Something to Die For

by Will Jordan

  For everyone who believed in me

  Abbottabad, Pakistan – May 1st, 2011

  It was a quiet night in the suburbs of Abbottabad in north-eastern Pakistan, with a light breeze and a clear sky studded with stars. A thin sliver of moonlight cast its pale glow on a gentle landscape of small, cultivated fields, fast-flowing rivers and trees heavy with spring blossom. The roads were deserted, windows shuttered and residents fast asleep.

  Most of the properties in this district were generously sized and well-constructed, and were owned by educated professionals, prosperous merchants and wealthy entrepreneurs. It was a popular, desirable, though quite unremarkable area.

  But there was one curiosity amid this bland suburban conformity. At the end of a dirt road that set it somewhat apart from its neighbours was one property in particular. Made up of several smaller plots amalgamated into one sprawling triangular compound, it had been constructed from similar materials and of broadly similar design to its neighbours.

  But it was the little details that marked it out as different. The outer walls, topped with barbed wire to deter thieves, were higher than most would have considered necessary – up to 18 feet tall in places.

  The main building was also larger than normal, even for the extended families common to Pakistani culture. A third floor had been added in recent years, complete with a private balcony. Indeed, privacy seemed to be of great concern to the owners. The main dwelling contained few windows; those that did exist were rarely opened.

  The residents ventured out infrequently, playing no part in the local community. They didn’t speak with neighbours, didn’t allow their children out to play, and didn’t let anyone inside.

  Waziristan Haveli, as it was informally known, was the kind of place that invited speculation and gossip. Rumours of shady business, illicit drug deals and money laundering lingered around the place. Some even entertained the wild theory that the compound served as a private retreat for some famous actor or public figure.

  None of this speculation came to much. Unsociable and mysterious they might have been, but the residents of Waziristan Haveli did nothing to anger their neighbours.

  Let them live quietly behind their high walls if that’s what they want, the men in local tea houses concluded philosophically. A man is entitled to his privacy. And if he causes no trouble, then who cares?

  None of them could possibly know that, before the night was over, Waziristan Haveli would become one of the most infamous places on earth.

  It began with a low, rhythmic thudding noise coming from the north-west, barely audible at first and easily dismissed as the sound of the distant highway. But rather than fading away into the night, the sound grew in intensity slowly but steadily.

  A stray dog, asleep in a dried-up drainage culvert nearby, stirred and looked up at the night sky as a pair of massive dark shapes swept past, accompanied by the shriek of engines and a sudden gale that stirred up clouds of grit and pieces of discarded litter. Startled, the dog cowered, yipped in fear and darted off into the night.

  The two Black Hawk transport helicopters, both heavily armed and outfitted with stealth adaptations to reduce their noise and radar cross-sections, descended on Waziristan Haveli. One took up position over the main yard while the other prepared to land in the more distant north-east corner of the compound.

  Inside the first Black Hawk, a dozen heavily armed US SEAL team operatives in full body armour got ready to deploy. They had been preparing for this moment for weeks, training relentlessly, memorising every detail of the intricate assault plan.

  The crew compartment door slid open and fast descent ropes were hurled out into the night, the first men taking up position in the doorway as they prepared to deploy. That was when things started to go wrong.

  The downwash from the Black Hawk’s massive main rotors kicked up a storm of dust in the yard below. Normally this would present little concern, but the compound’s high defensive walls prevented the downwash from dispersing, creating a dangerous air vortex that began to pull the Black Hawk downwards.

  As the pilot fought to maintain altitude, the aircraft’s tail swung to port, striking the compound wall. A violent bang shivered through the fuselage as one of the tail rotor blades sheared clean off. Unbalanced by the sudden change in the complex dynamic forces holding it aloft, the chopper began to yaw dangerously. Alarms blared and the men in the crew compartment grasped at restraining harnesses to keep from being hurled out the open door.

  With mere seconds to act, the pilot took the only option open to him and shoved his control column all the way forward, bringing the ailing helicopter down in a barely controlled crash landing. The impact shattered one of the landing struts and pitched the chopper over at a precarious angle, but it was still in one piece.

  More importantly, so were the men inside.

  Shaken and battered by the crash, the assault team hastily composed themselves, leapt out of the stricken aircraft and advanced across the open yard, pressing on with their mission despite its inauspicious start. Lights were coming on in nearby buildings as local residents, awoken by the noise and commotion, stumbled out of bed to gawk at the drama unfolding.

  The SEALs paid them no heed as they swept in against the building, weapons up and ready. A secondary unit peeled off to breach a smaller structure on the south side of the yard, while teams from the other chopper quickly scaled the inner defensive walls, but the main force advanced on the central three-storey residence.

  That was where their target would be.

  Breaching charges were planted against the door, and barely a second later they detonated with a resounding boom, the shockwave shattering windows in the upper floors.

  ‘Flash out!’ the team leader cried, hurling a stun grenade in through the smoking doorway before ducking back behind cover.

