’s she handling the rest of the pro
gramme?’

  ‘Marksmanship is right on the money. Physical fitness, aptitude, problem solving, situational awareness, all top notch.’ He snorted in amusement. ‘If you don’t find a job for her, let me know. I think she could teach some of our instructors a thing or two.’

  Cain smiled as he watched Anya taking a drink of water, preparing herself for the next fight. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  Making his way downstairs into the training hall, he found her stretching on the crash mats, the exercise helping to stop her muscles from cramping up between fights.

  ‘Not working you too hard, are they?’

  Glancing up at him, Anya sprang to her feet, self-consciously reaching up to move a stray lock of blonde hair away from her face. ‘Marcus. What are you doing here?’

  He smiled, finding her embarrassment amusing and perhaps a little endearing. ‘Thought I’d drop by and check in on you, see how the training’s going. You sure taught those two a lesson.’

  Her face, already flushed, seemed to colour a little deeper at that. ‘I was just—’

  ‘I know what you were doing,’ Cain assured her. ‘I saw it when you were talking to the instructor. You’ve been here three months, and you’re going stir crazy, right?’

  She frowned in confusion at this, then seemed to take his meaning. She silently mouthed the words as if committing them to memory. ‘I have passed every test the CIA set for me, but still I am kept here. Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about,’ he admitted. ‘The truth is, the Agency doesn’t exactly trust you, and they didn’t expect you to make the grade anyway. Now that you have, they don’t know what to do with you.’

  His revelation went down about as well as he’d expected. Turning away, she hurled her water bottle to the floor, prompting a concerned look from the two students on the far side of the hall. ‘Then I am wasting my time. What more must I give them before they believe in me? My life?’

  Cain couldn’t blame her for being pissed off. She had risked everything to come here, had thrown herself into training with the dedication of a professional athlete for the past few months, and until now had nothing to show for it but some painful-looking bruises. But perhaps now he could offer her something more.

  ‘Like I said, I came here to talk about your future. You ready to listen, or would you like to smash this place up some more?’

  Her blush deepened, and she glanced down at the floor, for once unable to meet his gaze. ‘I apologize. I should not have lost control.’

  He decided not to push that one, instead getting down to business. ‘The Agency’s putting together a joint operation with the US military, sending… foreign operatives like yourself behind enemy lines. I can’t promise it’ll be easy, or safe, but if you’re determined to get into the field, it’s probably your best shot. Interested?’

  Now she was able to look at him, and when she did, he could see the growing excitement in her eyes, her face already lighting up with a smile. Christ, she truly was beautiful when she smiled.

  ‘I am interested.’

  * * *

  Washington, DC – March 2010

  That had been the start of it, Cain knew. The beginning of the path that had led them to where they were now. Even today, a quarter of a century later, he still debated his decision to put the untested young operative forward for such a dangerous mission. Perhaps he’d known even then that she was up to the challenge, that her iron will and utter determination would allow her to survive just about anything the world threw at her. Or perhaps he’d sensed an opportunity to put her unique skills to good use, giving the entire hazardous venture at least a fighting chance. Perhaps he’d even cynically seen an opportunity to use her to enhance his own prestige, claiming the heroic field operative as his own discovery.

  Perhaps, but they weren’t the real reasons. The truth was, he’d known even then that much of what the Agency did wouldn’t appeal to someone like Anya. Subterfuge, deception, misinformation, slow and methodical intelligence gathering… those were not the things she was seeking. She wanted revenge; direct and violent and destructive. She’d wanted to hurt the men who had taken everything from her, to make them feel a measure of the pain and loss she’d endured.

  Anya wasn’t a spy – she would never truly be a spy – but a warrior. It was in every fibre of her being, every thought, every action she took. And that innate potential had only grown and been nurtured by a life spent fighting for survival, battling and clawing through each day. She might have had the misfortune of being born a few centuries too late, and into the body of a woman no less, but that didn’t change who and what she was. She was a warrior, and a warrior needed a war.

  Fortunately for her, he’d found one. Though he never could have imagined the terrible toll it would take on both of them.

