by Will Jordan
She was right, of course. Much as he hated to admit it. Keeping friends close and enemies closer had never been more relevant where Cain was concerned.
‘Believe me, I’m very aware of that fact,’ Drake said, flashing an accusing glare at her. She said nothing, as he knew she would. Whatever she had come here for, it hadn’t been to bicker and squabble with him.
‘So why now?’ he asked, adopting a calmer tone. ‘What are you doing out here?’
Sighing, she settled herself on one of the wooden chairs that looked in less danger of collapse than its comrades. ‘You may want to take a seat,’ she suggested, gesturing to an empty chair opposite.
‘I’ll stand.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She shrugged, dismissing the issue. His personal comfort was not a concern of hers. ‘I’m here because I have questions, Drake.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘I was in a Russian prison when we first met. I assure you, I did not end up there by being reckless or stupid. The Russian FSB intercepted me on my way to Iraq five years ago.’ She looked him hard in the eye. ‘It seems logical that someone I trusted betrayed me to them. When we parted ways last year, I intended to find out who and why. The trail led me as far as Afghanistan, then I hit a dead end,’ she said, unwilling to elaborate. ‘That was when I learned you were here.’
‘What do you mean, you learned?’ It wasn’t as if his arrival had been printed in the local newspapers.
‘I have been keeping tabs on you,’ she explained, as if it were obvious.
‘Why?’
‘Because you are a source within the Agency, and you are a link to Cain.’ She hesitated, finding it difficult to express herself. ‘And … because I wanted to know you were all right.’
Very compassionate, he thought, resisting the urge to touch the scar on his stomach. First she shot him in the gut, then she kept careful tabs on him to ensure he was safe – talk about mixed messages.
The look in his eyes gave his thoughts away to Anya as clearly as if he’d spoken them out loud. She seemed to withdraw a little then, relinquishing whatever tentative effort she had made to reach out to him.
‘You still didn’t answer my question,’ he pressed. She was stalling, and that only made him more determined to reach the truth. ‘Why contact me now?’
Anya leaned back in the rickety old chair, her arms folded across her chest, thin strips of orange light from outside playing across her face as her icy eyes surveyed him. ‘Two days ago a Black Hawk helicopter was shot down not far from here. Less than twenty-four hours later, you and your team arrive. Given your … profession, it seems likely these two things are connected.’
She said nothing further, just sat there watching him, waiting for him to confirm or deny her theory.
Drake looked away, saying nothing, content to let her sweat for a while. He felt like a poker player sizing up his opponent, trying to see how far they were willing to go.
‘If you want to sulk like a spoiled child, do it in your own time,’ Anya said, rising from her chair as if to leave. ‘But do not waste mine.’
‘One of the men on that chopper was a CIA operative,’ Drake said, unwilling to see her walk away. He’d bluffed, and she’d just called it.
Slowly she sat back down, keeping her eyes on him. ‘Go on,’ she prompted.
With a sigh, he took a seat on the chair opposite her. ‘He’s being held hostage by an Afghan insurgent group. If we don’t close down one of our biggest detention centres and release all the prisoners within three days, they’ll execute him and shoot down more aircraft.’
The woman appeared unmoved by this revelation. ‘I assume the Agency will not give in to these demands?’
Drake shook his head. It was a ludicrous demand to have made in the first place; no one man’s life was worth releasing hundreds of terrorists and insurgent leaders. ‘They can’t. You know that as well as I do,’ he said. ‘Our only option is to find him before the deadline. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Why you?’
He chewed his lip for a moment, as reluctant to get into this discussion with Anya as he had been with Frost. ‘Because I captured the leader of the group five years ago.’
‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully, taking careful note of the change in his posture, the tension in his shoulders. ‘You could have killed him, but you spared his life, yes?’
Drake said nothing to that, which told her everything she needed to know.
‘It is not the things we do that we regret, but the things we don’t do—’
‘Are you finished?’ Drake snapped, immediately regretting it.
Anya surveyed him in silence, her gaze cool and assessing. She was sparring with him, pushing him, trying to elicit a reaction. Why, he didn’t know. But she had succeeded, and that only raised his ire further.
‘I’ve answered your questions,’ he said, forcing calm into his voice. ‘Quid pro quo, Anya.’
‘What do you want?’
Drake leaned forward in his chair, locking eyes with her. ‘Tell me what you know about Stinger missiles.’
That question caught her off guard. He could see the surprise in her eyes, even if her face appeared impassive. It seemed suddenly as if her mind had jumped up a gear, evaluating, considering, analysing new possibilities.
‘We brought many into Afghanistan during the Soviet occupation,’ she answered at last. ‘I helped smuggle some of them over the border from Pakistan.’
Drake still found it hard to believe; she could only have been in her twenties at the time. How had someone so young become caught up in all that?
Still, those were questions for another day.
‘Could one of those Stingers have shot down a Black Hawk?’
Anya was silent for a few moments, considering his question. ‘No,’ she decided at last. ‘Not after two decades. The Stinger’s battery coolant units would not survive more than a couple of years without skilled maintenance, and replacements would be impossible.’
