Something to Die For

by Will Jordan

  She heard him exhale, his expression soften a little. ‘I didn’t think you’d remember.’

  ‘I remember,’ she assured him, then gave him a rueful smile. ‘Just like I remember slipping and scraping my knees coming down. And screaming like a banshee because it hurt so bloody much.’

  Drake chuckled faintly at the memory. ‘So much for the protective older brother,’ he mused. ‘If it makes you feel better, I got my arse kicked for that one.’

  ‘Yeah, it kind of does,’ she decided, though she soon grew more serious. ‘But I knew you did your best, Ryan. Just like Mum did for us.’

  Drake shook his head. ‘She should have told me. We could have helped each other.’

  ‘She was trying to keep us out of it, just like she always did,’ Jessica reminded him. ‘Maybe she was right, maybe not. But it was her choice to make.’

  ‘Her choice,’ he repeated. ‘Now it’s mine.’

  Jessica could see the look in his eyes now. It was a look she’d seen before. She knew that her brother had already decided on his course.

  ‘I came back here looking for answers, and I got them.’ He nodded faintly, as if to himself. ‘I know what I have to do. The only thing that still matters.’

  ‘Your life matters, Ryan. It always has.’

  Drake smiled sadly. ‘This is bigger than me now, bigger than any of us. This is about the future.’

  If what their mother had revealed in her last message was true, then the power of the Circle left unchecked would keep growing exponentially, until there was nobody left with the will or the means to oppose them. They would control everything and everyone.

  And in the centre of it all would be Drake’s nemesis.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  He paused, contemplating the future that could still be his if he walked away. An uneasy peace perhaps, but peace all the same. Contemplating it, then letting it go.

  His answer, when it came, was delivered with cold unyielding conviction.

  ‘I’m going to kill Marcus Cain.’

  Part Three

  Something to Fight For

  The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

  Edmund Burke

  Chapter 29

  Abbottabad, Pakistan – April 28th, 2011

  The upper floors of Waziristan Haveli commanded impressive views across Abbottabad, though the ever-present threat of surveillance prevented the residents taking advantage of them. Instead, a balcony enclosed by a high privacy wall had been constructed.

  Now into late April, the afternoon sun was high enough to peek over this concrete surround, allowing the Master to take his tea in the fresh air and sunlight.

  He had spent much of the long winter cocooned in his darkened office, idling away his days replaying old news coverage like some forgotten movie star rewatching their own films.

  The Master laid his cup of tea on the little table beside him and eased back into the recliner chair with a sigh, his long thin legs stretched out. The afternoon sun played across a gaunt and pallid face, deeply lined by years of care and worry, the jaw covered by a grey, straggling beard.

  ‘I have missed this.’ He spoke with his customary quiet, soft tone. ‘To breathe the fresh air, feel the sun on my face.’

  He turned to regard Bashir Shirani who sat by his side, patiently attending him. ‘During the Soviet invasion we lived in the mountains for months on end. It was so long since I ate a hot meal or slept in a real bed that I began to forget what it was like. We all did. Maybe we stopped wanting to remember after a while.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Those were great days. We felt strong, invincible, like real men should. We felt we could fight the whole Soviet army ourselves, because God was with us.’

  Shirani smiled and nodded indulgently, as was expected. He had heard many stories and legends about this man, most depicting titanic battles against the infidel invaders and feats of unparalleled heroism. Only in his later years had he begun to learn the more mundane and honest interpretations of events, told by men who had actually been there. Stories of arms deals and financial negotiations – not quite the heroic life of fighting and sacrifice that many imagined. But as Shirani had come to learn, it was the prerogative of old men to embellish past glories.

  The Master’s dark eyes carried a sad, reflective look. ‘Today, I live in comfort and luxury,’ he said, gesturing to their heavily fortified surroundings. ‘I wear clean clothes, eat good food, sleep in a warm bed. But I would gladly give it all up to be that young man again, living cold and hard in the mountains. To be strong and fearless and free again.’

  He fell silent, and Shirani could almost feel his aching sense of longing. He knew he must say something.

  ‘Perhaps one day you will, if God wishes it,’ he ventured.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the Master agreed.

  Though in their own way, they both sensed it wasn’t to be.

  * * *

  In a small apartment situated on a hillside overlooking the target building, a pair of CIA operatives armed with high-power telephoto lenses were observing the entire compound, making careful and diligent notes of everything that happened there.

  They, and men like them, had been on station for several weeks now, allowing the Agency to keep constant tabs on the property. It was dangerous and nerve-wracking work, with the constant fear of discovery vying with the greater danger of missing some vital piece of intel that could change the entire operation.

  ‘Got a vehicle coming in,’ operative Cory Linfield announced, hunched over his tripod-mounted camera. He would rather be behind a sniper rifle, but their objective was to gather intel only.

  His colleague Rolf Ulland, busy preparing his next report for transmission back to Langley, glanced up from his laptop.

  ‘Make and model?’

  ‘Late model Toyota cruiser, dark blue. Looks like four bodies inside,’ Linfield replied, tracking the vehicle as it approached the main gate. ‘They’re opening up.’

