Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

  ‘We will be,’ Anya said, holding up her cell phone. ‘The arrangements have been made. Our transport should be waiting by the time we get there.’

  McKnight glanced at her, frowning. ‘What transport?’

  Anya pocketed her phone, offering a rare smile. ‘You’ll see.’

  Chapter 27

  About an hour later, Drake found himself in the passenger seat of Anya’s rental car, with Frost, McKnight and Mason squeezed into the back and most of the contents of the Alamo’s armoury secured in the trunk. Anya herself had been noticeably diligent about following the rules of the road during their drive from Collioure, lest some overzealous traffic cop pull them over and find a whole lot more than an expired tax disc.

  Nonetheless, they’d made it here without incident, though he wasn’t sure exactly where here was. Driving in the dark through twisting mountain roads hadn’t done his sense of direction any favours.

  ‘We are here,’ Anya announced, nodding towards a cluster of single-storey brick buildings up ahead, possibly offices or reception areas. Looking ahead, Drake spotted a small sign for Aérodrome Mont Louis La Quillane.

  Whatever kind of airfield this was, it didn’t seem like it saw heavy use. The runway lights were still switched on, but there was no control tower that he could see, no perimeter fence, no security. Likely it was nothing more than a small private facility used by local flying clubs, which made it an ideal place for a clandestine meeting of the sort Anya had in mind.

  ‘Party central here,’ Frost remarked from the back seat. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’

  ‘Patience,’ Anya advised, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’ll be here.’

  Swinging the rental car off the main road, they passed what looked like a pilots’ rest area, all dark and shut down at such an early hour. Beyond it lay a pair of corrugated steel hangars; the only substantial structures Drake had seen in the modest facility.

  Anya made straight for the closest of two hangar buildings. Sure enough, the big sliding doors were open, allowing them a clear view of the cavernous space within. That was when they at last caught sight of the transport Anya had arranged.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Mason breathed, staring at the gleaming contours of the Gulfstream G280 executive jet sitting in the centre of the hangar, its graceful sweeping wings barely fitting within the structure.

  ‘You own a goddamn private jet?’ Frost asked, incredulous and more than a little envious of their new benefactor.

  ‘No. I rented a private jet,’ Anya explained. ‘And it was not an easy matter to arrange at short notice. Luckily the pilot owed me a favour.’

  Drake glanced at her. ‘I presume this one’s off the books?’

  ‘Very,’ she confirmed. ‘The pilot is no stranger to jobs like this, and I trust him not to speak of it to anyone. He is also the only man I know who can get us to Islamabad ahead of Cain. That being said, he is a little… different.’

  Frost was quick to pick up on this. ‘Different how, exactly? Rain Man different? Jeffrey Dahmer different?’

  ‘You can judge when we meet him. But let me do the talking,’ Anya cautioned. ‘He doesn’t like Americans very much.’

  Bringing the vehicle to a halt outside the hangar so as not to impede the jet’s departure, Anya killed the engine and stepped out, with Drake close behind. The cold unyielding metal frame of his Browning pistol pressed uncomfortably against his back as he straightened up, but it was one discomfort he was happy to endure. He trusted Anya to a degree, but he knew nothing about the pilot of this plane. There was no way he was walking into a situation like this unarmed.

  The jet’s access hatch was already open and the collapsible stairs extended. Drake watched as what he presumed to be the pilot slid down using just the hand rails, landing with casual ease on the hangar’s concrete floor.

  A tall, thin man in his late forties with close-cropped dark hair, he had the strong-featured, swarthy complexion that Drake recognized as typically Slavic. He was wearing the short-sleeved white shirt and trouser combination common to private pilots, but there was no name tag or corporate logo anywhere on his outfit.

  Ignoring Drake and the rest of the group, he walked straight towards Anya. However, one look at his expression was enough to confirm that greetings were the last thing on his mind.

