One look was enough to confirm this wasn’t anything to do with Hawkins’ operation. Rather than a sleek, black, intimidating SUV, he found himself facing a compact two-door coupé, its once-white paintwork patched with rust. It was a Skoda Rapid, he realized, recognizing the angular lines of its 1980s bodywork from his childhood. Made long before Skoda went all upmarket, the name Rapid was, he assumed, applied tongue-in-cheek to the clunky, unreliable cars.
Still, a shit car it might have been, but it was a car nonetheless.
He tugged open the door on the passenger side and peered inside, brandishing the Glock. There was just the driver – a young woman in ripped jeans and a black vest top, who let out a squeal at the sight of the weapon and tried to press herself against her door. Too terrified to remove her seatbelt and make a run for it.
Drake couldn’t blame her for being frightened. If a bloody, mud-covered man with a gun had hijacked his car on a lonely road like this, he’d have been worried too. Still, this was no time for gentle reassurances. Right now he needed cooperation, not friendship.
‘Stay where you are!’ he yelled, jumping into the passenger seat. The car rocked noticeably on worn-out shock absorbers. ‘Get us out of here!’
She was pleading with him in a language he didn’t recognize, her eyes wet with tears. Most probably she was politely suggesting he take the car and fuck off without her, but Drake had already decided that wasn’t going to happen. The next car that passed would be sure to stop for her, and it wouldn’t be long before the local police were mobilized. Even worse, if Hawkins’ men picked her up first, they would soon learn how he’d escaped.
He would ditch her along with the car later when he was well clear of the area, but for now he needed them both.
‘Shut up and drive!’ he shouted, levelling the pistol at her forehead. ‘Drive now!’
He couldn’t tell if she understood what he was saying, but an automatic handgun was enough to overcome most language barriers.
She fumbled for the gearstick, crunching the gearbox a couple of times before finding first and stamping on the accelerator. Tyres skidding, the old car fishtailed left and right before eventually finding purchase and rocketing off down the darkened road.
Chapter 13
Washington DC, 22 June 1988
‘No, sir,’ Marcus Cain said firmly, having to fight the growing urge to bang his fist on the table in frustration at what he was hearing. ‘We can’t do that.’
He’d been called into one of the plush high-security conference rooms at Langley for a special briefing on the clandestine group he’d helped create, now informally known within closed circles as Task Force Black. Straightaway he’d known something big was up. The chairman of the meeting was Bradley Simmons, the head of the Agency’s Special Activities Division.
In his late fifties, gaunt, balding and bespectacled, Simmons’ unsmiling countenance had always put Cain in mind of a frustrated accountant or perhaps an overworked math teacher. Someone who had spent their life locked away in a cubicle office beneath cheap strip lighting.
But appearances aside, Simmons was definitely not a man to fuck with. As head of the Agency’s clandestine operations arm, he was privy to some of the deepest secrets within the US intelligence world.
With him was Colonel Richard Carpenter, the man who had overseen the training and deployment of the task force, and acted as their military liaison for the past two years. If the field reports were accurate, Carpenter was becoming increasingly disconnected from their activities as operational command passed to the leaders of the group itself. That hadn’t stopped him riding the wave of their stunning military successes in Afghanistan however, or ingratiating himself with the Agency’s higher echelons.
‘Task Force Black has done four tours in Afghanistan already,’ Cain went on, forcing calm into his voice. ‘They’ve had more time in the field than any other clandestine group since Vietnam.’
The truth was, Task Force Black had succeeded far beyond anyone’s expectations, including Cain’s. What had once been viewed as a risky, unpredictable experiment was now being touted as one of the Agency’s biggest victories in clandestine warfare for the past two decades. But with such victories had come increased expectation, and demands for them to be redeployed to other hard-pressed areas of the conflict. They had, in effect, become victims of their own success.