  Ulland frowned. That was a sizeable contingent. It could mean nothing, or it could mean a high-value target who travelled with several bodyguards. Abandoning his computer, he moved over and took up the secondary observation position, training his lens on the compound’s main parking lot as the Toyota came to a halt.

  His finger hovered over the snapshot button as the doors opened and the passengers exited. He didn’t recognise the driver or front passenger, though he took shots of them anyway. Both were big and heavyset, likely a protective detail.

  Then the rear door swung open and a third man emerged into the afternoon sun. Short in stature, mid-forties, average height, and with a thick beard that reached almost to his chest. His dark hair was receding a little, his deep-set eyes nestled beneath dark, heavy brows.

  Both men recognised him immediately.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Ulland said, snapping off more shots while the man’s face was briefly turned towards them.

  ‘Son of a bitch, that’s al-Kuwaiti,’ Linfield confirmed. ‘I’d bet my life on it.’

  Al-Qaeda had largely abandoned cell phones, email and other modern communications tools, instead relying on a network of human couriers to share information. And the most senior of them all, Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti, was strolling casually into the target building, flanked by a pair of bodyguards.

  ‘Get Langley on the horn,’ Linfield instructed as he flicked through the digital shots he’d managed to snap. ‘They’re gonna want to hear this.’

  Chapter 30

  CIA Headquarters, Langley

  It wasn’t long before the news made its way to Langley, and a special operational planning session was convened, headed up by Dan Franklin, the director of the Agency’s highly secretive Special Activities Division. He was responsible for overseeing what had now been officially dubbed Operation Neptune Spear.

  Representatives from the NSA and the Pentagon, as well as the director of National Intelligence and the White House chief of staff, were also conferenced
in via video link. Some of the most powerful men and women in the country were watching him.

  ‘As you can see from our intel, we now have a confirmed sighting of Abu Ahmed al-Kuwaiti in the target compound,’ he summarised, calling up a surveillance photograph on the wall-mounted TV. ‘Al-Kuwaiti is believed to be Bin Laden’s top man, and his own personal courier. His presence is the strongest indication yet that this is the place they’re keeping him.’

  ‘But no confirmed eyes on Bin Laden?’ the chief of staff asked probingly.

  ‘No, sir,’ Franklin admitted. ‘The entire compound is fortified with two fundamental objectives in mind – security and privacy. Both of which are highly effective.’

  ‘So you’re saying he may not be there at all?’

  Franklin knew why he was pushing so hard, because ultimately the president was the one who would have to sign off on this operation. He was seeing the political angle, gauging the potential fallout if the whole enterprise was a bust. It was well known that the president’s approval ratings had been on the slide ever since taking office, hampered by a divided congress and struggling economy.

  A major victory in the War on Terror could turn his first term around, and dramatically improve his chances of a second. On the other hand, a high-profile failure that got American soldiers killed – and caused a major incident with Pakistan – would be used against him all the way to the next election.

  ‘It’s a possibility, sir,’ he allowed. ‘In situations like this, there are rarely any guarantees. Most of the time we deal in probabilities rather than facts. But everything we’ve seen so far indicates this is the place. If I had to lay odds on it, I’d bet he’s there.’

  ‘What’s our operational readiness?’ the director of National Intelligence asked. ‘If we have to move, how soon can we act?’

  For this, Franklin deferred to Chris Kennedy, one of his most senior Shepherd team leaders, and the man he’d tasked with coordinating the assault. A sharp, diligent operative who had served as an Army Ranger before transitioning into the Agency, it was his job to know every step of the operation, from the second the team left their base in Afghanistan, to the moment they stepped off the chopper for debriefing.

  ‘We have a JSOC task force on station just over the border in Afghanistan,’ Kennedy confirmed, his manner tense and guarded. ‘Fully prepped with stealth air assets.’

  Joint Special Operations Command was an umbrella organisation that could draw on special forces personnel from all branches of the military and intelligence communities, including the CIA. Some of the finest operators on the face of the earth had been assembled for this op.

  ‘In terms of readiness, they’re currently on active standby. We give the word right now, they can be geared up and airborne in sixty minutes.’ Kennedy paused before adding, ‘If we bump them up to maximum readiness, that drops to ten minutes.’

  ‘In other words, sir, we’re about as ready as we can be,’ Franklin said bluntly. ‘It’s not likely to get much better than this.’

  Having al-Kuwaiti and Bin Laden in the same compound at the same time was a golden opportunity that might not come again for weeks, months or possibly ever. Franklin had seen too many targets slip through their grasp while the so-called decision-makers fretted and delayed, hoping for some mythical perfect scenario that would never come.

  The White House chief of staff exhaled slowly through his nose. He sensed that Franklin was trying to push the issue, and didn’t appreciate being backed into a corner.

  ‘Is that Director Cain’s assessment also?’ he asked.

  ‘Director Cain gave me full operational authority. I speak for him on this matter.’

  ‘That’s a pretty big call to make for a divisional director.’