  The lightning flash of the grenade explosion was accompanied by a deafening bang that seemed to roll up through the very core of the house.

  ‘Go! Go!’

  The first three-man assault team went straight in, their night vision devices illuminating the darkened interior in a ghostly green. Adrenaline was coursing thick in their veins now, heightening every sense as they advanced inside.

  This was it. This was the most important mission of their lives.

  First door on the right. A single hard kick sent it crashing open. A woman and two children screamed in terror.

  ‘Get down!’ one SEAL yelled. ‘Down on the floor!’

  Civilians. Unarmed. They were no threat, though one of the SEALs shoved the woman to the floor, securing her hands behind her back anyway. Even civilians could throw a hand grenade or detonate a suicide vest.

  ‘Room clear! Move up!’

  The team pressed on. More shouts and screams were coming from other rooms. Chaos and confusion everywhere. The air was thick with acrid grey smoke.

  Suddenly the booming chatter of automatic gunfire resounded from their left, and a door splintered as a burst of 7.62mm AK rounds tore through it. Instinctively the nearest SEAL dropped to his knees, avoiding the lethal but inaccurate gunfire. The powerful kick of an AK-47 caused severe muzzle climb, meaning shots often went high.

  The answering burst from a pair of HK416 assault rifles suffered no such impediment. There was a scream and a heavy thud as a body hit the ground.

  Forcing their way inside, the SEALs found a man sprawled on the ground, middle-aged and heavily bearded, blood from a trio of gunshot wounds staining his white nightclothes. He was feebly trying to reach for his fallen weapon.

  A second burst ended his struggle.

  ‘Tango down!’

  The rest of the assault team was advancing up the central stairway to the upper floor. Their hearts were poundi
ng, a thrill running through their bodies as they ascended. They were close. The man they’d been hunting for so long was now just yards away.

  The faint padding of footsteps on the landing above caused them to freeze, waiting and listening, their weapons trained upward on the closed door at the top of the stairs.

  And then, slowly, the door edged open to reveal a tall, slender figure clad in a loose-fitting nightshirt, a greying beard trailing down to his chest, his thinning hair in disarray. He peered out into the stairwell, and for a heartbeat his gaze fastened on the SEAL team below.

  It happened so fast that each of those involved would struggle to recount exactly how it played out. The lead SEAL team member raised his assault rifle, took aim just as the target tried to retreat into the room, and uttered a single word.

  ‘Contact.’

  With that, he squeezed off a short, sharp burst. The weapon rattled against his shoulder, and a shower of wood fragments exploded from the door.

  They heard the heavy thump of a body hitting the floorboards, accompanied by the shriek of women screaming.

  ‘Tango down!’

  ‘Move up! Go!’

  Rushing up the stairs, the three-man team forced their way into the room beyond, having to shove the door open because the weight of the wounded man was partially blocking it. Beyond, they found two women crouched over the target, wailing and crying. Wives grieving for their dying husband.

  ‘Get down on the floor! Down now!’

  In response, one of the women leapt up and launched herself at the team. A single shot rang out and she fell heavily, screaming in pain. Blood seeped from a bullet wound on her thigh.

  Moving forward, one of the SEALs grabbed the other woman and hurled her aside, allowing the team a proper look at their target for the first time. The man whose face they’d seen on countless news broadcasts and websites for the better part of a decade. The man responsible for the deaths of thousands of their countrymen.

  That man was lying splayed out on the floor in front of them, blood soaking his nightshirt, his breathing coming in shallow, strangled gasps, his face contorted in pain. His eyes held the look of a cornered animal. These men were here for one reason only – him.

  For a second or so, an eerie standoff ensued as the three SEALs stared at their target, struck by the power and significance of the moment. Everything they’d trained and prepared for had all come down to this.

  This was the most important moment of their lives.

  A volley of gunshots echoed around the room as two of the SEALs opened fire simultaneously. The fallen man jerked and writhed as the rounds tore into his body, then with a final exhausted gasp, he lay still.

  The men lowered their weapons, smoke still trailing from the barrels. Neither of them spoke a word. They had just made history.

  Snapping out of it, the fireteam leader hit his radio transmitter and calmly spoke the code phrase they’d rehearsed for this moment.

  ‘For God and country – Geronimo, Geronimo, Geronimo.’

  Their mission was complete. Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, the most wanted man on the face of the earth, was dead.

  Part One

  Something to Lie For

  Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are your own fears.

  Rudyard Kipling

  Chapter 1

  North Wales, UK – two months earlier

  Ryan and Jessica Drake stood rooted to the spot, neither saying a word. The world around them waited in silent anticipation; even the breeze seemed to die away as brother and sister faced off, each taking the measure of the other.

  It had been nearly two years since Drake had last set foot in this doorway. Two years since he’d left his sister behind, knowing he was unlikely to see her again. He’d told himself it was for her own safety, that he’d put her through enough already. That she couldn’t follow where he was going.