‘Which is exactly why we need them now more than ever,’ said Simmons. ‘Nobody knows that country like they do. More importantly, nobody knows the Mujahedeen like they do – they’re trusted, respected even. That’s not an easy commodity to come by.’
Commodity – that was how men like Simmons thought of conflicts like Afghanistan, and the people caught up in them. Just dry numbers and resources to be used up or redistributed as necessary. They didn’t see casualty figures and kill ratios in terms of coffins coming home, or families robbed of sons and fathers; all they saw were variables in the great equation of war. And it was their job to balance the books.
‘The fact is, we’ve got the Soviets on the ropes,’ Carpenter interrupted, bullish as always. The bright and ambitious colonel with his eyes on a general’s star, always so eager to say what the top brass wanted to hear. ‘Our Stinger missiles have negated their air advantage, their logistics network is getting raided night and day, and they’re even losing the big set-piece battles they used to be so desperate to fight. All we need is the knockout blow.’
Simmons nodded thoughtfully on this, showing neither enthusiasm nor disdain for Carpenter’s assessment of the situation there. They might have been united by a common purpose, but Cain always had the impression Simmons tolerated rather than respected Carpenter. In which case, the feeling was mutual.
‘Mr Qalat, what’s your read on this?’ he asked, turning to the third member of the group that Cain was up against. Small, efficient and neatly groomed, Vizur Qalat was an officer with Pakistani military intelligence – a vital ally in the region since much of Task Force Black’s operations were staged out of Pakistani territory.
Qalat had been their liaison with the CIA since the group went into the field, supplying them with useful intel about Soviet movements and plans, but this was the first time Cain had met the man face to face. He spoke rarely of his own accord, volunteering little but listening a great deal. Cain was left with the distinct impression that beneath his undistinguished visage was an intelligence both shrewd and calculating.
‘Sir, I would be inclined to agree with the colonel’s summary,’ he said. ‘Our debriefings with Soviet defectors tell us their morale is at breaking point. Most just want to go home. Many regions have already ceded operational responsibility to the Afghan military.’
Trying to get the Afghans to do their fighting for them, Cain knew. The Americans had done the same thing in the closing stages of Vietnam. Hadn’t worked out too well for them either.
‘Then we don’t need further intervention,’ Cain reasoned. ‘If what you say is true, the Soviets will be out of there within a year anyway. What’s the point in kicking them when they’re already down? We’d be provoking them into escalating all over again.’
This was a waste of time and energy, Cain knew. They should have been concentrating their efforts on preparing a moderate, pro-Western government for when the puppet regime in Kabul was overthrown. They should have been planning aid shipments and reconstruction programmes for the devastated country. Instead they were talking about prolonging a war that was all but won.
‘An orderly withdrawal can still be spun as a victory by Moscow, especially given their state propaganda,’ Qalat pointed out. ‘But a chaotic retreat would be an outright humiliation that even they couldn’t hide.’
Cain wasn’t convinced by their optimistic assessments. Though it was true the Soviets had their eyes firmly on an exit from Afghanistan, they were by no means a broken force. Worse, they’d started hearing rumours that the KGB had deployed elements of their most feared special forces unit, the Alpha Group, to hu
nt down Task Force Black. The group’s success and fearsome reputation was now becoming a liability.
As skilled as Anya and her comrades were at guerrilla warfare, a confrontation with a highly trained, more numerous and battle-hardened enemy was one fight they couldn’t hope to win. It was part of the reason he’d petitioned the Agency to bring the task force home ahead of schedule.
‘Marcus, you’re not seeing the bigger picture here,’ Carpenter chided him in his most patronising tone. ‘This isn’t just about Afghanistan now; this is about going after the big prize. Gorbachev’s losing control of the Eastern Bloc, and pretty much all the Islamic republics are looking to break away. The only thing he has left is the threat of military force, but a major defeat for the Red Army… well, we’d be taking away his trump card just when he needs it most. Then there’s nothing left to hold the Soviet Union together. What do you think will happen then?’
