Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  She scoured the clearing for inspiration, and when she returned to the spot where the footprints disappeared, she noticed a slight change in the sound of her own steps. They weren’t deadened by the soft soil, but instead had some resonance. She crouched down and pushed her fingers into the warm topsoil, burrowing until she felt something she wasn’t expecting: damp, soft material. Ash pulled, but it wouldn’t budge, so she knelt down and dug until she’d exposed what it was: a tightly woven mesh that was full of mulchy soil. She worked along the mesh, digging the surface away until she’d exposed a perfect two-foot square that revealed the edges of a trapdoor, with a recessed handle. Ash pulled it and found herself lifting a thick metal door that concealed a flight of concrete steps. She dropped the door against the soft earth and started down.

  There were twenty steps, leading to a narrow concrete tunnel that ended in a thick metal security door. The keypad beside the door had been tampered with and the exposed wires cut, stripped, and rerouted. Ash pulled the handle, and, to her surprise, the door opened. She stepped inside what looked like a service area, complete with generators, air conditioning units, and a heating system. Everything was old, maybe from the late seventies or early eighties, but the lights were on and the machines seemed to be functioning. Ash looked at the thick concrete walls and guessed that she was in a civil defense bunker, a remnant of the Cold War. She followed the mesh walkway through the plant room and came to another steel door, this one with a multi-latch pressure locking system. She turned the central handle and all the latches opened with a loud clunk.

  Ash stepped through the door into a bunk room containing thirty beds stacked in columns of three. Only one of the bunks had bedclothes on it, but when Ash touched it she saw that the sheet was covered in a thick layer of dust. She opened another pressure door and moved into a canteen. Two large tables were flanked by plastic benches. A catering stove lay against one wall and next to it was a long counter that ended in an industrial sink. She noticed some unwashed metal bowls and dirty cutlery in the sink, all covered with furry mold.

  Another pressure door opened on to an operations room. Pre-digital control systems and monitors lined the walls, but Ash’s eyes were immediately drawn to a square of tables and chairs in the heart of the room. The tables were covered with contemporary computer terminals, but more striking than the machines was the sight of a man in a brown hooded top working at one of them. He had his back to Ash and was oblivious to her presence, thanks to the large headphones that covered his ears. Ash drew her pistol and stepped forward slowly.

  “Drop it!” a voice yelled, and Ash turned to see a tall man in a pair of black jeans and a camouflage jacket pointing a gun at her. It was a nickel-plated Colt .380, a street tool, not the weapon of a professional.

  Ash guessed the guy was in his early twenties and she sensed his fear and uncertainty.

  “I’m a federal agent,” she informed him coolly.

  The guy at the computer still hadn’t noticed what was happening.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Colt .380 said brashly. “I’ll fuckin’ drop you.”

  Ash wheeled round and opened fire, winging him in the shoulder. The gunshots were loud enough to penetrate the headphones, and, as Colt .380 fell howling to the floor, the guy at the terminal caught sight of her.

  “Don’t move!” Ash yelled, but the shocked man was running before the words had left her mouth.

  The headphones fell away, and as Ash opened fire, he ducked behind a huge, solid-state mainframe. The heavy machine shielded him from Ash’s shots, but before she could think about pursuit, Colt .380 started shooting, his bullets flying inches from her head, thudding into the metal around her. She dropped to one knee and returned fire, hitting the man three times, square in the chest.

  She turned and set off in pursuit of the hooded man, threading her way between the dormant old computers and the modern machines that filled the room. She came to another doorway and stepped into a long corridor. The man in the hooded top stood at the other end, his back to her as he concentrated on a terminal next to a set of mesh steps.

  “Freeze!” Ash yelled, but the guy ignored her and carried on with whatever he was doing. She moved purposefully toward him, pistol raised. “Put your hands where I can see them,” she commanded.

