‘All right, I understand,’ Anya interrupted. ‘So we have a deleted birth record. Where does that get us?’
‘It proves she was born near Cain’s home, which is pretty lucky for us because this search would have been a nightmare if she’d been born outside the US. It also proves that he didn’t want it happening in just any old hospital. He wanted somewhere discreet, out of the way. And I’m guessing the rest of her childhood followed a similar pattern, so I started hacking the databases for private schools in the same area, looking for where my enemy wasn’t. Again, same story. Deleted records, but then I delved into their accounting history.’
Opening up a new window, he showed her a spreadsheet with what looked like ledgers dating back decades. However, Alex had highlighted one line in particular.
‘See that?’ he prompted. ‘Monthly payments from M. Cain.’
Anya looked closer, and sure enough there was his name.
‘I had a school, and after a fair bit of trawling, I found a picture of a yearbook posted online by a former student. Took a while, but I was able to cross-reference each of the female students against archived records, until I found the one little girl without a name.’
His last window brought up a picture of a girl, perhaps 10 years old and dressed in the school’s uniform, all dimpled smiles and bushy dark hair. But beneath the soft, youthful features, she saw a faint resemblance to Cain himself.
The name beneath her picture read – Lauren Louise Shaw.
‘It’s her,’ Anya whispered, recognizing the face instantly. It was a face she’d seen only once, but which was for ever imprinted on her memory.
‘Not bad for a bloke who got a B− in computer studies, eh?’ Alex said, looking immeasurably pleased with himself.
Anya blinked, her mind returning to their present dilemma. ‘So where is she now?’
‘That’s where I ran into a bit of a snag,’ he said. ‘The trail went cold after that. And I mean stone cold. Every trace of her had been wiped off the internet. Even the Deep Web seemed to have nothing on her, which scares the shit out of me, to be honest.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
Alex suddenly had the impatient teacher look she’d been seeing a lot of in the past few minutes. ‘Okay, imagine all the data on the web as a pint of beer. The little frothy bit on top is the part that normal people can find through search engines like Google or whatever, but there’s a huge quantity of data lurking beneath the surface that never even gets touched. Hundreds of times bigger. That’s the Deep Web, and if you know how to navigate it, you can find just about anyone or anything. It’s entirely unpoliced and uncontrolled. At least, that’s what I thought.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘If someone has the ability to control the entire pint of beer, imagine what they could do to the little frothy bit on top. The bit most of us rely on for pretty much all our information. You could change public opinions overnight, rewrite history, make people believe anything you wanted. Knowledge is power, as they say. Well, control of worldwide data would be the ultimate weapon of power.’
Anya was struck by his look of genuine concern, made all the worse because she already sensed who was behind it. So did he. The same shadowy group who had almost brought about their deaths the previous year.
Alex allowed that thought to hang in the air before continuing. ‘Anyway, that’s a question I don’t have nearly enough time to answer right now. The point is that whoever did this did a pretty thorough job of wiping away all digital record of Lauren Cain. But fucking Twitter was their undoing.’
Anya’s frown deepened. ‘Twitter?’
‘Yeah, you know? Your life in 140 characters or less—’
‘I know what it is,’ she snapped. ‘But why would she be using social media?’
Alex looked at her like she’d just sprouted a second head. ‘She’s a 19-year-old American girl. Why wouldn’t she be on social media?’
Anya said nothing to that. When she’d been Lauren’s age, the internet hadn’t even existed in a meaningful form, never mind social media. Not to mention that sharing her daily activities at that point in her life would have compromised national security and landed her in prison.
‘Anyway, it didn’t take me long to track down her account, even if she’s using a pseudonym. It was easy once I referenced it against some of her high school yearbook mates. Young Lauren’s been posting like crazy over the past few months. Look,’ he said, bringing up a new tab showing Lauren’s account.
The sight of the little girl suddenly ten years older was a shock to the system, but sure enough she could still make out the resemblance in the considerably more mature face smiling back from the pictures.
Judging by the cityscape in the background, one had been taken in New York, showing Lauren on the observation deck of a high rise looking out over Central Park. Another had been taken in a bar that could have been anywhere, showing Lauren with her arms around two other girls in the midst of a night out.
‘The most recent one,’ she prompted, having neither the time nor the inclination to see the young woman’s life unfold in pictures. ‘Show me.’
Scrolling to the top, Alex brought up a picture dated only two days ago: a selfie of Lauren standing in the midst of a wide courtyard before a grand, Baroque building. And in the centre of the courtyard, directly behind her, a huge glass pyramid rose up from the ground.
Anya recognized the location immediately. It was the Louvre.
‘Paris,’ she said, hardly believing their luck. ‘She’s in Paris.’
‘Very good. Studying history and classical philosophy at Paris-Sorbonne University, as it happens,’ Alex added. ‘I checked.’
Anya turned away, her heart pounding as plans and possibilities whirled through her mind. It wouldn’t be easy, and she was quite certain Cain wouldn’t have left his daughter unprotected, no matter how well hidden her identity was, but she had a target to aim for.