‘Times are changing,’ Simmons concluded. ‘We’re standing at a crossroads, and it falls to us to steer the world down the right path. This is the way to do it. Task Force Black helped us change the course of this war. Now we need them to go in one more time, help change the course of history.’
Cain let out a frustrated breath. If Simmons expected him to be swayed by such histrionics, he was sorely mistaken.
‘And isn’t that what we all want, buddy? Peace in our time?’ Carpenter asked.
Cain looked at him, knowing full well that the last thing a man like him ever desired was peace. For Carpenter, there would always be more wars to fight, more glory to chase, more young lives to sacrifice.
‘I need to think about this,’ Cain said, stalling for time. ‘I can’t send them anywhere until I’ve had a chance to think it through.’
Simmons’ brows rose, but nonetheless he closed his briefing folders. ‘All right. You have until the end of the day, then I want a decision.’
Five minutes later, Cain was in a restroom just down the corridor from the conference suite where the fate of his task force, of Anya, had just been decided. Splashing cold water on his face, he looked up at his reflection.
Marcus Cain, the young rising star within the Agency. Ambitious, focussed, willing to do what it took to get results. He knew he could push back, could outright refuse to obey Simmons’ directive and have the task force stand down. It would hurt his career badly, perhaps irreparably, but he could do it.
Suddenly Cain slammed his fist down on the counter so hard that the entire unit rattled loudly, leaving his hand aching.
‘Careful, buddy. You’re going to hurt yourself.’
Turning around, Cain glared at Carpenter who was standing over by the door, preventing anyone else from entering.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, drying his face with some paper towels. ‘I told you I haven’t made my decision yet.’
He saw a faint smile flicker on the colonel’s face. ‘Don’t make it personal, Marcus. We’re both professionals here. That being the case, you can think of this as a professional courtesy.’
Cain frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For not telling Simmons what I know.’ The smile had broadened now. ‘Come on, we both know the real reason you don’t want to send the task force back into the field, and it’s got nothing to do with strategic planning. It’s her, isn’t it? It was always her.’
Cain could feel the colour rising to his cheeks. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I know what you two have got going on. I’ve seen the proof. You’ve been a very naughty boy, Marcus. A case officer getting romantically involved with one of his assets.’
Cain felt like his stomach had just been twisted in a knot. Carpenter was perfectly right, of course. It had been going on for some time now, against countless rules and directives. They’d tried to be careful, tried to be discreet about it, but it hadn’t been enough to escape this man’s attention.
‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ Carpenter went on. ‘After all, Anya’s quite some piece of tail. And let me tell you, the surveillance footage makes for some pretty interesting watching—’
Launching himself off the counter, Cain grabbed the older man by the jacket of his uniform and angrily shoved him against the wall.
‘Say another word,’ Cain said through clenched teeth. ‘I dare you.’
‘Like I said, Marcus. You want to be careful, or you’re going to hurt yourself.’
The implied threat wasn’t lost on Cain. Carpenter was a trained killer, and they both knew it. He hadn’t retaliated yet because he didn’t need to. If it came down to a real fight between the two of them, the colonel could put Cain down as easily as a raw recruit in a drill hall.
Not only that, but Carpenter now had the ability to kill him professionally as well as physically. If it was revealed that Cain was personally involved with one of his operatives, it could sink his career.
‘What do you want?’ Cain demanded.
‘You know what I want,’ Carpenter said calmly. ‘Let’s finish what we started three years ago. And when we do, we’ll all be heroes. Even Anya.’
‘And if I don’t?’
The colonel shrugged. ‘Professionally, I’m obliged to report my findings to your immediate superior, so he can take appropriate disciplinary action. Be a shame to do it, but it is what it is.’
The son of a bitch wouldn’t let this go, Cain knew. Carpenter: always the opportunist, always ready to take credit for other people’s victories and trample anyone that stood on his path to glory.