  ‘Anya, what the fuck?’ he demanded in a pronounced accent, his sweeping gesture encompassing the modest airfield around them. ‘You tell me this is perfect place to meet. You say, ‘Don’t worry, Yevgeny, everything will be taken care of. No problems there.’ And what do I find when I get here? A runway shorter than my brother’s cock.’

  Anya for her part looked distinctly unimpressed with his colourful assessment of the situation. ‘You are unharmed. And so is your plane, I assume.’

  ‘Only because I am best pilot in Russia,’ he admitted without a hint of irony.

  Anya seemed content not to dispute that assertion. ‘The airfield staff have been taken care of?’

  Yevgeny held up a broad shovel-like hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I pay a little extra for them to open early. They will close up when we leave, and keep their mouths shut.’ This point made, he at last turned his gaze on Drake and the others, acknowledging them for the first time. ‘So these are your crew, yes?’

  ‘Correct,’ Anya confirmed.

  Tapping out a cigarette from the packet he kept in his breast pocket, Yevgeny lit up and took a long, thoughtful drag as he surveyed the four operatives. No doubt it was obvious even to him that they weren’t planning a sightseeing trip.

  Sensing that Drake was the leader of this group, he approached slowly, staring him in the eye as if sizing him up. Drake stood his ground, waiting to see what would happen.

  ‘Where are you from, my friend?’ the Russian pilot asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Drake replied. ‘What matters is where I’m going.’

  A smile crept onto his face as he stared Drake down. Exhaling, he allowed his lungful of smoke to drift into Drake’s face. ‘A brave man, huh? You give me trouble, cowboy?’

  He was pushing, testing Drake to see what kind of man he was, perhaps whether he could be intimidated into handing over more cash. Drake didn’t bother looking to Anya for assistance, knowing he would find none there. Anyway, to do so would mark him out as weak in Yevgeny’s eyes, and only encourage further provocation.

  ‘Only if you give me reason to,’ he said, meeting the man’s stare without fear.

  The smile broadened, and in an instant the tension between them seemed to vanish. Yevgeny clapped a friendly hand on Drake’s shoulder. ‘Ha! Very cool. I like this guy,’ he decided, taking a final deep drag on his cigarette before dropping it on the ground at his feet. ‘Okay, cowboy. Get your shit on board so we can go.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Drake asked, surprised the man was willing to let them on board without knowing a thing about them.

  ‘Who cares about the rest? Anya pays, so we go.’ Striding towards the waiting jet, he called back over his shoulder, ‘Hurry up! I must be back in Moscow tomorrow or Petyr will cut my balls off.’

  ‘Who’s Petyr?’ Drake asked as he followed in the pilot’s wake.

  ‘This is his jet,’ Yevgeny announced, unconcerned. He practically flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time. ‘I borrow. It is cool, but wipe your feet! If you get dog shit on carpet, I kill you myself.’

  This time Drake did glance at Anya, his expression making it plain what he thought of her improvised transportation. For her part, the woman merely shrugged.

  ‘All right. Grab the gear, let’s go,’ Drake decided.

  Popping the rental car’s trunk, they retrieved the canvas bags filled with the weapons and equipment they were taking with them, and hurried towards the jet. Ascending the stairs and manoeuvring his unwieldy burden through the narrow hatch, Drake suddenly found himself in a different world. A world very different from the sleek, clinical corporate interior he’d been expe
cting.

  The reclining leather chairs and expensive wooden finishes were all present and correct, but the decor reminded him more of a night club than an executive jet. The walls and carpets were coloured deep blue and purple, illuminated to maximum effect by the glow of neon strip lighting positioned behind every console and fixture. Almost the entire forward bulkhead was given over to a massive flat-screen TV, into which several different games consoles and what looked like a karaoke machine had been hooked up. There was even a miniature disco ball mounted in the ceiling, positioned so low that a man would have to duck aside to get past it.

  The only thing that seemed to be missing was a dance pole, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if there was one hidden away somewhere.