  The man backed toward her and slowly raised his hands, but as Ash approached, he bolted forward and bounded up the steps. She opened fire but he was too quick and the shots struck metal, creating a shower of sparks. She ran to the terminal and saw the words “Command Destruct” flashing above a timer that was cycling its way down from 00:33 . . . 00:32 . . .

  Ash ran up the stairs, which led to another steel door. She tried the handle—locked. The hooded man had fled through a second exit and locked it behind him, clearly believing he’d sealed her in. She bounded down the stairs and glanced at the terminal: 00:24 . . . 00:23 . . .

  She sprinted along the corridor, back to the control room, and caught sight of a board covered with photographs of John Wallace and Pendulum’s other victims. Beneath it was a table loaded with folders and documents, and even at a distance Ash could see the victims’ names on the papers. Behind the table stood an open locker that contained Pendulum body armor. This was Pendulum’s base, and there, within her grasp, was a trove of evidence that could have proved what she now knew for certain: Max Byrne had not been working alone. But Ash did not even skip a step as she raced through the control room, trying to guess how long she had. Her lungs burned, and the wound that scored her neck seethed with pain. Ash ignored both and forced herself on, past the man she’d shot, through the canteen, and into the bunk room. She expected every pounding step she took to be her last, but she made it through the plant room and into the concrete tunnel beyond. She flew up the hard staircase and was a few steps from the open trapdoor when the shockwave of a massive explosion caught her and sent her hurtling through the gap.

  Ash landed heavily on the soft forest floor and looked round to see a jet of angry fire shooting out of the trapdoor, the scorching flames licking the sky. She tried to crawl away but her body failed her, and she collapsed where she lay. She fished for her cell phone, but even that simple motion was beyond her, and, as she brought the device toward her head, she passed out.

  Ash lay unconscious in the moist dirt, the forest rumbling and quaking with the force of secondary explosions. Her cell phone rang, the screen shining with the words “New York Field Office,” but the call went unanswered. Soon the device fell silent.

  25

  “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “Senior Special Agent Ash is unavailable. Can I try someone else for you?”

  Frustrated, Wallace hung up and scanned the departure lounge. The international terminal was only a few years old and was a far cry from the crumbling concrete Soviet-era building that was now used for domestic flights. Panoramic windows looked out over the runway, and with only two more flights scheduled to leave Kabul that night, the airport was quiet. Wallace was on edge, watching for any subtle signs of trouble. None of the other travelers took the slightest notice of him and the armed airport police shuffled around, exhibiting little emotion beyond boredom. He moved away from the payphone and returned to his seat in the far corner of the lounge, its position buying him a degree of isolation and an unrestricted view of the rest of the building.

  The attack at Ka Faroushi had sent him spiraling into paranoid despair. When he’d removed Pendulum’s mask and seen Mike Rosen’s face, he guessed that there were others who wanted him dead. Rosen had sent Ghulan and his men into the mountains and put a quarter-of-a-million-dollar bounty on his head, which was a fortune large enough to get every man in Afghanistan after him. Tr’ok Si’ol, Wallace thought, recalling Vosuruk’s last words. He was less a sad wolf and more a harried fox, hunted by well-resourced, savage hounds, unable to comprehend why they’d go to such lengths to see him dead. The only plausible explanation was revenge, and that put one man squarely in the frame: Max Byrne’s father.


  After fleeing the mob, Wallace had driven west along Maiwand Road, desperately trying to figure out what to do. He’d pulled into a parking lot off Parmir Square and reversed into a spot by the embankment, overlooking the river. No one could approach from behind, and he had a clear view of any vehicles coming into the lot. He had retrieved Bodur’s cell phone from the glove compartment, but despite numerous attempts, he couldn’t get the device to dial an international number. He had considered phoning the British embassy, but the last time he’d been hunted, the authorities had been his worst enemy, giving Pendulum reports and records to hack. He tried to remember whether Rosen had still been in custody when they’d finally confronted Pendulum. He was pretty sure the FBI wouldn’t have released him that quickly, so he couldn’t have been the man Ash had seen talking to the masked killer. That meant at least two people had helped Pendulum, and Wallace feared there could be more. Harsh experience had taught him that his best chance of survival was to stay off the grid. There were only two people he really trusted in the world: Christine Ash and Patrick Bailey, both of whom had risked their lives to save him, but without an international phone both were out of reach.

