Redemption

by Will Jordan

  Her first impression was of being struck in the back with something, like another punch, but different. An instant of coldness was followed by a spreading sticky warmth. Her own blood.

  ‘I told you to stay down, you fucking bitch,’ Ludmilla hissed in her ear, yanking the sharpened piece of wood out of her back. A shiv.

  Her new-found strength vanished, her legs gave way beneath her and she fell to the ground. Blood pooled around her.

  She was in her own world now. She felt no pain, only cold slowly creeping into her limbs. Her heart still beat in her ears, but slower now, laboured, trying to pump blood that was no longer there.

  Vaguely she was aware of Ludmilla screaming and cursing, then there was more shouting from other places – male voices, rough and angry. The wardens had at last intervened.

  Then her consciousness faded and the world went dark.

  ‘I finally stayed down, just like she said,’ Anya finished, looking down at her hands. She still bore the scars of that fight, and the many that came afterwards. ‘Only when they saw the knife and the blood did the guards step in. They took me to the infirmary. I suppose they saved my life, though at the time I wished they hadn’t.’

  She slowly tensed her hands into fists. ‘I was tired, Drake. So tired. I just wanted it to be over.’ The muscles in her throat tightened as she swallowed. ‘I prayed for death that night in the hospital bed. I even thought to tear the stitches open and let the wound bleed out. But I didn’t do it. I kept remembering the fight, the moment I broke her nose. I saw the looks in the eyes of all those girls. Someone had done what they never could, someone had upset their world. And for a moment, they believed in me. I was more than just another prisoner.’

  He saw a faint smile then, and a flash of old pride in her eyes. ‘If I could do all that with one clumsy punch, imagine what I could do with an entire lifetime.’

  Kaunas had been the most brutal but effective learning experience of her life, until that point at least. She had learned to stand up for herself, defend herself, take back the life that had been stolen from her. It was an outlet, a means of reasserting control.

  She learned to work within the system while simultaneously planning to escape from it. Whenever she was called up for hearings or behavioural reviews, her conduct was exemplary, her manners impeccable. She was respectful and cooperative to the people whom the State entrusted to make decisions for her.

  But for any girl who tried to hurt or intimidate her, she showed no mercy. She had learned to leave such emotions behind, knowing they were weaknesses she could ill afford in Kaunas.

  Life in a State-run prison, even for minors, was a brutal struggle for survival. Only the strong prevailed, and she was determined to prevail.

  It wasn’t just her outlook that changed. Gradually her soft and weak body was transformed, developing hard, firm musculature that she learned to use to great effect. Always fast and agile, she now commanded real physical strength. She developed a tolerance for pain that she never would have thought possible, easily able to shrug off the cuts and bruises that inevitably came from fighting. She cut her hair short so her opponents couldn’t grab at it; another luxury she could no longer afford in that place.

  She began to apply herself intellectually as well, knowing she would need every skill and scrap of knowledge at her disposal when she was released. Naturally bright and intelligent at school, she had fallen far behind during her time at the orphanage as she lapsed into depression and indolence. But at Kaunas she threw herself back into learning. She spent long hours in the seldom-used library, absorbing everything from history to geography, mathematics, physics and philosophy.

  She became enamoured with Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, eagerly devouring the volume again and again, memorising those lessons she considered most useful to her. And from this, she began to develop her own philosophy on how to live her life; a life free of compromise, free of weakness and doubt. Life for her became a series of absolutes.

  ‘My time there changed me. It made me fight back, made me take control again.’ She nodded slowly, as if to herself. ‘It wasn’t until I had given up all hope that I found a reason to live. By the time I was released, I was … different. I think I had learned to leave my old life behind.’

  Drake had long since stopped what he was doing, listening spellbound to every word she said.

  She managed a faint smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘For listening.’

