Something to Die For

by Will Jordan

  There was a pause, then, ‘Of course. Please come inside.’

  There was a buzz and a click as the door was electronically unlocked. Cain took a moment to steel himself, wondering what he might encounter, before passing inside.

  He entered a world of wood panelled walls, potted tropical plants, tasteful artwork and antique furniture that looked like it cost more than his apartment. It wasn’t hard to see what this place really was – a private member’s club. The kind of place specifically designed to be innocuous and unobtrusive from the outside.

  Places like this existed all across the US, especially in the older cities on the East Coast, but Cain had never actually been inside one. He wasn’t rich enough, important enough, or well bred enough to obtain membership.

  ‘Welcome to L’infini, Mr Cain.’

  Cain glanced over at the attractive blonde woman positioned behind a reception desk. She was smiling at him, but it was a polite, professional kind of smile. Her gaze, on the other hand, was shrewd and calculating.

  ‘This is your first time with us?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he acknowledged, his tone guarded. ‘I have a meeting arranged.’

  ‘Of course. Please, wait here and someone will be along to escort you.’

  ‘I can make my own way.’

  The young woman opened her mouth to respond, but she was interrupted by another voice coming from the high arched entrance to the dining area.

  ‘Marcus. Good of you to come.’

  Cain turned to face this new arrival, quickly taking in his appearance. He looked to be in his mid-forties, of average height, neither athletic nor overweight. His light brown hair, just starting to thin on top, was combed back from a high forehead and a thin, almost delicate face that showed its age quicker than it should have. Few could have called the man handsome, but his smile was confident and relaxed as he stepped forward to shake Cain’s hand.

  ‘Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Cain said as he shook it. ‘I… don’t believe we’ve met?’

  ‘I don’t believe we have,’ the man agreed. ‘I’m James.’

  ‘Just James, huh?’

  ‘Just James. I’ve always preferred first names. Identity without expectation.’ He smiled again, the matter apparently settled. ‘Anyway, I imagine you have questions for me.’

  ‘You imagine correctly.’

  He gestured back the way he’d come. ‘Follow me, and we’ll talk.’

  James led him through what looked to be the restaurant area of the club. The man’s straight back and precise walk put Cain in mind of some aristocratic lord, used to conducting himself with discipline and dignity.

  The dining area was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses and cutlery. Ornate pillars of Italian marble rose to a vaulted ceiling overhead, from which a trio of elaborate chandeliers were suspended. Scanning the faces as they passed, Cain recognised a couple of congressmen, a senator and even a US ambassador.

  ‘Quite the place you’ve got here, James,’ Cain said as his host led him up a short flight of steps. ‘Seems I’m in good company.’

  ‘Membership of L’infini is… quite selective. Privacy and discretion are hard to come by these days.’

  Presently he was conducted into a private saloon. The decor was just as opulent and tasteful as in the main restaurant, and the drinks bar would have put many professional cocktail lounges to shame. A place for the elite amongst the elite.

  ‘You asked for this meeting,’ he said, turning towards his host. ‘Here I am. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘You can relax and have a drink, Marcus,’ another voice advised. ‘This isn’t an interrogation. Let’s not treat it like one.’

  Cain spun around to see a woman emerge from a doorway on the other side of the room. Tall, shapely, and wearing a slender black evening dress that was entirely in keeping with her elegant surroundings, she was smiling at him with that same knowing, dangerously disarming smile she’d flashed the first night they’d met.

  Freya Shaw. The woman who had appeared in his life without warning, with an offer he couldn’t refuse. An offer that had changed everything.

  ‘Thank you for showing him in, James,’ she said, nodding to Cain’s escort.

  ‘Had a feeling you’d turn up again,’ Cain said, quickly recovering his poise.

  That disarming smile was still there as she sauntered over, a subtle but inviting sway in her hips. Whatever his misgivings, one thing Cain couldn’t deny about Freya was that she was a strikingly attractive woman. Doubtless she was well aware of that fact too, and used it to her advantage.

