The bastard was going to make him go through every motion. ‘Call them off! I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
Glancing at the would-be rapists, Hawkins raised a hand. ‘Hold up, boys. Let’s hear what Ryan has to say.’ He turned his attention back to Drake, prepared to have them resume their horrific task if he didn’t get the answer he wanted. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘The Alamo,’ Drake mumbled, head hung low in defeat, unable to look at either Frost or Hawkins. ‘That was our fallback location.’
‘You’ll have to enlighten me. What is the Alamo? A place?’
‘A ship,’ Drake explained. ‘An old fishing trawler, moored off the coast of Marseille. That was our safe house before we left for Pakistan. All our mission planning, our equipment, everything came from there.’
Hawkins cocked his head and nodded thoughtfully. ‘A mobile safe house. Very enterprising of you, Ryan.’
His expression was cold and assessing as he stared at Drake, looking for any hint of deception. The seconds seemed to stretch out into eternity as he hung there in silence, awaiting Hawkins’ decision.
‘All right,’ Hawkins said at last, apparently deciding the intel was worth acting on. ‘That wasn’t such a chore now, was it?’
Drake said nothing. He had no words for what had just happened.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to fuck you over now,’ he promised. ‘I’m a man of my word. You helped me, so I’ll help you.’
Approaching Frost, Hawkins leered at her appreciatively. She glared back at him, breathing hard, making no attempt to cover herself, before Hawkins leaned in and grasped the knife.
‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad we didn’t have to go through with that,’ he whispered to her. ‘Never did appreciate having rapists on my team.’
Frost opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment Hawkins pulled the knife free with a single hard yank, and her burgeoning insult turned into a cry of pain. Hawkins allowed her to slide off the table onto the ground, clutching her maimed and bleeding hand.
‘Clean her up, dress that wound,’ he instructed the guards. ‘Nobody touches her without my permission. Clear?’
None of them was foolish enough to argue.
‘And get my buddy here some clothes and food,’ he added. ‘I’d say he’s earned it.’
Hawkins was about to leave when a final thought occurred to him. ‘Oh, and Ryan?’
Drake could barely bring himself to look at the man who had taken everything from him, but somehow he forced himself.
‘Be a real shame if I was to travel all that way for nothing,’ he said with a smile. ‘Let’s just hope your tip pans out. For all our sakes.’
Chapter 4
Krakow, Poland
Given its distinctly undomesticated owner, Anya had expected Alex’s apartment to be a cluttered, disorganized space filled with unwashed clothes, dirty dishes and takeaway food containers.
What she found instead was a small but neat one-bedroom flat situated about half a mile east of the Vistula, overlooking a confluence of several roads and tram lines.
Furniture and decorations were minimal, the living room containing no more than a plain leather couch and a TV. The walls were a neutral beige colour, the floors covered by cheap laminate wood. The kitchen unit and breakfast bar overlooking the living area were equally clean, bland and functional.
There were no paintings or photographs, no unopened mail by the door, no unusual foods or condiments in the kitchen, not even any magazines or books. She was willing to bet the other rooms were similarly furnished, and equally devoid of character.
This lack of personalization might have struck the average visitor as odd, but to Anya it made perfect sense. This was a drop-and-go kind of place, the sort of living arrangement that she’d become all too accustomed to over the past few years. If Alex encountered trouble and had to leave Krakow in a hurry, he could do so knowing he was leaving nothing of financial or personal value behind. More importantly, there was nothing here that could help potential enemies track him.
She should have felt a measure of professional approval at the very practical measures he’d taken to protect his own safety, yet strangely Alex’s flat left her with a lingering sense of disappointment. She knew all too well the loneliness and isolation that this kind of life entailed, and felt a momentary pang of guilt for inflicting it on him.
‘I know,’ Alex said, perhaps seeing her thoughts reflected in her expression. ‘You’re blown away by the decor, aren’t you…?’ He shrugged, trying to break the uneasy stand-off. ‘This isn’t exactly a long-term arrangement. And it’s not like I’ve had the money to—’
‘It’s all right, Alex,’ she reassured him, holding up a hand to forestall further explanation. ‘I understand.’
‘Right, well,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘We’d better get started.’
Making for the kitchen, he opened the fridge and fished out a can of Red Bull. Anya noticed there were several more in there, and recalled that people in his profession had a fondness for such beverages that bordered on addiction – not that she could blame them. Staring at a computer screen until late into the night was, she imagined, a laborious job that taxed one’s mental stamina in the extreme.
Downing a gulp of the energy drink, Alex settled himself at the only other piece of furniture in the room – a small, efficient writing desk on which rested a laptop computer, plugged in and standing by.
‘Do you always leave that in plain view?’ she asked as she removed her coat, surprised that he’d be so careless with such a goldmine of personal information when he appeared otherwise fastidious about keeping his apartment sterile.
Alex grinned and opened the desk drawer, revealing a simple portable keyboard nestled within.
‘The laptop’s rigged with an anti-tamper device – a little trick I learned back in the old days. Anyone hits a button on the inbuilt keyboard, it automatically formats and overwrites the entire drive. Even if someone had a gun to my head, I couldn’t recover the contents,’ he explained, plugging the spare keyboard into the side of the computer. ‘The only way to use it is through a USB port.’
