by Will Jordan
The undertone of quiet, restrained menace was enough to cut through the fog of Drake’s frustration. He exhaled slowly and unclenched his fists, his anger dissipating.
He was ashamed of himself for lashing out like that, and equally taken aback by his friend’s change in demeanour, no matter how justified it might have been. Normally composed and self-possessed, Franklin had just shown a side of himself that Drake had never seen before. A side that had only started to emerge since he took over as director of the Special Activities Division.
‘Dan, look … I’m sorry for that,’ he said after a few moments, having calmed himself a little. ‘It was wrong, and I apologise.’
‘You’re goddamn right it was,’ Franklin hit back, though his tone had lost some of its vehemence. ‘If you were any other agent, any other, I’d have you fired right now. I mean that.’
He sighed wearily, his anger apparently expended. Leaving the window, he lowered himself into his expensive leather chair, the strain of his job seeming to weigh more heavily on him at that moment. He looked tired and worn, though he was barely into his forties.
He leaned forward, staring intently at Drake as if trying to reach out to him. ‘As your friend, I’m asking you to give this up, before you cross the same line as Anya. You’re so caught up in following her, little by little you’re becoming her. Let this one go, Ryan. Please. Let it go.’
Drake was silent for a moment, surprised by the conviction, the raw emotion in his friend’s voice. In his own way Franklin was trying to help him, trying to guide him, trying to save him from himself. And in part of Drake’s mind, he knew the man was right. Few people could have listened to his words and not been moved by them.
But he also knew what his answer would be, just as Franklin did. Anya had saved him, in more ways than one. The bond between them was stronger than either was prepared to admit, but both acknowledged it all the same.
He couldn’t give up on her. He wouldn’t give up on her.
‘You know I can’t do that.’
The director of Special Activities slumped back in his chair, defeated.
‘Then whatever you’re going to do, you’ll have to do it without me,’ he said. ‘I can’t support you on this. I’m sorry.’
And that was it, Drake realised. Franklin had just pulled the plug on him. Drake was on his own now, with no resources to call upon, no backup, nothing.
‘Yeah,’ Drake said, rising from his chair. ‘So am I.’
Chapter 11
Montreal International Airport, Canada,
20 December 2008
Three o’clock in the morning was a graveyard shift by anyone’s standards, but like any major airport, Montreal International’s food outlets never shut down completely. No matter how ungodly the hour, there was always someone around who needed to eat or drink.
‘One black coffee, no sugar,’ the barkeeper said, laying down the steaming brew on the wood-veneer counter in front of Anya. A gangly young man barely out of his teens, his jet-black hair was worn long and brushed forwards so that it almost obscured one eye, in what she assumed was the fashion these days.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked in a tone that suggested he really hoped the answer was no.
‘Just the coffee, thanks.’ Anya flashed a weary smile as she handed over a ten-dollar bill, playing the part of the strung-out traveller. And in this case, it wasn’t entirely fictitious.
After an uneventful and thoroughly boring eight-hour drive from Washington, DC, she had crossed the loosely policed Canadian border without incident, her fake ID barely checked by the officers on duty. From there it had been a short hop to Montreal airport where she had returned her rental car and made for the check-in desk.
Security had been a mere formality, consisting of a glance at her passport and a quick swipe through the biometric reader. Unlike America, Canada was still somewhat relaxed about international travellers, hence the reason she’d chosen to escape via Montreal instead of Dulles or Newark.
Ahead of her lay another nine hours of transatlantic inactivity; a prospect she greeted with a mixture of relief and trepidation. On the one hand it would mean a chance to grab some much-needed rest, but on the other it would mean being stuck on an aircraft over which she had no control.
She’d always disliked flying, and that sentiment had only increased in recent years. She hated the cramped seating, the dry stale air, the press of humanity all around her, and most of all the feeling of imprisonment that descended on her every time the outer hatch sealed shut.
Anya had spent a good part of her life incarcerated in one form or another. And as loath as she was to admit it, those experiences had left their mark on her, both physically and emotionally.
She pushed those thoughts aside as she took her first sip. She wasn’t particularly thirsty, but like most travellers with time to kill before their flight, grabbing a coffee just seemed like the thing to do. Most of the retail outlets were closed anyway.
A TV was mounted overhead, tuned to a news channel that was replaying coverage of the sniper attack in Washington. Anya was careful to keep her attention elsewhere, lest the barkeeper see something in her eyes that stuck with him. She had no desire to dwell on the gory results of her handiwork.
‘Ma’am?’
She looked up from her coffee, instantly on edge. Perhaps she hadn’t guarded her expression as well as she’d thought. Or perhaps the CIA had just released a picture of her to the world’s media, and her friend behind the bar was about to pick her up on it.
She turned her eyes on the young barkeeper, her mind already switching gears into survival mode. If it came to it, she knew she could take down a man like him with ease, but getting out of the airport would be another matter entirely.
He nodded towards the TV overhead, looking nervous. ‘I couldn’t help noticing you weren’t watching the news.’
Anya tensed, readying herself to act.