  ‘Like the proverbial bad penny?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  She halted just a little closer than necessary, her lips slightly parted as she looked him in the eye. He could smell her perfume, even fancied he could feel the faint warmth of her body.

  ‘I’m not as bad as you think… unless I have to be.’ There was a dangerous flicker in her eyes. ‘Now tell me, what will you have to drink?’

  ‘I’m on the clock.’

  ‘Oh, come on, now,’ she said, reaching up and gently straightening his collar. ‘You wouldn’t make me drink alone, would you?’

  ‘Bourbon, on the rocks,’ he finally said.

  Her smile returned. ‘Make that two, James.’

  James, who had taken up position behind the bar, perused the bottles before selecting a bottle of Woodford Reserve cask strength, and pouring two glasses over ice.

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to do this in private?’ Cain suggested as James handed the two glasses to Shaw. ‘No offence, James.’

  ‘None taken, Marcus.’

  ‘I’d trust James with my life,’ she explained. ‘I assure you, we can speak freely here.’

  She held out a glass to him, and reluctantly he took it.

  ‘In that case, what do you want?’ Cain asked. ‘I presume you didn’t bring me here for dinner and dancing.’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘I’m not much of a dancer.’

  She pouted in mock disappointment. ‘Shame, really. I am.’

  ‘Enough. Why am I here?’

  ‘Talk to me about Anya,’ Shaw prompted him.

  Anya. The young woman he’d recruited into the Agency, who had fought and risked her life in Afghanistan, who had captivated him in a way he never could have expected. The woman who harboured a destructive secret that had very nearly gotten them both killed.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What’s her status as an operative?’ Shaw asked, putting a slight pause between each word.

  ‘She’s… recovering.’

  After being captured, interrogated and brutally tortured by the Soviets, then finally escaping over the border into Pakistan in appalling conditions, Anya should have died. She very nearly had, in fact. Only her innate toughness and iron will to survive had kept her going.

  ‘But she’s not back on active duty, is she?’ Shaw pressed.

  They both knew the answer to that. Anya had been largely absent from the Agency since her return to the US, reporting only reluctantly for psychological and physical evaluations.

  ‘She went through a lot. It takes time.’

  ‘She’s gun-shy,’ Shaw said, her tone growing colder and more business-like. ‘That’s the expression they use in your line of work, isn’t it? She took a hit, and now she’s afraid. A soldier who won’t fight isn’t much of a soldier at all.’

  ‘And what would you know about being a soldier?’ he said. ‘When was the last time you risked your life for something?’

  If he’d been hoping to rattle her with that forceful censure, he was to be disappointed. Shaw remained unmoved.

  ‘There are many ways to fight. Not all involve guns,’ she said cryptically. ‘Either way, I have the perfect job to get Anya back into the swing of things.’ She retrieved a folder from the end of the bar and presented it to him. ‘This picture was taken in
Ukraine two days ago. Recognise this man?’

  Cain studied the black and white photograph. It was a man in his early forties, taken long-range but clearly recognisable all the same. Cain knew every member of Anya’s unit as if they were his own family.

  ‘Luka,’ he said quietly. The former leader of Anya’s task force, who had disappeared after the unit’s disastrous ambush in Afghanistan. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘We can find almost anyone.’ Shaw explained, enjoying the moment. ‘This man traded Anya and her unit in exchange for amnesty from the Soviets. He’s a loose end, and who better to tie it off than Anya?’

  ‘They were close, those two,’ Cain warned her. Luka had been like a brother to Anya. ‘You’re asking her to kill a man she fought beside.’

  ‘I’m asking her to punish the traitor who sold them out,’ Shaw corrected him. ‘What better way is there to exorcise those demons?’

  Cain didn’t answer that. This was a test. A test of loyalty, both for Anya and himself.

  ‘Get her onboard with this, Marcus,’ Shaw commanded him. ‘Get her onboard and back into the field where she belongs.’