  Franklin said nothing to that.

  ‘All right,’ the chief of staff conceded. ‘I’ll brief the president. You will of course keep us in the loop if anything changes?’

  ‘You’ll be the first to hear about it,’ Franklin assured him, managing to mask his irritation. The one thing almost guaranteed to fuck up any military operation was political interference.

  With the meeting concluded, Franklin returned to his own office on the top floor of the New Headquarters Building, sank into his chair and gratefully loosened his tie. He felt mentally drained after the fraught meeting. With so much at stake, tensions were running high, and many of the key players were quietly compiling lists of people to blame if this thing went south.

  Maybe that was why Cain had invested so much operational authority in him, he reflected grimly. Such a thought weighed heavily on him, but in truth it wasn’t the only matter he was wrestling with at that moment.

  Logging into his terminal, he pulled up an active case file he’d been diligently monitoring. A file detailing the hunt for Ryan Drake.

  Nothing had changed since the last simple, terse update.

  Last Confirmed Sighting – London (04/26/11)

  Franklin was well aware of the failed attempt to apprehend Drake. Hell, an underground explosion in central London followed by a house assault and a high-speed chase through the UK capital wasn’t the kind of thing one could sweep under the carpet. Even the news networks had caught wind of it, running stories speculating on everything from a terrorist attack to an organised crime ring.

  They were all equally wrong, but it didn’t change two stark facts – Drake was alive, and he had chosen to show himself in London. It would be wrong to say he wasn’t relieved to know his old friend was still alive, but why reappear now? What was the man after? And why take the risk of venturing into a city like London?

  To attempt to learn more would risk drawing attention to himself. Cain had him on a short leash, and wouldn’t hesitate to act against him if given any cause to doubt his intentions.

  And yet he couldn’t let it go. Whatever had passed between them in recent years, he and Drake had been firm friends once. He owed his life to the man, in fact. That wasn’t the sort of thing you just chose to forget.

  What he needed was someone with more investigative skills than himself, but less history with Cain. Someone who could dig deeper without attracting attention. The question was whether that person would be willing to risk their career, and perhaps their life, to help him.

  Unlocking his desk drawer, he fished out the burner phone he kept there and quickly punched in a number, waiting while it rang.

  ‘Kennedy.’

  ‘Chris, it’s Dan. I need to speak with you.’

  ‘Sure, boss. I can be in your office in five.’

  ‘I’d rather talk privately.’ He thought on it for a moment. ‘Meet me at Kryptos.’

  The CIA’s headquarters was set within an extensive campus of office buildings, guard posts and training facilities, but the original designers had also sought to provide outdoor spaces where employees could relax and exercise. One of the most significant was an open courtyard between the two main office blocks, flanked by tall trees and bushes, and overlooked by the New Headquarters Building cafeteria.

  In the north-west corner of this courtyard stood an intriguing and rather bizarre metal sculpture known as Kryptos. It had been commissioned to mark the opening of the New Headquarters Building back in 1990, and took the form of four large copper plates formed into an S-shape, resembling reams of paper emerging from a printer.

  Each plate had been engraved with an encrypted message, encouraging aspiring code breakers to attempt to decipher their meaning. Three of them had since been broken, revealing various pieces of enigmatic text, but the fourth remained stubbornly unsolved.

  Franklin had always been of the opinion that it couldn’t be broken, that it was designed to be meaningless; a little joke by the artist to keep generations of young code breakers scratching their heads. And perhaps a subtle reflection on the realities of their job – not everything was meant to be known, not every mystery could be solved.

  Kennedy was waiting for him, sitting on a bench facing the sculpture. He stood up as
Franklin approached. ‘You wanted to talk. What’s up?’

  ‘Walk with me,’ Franklin said quietly, handing him a takeaway coffee cup.

  It was a pleasant spring day and the courtyard was already busy. Franklin headed away from the hustle and bustle, waiting until they were well out of earshot before speaking.

  ‘If you’re worried about the op—’ Kennedy began.

  ‘It’s not about the op,’ Franklin assured him. ‘This is something else.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Franklin stopped, turning to face the younger man. ‘It’s about Ryan Drake.’

  A shadow seemed to pass over the younger man then. Drake was wanted for murder and treason, and there remained a lingering suspicion towards anyone formerly associated with him. He was the reason the Shepherd programme had been shut down for more than a year.

  ‘What about him?’

  Franklin took a sip of his coffee, glancing around before speaking. ‘He’s alive, Chris. He was spotted in London two days ago.’

  ‘The explosion, the armed pursuit?’ he asked.

  ‘All Drake.’

  Kennedy was silent for a few moments while he took this in. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Franklin agreed. ‘Field teams tried to intercept him, but he got away and vanished.’

  ‘Knowing Ryan, I can’t say I’m surprised,’ Kennedy mused. ‘But why resurface now, when everyone thought he was dead?’

  Franklin fixed him with a hard look. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

  It didn’t take long to guess why Franklin had summoned him. ‘You want me to set up a case on him.’

  He nodded. ‘Under the radar. Nobody can know about this.’