  Drake glanced away, saying nothing. He looked down at the wrench again, and the wheel that had thus far defeated him. Kneeling down beside it, he picked up the tool once more, fitted it onto the bolt and, with every ounce of strength he could command, strained against it until his muscles trembled.

  There was an aching groan of protesting metal, and suddenly the bolt turned, released from its grip at last.

  It took another five minutes to lever the damaged wheel free, manoeuvre the spare into place and bolt it on. Sweating, breathing hard and shaking from his efforts, Drake almost collapsed into the passenger’s seat as Anya gunned the engine and threw it into gear.

  They were on their way again.

  Chapter 53

  Mabahith Headquarters, Riyadh

  ‘AS I SAID before, we have good reason to believe that two wanted terrorists are operating in your country,’ Dietrich said, explaining their mission for the third time with mounting impatience. ‘We were sent in to find and arrest them. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you any more beyond that.’

  They had been ferried from the airport to the Mabahith’s headquarters building – a big square structure that reminded him more of a fortress or prison than an administrative centre – and escorted to Tariq’s personal office to brief him on the situation.

  Tariq for his part did not look impressed with Dietrich’s explanation. Seated behind his desk with a cup of strong black tea – he hadn’t offered them any – in front of him, he seemed quite content to keep them here all day.

  Behind him was a younger man in an olive green uniform, standing ramrod straight and with his hands clasped behind his back. He hadn’t introduced himself, but Dietrich presumed he was some kind of aide or subordinate.

  ‘Mr Dietrich, you will understand that the internal security of Saudi Arabia is the responsibility of my agency. If there is a threat, I need to know the exact nature of it. Otherwise you may as well board the next flight home.’

  They were wasting time here. They should have tried to slip into the country covertly, just like he’d suggested. At least then they wouldn’t have to deal with assholes like this.

  Clenching his fists, Dietrich struggled to hold in check his growing anger. ‘We were promised cooperation from your government.’

  Tariq spread his arms to encompass his office, and the distant skyscrapers of Riyadh visible from his window. ‘You are here, are you not?’

  ‘Indeed we are. And if we stay here in your office much longer, two high-value suspects will escape.’ He fixed Tariq with what he hoped was a piercing gaze. At least, it was the best he could manage after fifteen hours in the air. ‘And when I report back to Langley, I’ll be sure to mention your name.’

  Tariq’s expression didn’t change, but Dietrich thought he saw the man pale just a little.

  Sensing a confrontation brewing, the young man leaned forward and spoke quietly in Arabic so the three operatives couldn’t understand. Tariq immediately cut in with a burst of angry words, silencing him. The younger man waited until he had finished before speaking again.

  At last, whatever argument he was making seemed to cut through the older man’s anger, and he nodded reluctantly, turning his attention back to Dietrich and the others.

  ‘We will allow you to conduct your investigation,’ he decided, as if the entire thing had been his idea. He gestured to the young officer behind him. ‘My aide, Lieutenant al Ameen, will be your liaison. He will take responsibility for you.’

  Dietrich
got the message. Tariq was pawning them off onto a subordinate. If they caused trouble, the blame would fall on the younger man. If they were successful, Tariq would be sure to take all the credit.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘This operation is still under Saudi jurisdiction,’ Tariq was quick to remind him. ‘All intelligence gathered will be shared with us. Do we understand each other?’

  Go fuck yourself, Dietrich thought. ‘We do.’

  Al Majma’ah, Ar Riyad Province

  It was almost dark by the time they pulled into the outskirts of the small desert town, with the sun just touching the horizon and long shadows stretching across the dusty ground.

  They had covered a good 100 miles or so since leaving Riyadh, putting them within range of the Iraqi border if they left early tomorrow.

  Tired, sweaty and with dust stinging his eyes, Drake stepped out and looked around.

  There wasn’t much to see. The houses around them were two-storey affairs, mostly weathered sandstone but with a few bare brick dwellings scattered around. There were few people out and about at that time of day; almost everyone was attending Maghrib, the Islamic prayer offered at sunset. A scooter chugged past at the far end of the road, exhaust billowing grey smoke. The place was a stark contrast to the frantic activity of Riyadh.