  Dozens of people had seen him escape in the pick-up, so he had to ditch it. He grabbed his own clothes from the back seat and quickly changed out of the Nuristani attire Vosuruk had given him. Westerners were still pretty rare in Kabul, but not as rare as one trying to pass himself off as a local. Dressed in his filthy jeans, T-shirt, and his Deerhunter jacket, he emerged from the pick-up and crossed the lot to Chihil Sotun Road, where he’d hailed a battered old taxi and asked the driver to take him to the airport.

  The sun had set during their journey, and Wallace had taken comfort from the encroaching darkness. Shadow was his friend; the gloom made it less likely he’d be spotted. They’d cleared the checkpoint on the road to the airport without incident, and, when they’d arrived at the international terminal, Wallace had paid the driver, expressing his gratitude for his safe passage with a twenty-dollar tip. The gnarly old man had cracked a smile as he drove away, bemused by the filthy foreigner without any luggage. Grateful for his long-standing practice of keeping his passport, cash, and credit card on him at all times, once inside the terminal, Wallace had spent the best part of two hours shuttling between numerous Ariana Afghan Airlines desks until someone figured out how he could buy a ticket on the spot. His nerves had grown more tattered and frayed with every passing moment, and he’d fully expected to be accosted and arrested by armed airport police. In the end, after pleading, cajoling, and outright begging, and a process that had seemed to involve the cashier consulting with every Ariana employee in the terminal, Wallace had been sold a seat on the last plane out, a six-hour trip to Istanbul, and had overpaid for a connecting British Airways flight from the historic Turkish city to Heathrow.

  After joining the long, slow queue that wound through passport control and security, he had finally made it to the departure lounge, where he’d been given directions to the payphones and had tried to call Bailey. Without Bailey’s number, which was stored in his missing phone, Wallace had to rely on the international operator who had struggled to connect him to Paddington Green Police Station. When, after a dozen attempts, Wallace had finally been put through to the information line of Paddington train station, he’d given up and tried Ash. The international operator had no trouble reaching the FBI’s New York Field Office, but Ash had been unavailable.

  As he sat in the airport, nervously watching everyone around him, Wallace considered calling New York again and asking to leave Ash a message. If anything happened to him, at least she’d have recorded confirmation that Pendulum had not been working alone. Paranoia prevented him from acting on the thought. If that message reached the wrong ears, it would almost certainly place Ash in danger. He knew that his best course of action was to lie low until he reached London and could contact Bailey. When the PA system crackled to life with the announcement of Ariana Flight 719, he felt his stomach churn, and as he stood and strode toward the gate, he could not help but think that fate was going to play a cruel trick on him. The plane was scheduled to depart from Gate 12, a short walk from the departure lounge.

  He entered the glass-paneled corridor that led to the aircraft and saw two uniformed police officers walking toward him. Unlike their colleagues inside the terminal, these two looked alert and scanned the faces of passing passengers. Wallace’s mouth went dry and his legs began to tremble. He considered turning around, but his body was unresponsive and his feet stopped moving. He stood frozen in the corridor, unable to do anything other than gawk at the approaching policemen, his eyes inexorably drawn to the submachine guns clasped by their bellies. With a monumental effort of will, he forced his arm up and his head down, and pretended to check his watch. He stood there, not daring to take a breath until the two uniformed men passed him.