  And yet here he was. After all the battles he’d fought, the enemies he’d overcome, the friends he’d lost and the terrible secrets he’d uncovered, he was back.

  He couldn’t help but gaze at the woman who had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember, comparing the face before him with the one that lived in his memory.

  Physically she hadn’t changed much at all. Her dark hair was cut shorter and styled differently, her complexion was pale after a winter of cold days and long nights. But she possessed the same slender yet deceptively athletic build, the same facial features that reminded him more and more of their mother with each passing year, the same eyes, identical in colour and shade to his own.

  They might not have changed, but what lay behind them certainly had.

  The seconds stretched out, the silence growing taut and uncomfortable. Seeking to break the standoff, Drake took a step forward.

  ‘Jessica, I—’

  He saw her hand whip around and braced himself inwardly, felt the sudden explosive impact as the slap connected hard with the side of his face. It was harder than he’d expected, and the blow left his cheek stinging.

  He didn’t try to dodge or shrink away from it, just as he didn’t try to stop her lashing out with her fists, thumping and punching anywhere she could in a sudden frenzied attack. Instead he took the hits, letting her get it out like he knew she had to, until finally she exhausted herself and collapsed into his arms, her body convulsing with sobs.

  Drake didn’t speak. That would come later. For now, it was enough to let her cry.

  * * *

  Some time later, Drake was seated at the kitchen table, watching the weak February sunlight filter through the wisps of steam rising from his tea. The table at which he sat was old, heavy and solid, its design simple, its finish coarse and unrefined.

  It was the kind of furniture, the kind of environment, he’d grown up with. It should have felt familiar and reassuring. Instead it felt foreign and unnatural.

  On the opposite side of the table, a newspaper lay discarded, its front page emblazoned with images of the unfolding civil war in Libya. The so-called Arab Spring had spread across most of North Africa by now, threatening to topple regimes even as far as the Middle East. The images were a chilling reminder of the mission that had brought Drake here.

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  Drake looked up at Jessica. She was leaning against the kitchen counter on the far side of the room, her fingers wrapped around her mug, her face pale, eyes still red from tears. They were the first words she’d said since she’d finally let go of him in the doorway and retreated inside. She’d needed space and distance in order to see the problem more clearly.

  The problem, in this case, being himself.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I mourned you. Told myself you were gone.’ She caught herself, her voice threatening to break. ‘I made myself believe it, as much as it hurt. It was better than fearing you were alive, always wondering where you were, what you were going through.’

  ‘Jess, I—’

  ‘The things they said about you on the news… The car bombing in Washington. That factory in Brazil…’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ Drake said firmly.

  There was, of course, a great deal more to that story than he was able to share with her, but what he said wasn’t a lie.

  ‘But you were involved.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes.’

  Jessica watched him in silence, her expression troubled. She understood the dark world her brother inhabited, knew why he’d been forced to go into hiding two years earlier. She’d even been caught in the crossfire herself once.

  ‘What the hell happened to you, Ryan?’

  Drake shook his head. ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I have plenty of time,’ she said, gesturing at their isolated surroundings.

  ‘I don’t.’

  He could practically feel the fleeting spark of hope die inside her, could feel her withdrawing once more. ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Freya.’

  He
couldn’t quite bring himself to use the word ‘mother’.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was part of this,’ he explained. ‘This thing we’ve all been caught up in – Cain, Anya, the Agency, all of it – she worked for the people behind it. That’s why she was killed.’

  Jessica straightened up, clearly disturbed by what she was hearing. Freya’s murder two years ago had cast a dark shadow over her already troubled life, robbing her of the only parent she had left, and leaving her with no clue to the killer’s motive or identity.

  ‘What do you mean? Who killed her, Ryan?’ she asked, her voice hardening now.

  Drake looked at his sister. ‘You sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘My mother’s dead. My brother’s on the run from the police, the CIA and God only knows who else. And every day I wake up wondering if I’m going to be next. So yes, yes I fucking want to hear this.’

  Drake knew his sister well enough to trust her judgement. In any case, he needed her cooperation, and keeping her in the dark was no way to get it.

  ‘There’s some kind of… cabal in the US intelligence service. A secret society, a shadow organisation… whatever you want to call it. We’ve come to know them as the Circle. They’re like a cancer, infecting agencies, the military, even the government. Anyone who tries to stand against them gets eliminated.’

  Jessica’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why? What do they want?’

  Drake spread his hands. ‘Money? Power? Influence? All of the above, or none of it. Nobody’s gotten close enough to find out. But there’s almost no limit to what they can do,’ he carried on. ‘They can start wars and revolutions, overthrow entire governments…’

  ‘Ryan, you have to know how this sounds.’

  Seizing the newspaper from the table, Drake held it up with the front page, and its chilling images of war, facing her.

  ‘See for yourself,’ he challenged her. ‘I was there in Tunisia when it all began. I even interrogated one of their operatives. They made it happen, they’ve been planning it for years, setting up their pieces, waiting for the right moment. And if this is what they can do today, what’s next?’