  ‘What if I can’t?’

  Shaw’s mouth twitched in a half smile as she considered her response. ‘James, take your gun and point it at Mr Cain’s head.’

  In a flash, James had drawn a weapon from inside his suit jacket, and trained it on Cain as casually as if he were pointing a remote at a TV.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Cain demanded. Having no sidearm of his own, there was little he could do to defend himself.

  ‘Making a point,’ Shaw replied, looking him hard in the eye. For all her sleek beauty, there was a core of cold steel within her. ‘Do you know what defines James most of all? Loyalty. If I asked him to pull the trigger right now, he’d do it in a heartbeat and pour me another drink without batting an eyelash.’ She glanced over at him. ‘Isn’t that right, James?’

  ‘Say the word,’ James replied. ‘No offence, Marcus.’

  ‘Let me make this perfectly clear,’ Shaw went on. ‘We want Anya’s unit playing for our team. But they won’t fight without her, and she won’t fight without you. If you can’t handle her, then… well, there’s really not much point in keeping you around, is there?’

  If Cain harboured any lingering doubts about how ruthless Freya Shaw could be, they vanished in that moment. She would order his death without hesitation or remorse.

  ‘This how you always conduct your “business”?’ he asked scathingly.

  ‘I prefer my relationships to be mutually beneficial. But when a point needs to be made, I prefer to make it once only.’

  Cain drained his bourbon, glaring at her the whole time.

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  Shaw’s smile returned, languid and disarming as ever.

  ‘I knew you’d understand, Marcus.’

  Washington DC – February 27th, 2011

  Located on a narrow finger of land jutting out from the north bank of the Potomac, with the muddy sweep of the river on one side and the choppy expanse of the Tidal Basin on the other, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial certainly didn’t enjoy the most auspicious of settings. Most tourists preferred to concentrate on more iconic and easily accessible sites along the National Mall, and thus the monument to the 32nd president of the United States saw relatively few visitors.

  This state of affairs was compounded by the unfavourable weather today, which was cold and breezy, the steel-grey sky threatening rain. The leafless trees swayed and rattled in the fitful wind.

  A shame really, Marcus Cain thought to himself. Compared to the overbearing, pretentious grandeur of most of DC’s government buildings and towering monuments, there was a calming, understated elegance to the tumbling, man-made waterfalls and rough-hewn stone blocks that comprised the memorial’s four outdoor ‘rooms’ – each one symbolising a different era of Roosevelt’s long career in public service.

  Halting opposite the stone statue of FDR, who was seated to disguise the paralysis that had blighted much of his later life, Cain found himself reflecting on the quote engraved in the wall beside him.

  They (who) seek to establish systems of government based on the regimentation of all human beings by a handful of individual rulers… call this a new order. It is not new and it is not order.

  How prescient those words seemed now, Cain thought to himself.

  The click of shoes on the granite flagstones told him that someone was approaching. Cain didn’t look around. He didn’t have to.

  His name was Richard Starke, the director of the National Security Agency. Cain’s main point of contact with the Circle for almost twenty years. The man who currently held the keys to his ascension to the organisation’s highest level.

  It had been Starke’s idea to meet here, eschewing their usual meeting place in the remote parkland far outside the city. Today was going to be different, Cain knew. The change of venue signalled a change of circumstances, for both of them.

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ Starke said without preamble. ‘Later today, you’re going to receive a call from the director of National Intelligence, notifying you that he’s officially recommending your name to the president as permanent CIA director.’

  Cain could feel his heart beating faster with every word.

  ‘About thirty minutes later, you’ll take a call from the White House. The president will confirm that he’ll be tabling a motion in the Senate to begin confirmation proceedings. He’ll congratulate you. You’ll act humble and ask if he’s sure he wants to go with you. He’ll assure you that you’re his guy, and that he’s confident he’ll get the Senate votes he needs to have you confirmed. Then he’ll end by thanking you for your years of service. You’ll say you’re honoured, that you’ll endeavour to uphold the office of director, and then you’ll politely shut your mouth and wait for him to hang up.’