  Drake watched a pack of mangy-looking dogs nosing at an upturned bin nearby, searching for food amongst the garbage.

  ‘What exactly are we supposed to find here?’

  ‘Help,’ was Anya’s simple answer as she slammed her door shut. ‘We’ll need it to get across the border tomorrow. Stay with me and don’t cause trouble.’

  ‘That’s my line,’ he remarked as they approached a nearby house, slightly larger and more elaborate than the others.

  Enclosed by a high sandstone wall, and with a single wrought-iron gate leading to a small courtyard beyond, it had obviously been an impressive property once. Now, however, the gate was rusting, the small fountain in the centre had long since dried up, and straggling weeds grew between the flagstones. The windows on the ground floor were shuttered, the heavy wooden front door locked. Its paint was peeling, its boards worn, but it still looked solid.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ Drake remarked as they approached the front door.

  ‘He’s here,’ Anya assured him. ‘And he knows we are too.’

  She pounded on the door.

  Nothing happened.

  The seconds stretched out, a dog barked in the distance, the desert wind stirred up sand and dust around their feet, and the door did not move.

  Drake was starting to wonder if she’d made a mistake. Anya had been away for four years, after all. There was a good chance that whatever contact she’d once had here had since moved on.

  ‘Maybe we should—’

  He was cut short by the rasp of a bolt being withdrawn, and the click of a lock disengaging. A moment later, the door swung open.

  Oh, shit.

  The giant standing before them filled almost the entire doorway, easily weighing 300 pounds and standing a good 6 inches taller than Drake. The impression of sheer mass was enhanced by his ankle-length shirt of spun wool, which seemed to flow down from his broad shoulders like a tent.

  In that moment, Drake became acutely conscious of their lack of weaponry. They had been forced to leave the Glock behind in Miami, and there hadn’t been time to find another weapon after their arrival in Riyadh.

  If this guy turned out to be hostile, they were in trouble. Even Anya would have her hands full trying to subdue a man twice her size.

  His dark gaze took in both visitors, giving the woman a particularly hostile look. She wasn’t wearing the traditional abaya required of women in public. He mumbled something in Arabic, concentrating his attention on Drake.

  Fortunately Anya was able to step in, speaking quickly and, it seemed, fluently, in the man’s own language. Much to Drake’s surprise, her attitude had changed in an instant, becoming almost deferential and submissive. Her head was lowered demurely, her eyes cast downward.

  But despite her sudden display of gentle femininity, he could see she was holding her body in preparation, muscles taut and ready to react in an instant if he tried to attack her.

  Drake couldn’t tell what she was saying, but he did pick up on the word Hussam being used several times. The name of her contact, he assumed.

  The big man listened as she spoke, his expression changing from one of outright anger that a woman dared to speak out of turn, to surprise, confusion and growing comprehension as her words sank in.

  When she finished speaking, he stood silently in the doorway, mulling over everything she had said. Then at last he grunted something and stepped aside, beckoning for them to come in.

  Giving Drake an encouraging look, Anya stepped inside. With little choice if he didn’t fancy keeping the stray dogs company, Drake followed her, giving the giant as wide a berth as possible.

  They were standing in a wide tiled hallway with doors leading off on either side. The walls were bare stone painted over white, though they were largely covered by several big tapestries set at intervals along the corridor.

  They could smell food, tea and tobacco smoke. Voices echoed from further down the corridor.

  With the giant keeping a wary eye on them, they were led onward and conducted into the second room on the left.

  The air was thick with tobacco smoke, blurring details and stinging Drake’s eyes. Still, even he could tell that the place was busy. Half a dozen men of various ages sat scattered around the room on padded cushions, smoking, drinking tea and talking together.