  Reaching for the crystal decanter on his sideboard, Cain poured himself a glass of malt whisky. He was in his home now, away from the pressures and the constant demands of Langley, and no doubt this was when most people found time to relax and reflect on the day that lay behind them. Yet for Cain, being here in this big house all alone with nothing but his own thoughts for company posed its own kind of challenge.

  He was 58 years old now. An age when most men should long since have settled down to raise a family, perhaps even prepare for the next generation. He’d started one a long time ago, but his career had finished it for him. He supposed he should have seen it coming, should have listened to the old veterans who warned him the job didn’t tolerate distractions like that, but it hadn’t made it any easier.

  Perhaps that was for the best, he reflected as he knocked back a gulp of whisky. He’d played at being a husband for a brief time, but it was clear he wasn’t cut out for that kind of life. Some essential aspect of his character, the part that allowed men to put their family before all other considerations, was missing in him.

  Men like himself weren’t supposed to settle down, weren’t supposed to find peace and contentment in the mundane details of life, weren’t supposed to be happy. They had a different purpose, a higher calling, a final goal that made all the sacrifices worth it. That was what he told himself.

  His private cell phone was ringing, and he could guess who was calling. Laying down the whisky, he picked up the phone and hit the button to take the call.

  ‘Talk to me, Hawkins.’

  ‘Qalat took the bait,’ his operative reported. ‘I was right about him – he was in Turkey a few months ago looking for the Black List.’

  Cain might have smiled if this revelation had been less alarming. Anya herself had come dangerously close to getting her hands on the Black List in a daring cyber attack several months ago. Naturally Cain had dealt with the situation as he always did, using the list as bait to lure her out and almost managing to capture her in the process. But in the end, Anya had escaped with a fake copy of the file that had led her nowhere, and both sides had withdrawn to lick their wounds.

  The Black List had been deleted now, having become more of a liability than the security measure it was intended to be, but the fact that a man like Qalat even knew about it was cause for concern. What was he up to? And how much did he really know?

  ‘Then he’s a threat to us,’ Cain concluded, knowing Hawkins would quite happily eliminate the man if ordered to.

  ‘Maybe, but he could still be useful. He’s prepared to meet with us in Pakistan to discuss a trade. The man’s ballsy and ambitious, but he’s not stupid. If we play him right, he might just give us what we want.’

  And what do we have to give him in return, Cain wondered? Becoming indebted to men with less than noble intentions had caused him enough trouble already in life. Nonetheless, such an opportunity was unlikely to come up again.

  ‘Set up the meeting,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure it’s in one of our safe houses in Islamabad – high security. Report back when everything’s in place.’

  ‘Your call,’ Hawkins conceded. He was after all, a killer, not
a protector. Cain doubted he’d lose any sleep if something were to happen to him, and that was fine. At least Hawkins had never pretended to be other than what he was.

  Ending the call, Cain put the phone down and picked up his glass of whisky, taking another mouthful and relishing the fire it lit within him. One way or another, this meeting in Islamabad was going to change everything.

  Chapter 21

  The Alamo was cruising westward at a steady eight knots, its bluff bow churning through the light swell beneath a vast night sky studded with stars. Drake was up on deck, surveying the distant coast with his binoculars when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. It was someone whose call he had been awaiting ever since he first sent out the Downfall codeword.

  ‘Yeah, Dan?’ he said, putting down the binoculars.

  ‘Ryan, I think we’ve got some magic happening,’ Franklin began without preamble, sounding out of breath. ‘My contact in Islamabad says Cain is heading out there in the next couple of days.’

  Drake’s heartbeat shifted up a gear. In all the time he’d contemplated Downfall, Drake had never known Cain to venture far from the protective cordon around Langley. The man was more paranoid than Stalin when it came to his safety, and almost as well guarded.

  ‘How solid is this?’ he asked, wary of staking everything on a false lead.

  ‘As a rock,’ his friend confirmed. ‘He might be a secretive son of a bitch, but even he can’t fly halfway around the world without people in the Agency knowing about it. He’s going, all right. He’s already chartered a private jet from Andrews, scheduled to leave in 48 hours.’

  ‘Shit,’ Drake breathed, hardly believing their luck. Forty eight hours wasn’t a lot of time to put Downfall into effect, but they were unlikely to get a better chance. ‘What does Cain want in Islamabad?’