  ‘What the actual fuck am I seeing?’ Mason said, echoing Drake’s thoughts.

  Frost too was overawed by the scene that confronted her. ‘I genuinely have no words,’ she proclaimed. That was a first.

  ‘Yevgeny, what exactly does Petyr do?’ Drake felt compelled to ask. His life was complicated enough without incurring the wrath of a Russian oligarch, especially one rich and crazy enough to install a disco ball in a private yet.

  Pausing at the cockpit door, Yevgeny grinned at him like a lunatic. ‘Whatever the fuck he wants, man.’

  That sounded about right, Drake thought.

  ‘Have to hand it to the guy, he travels in style,’ Frost conceded, admiring the bottles of luxury vodka and champagne in the plane’s decidedly well-stocked on-board bar. ‘I could get used to flying like this.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Drake warned her. The next 24 hours were going to be difficult enough without adding a hangover into the mix.

  ‘Sure thing, Dad,’ the young woman replied with a sulking look, returning a bottle of Grey Goose to the drinks rack.

  ‘Close the hatch, cowboy,’ Yevgeny called from the cockpit, already strapping himself in.

  Drake duly obliged, hauling up the stairs and pulling them flush against the fuselage until the door locked in place with a pneumatic hiss. ‘All right, pick a seat, I suppose,’ he advised as the engines powered up.

  As the rest of the team sat down and fumbled with their restraining seatbelts, Drake caught Anya’s arm and leaned in close, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.

  ‘How the hell do you know this guy?’

  ‘I killed his brother,’ she replied with mild indifference.

  Drake frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘He asked me to.’ She shrugged, dismissing it. ‘It is a long story. But since then, he has owed me a favour. Today I collected.’

  Drake released his hold and sat back in his chair without another word. Sometimes it was better simply not to know, he reflected, as Yevgeny throttled up and the aircraft began to bump and roll towards the grassy runway nearby.

  Pausing only a moment or two to line the nose up, the Russian called back to them over his shoulder. ‘Hold on! May get bumpy.’

  That was the understatement of the century, Drake thought as the engines roared with sudden power and the jet lurched forward, gaining speed and momentum with every passing second. The undercarriage rumbled and jolted as they hit small lumps and potholes on their violent journey, the hydraulic shock absorbers practically groaning under the impacts.

  Drake and his team could do nothing but clutch their seats and try not to think about how much runway still lay before them as the nose slowly, reluctantly rose up into the sky. Drake could have sworn he heard a muffled curse from the cockpit over the whine of the straining jet turbines, but tried to dismiss it as his mind playing tricks on him.

  With a final shuddering lurch, the rear wheels at last parted company with the ground and the jet rumbled skywards, engines roaring on full power. Not wishing to betray his own apprehension, Drake resisted the urge to let out a sigh of relief as the darkened countryside below rapidly receded from view.

  For better or worse, they were on their way.

  Part Two

  Incursion

  According to former members of the US National Security Council, the Pakistani intelligence service has for years been recruiting and radicalizing young Pakistani men, before sending them to al-Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan.

  Chapter 28

  A little over six hours after departing southern France, Drake was in the Gulfstream’s compact if opulent galley, waiting as the coffee machine slowly dispensed its steaming black liquid into his cup. He suspected the drinks bar saw a lot more use than this machine.

  Despite the bumpy take-off, the flight since then had been a largely uneventful one, with good weather conditions and favourable winds hastening their journey. The respite had also afforded the team some much needed time to gather their thoughts and prepare themselves for what lay ahead.

  Drake had used the time to learn as much as possible about their area of operations. Having served in Afghanistan during his military career, he was somewhat familiar with the complex and often dramatic history of its southern neighbour Pakistan, and had been doing his best to deepen that knowledge.