‘Come on, Marcus. Grow some balls, will you?’ Carpenter taunted. ‘Man up and authorize their redeployment, or you’ll be relieved of command and someone else will. Either way, they’re going back in. Like Simmons said, we’re all at a crossroads. Think of it as my job to help you down the right path. So what’s it going to be?’
There was no choice to make, Cain knew. If he called Carpenter’s bluff, it would be the end of his career. And Anya’s.
‘Fine. You’ve got your war, but that’s where it ends,’ Cain said at last, releasing his grip and backing away. ‘They finish this tour, and they’re done. We’re done, for good.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Carpenter smiled, stepping aside so that he was no longer blocking the doorway. ‘They might be done after this, but I’ve got a feeling you and I are going to do great things together.’
Cain didn’t trust himself to look at him as he brushed past, seething.
* * *
CIA headquarters, Langley – 30 March 2010
Removing his reading glasses, Cain closed his eyes and rubbed the sore spot on the bridge of his nose.
‘Say that again,’ he said, speaking quietly into his phone.
‘Drake’s tip-off was a trap,’ Hawkins reported, sounding neither apologetic nor hesitant about the news he was delivering. ‘The Alamo was rigged with concealed explosives that triggered when the assault team made entry.’
‘Casualties?’ Cain asked.
‘Three men dead. We pulled out before local police units arrived.’
Cain knew he should have felt something at three men dying last night, largely because of him. He should have felt guilt, remorse, grief at more young lives sacrificed, yet nothing of the sort stirred. He felt only a vague disappointment and irritation, as if he’d run some arithmetic through and come up short of his target.
‘What about Drake?’
A pause. ‘He’s gone. Escaped from the detention building while we were following his tip. He killed his guards, took their weapons and strung one of them up for us to find.’
Cain was taking a moment to digest everything. ‘Sounds to me like his guards weren’t up to much.’
‘I work with what I’m given,’ Hawkins said, in a none-too-subtle dig at the quality of the men Cain had supplied. ‘Anyway, our assumption is that he’ll get clear of the initial search area, then try to link up with Anya again.’
‘And of course you’ll find him before that happens, right?’
Another
pause. ‘We’re working on it.’
Cain’s grip on the phone tightened. ‘You’d better do a lot more than just work on it, Jason. I trusted you to oversee this operation, and twice now you’ve let Anya slip through your fingers. I won’t be so forgiving next time.’
Without waiting for Hawkins’ response, he ended the call.
He was just replacing the encrypted cell phone in his desk drawer when the door to his office flew open. CIA Director Robert Wallace strode right in without troubling himself to knock, as was his habit – one of the little ways he liked to show his dominance.
‘Please, make yourself at home, Bob,’ Cain said, calling the director by his first name because he knew it irritated him. At the same time, he gently eased his drawer closed, keeping the encrypted cell out of sight. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
Wallace shot Cain a scathing look as he paced the room, searching for some crushing remark.
‘I’d settle for knowing why you made an unscheduled trip to Pakistan three days ago,’ he fired, stopping at Cain’s desk, hands on hips in what he probably thought was an intimidating pose. His suit jacket was unbuttoned – always a bad sign. Unfortunately all it did was expose a sagging gut and a narrow, weedy looking chest.
Cain shrugged. There was no sense denying it. As second in command of America’s biggest intelligence agency, he couldn’t travel halfway around the world without people eventually finding out. Including the man in charge.
‘Like you said, we need results against al-Qaeda. I went to find some.’
Wallace’s grey-blue eyes narrowed. ‘I’m going to need more than that, Marcus. Because I’m hearing things coming out of Pakistan that are not making me happy. Like explosions and shootouts in Islamabad the night you happened to be there. Like the murder of Pakistani intelligence officers. Like black flights being dispatched all over Asia carrying unlisted prisoners!’
He inhaled sharply, his face tight and deeply flushed, and seemed to shrink slightly before Cain’s eyes. A vein at his temple bulged, as if he was about to blow a gasket.
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