‘You … mind if I turn the volume down?’ he asked sheepishly, then held up a couple of dog-eared textbooks he’d been keeping beneath the bar. ‘I was kinda hoping to do some revision, and the noise breaks my concentration.’
Anya might have laughed had she been less on edge. She understood now why he’d been so unenthusiastic at her arrival – he was a college student, probably working the graveyard shift for some easy money while he was studying.
‘Of course,’ she said, hoping her relief wasn’t too obvious. ‘Feel free.’
At this, his previously sombre face broke into a smile. ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he said, using a remote to mute the TV. Within moments he had the books open and spread out on the bar.
‘What are you studying?’ Anya asked out of idle curiosity as she took another sip.
‘History,’ he replied without looking up. ‘Cold War history. I’ve got to write a paper on the Soviet defeat in Afghanistan bringing about the collapse of the USSR. And it has to be handed in by Monday or I’m history.’
Anya couldn’t hide a faint smile of amusement. He could scarcely have found a better person to interview than the woman sitting right in front of him, and he’d never know it. She was also struck by the realisation that he probably hadn’t even been born when she was fighting for survival out there.
She felt her cellphone buzzing in her pocket. Excusing herself from the bar, she retreated a short distance to take the call, adopting a conversational tone when she spoke.
‘Good to hear from you again,’ she began.
‘I assume there were no problems?’ Her contact felt little need to reciprocate the upbeat tone, speaking instead in the clipped, efficient, almost mechanical voice she’d come to recognise as emblematic of his personality.
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ she assured him, unwilling to talk about Drake. Aside from startling her and prompting a hasty withdrawal from the rooftop, he had caused no real damage. Yet.
With luck, he’d have enough sense to stay out of something that was none of his concern. If
not, she’d have no option but to deal with him. She hoped for his sake that it didn’t come to that.
‘Good. Our party has drawn a lot of attention. We’re popular these days, it seems.’
She knew that both the CIA and the FSB would now be working furiously to track them down after the attack in DC, and that they would leave no stone unturned in their pursuit. But then, that was exactly what their plan called for. The only question was one of timing.
Timing was everything.
‘So you’re free to meet on Sunday?’
‘Just as we planned,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘And you,’ she replied, closing the phone down.
Returning to the bar, she downed the remainder of her coffee and set the cup down. The young man didn’t even glance up from his books.
‘Good luck with your paper,’ she said, content to leave him to it.
Chapter 12
Washington, DC
Drake was in a foul mood as he threw open the front door to the disorganised, neglected space that he called home, with Franklin’s earlier words of admonishment still ringing in his ears. A chill early-morning wind followed him in as he slammed the door shut.
For a few seconds he just stood there, soaking up the quiet darkness around him and allowing his restless mind to relax a little. After a long day and night of ringing phones, whirring computers and tense meetings, the silent and empty house was a welcome relief to his senses.
His house in Bethesda on the north-west side of DC was much like his office: cluttered and untidy, with coffee cups, magazines, books, dirty plates and various other bits and pieces scattered about. The curtains were drawn, blotting out the murky grey morning that was slowly taking shape outside.
Discarding his coat, he turned his attention to the sideboard, seeking the bottle of Talisker whisky that resided there. Drake couldn’t stomach the American brands. His drink of choice was a good Scottish single malt, preferably from the Western Isles for the smoky taste they imparted.
Pouring himself a generous measure, he eased himself down on the couch with a sigh and took a pull on the Scotch. The drink was warm, rich and powerful, lighting a fire inside him. He wasn’t prone to drinking to excess these days, but right now he needed something to take the edge off.
Things weren’t looking good, and there was no sense in ducking that fact. Franklin had effectively withdrawn his support, leaving Drake few resources with which to pursue a woman who had eluded the world’s premier intelligence agency for the past eighteen months. But more than that, Drake felt the loss of support even more on a personal level.
Dan Franklin, his friend and one of his few remaining allies within the Agency, had effectively cut him loose.
‘Fuck,’ he said at length as he took another drink, feeling that one word rather aptly summed up his situation.
With nothing more to be done at Langley for the time being, he had returned home to consider his next move, and to brood on everything that had happened.
Maybe Franklin had been right, he reflected in a moment of brutal honesty. Anya had neither the need, nor apparently the desire, for his help. Maybe it would be best for everyone if he stood down from this one.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment found himself back in that small border village in Saudi Arabia where he’d spent his last night with Anya. He was talking with an old man, grey-haired and overweight; one of the few people on this earth who could rightly call Anya a friend.
‘She will not listen to reason, will not back down. I see her standing alone, surrounded by enemies. And when that happens, she will fall … I think there will come a time when you have to choose, either to stand with her or against her.’
Drake sighed and took another drink. The events of those tumultuous few days, and the heartache and danger that had come with them, felt like a lifetime ago now. So much had happened since then, it was almost possible to forget it had ever been. It was almost possible to forget the feelings she had stirred up in him; the brief moment of peace, of belonging, of connection he’d felt with her.
Almost, but not quite.