And it was all because of the man seated behind her.
‘Thank you, Alex,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Then don’t say anything. Just keep the noise down, because I badly need some sleep,’ he said, rising from his chair. Sniffing his underarms, he added, ‘And a shower. Shower first, then—’
He was silenced as Anya suddenly reached out and hugged him. Her injured ribs blazed with pain but she didn’t care. He’d been as good as his word, and done what few others could have done.
When she let go and Alex stepped back, his face was flushed with colour. He stood there for a moment or two, not sure what to say or do.
‘I’m going to, erm…’ He pointed towards the bathroom. ‘Yep.’
Saying nothing else, he brushed past her, gratefully retreating from the room. Anya allowed herself a smile of amusement before reaching for her cell phone. She needed to get to Paris, and time was not on her side.
She could only hope it wasn’t too late for Drake.
Chapter 7
Islamabad, Pakistan
‘It was just… the sound of that explosion, the sight of the car flipping over, knowing there were people inside it. It was horrible,’ the old woman said, wringing her hands in an exaggerated expression of anguish as she related her tale for the third time to the two Pakistani intelligence operatives. ‘This is a peaceful neighbourhood. No troublemakers, no outsiders from across the border. It is a place for academics and decent people. We have never seen anything like this here. I still can’t believe it happened.’
Senior field operative Sajid Gondal forced himself to show his most sympathetic expression. After questioning her for nearly half an hour, he had the distinct notion that this woman was more concerned about the potential impact on property prices in the area than the fact that several people had apparently been killed in an armed confrontation in the street right outside her home.
A confrontation that was rapidly being swept under the rug.
‘It was a terrible tragedy, Mrs A
wan,’ he agreed. ‘And I regret asking you to relive it, but if you could answer my question about the origin of the fighters, it would be of great help.’
The woman fixed him with a shrewd look, sensing his patience was running thin. Old women seemed to have a disconcerting way of knowing what people were thinking. More than once he’d wondered why the ISI didn’t recruit a few of them.
‘They were American,’ she said flatly.
Gondal frowned. ‘You are certain?’
She nodded. ‘I have heard enough of them to know what they sound like, and they were doing a lot of shouting. And the people they hauled out of the wrecked car were definitely Westerners. Two of them were even women. Can you imagine? Women fighting alongside men? It’s disgusting!’ she said, scandalized.
‘And you heard no Afghan during the exchange?’ Gondal pressed on. ‘No Pashto?’
Again she shook her head. ‘All English. Americans stirring up trouble again, trying to turn this country into the next Afghanistan.’
Gondal sighed but nodded. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Awan,’ he said, rising with difficulty from the worn, floral-patterned chair he’d been sitting in for the past half-hour. ‘You have been very helpful.’
Returning outside into the humid heat of mid-afternoon, Gondal glanced left at the shattered, fire-scarred building further up the street. The building had been sealed off, and already engineers were preparing it for demolition. Erasing all the evidence.
The question was, what were they trying to hide?
A car was waiting for him nearby, his partner Mahsud squeezed behind the wheel. Gondal hurried over and slipped into the passenger seat, turning up the air conditioner and loosening his collar.
‘Anything?’ Mahsud asked, his unusually deep voice perfectly complementing his heavy, unsmiling features.
‘Same story,’ Gondal said as they eased away from their parking space, merging with the traffic. ‘One group of Americans ambushing and battling another as they tried to escape.’
‘The same group we questioned at that warehouse?’ Mahsud asked, referring to the small band of Americans posing as a delivery company they’d spoken to mere hours before the deadly battle had erupted.
Gondal glanced at his partner. ‘Was there ever any doubt?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘What I want to know is who the other side were, and why they were fighting each other.’
‘You know this isn’t our investigation. We’ve already been warned off it.’
‘Exactly. That’s what makes me uneasy,’ Gondal said, leaning back in his seat. ‘Americans fighting each other on the streets of Islamabad, and our own agency trying to cover it up. It doesn’t sit well with me.’
‘Nor me,’ Mahsud agreed. ‘But what do you propose we do?’
Gondal thought about it for a moment. He wasn’t a maverick by any means, and in fact had developed a reputation for respecting the chain of command and playing by the rules, but he was also a man who trusted his instincts. And they told him something was very wrong. That the battle a couple of days earlier was just the beginning of something larger and more deadly.
Something in which elements of the ISI were complicit.
‘We keep looking,’ he decided. ‘Start with that building and who owns it. I want to know who was involved in this. And I want to know what else they are planning.’
Chapter 8
Hawkins’ men grudgingly obeyed his command to feed and clothe Drake. However, they had clearly resolved to follow the letter rather than the intent of his orders. A pair of mud-streaked trousers that were too big for him, and a torn shirt were about as far as their generosity extended. He was given no shoes or socks to cover his feet.