Anya nodded, impressed by this simple but very effective trick. As Alex logged into the system, she laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned over to get a look at the screen. She would rather not admit that her ribs were paining her, and that it was an effort to stand up straight.
‘So how does this work?’ she asked.
‘First you need to tell me everything you know about Cain’s daughter. Full name, date of birth, physical description, schools attended, any medical conditions. Every piece of information helps.’
Anya closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the young woman that Cain had helped bring into this world. A life born of his. She wondered then just how much of him was in his daughter, how much she knew of her father’s work, whether or not she agreed with his methods.
‘She was born… 22 September 1990,’ she said, searching back through her memory. ‘Her full name was Lauren Louise Cain, but she will probably be living under a different identity now. I know nothing of her medical history or the schools she went to.’
Alex lowered his head. ‘So that’s it? We’ve got a date of birth and a possibly useless name. Not a lot to go on, Anya.’
‘I didn’t say this would be easy. Why do you think I asked for your help?’
‘For my handsome features and charming wit,’ he replied sarcastically. ‘But even I need data to work with.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘Maybe I can trace her through other family members. What’s her mother’s name?’
When Anya didn’t respond, Alex spun around, a look of dawning comprehension on his face.
‘No fucking way,’ he said in disbelief. ‘Tell me it isn’t you.’
In that regard at least, Anya could afford to be completely honest. ‘I have never had children, Alex. Never,’ she replied firmly, much to his disappointment. ‘And as for her mother, I know li
ttle about her except that she’s dead.’
That wasn’t strictly true, but her mother’s true name and identity had been well hidden throughout Anya’s life. What little information Anya knew about her would likely lead to a dead end. Anyway, there were some things she was still unwilling to reveal.
‘Okay…’ Alex said, drawing the word out. ‘Well, we know who her dad is at least. Where were they when Lauren was born? Was he serving overseas?’
Anya shook her head. ‘No, he was based out of Langley.’
‘Right, so presumably Cain lived somewhere within the DC area. That’ll have to do as a starting point. Tell me, were they close?’
Anya blinked, jolted from her thoughts. ‘Close?’
‘Yes, close,’ he repeated, vexed by her passivity. ‘Did he love and care about her? Was he the sort of guy to play an active part in her childhood, or pack her off to boarding schools and forget about her?’
Anya thought about it for a moment. Marcus Cain was many things, but a natural father wasn’t one of them. Even during the time she’d known him, he had spoken little of his daughter or the brief relationship that had brought her into the world, preferring to devote himself slavishly to his work. She certainly couldn’t imagine him caring for an infant, changing soiled diapers or doing any of the other things most parents did for their children.
Part of Anya had always wondered why he’d maintained any ties to the child at all, when it would have been easier simply to put her up for adoption or find some other arrangement. Instead he had paid others to raise her, care for her, school her. Keeping her close but distant at the same time.
Something to be observed from a distance, but never truly made part of his life. Protected, but not loved.
‘He wasn’t close to her,’ Anya said at length. ‘Not at first anyway. But he took his responsibilities as a father seriously.’
‘Fair enough,’ Alex conceded. ‘Well, the first thing to do is find where she was born.’
Anya frowned. ‘Why?’
‘The secret to finding someone is to start at the beginning and work your way forward. Unless her mum gave birth in a cave somewhere, young Lauren has to have a birth certificate, hospital records, social security information, all the rest. That’s my starting point. Once I’ve got something more concrete to work with, I can put the pieces together and figure out where the hell she ended up.’
‘Cain will have hidden or destroyed her records.’
Alex’s grin was that of a master dealing with an overconfident student. ‘Nobody’s that well hidden, especially from me. One way or another I’ll find her.’
She admired his optimism. She just hoped it wasn’t misplaced.
‘Do you need anything else from me?’ Anya asked, finding it hard to keep her fatigue from showing. She had barely stopped or eaten, never mind slept, since fleeing Pakistan two days ago. Pain, constant tension and simple exhaustion were three factors that even she couldn’t withstand for ever.
‘Not right now.’
‘Good. Then you won’t mind if I rest for a while.’ It went against Anya’s better judgement to let her guard down, even amongst relative allies like Alex, but there wasn’t much choice.
‘Bed’s yours if you want it. I’d be lying if I said the sheets were freshly laundered, though,’ he added with a wry grin.
‘Thank you, but the couch will do fine.’ She was actually more accustomed to sleeping on the floor, after spending much of her life living rough in the field, but with cracked ribs it was simply too painful. Rising from the edge of the couch, she added, ‘Make sure you—’
She caught her breath, pressing a hand against her injured side.
‘Shit, I knew you were hurt,’ Alex said, with a mixture of alarm and anger. He jumped up from his computer. ‘What the hell have you done to yourself?’
He was already crossing the room, concern overriding his other emotions, but Anya waved him away. ‘It’s not serious.’
‘You’re in pain and you look like shit,’ he countered. ‘What happened? You get shot?’