He was reaching for his cellphone almost before he knew it, quickly dialling McKnight’s number from memory. It rang a half-dozen times before a weary voice answered.
‘Ryan?’
Drake felt a stab of guilt at calling her so early. She’d pulled an all-nighter just as he had, but she had no personal stake in this. She was doing it because he’d asked her to, even though he had no right.
‘Sam, where are you?’
‘In the forensics lab at Langley. Running that analysis we talked about. Why, where are you?’
‘At home. There’s been some … changes, but I’d rather talk face to face. You think you and Keira could meet me here?’
She paused for a moment, considering his request. ‘I don’t know about Keira, but I’ll be finished here in about half an hour. With luck, I should have some results for you.’
‘Bring everything you’ve got. I’ll have some coffee waiting for you.’
‘Thought you Brits drank tea?’ she asked, a faint trace of her old humour returning.
‘Only on TV,’ he assured her. ‘See you soon.’
As it turned out, it was just over an hour before Drake heard a loud knock at the door. He’d had enough time to shower and change clothes, and although this had done nothing to remedy his lack of sleep, it had at least made him feel a little more on the ball.
The knock was repeated, louder this time.
‘I’m coming!’ he called, pulling a T-shirt on as he made for the front door.
‘Then move your ass!’ an angry female voice retorted. Definitely not McKnight. ‘Before I freeze mine off.’
Unlocking the door, Drake was practically barged aside as Frost pushed her way in, closely followed by a gust of cold wind. Her bike leathers were glistening with rainwater that was already dripping on the carpet, her dark hair a dishevelled mess. A laptop carry-case was slung over one shoulder. She spared him little more than a passing glance as she made straight for the living room.
‘Good to see you too, Keira,’ he remarked.
‘She hasn’t had breakfast yet,’ McKnight warned as she stepped in out of the early-morning drizzle. Unlike her leather-clad companion, she was dressed in casual jeans and a black winter coat, the collar turned up against the chill breeze.
Drake made a face as he motioned towards the living room. ‘Bad news for all of us.’
Frost had already made herself at home, tossing her jacket aside and flopping down on the couch where she unpacked her laptop. She also removed a curious-looking device from her carry-case, set it down on the coffee table and switched it on. Resembling a walkie-talkie with four separate plastic aerials protruding from its top, it was a portable signal jammer designed to disrupt any electronic surveillance equipment within 50 yards.
A single green light on the side confirmed the jammer was on and functioning. The house, and everything in it, was now immune to any form of electronic eavesdropping. It wasn’t the first time they had resorted to such measures, particularly when it came to Anya. This was one conversation that they certainly didn’t want Marcus Cain to find out about.
‘I love coming here, Ryan,’ Frost said as she glanced around at the disorganised living space. ‘Makes my place seem like a palace.’
‘Yeah? Well, I suppose everything seems big from your point of view,’ he remarked to the diminutive specialist, moving behind the breakfast bar to fire up the coffee machine. He guessed they could all do with some.
‘So how did things go with Dan?’ McKnight asked, guessing that was part of the reason he was at home and not at Langley.
Drake glanced up as the machine started to dribble black liquid into the first cup. ‘Put it this way, I wouldn’t count on any more support from his end. He doesn’t think it’s worth the risk trying to find Anya.’
‘Can you blame him?’ Frost asked. ‘She’s con
nected to a major terrorist attack. She’s about as burned as they come.’
‘She’s not a terrorist,’ he said firmly. ‘She must have had a reason for this.’
‘Okay, so maybe she’s trying to spread love and peace through the medium of bullets. Either way, we know she was the sniper.’
‘Let me worry about the motive,’ he said, handing her a steaming cup. He knew she’d have kicked off if he didn’t offer her a coffee. ‘All I need from you is the method. Did you get anything from the cameras at the lock-up?’
She shook her head. ‘The lock-up itself wasn’t covered by any cameras, so I missed the vehicle changeover. But the main gate logs all vehicles coming in. I managed to catch our friends as they arrived with Demochev.’
Turning her attention to her laptop, she called up an image file and maximised it so that it filled the screen. Sure enough, the Chevy cargo van was plainly visible as it pulled up to the main gate, the driver leaning out to swipe his access card through the reader.
‘Can you zoom in?’ Drake asked.
Manipulating the black-and-white image, Frost focused in on the driver. He was wearing a baseball cap and was careful to keep his head tilted away from the camera, denying them a good look at him. The only thing Drake could tell for sure was that he was of lean build, and apparently fond of tattoos, judging by the symbols and images etched into his exposed forearm. There was scarcely a square inch of skin left untouched, and he had a feeling he knew why.
‘The local tattoo parlour did well out of that guy,’ McKnight remarked.
‘Those aren’t professional,’ Drake said as he surveyed the crude hand-inked images. ‘Those are prison tattoos. Russian.’
Tattoos were a big thing in Russian prison culture, the arcane and seemingly random pictures and symbols forming a complex and richly diverse language that could reveal a great deal about their owner. Drake had seen more than a few in his time. After all, many of the warlords and organised crime leaders the Agency operated against had spent time in Russian jails.