  Burning adrenaline subsided, and Wallace carried on toward the illuminated sign that read “12.” He joined a short queue of passengers and resisted the urge to kiss the flight attendant when she checked his boarding pass and waved him through. The flight crew didn’t comment on his disheveled appearance when he boarded the plane; he was certain they’d seen far worse in Afghanistan. He hurried along the aisle to his seat, which was two rows behind the wing of the Airbus 310. As the last of the passengers boarded, he realized the flight would be less than half full and that he had three seats to himself. He took the one nearest the window and watched impatiently as the ground crew finished loading luggage on to the plane. Even when the plane finally reversed from the terminal and taxied toward the runway, his thoughts teemed with images of police cars tearing across the tarmac, blocking the plane’s path—but the engines roared and propelled the aircraft into the night sky without incident. Wallace did not relax until forty minutes into the flight, when the Airbus leveled out at 31,000 feet. With Kabul long behind him and Afghanistan no more than an occasional faint light on the shadowed landscape far below, he finally allowed himself to slump back. Overcome by exhaustion, he immediately fell into a deep sleep.

  26

  Sound rose and fell like waves crashing against a rocky headland. Lights winked in and out of existence and danced across her vision, and the people around her seemed to move without traveling. Ash knew she needed medical attention, but had refused anything other than a cursory examination by the ambulance crew that had been summoned to the scene. She’d regained consciousness at 5:37 p.m., registering the exact time on her phone, which lay beside her on the forest floor. The first call she’d made had been to Reeves, but the details of what she’d said to him were lost to a groggy haze. She couldn’t remember whether Reeves had suggested 911, but that was her next call. The emergency operator struggled to pinpoint her exact location, so Ash wiped the blood from her eyes, got to her feet and staggered through the forest, heading in the rough direction of the underground exit that the hooded man had used to escape. After two hundred feet she’d seen scorched trees a little off to her left and found another blown-out trapdoor. The concentration and physical effort required to stay on her feet had made Ash sweat and she’d quickly become fatigued, leaning against trees for support as she lurched on. She’d careened from one trunk to another for a hundred feet, until she’d come to a wide, dusty trail. Ash’s estimate of her distance from the radio mast had enabled the emergency operator to identify the trail, and the ambulance had reached her twenty minutes later. Pocono Mountain Police officers Gary Chaffee and Erica Haas had arrived ten minutes after that, and, when Ash explained what had happened, they’d alerted their chief, who had implemented a cordon and dispatched another two units and a fire crew to the scene.

  The paramedics had cleaned her up and advised her to let them take her to an ER, but Ash was determined to stay at the scene, and had sent the frustrated men away with a promise to follow their advice if her condition deteriorated. Reeves, Miller, and Romero had arrived a little over an hour later. Ash knew they’d spoken to her, but couldn’t r
emember anything of the conversation. Every so often, Reeves would tell her that he had things under control and that she should go to hospital, but she couldn’t leave. As darkness had swept over the forest and local PD had fired up field lights powered by a portable generator, she had sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree and watched the world around her skip through time. She was losing moments to intermittent blackouts.

  “You look like shit,” Reeves said, suddenly beside her. “You need to go to a hospital. Miller will take you.”

  The world suddenly came into focus. Miller and Romero were on their phones, pacing around as they talked urgently, while the local police searched the area. Ash concentrated, trying to get a better handle on reality.

  A five-man fire crew moved in and out of the bunker collecting the equipment they needed to make it safe. The Pocono chief, whose name Ash couldn’t remember, was a gaunt, tanned man with a short black beard, who reminded her of an old-school cowboy. He stood beside his all-black SUV, directing the search and liaising with his radio dispatcher. Ash could hear him asking for the ETA of the forensics team.

  “I gotta see inside,” Ash told Reeves, aware that her speech was uneven. “See what’s left.”

  “Firefighters say there’s severe damage,” Reeves told her. “And whatever is in there will wait. You need a doctor, Chris.”

  “And the perp?” Ash asked, as the world warped around her.

  “We got nothing,” Reeves replied. “Without a description, the cordon was window dressing. He was probably long gone by the time it went up.”

  Ash hung her head. “At least we know Pendulum wasn’t working alone,” she said quietly.