‘I don’t need a nursemaid,’ Anya snapped, pushing him away. ‘Just focus on your work – that’s all that matters for now.’
Alex backed off, looking almost hurt.
Realizing she’d allowed emotion to get the better of her, Anya lowered her voice and forced herself to be calm. ‘I appreciate the concern, but I can look after myself. Where’s your bathroom?’
Hesitating, Alex nodded down the short corridor that led off the living room. ‘First door on the right.’
Anya straightened up and walked away, leaving him to get on with his daunting but vital task. Only when she was safely inside the apartment’s cramped bathroom and had locked the door behind her did she double over, taking small, shallow breaths and clutching at the sink for support.
She reached down and pulled up her dark sweater. A surgical dressing was wrapped around her torso, just below her breasts, and pulled tight to help stabilize the cracked ribs. As she’d suspected, a few spots of bright red blood were showing through the bandages.
Sniffing and wiping her nose, Anya allowed the sweater to fall back into place and looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Alex’s earlier assessment of her appearance might have been harsh, but it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. Her face was pale and haggard, her eyes hollow and ringed by dark circles of fatigue, her blonde hair limp and tangled. She’d been through a lot over the past couple of days, and it showed.
But she couldn’t allow herself to give in now. If she was to have any chance of getting Drake and the others back, she had to stay the course. She had to see her plan through, find a way to make it work and undo some of the damage she’d caused.
It wouldn’t change anything, but it might make it a little easier to sleep at night.
With that thought lingering in her mind, she fished a tab of painkillers from her pocket and swallowed a couple.
Chapter 5
CIA headquarters, Langley
‘Goddamn it,’ Dan Franklin cursed, listening to his contact’s report from Pakistan with astonishment and disbelief.
Everything had fallen apart. The plan that Drake had hatched, and Franklin had facilitated, had ended in disaster. Cain had escaped unscathed, and Drake and the survivors had been taken into custody.
‘ISI are already working to cover this thing up,’ his contact went on. ‘Their agents are all over the ambush site.’
The Inter-Services Intelligence agency – Pakistan’s fearsome and secretive intelligence organization, which was widely believed to have been covertly supporting al-Qaeda for years.
‘So Cain’s working with them?’
Had he been capable, Franklin would likely have been pacing his office. But he could manage little more than a fast shuffle, leaning heavily on his stick for support. Recent spinal surgery had cured him of debilitating pain, but his recovery had been arduous.
‘Seems so, or at least elements within their organization,’ the station chief in Islamabad – Hayden Quinn – confirmed. He had first tipped them off about Cain’s secretive mission several days ago. ‘Nothing can be proven, of course. He was too careful for that.’
‘Of course he was,’ Franklin said, standing in the centre of his office. ‘What about Drake and the others? Where are they now?’
‘Unknown. If they weren’t executed on the spot, my guess is they were bundled onto a black flight out of the country. Totally off the books, even for us. They could be anywhere.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ Quinn protested. ‘I’m not in the loop any more. Cain’s shut me out.’
‘Fuck,’ Franklin growled.
He glanced over at a photograph of himself, dressed in military fatigues with the snow-capped mountains of Afghanistan in the background. When he’d still been a soldier. Before an IED had blown his Humvee apart and left him with a career-ending injury.
And standing beside him, glowing with youthful c
onfidence, was the man who had pulled him out of the wreck: Ryan Drake.
‘We’ve got to find him,’ he said quietly.
‘Then I wish you luck, but there’s nothing more I can do,’ Quinn replied, a tremor in his voice now. ‘This thing’s out of control. I must have been out of my mind to get involved. I’m sorry, Dan, but I’m done. I’m out.’
‘Wait, I can—’ Franklin started to protest, but it was too late.
Quinn had hung up.
* * *
Marseille, France
Off the southern coast of France the night was mild and calm, with only a gentle breeze and a light swell. The warm waters of the Mediterranean shone in the moonlight and the glow of the distant city of Marseille.
And in the midst of this peace, anchored about half a mile offshore, sat a bluff-bowed, wide-beamed fishing boat. It was a vessel neither graceful nor elegant in design, built for sturdy handling in rough weather, designed for strength and reliability rather than speed or aesthetics. Sea beams shimmered across its wooden hull, while its old timbers creaked and groaned comfortingly as it rode the swell. The masts and rigging overhead that had once accommodated fishing nets now sat unused, the square wheelhouse near the stern unlit, the engines quiet.
A seagull that had stopped to roost on board for the night stirred in its makeshift nest, alerted by the low hum of an approaching engine. Peeking its head up, keenly scanning the surrounding seas, the bird suddenly took flight and disappeared into the night sky with an angry squawk and a flutter of wings.
Hawkins paid the bird no heed as his fast patrol boat closed in on the silent hull of the Alamo, flanked by a similar vessel 30 yards off their starboard beam. Both craft were running with high-powered electric outboard motors, reducing the usual roar of such engines to a throb that was barely louder than the crash of waves against their hulls as they sped through the water.
‘Thirty seconds,’ he called out over the radio net, scanning the ship through his infrared goggles. There were no lights burning aboard, no thermal blooms that indicated running engines. The Alamo appeared to be dead in the water.
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