Still, even this meagre covering had gone some way to improving his condition. Within minutes of pulling on the clothes, fumbling with numb hands that struggled to obey his commands, the feeling had begun to return to his limbs. His core temperature had begun to rise, he’d started shivering again as his body worked to generate more heat, then finally this too settled down as he found some kind of equilibrium. He was still damp and cold, and likely to stay that way as long as he remained here, but at least the danger of hypothermia was abating.
There were still plenty of other ways to die, however, starting with the man who put him here. His false tip to Hawkins had been a desperate ploy to buy some time, and to save Frost from something he couldn’t bear to watch. There was a chance he’d get lucky and Hawkins would be killed trying to make entry to the Alamo, but luck hadn’t been on his side much lately. As soon as he realized he’d been duped, Hawkins would be back, and Drake couldn’t fool him a second time.
He had to find a way out of here, but how? He was in a locked cell, guarded by men with riot guns and the will to use them with brutal efficiency. As he’d already discovered, there was no obvious way to break out, whether by strength or cunning, and even if he did, he had no means to defend himself. He could think of few faster ways to die than taking on two armed men with his bare hands.
As if in response to his thoughts, he heard footsteps in the room outside, and scrambled to his feet just as the viewing port was opened with a shuddering clank, bright light flooding in.
‘Food,’ a voice grunted from the other side. When Drake didn’t move, he added, ‘Come get it, asshole. Unless you want to go without?’
Drake moved forward, wary in case it was some kind of trick. But to his surprise, a hand appeared in the narrow port, holding something. Drake reached out and took it without speaking, feeling something coarse and yielding in his hand.
He was more than a little tempted to grab the man’s arm, yank it through the port and break it. With a nice hard metal edge like that to brace it against and plenty of weight on his side, he was pretty confident he could snap the humerus like an old twig.
Then again, taking petty vengeance would almost certainly lead to brutal reprisals. These guys didn’t seem like the forgive-and-forget types.
‘Water. Take it,’ the voice barked, thrusting a cup through the gap.
Drake grasped at it immediately. Food he could forgo for a time, but without water he would surely die.
Before he could mutter any kind of reply, the viewing port snapped shut. Sliding down the wall, Drake raised the metal cup to his lips and forced himself to take only a small, experimental sip. The water was cold, and tasted slightly brackish and unpleasant, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. It was potable, and that was good enough.
He drained the entire can within seconds. He briefly toyed with the idea of rationing but immediately decided against it, wary his captors might take it away just to fuck with his head. Better to get it down while he could.
The food was next. Though it was impossible to see in the dark confines of his cell, touch and smell confirmed that it was a hunk of bread and some kind of processed meat. The bread was stale and the meat had an odd taste he wasn’t familiar with. Not rotten or spoiled, but an unusual flavour that suggested foreign origin. Nonetheless, he’d wolfed down all of it in under a minute, eating as only a starving man could.
The brief interlude had provided a distraction from his overriding problem, but with the last of the food gone the issue settled back on him: How to get the hell out of here before Hawkins returned?
Yet again he had no answers. His mind had attacked the problem from every angle and come up with nothing.
‘Fuck,’ he mumbled. Resting the back of his head against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He was deathly tired: of fighting, of losing, of wasting his time trying to find solutions to impossible problems.
In that moment he wanted nothing more than to rest.
Just for a short while…
‘So what’s the plan, Ryan?’
Opening his eyes, Drake glanced around, seeing nothing but darkness. The acoustics of the cell had scattered the voice, making it seem to come from every direction at once.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, backing int
o a corner, his heart rate doubling in a matter of seconds. Having never been afraid of the dark before, he was suddenly very much aware that anyone or anything could be in the cell with him.
‘Come on, buddy. You know who it is,’ the voice chided him. A man’s voice, American accent, the tone one of warmth and familiarity. ‘We’ve been friends a long time. Haven’t forgotten me already, have you?’
Drake felt his heart sink. And with that came a crushing feeling of guilt and grief. ‘Cole,’ he whispered, struggling to say the name.
In an instant, he saw his friend, bound and kneeling in front of him, saw a pistol raised to his head, heard the thunderclap of the shot.
‘You can’t be here,’ Drake said, willing the voice to leave him. ‘It’s not… not possible. You’re not real.’
‘You’re talking to me, aren’t you?’ Mason asked, his voice reaching Drake as clearly as ever, despite his attempts to block it. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
Was this some fresh torment? Had Mason somehow returned to punish Drake for failing him? For choosing Frost’s life over his?
‘What do you want?’
He heard a gentle chuckle of amusement. ‘You’re asking all the wrong questions, buddy. You brought me here, after all. I guess I should be the one asking what you want.’
‘I don’t want anything from you!’ he shouted, not caring whether the guards heard him. He was furious, brimming with rage and frustration that was desperate to find an outlet. ‘Fuck off and leave me alone! You hear me? Leave me alone!’
When the echo of his scream had died down, he heard a faint sigh of disappointment. ‘If you wanted me to go, I wouldn’t still be talking to you. You brought me here for a reason. Because you do want something, Ryan.’
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