‘And if I told you we have hard evidence it was shot down by a Stinger?’
At this, the woman shrugged. ‘I can’t argue with facts. But if a Stinger shot down that chopper, I would bet my life it was a new weapon.’
Drake frowned, perplexed by her revelation. The only theory that seemed to fit the available facts had just been shredded. Was it possible she was wrong? He supposed even Anya wasn’t infallible, and yet she seemed adamant about it.
He was missing something – he knew that much. Some vital piece of the puzzle remained hidden. The problem was, he had no idea where to look for it.
He glanced at her again, struck by another thought. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? You wouldn’t have taken a chance like this just to catch up with an old “friend”. What do you really want?’
For a moment he thought he saw a faint smile, as if she were amused that he had finally caught on to something that should have been blindingly obvious.
‘You’re right. Even if it took you a while,’ she added. ‘I came here to warn you.’
‘Warn me?’
‘You recently visited the headquarters of Horizon Defence. I saw your vehicle drive into the compound,’ she explained. ‘I imagine you spoke to a man named Carpenter while you were there.’
At the very mention of his name, she seemed to tense up, the muscles in her shoulders tightening, her hands curling into fists.
‘And if I did?’
She leaned forward again, her eyes locked with his. ‘I suggest you be on your guard around him. He is not a man to be trusted.’
That went without saying. Drake hadn’t exactly warmed to the man during their brief meeting earlier. Still, it didn’t explain what her beef with him was.
‘How do you know him?’
For a moment, her eyes seemed to lose focus as her mind flashed back to another time, another place, replaying old memories.
‘He was once my … teacher,’ she said, her voice soft, quiet, tinged wit
h old pain. ‘When I first joined the Agency.’
Drake frowned. ‘I thought Cain was your instructor?’
As he understood it, Cain had been Anya’s mentor. He had spotted her potential, inducted her into the Agency, trained her and prepared her for the clandestine operations she would one day take part in.
Cain had eventually become her handler and, Drake suspected, something more. But whatever relationship they had once shared, it had long since turned sour.
To his surprise, she chuckled at this notion. ‘Cain might have brought me in, but he was no field agent. For the work I was to do, they needed someone with more … unique skills. Carpenter was that man. He taught me everything I needed to know – taught me how to survive, how to fight, how to kill. He taught me how to do all of those things, and feel no emotion about it. He made me into … a soldier.’ There was a bitter undertone in her voice when she added, ‘I have a lot to thank him for.’
No wonder Carpenter hadn’t responded well to his probing questions, Drake thought. If this was a man who had moulded Anya into the operative she had become, then he wasn’t someone to be fucked with.
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I made the mistake of underestimating him,’ she admitted. ‘It did not end well for me.’
And then, just like that, she blinked. The memories vanished, the barriers went back up, and her eyes focused on Drake once more.
‘I told you I was in this country looking for answers. Well, Carpenter is my best chance. He knows more about me than anyone left alive, except Cain. I intend to find out just how much he knows.’
And then at last the truth dawned on Drake. ‘So that’s why you really made contact. You need my help.’
Anya said nothing, though the uncomfortable look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
‘You can say it, you know. It won’t kill you.’
Again he saw that disapproving look. She was tiring of this game. ‘I am an outsider now, Drake. There is only so much I can do alone. You, on the other hand, have the resources of the Agency to call on.’
It wasn’t exactly an admission of weakness, but it was as close as she was ever likely to get.
‘So what are you suggesting here? Collaboration?’
‘Cooperation,’ she replied. ‘Keep me in the loop with your investigation, especially anything concerning Carpenter.’
Drake eyed her dubiously. ‘Cooperation is a two-way street. If you want my help, you’ll have to do better than that.’
Anya said nothing. The silence stretched out, broken only by the drone of car engines outside. He wasn’t giving her anything this time – he wanted a concession.
‘All right,’ she conceded. Rising from her chair, she fished a cellphone from her pocket and tossed it to Drake. ‘Take this.’
He turned it over in his hand. It was a cheap pre-paid model with an old-fashioned LCD screen. The sort of thing that had been all the rage ten years ago.
‘You’re really spoiling me, Anya,’ he remarked with a raised eyebrow.
His attempt at humour wasn’t acknowledged. ‘It is pre-paid and anonymous, which means the Agency can’t listen in.’ She handed him a piece of paper with a number handwritten on it. ‘You can reach me on this number. Memorise it, then destroy it. And don’t use real names or keywords. Understand?’
‘I do,’ he said, already committing her number to memory.
Her precautions might have seemed excessive, but Drake knew as well as anyone the power and resources that the Agency could bring to bear. Any email, message or phone conversation featuring the words ‘Mitchell’, ‘Kourash’, ‘missile’ and so on would be automatically flagged up and passed on to expert analysts for further investigation. Anya wanted to stay very much off their radar.
‘Good.’ With that, she retrieved the chadri she had evidently cast aside on entering the building. ‘You know where Bibi Mahru Hill is?’