  Having finished his terse set of instructions, the NSA director turned to regard the man standing beside him.

  ‘Is this in any way unclear?’

  ‘I think I can manage that,’ Cain said, keeping his tone perfectly neutral. He was well aware that his promotion to permanent director was against this man’s wishes. And as much as he’d forced Starke to bend to his will, the man remained a formidable enemy. It would not do to gloat on the eve of his greatest triumph.

  ‘Good.’ Starke paused before adding, ‘You understand of course that all of this is predicated on you delivering on your promise?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Because if your target were to escape, you’d find the president’s support would disappear along with him.’

  ‘He’s not going to escape, Richard,’ Cain promised. He’d make sure of it – even if he had to travel to Pakistan to oversee Bin Laden’s capture personally. ‘Our intel is solid.’

  Starke exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cool air as he looked out across the Tidal Basin to the towering columns of the Lincoln Memorial. A perimeter of security operatives watched over the two men, far enough away that they could talk without fear of being overheard.

  ‘This will be our last meeting, Marcus.’

  Cain looked at him then, a little taken aback by the finality of that statement. He could sense the air of bitterness and resentment in the normally stoic man. For the better part of two decades, Starke had been his conduit to the Circle. His one and only means of communication with the still-unknown group that lay at the very top of the pyramid. Now that he was being removed, it could mean only one thing.

  ‘So who will I be working with?’

  ‘The next time you’re contacted, it’ll be directly.’

  Cain actually let out a breath as his words sank in. This was it. After more than two decades of carrying out their wishes, fulfilling their directives, fighting their battles, he was finally going to meet the leaders of the Circle face to face.

  ‘When?’

  ‘You’ll be given instructions when the time
comes,’ Starke explained cryptically.

  Cain sensed, however, that Starke wasn’t withholding information out of choice; he was merely repeating what he’d been told. This moment represented a seismic shift in power and authority between the two men. Cain’s influence was ascendant, while Starke was being forced to move aside and make way for him.

  ‘I suggest you don’t arrive late for the meeting.’

  ‘When have you ever known me to be late, Richard?’

  Starke didn’t respond to that, and nor did Cain expect him to. Instead he pulled up the collar of his coat and glanced around, preparing to leave.

  ‘I guess this is where we go our separate ways.’

  For all the times they’d met and talked over the past two decades, there was little about Richard Starke that he found personally appealing. All things considered, he wouldn’t be sad to see the back of him. However, this was still the end of a long relationship. Sensing the gravity and significance of the moment, Cain extended a hand.

  ‘I’ll see you around,’ he said, unwilling to give him anything more meaningful.

  ‘Likewise.’ Reaching out, Starke took his hand. But rather than letting go, he tightened his grip and leaned in slightly. ‘I’ve never been one to offer advice, but I’ll give you some for free today. Be careful of loose ends.’

  Cain raised an eyebrow, surprised by the intensity of the man’s expression. ‘Loose ends?’

  ‘Drake and Anya. You never did account for them.’

  ‘Like I told you, they’re gone,’ Cain said, quickly recovering his poise. ‘Buried under a mountain in Afghanistan. Nobody will ever find them.’

  And yet despite his confident words, a kernel of doubt remained in the acting CIA director. A troubling question that had gone unanswered.

  Starke held his eye for several seconds – an uncharacteristically direct act for such a taciturn man – before releasing his grip.

  ‘Well, like I say: be careful of loose ends. They have a habit of coming back to bite you.’ With that final warning, he turned and began to walk away. ‘Goodbye, Marcus. And good luck to you.’

  ‘I don’t need luck anymore,’ Cain said under his breath, turning his attention back to the memorial before him. He remained there for some time, neither moving nor speaking, his thoughts as dark and troubled as the brooding sky overhead.