  Like many countries in South Asia, Pakistan’s early history had been characterized by the successive invasions of foreign powers, from the ancient Persians to Alexander the Great to the Sikh Empire. But it was the British who had truly shaped modern-day Pakistan, ruling it as part of their Indian Empire for more than a century, and profoundly influencing its culture and traditions. Two world wars, declining British influence and civil unrest had prompted a growing desire for independence, and in 1947 India had been split up, with Pakistan becoming a new sovereign country.

  Its postcolonial history had been a chequered one, marked by political instability, conflicts with its larger neighbour India, civil wars and periods of military rule. These days it was viewed as a country at something of a crossroads, with a comparatively moderate democratically elected government, good industrial infrastructure and strong, well-equipped armed forces, but also marred by tribal conflicts, terrorism, ongoing border disputes, government corruption, religious radicalization and widespread poverty. In short, its 200 million inhabitants were being pulled in many different directions.

  Ostensibly Pakistan was an ally in the War on Terror, but a deep Islamic influence at all levels of society, growing distrust towards America, and strong ethnic ties to neighbouring Afghanistan meant the alliance was tenuous at best. With Pakistan possessing the eighth largest military in the world, not to mention nuclear weapons, it was no wonder Washington was keen to keep them onside.

  The coffee machine pinged, disturbing his contemplations. Taking his cup, Drake turned back into the main cabin and surveyed the scene before him.

  Mason, true to the military creed of grabbing food and rest when you could get it, had destroyed several packets of nuts and potato chips, then promptly fallen asleep. Frost meanwhile was glued to her laptop as she pored over details of the safe house’s security system, a pair of earphones blasting tinny dance music making it obvious she didn’t wish to be disturbed.

  McKnight seemed to be dozing in one of the rear seats. She had spoken little since the group had disembarked the Alamo, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Drake could guess what was on her mind, and had tried to broach the subject with her a few hours ago, only for her to dismiss his concerns out of hand. Not wanting to risk a confrontation in front of the group, he had opted not to push her.

  The only person in the cabin who seemed awake and receptive to his presence was Anya. She was sitting apart from the others, staring out the little window towards the western horizon, the glow from the setting sun reflecting off the clouds beneath them bathing her face in crimson light.

  Drake approached and sat down opposite, placing his coffee on the table that lay between them. For a moment or two he just sat there watching her, struck by the way the light played across her features. She knew he was looking at her, but she made no move to question or protest, perhaps sensing the meaning of this moment. It occurred him then that this
was the first opportunity he’d had to speak with her alone since she’d joined the group.

  ‘Been a while since shared a flight together,’ he said quietly.

  He saw a wry smile then. Her vivid blue eyes turned away from the sunset, regarding him. ‘I think this one is a little more comfortable.’

  ‘Well, this time around you haven’t tried to kill one of my teammates, so that’s a good start,’ he said, reflecting on the moment where a paranoid and traumatized Anya had taken Frost hostage mere minutes after being freed from a Russian prison.

  Anya leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. ‘There is still time,’ she assured him, her gaze flicking to Frost.

  Drake smiled in response to this, though it wasn’t quite as relaxed as before. With Anya, one learned not to take anything for granted.

  ‘Relax, Ryan. It was a joke,’ she said, leaning back in her seat. ‘Even I know how to make them from time to time.’

  ‘Never thought otherwise.’ He took a sip of coffee to hide his discomfort.

  Anya regarded him for a moment longer. ‘I presume you didn’t come here to reminisce about old times.’

  ‘Not exactly. I came to find out where your head’s at.’

  ‘Where it normally is, I would hope.’

  Twice in one year. Truly she was on a roll with this whole humour thing, he thought. ‘You know what I mean. I want to know about Cain.’

  She tilted her head quizzically. ‘What would you like to know?’

  She wasn’t going to make this easy – that much was obvious. But neither was he. He wanted answers from her, just as much as she wanted them from Cain. And perhaps now that it was just the two of them together, she might open up.

  ‘If this plan comes together… If we get to him, and he gives you the answers you need, what then? Will you kill him, or let him go?’