  The talk abruptly ceased when Drake and Anya entered the room, an uneasy silence descending on the gathering as half a dozen pairs of eyes fastened on the two strangers.

  Drake said and did nothing. Not knowing a word of Arabic, there wasn’t much he could say in any case. Better to wait and see what happened.

  One man rose from his seat, which was no easy task considering how overweight he was. He was dressed in a crumpled grey business suit, but even this couldn’t conceal the voluminous gut hanging over his belt.

  He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a thick greying beard, wide fleshy face and eyes like coals. His wavy hair, probably once thick and dark, was now grey and thinning on top.

  His eyes never left the woman as he barked a sharp command. Straight away the other men in the room started to pack up their belongings, finishing off their tea or stubbing out cigarettes.

  One by one they filed out in silence, each giving both Drake and Anya a hostile glare, until only the fat man and the giant remained.

  The first took a step towards her, his fists clenched, his eyes piercing the smoky gloom. Drake felt the irrational need to interject himself between them, though he rejected the notion as soon as it entered his head. Anya had neither need nor desire for his protection.

  Stopping in front of her, the fat man looked her up and down slowly, as if comparing the woman before him with some mental picture stored away in his mind.

  ‘You’ve gotten old,’ he said at last, speaking in gruff, accented English.

  Anya stared right back at him, her icy blue eyes boring into his. ‘And you’ve gotten fat.’

  Drake held his breath, sure she had just signed their death warrants.

  But to his surprise, the fat man’s face broke out into a wide grin.

  ‘Ameera!’ he laughed, throwing his arms around the woman and embracing her in a crushing bear hug. ‘Praise Allah! I had never thought to see you again! Come, let me look at you properly.’

  He pulled back and looked her over again, beaming with joy like a father reunited with a long-lost daughter.

  ‘You grow more beautiful with each passing year,’ he decided, all trace of his former hostility gone now. ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Too long,’ the woman replied, sadness in her eyes.

  The man was perceptive enough to realise that was a conversation for late
r. ‘And who is your young companion?’ he asked, turning his attention to Drake.

  ‘His name is Ryan Drake. We’re travelling together. Ryan, this is Hussam. He’s an old friend.’

  Hussam thrust a hand out to him. ‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said as Drake shook it. ‘You travel in good company, my friend.’

  ‘It’s certainly never dull around her,’ he remarked with a pointed glance at his female companion.

  Hussam laughed again. ‘This much is true.’

  ‘I apologise for our sudden arrival, Hussam,’ Anya began. ‘I would not have come here if there was another way, but you are the only man in the country I trust.’

  ‘Of course. You are always welcome here, Ameera.’ He looked at both of them, then gestured to the seating pads laid out around the room. ‘Come, sit and we’ll talk. I believe you’ve already met my nephew Haifaa,’ he added with a nod to the giant by the door. ‘He is good for frightening small children, but he is harmless. Mostly.’

  Drake was inclined to take that one with a pinch of salt. No man who looked as though he could crush boulders with his bare hands was harmless.

  They sat down on the stuffed cushions, and within moments a woman came in to serve them tea and bowls of dates. Drake assumed she was Hussam’s wife, though she looked many years younger than him.

  As he’d expected, her body was hidden under a shapeless black robe called an abaya, though her face was uncovered. He guessed her to be in her mid-thirties, neither beautiful nor ugly, but rather plump and with an oval face, a prominent nose and a weak jawline.

  She avoided eye contact with him, and he didn’t spend long looking at her. In this neck of the woods, it was impolite to show a man’s wife anything beyond casual disinterest. The last thing he wanted was to put Haifaa’s peaceful nature to the test.

  The tea was strong and sweet, served without milk in the traditional Middle Eastern style. It certainly wasn’t to Drake’s taste, and after a couple of hours spent bouncing along hot desert roads, the thought of a steaming hot beverage was even less appealing. However, a stern look from Anya persuaded him to accept a cup anyway.