Drake nodded. Of course he did. It was hard to miss.
‘I will meet you there at eighteen hundred hours, two days from now. I will be by the swimming pool.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he assured her.
‘And make sure you come alone,’ she warned. ‘If you bring company or I think you have been followed, I won’t be there and you will never see me again.’
He didn’t doubt she meant what she said. That, more than anything else, served to quash any thoughts he had of going against her wishes.
On the verge of leaving, she halted in the doorway and turned around.
‘Oh, and one more thing, Drake.’
He was braced for another stern warning. ‘Yeah?’
For the briefest of moments, she allowed the armour to slip aside. The look in her eyes softened, and he saw a faint, tentative smile.
‘It was good to see you again.’
A moment later, her face was hidden behind the fabric mask as she pulled the uncomfortable garment over her head. She was an old woman again, bent and arthritic, hobbling down the stairs on tired legs and aching joints.
He heard the door open and close down below, leaving him alone.
Chapter 14
Unknown to either Anya or Drake, their meeting had not gone unnoticed.
Standing on the flat roof of a building on the far side of the square and armed with a pair of high-powered binoculars, Kourash watched the old woman hobble across the square, his brows drawn together in a frown.
The chadri made her impossible to identify. Who was this strange new arrival?
He had been keeping Drake under observation since the man had left Horizon headquarters, curious to see what he did next. His curiosity had intensified when Drake had left his vehicle and struck out alone.
Kourash had witnessed the seemingly chance encounter with the old woman, had watched the fleeting look of surprise on Drake’s face when he realised she had pressed something into his hand. Most passers-by had been oblivious to the brief exchange, but Kourash knew such tricks well.
The woman, whoever she was, appeared to be some kind of source who had made contact with Drake. After conducting their rendezvous in an old tea house at the edge of the square, they seemed to have gone their separate ways.
Picking up his encrypted cellphone, he quickly dialled a number from memory. Two of his men were waiting in the square below.
It rang once before it was answered. The recipient said nothing, merely waited for him to speak.
‘The woman is leaving the tea house,’ Kourash began.
‘I see her.’ The voice that replied was a breathless whisper; the result of a shrapnel wound to the throat during a Soviet air strike two decades earlier. The owner of the voice was Ashraf – a lean, tough little Hazara man who Kourash had known since they were children.
A reliable man. Whatever he lacked in size and strength, he made up for in experience, ruthless aggression and the ability to think on his feet.
Standing next to him would be another man, named Faraj. Big, square-shouldered and imposing, he was the muscle to back up Ashraf’s brains. He didn’t talk much, because he didn’t have to. He was there to get things done, not to share his opinions. He followed orders without question, and certainly without remorse.
‘Your orders?’ Ashraf asked.
Kourash paused for a moment, considering his options. He could keep her under observation and see what she did, but tailing people was always problematic. They ran the risk of losing her or exposing themselves. Considering the sleight of hand she had performed earlier, he had to assume she was an operative with a certain awareness of her surroundings.
Another man from his background might have dismissed the threat she posed simply because of her gender, but Kourash was not such a man.
He had known strong women in his time, and knew they were not to be underestimated.
Mina, the woman who had followed him through the long years of war and hardship that had marked so much of their relationship. The woman who had never been afraid to argue, to voi
ce her own opinion, to show him when he was wrong. The woman who had once permitted him a glimpse of true happiness. She had taught him that there was strength and courage to be found even in the gentler sex.
But Mina was gone now, like everything else he had once cared about. He pushed her memory away, angry at himself for such sentimentality, and forced his thoughts back to the present situation.
He was by now all too aware of the danger posed by Drake and his team. His attempt to have the man’s two teammates killed at the crash site had resulted only in the death of one of his own operatives. True, it had at least forced Horizon to pull out and destroy what remained of the chopper, but he recognised that such an attack would have provoked suspicion as well.
He was playing a dangerous game, and on some level he sensed he was starting to lose control of certain elements. To allow this to continue would be to invite disaster. Swift, decisive action was needed now.
He was in the midst of these contemplations when loud, echoing voices began to carry across the evening air. It was the local mosques calling the faithful to Maghrib, the fourth Islamic prayer, offered at sunset.
Having never known true faith, he had no need of such prayers. Still, it provided just the opening he’d been looking for. The streets would be quiet soon as the population of Kabul settled down to make their offering to Allah.
‘Bring her in. Alive.’
Whatever she knew, he would get it out of her. And once he had what he needed from her, he would turn his attention to Drake.
‘It will be done,’ Ashraf promised.
The line clicked off. Pocketing the phone, Kourash raised his binoculars once more and trained them on the square below.
Ashraf and Faraj were already moving, crossing the square in the casual, unhurried manner of two men out for an evening stroll.
Without saying a word, Faraj peeled off right and headed for the van he’d parked a short distance away, while Ashraf carried on in pursuit of the woman. A sensible move. Big as he was, Faraj could attract attention, whereas Ashraf was small and inconspicuous.