Shadow Conflict

by Shadow Conflict (epub)

  ‘Here,’ she said, handing him a plastic basin filled with tepid water. A dirty-looking wash cloth floated near the bottom.

  Fuck it, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Briefly laying the Glock on the armrest of his chair, Drake reached down and slowly pulled the shirt over his head, exposing his torso for the first time. The young woman put a hand to her mouth when she caught sight of the torn and bloodied skin, heavily mottled with bruises from countless injuries and beatings.

  ‘Don’t get all emotional,’ Drake advised. ‘It looks worse than it is.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Been a rough couple of days,’ he said vaguely, using the cloth to wash away the dried blood that had congealed around the deep lacerations to his wrists. The less she knew about him, the better.

  Sensing her eyes still on him, he looked up at her. ‘What about that coffee?’

  Blinking, the young woman hurried into the small kitchen area to prepare a brew. Drake couldn’t help noticing that she struggled to find the coffee jar, having to search several cupboards before she chanced upon it. Nerves getting the better of her, he supposed. Or maybe she wasn’t a big caffeine drinker.

  He was just turning his attention back to cleaning his injuries when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a small portable mirror resting on the sideboard. Drake had never been a man terribly preoccupied by his appearance, but even he was shocked by the gaunt, unshaven, dirty and bloodied face that confronted him, the hollow and bloodshot eyes staring back. Dried blood stuck to his hair, and he couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or one of the men he’d killed.

  Reaching into the bowl, he cupped his hands and splashed lukewarm water on his face, then ran his fingers through his hair enough times to get the worst of the filth out. Really, he needed a shower to clean up properly, but he doubted his new friend was going to politely wait while he took care of it. A quick fix would have to suffice for now.

  Lenka approached with a mug of steaming black liquid, and a bowl of what looked like instant noodles with a fork stuck in it.

  ‘The milk has turned,’ she explained, eyes darting to the coffee.

  Drake could have howled with laughter. After everything he’d been through, and everything that lay ahead, sour milk was the least of his concerns.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ he promised, taking both cup and bowl.

  He wasted no time attacking the noodles, nearly burning his mouth in his haste to get them down. They were cooked in a thin sauce that tasted both salty and spicy, and probably had as much nutritional value as a block of wood, but he couldn’t have cared less. They were food, and they were hot.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked suddenly, laying the empty bowl down and taking an experimental sip of the coffee. It might have lacked milk, but she’d heaped in enough sugar to keep him wired for days. Good girl, he thought.

  The young woman looked caught off guard. ‘Do?’ she repeated.

  ‘You said you work late. Doing what, exactly?’

  She didn’t look like the average supermarket checkout girl or petrol station attendant.

  He saw her cheeks colour red beneath the make-up. ‘I dance. At club.’

  Well that explained the life of austerity hiding behind a veneer of glamour, he thought, as well as her unusually good command of English. With Bratislava being a popular city for foreign men in search of fun, he imagined there were all kinds of opportunities for attractive young women with few inhibitions.

  ‘I am not a whore, if that is what you think,’ she added hastily, with more heat than he’d expected. ‘I save the money. It pays for my study.’

  To emphasize her point, she picked up one of the textbooks and held it up for him to see. Suddenly her modest living situation made a lot more sense, as did the shitty car that had brought them here.

  Drake however merely shrugged and took another gulp of coffee. ‘Trust me, I’m in no position to judge your career choices.’

  In the past few hours alone he’d murdered three men, hijacked a car and kidnapped an innocent civilian.

  Reaching for a pack of cigarettes resting on the kitchen counter, she tapped one out and held it to her lips before lighting up. ‘You want one?’

  Drake shook his head. Smoking was one vice he didn’t indulge in.

  Flicking the cheap plastic lighter until it produced a flame, she took a long drag and waited for the nicotine to take effect. He couldn’t blame her for wanting some release, though he preferred a good malt whisky for such situations.

  ‘I want to ask you a question,’ she announced after taking a second draw.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  Lenka sat down on the edge of her couch with the cigarette smouldering away between her fingers, looking almost as tired and worn as the piece of furniture she was resting on. It had been a long night for both of them.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, gesturing to his battered torso. ‘Why have you been beaten? And who are you running from?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Draining the last of the coffee, Drake laid it down on the threadbare carpet and rose to his feet. He was a good six inches taller than her, and even in his depleted condition probably weighed 60 pounds more. He needed her to appreciate both facts in that moment.

  ‘I appreciate the food and the ride, but that’s as far as this goes.’

  Reaching for the shirt that he’d left drying atop the radiator, he threw it over his shoulders. It was still slightly damp, but at least now it was warm. And so was he.

  ‘A word of advice once I’m gone – forget you ever met me, and don’t even think about reporting this to the police. They won’t find me, but the men who did this to me will find you. And it won’t matter what you know or how much you tell them; they’ll just keep going until there’s nothing left to tell. And by the time they’re finished, you’ll be begging them to kill you.’

  He felt shitty for aiming such threats at someone who had done nothing but help him, but he needed her to appreciate the danger she was in should she make herself known to the authorities.

  Judging by her wide-eyed look, his message had hit home. She looked like she was about to throw up, but nodded her assent.

  Satisfied that he’d done what he could, Drake fished the wad of euros he’d stolen from his dead captors out of his pocket, unrolled a few crumpled tens and laid them on the kitchen worktop. Not much in the way of compensation for what he’d put her through, but he’d need the rest for himself until he could get to the supply cache.

  Lenka wandered over to the windows, absently nudging the blinds aside. As soon as her gaze turned to the parking area below, she backed away from the window as if she’d seen a ghost.

  ‘The men who are after you,’ she said, trembling. ‘Do they drive a black 4 x 4?’

  Drake reacted immediately. Rushing across the living room, he grabbed the young woman by the shoulders and pulled her to the floor just as something punched through the window, causing fragments of glass to explode inwards. A moment later, the high-velocity round slammed into the wall opposite, shattering the thin plasterboard. ‘Shit, they’ve found us,’ Drake hissed.

  Chapter 17

  Washington DC, 22 June 1988

  Oblivious to the hustle and bustle of the lobby around her, Anya stood in silent contemplation, staring at the poignant memorial carved into the white marble wall in front of her. Fifty-eight stars were laid out in near rows, each representing a CIA operative killed in the line of duty since the organization’s creation 41 years earlier. And written above it in gold lettering was the memorial’s dedication.

  IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY

  Beneath this, held within a steel frame and a protective glass case, was a simple leather-bound book on which were noted the names of those men and women whose sacrifice the Agency was allowed to acknowledge. Barely half the stars had
a name; the rest might well be destined to remain unrecognized, their deeds known only to a select few.

  On the rare occasions when she was required to visit the Agency’s headquarters, Anya would pause by this sobering reminder and reflect on the true cost of their work. More than once she’d caught herself wondering if future generations might do the same thing, and how many stars would decorate the wall by then.

  ‘Thought I’d find you here.’

  Anya felt Cain standing close to her. She could smell his aftershave, feel the warmth radiating from his body. There was an undercurrent of unhappiness in his voice that she couldn’t help but react to.

  ‘It helps keep things in perspective,’ she said quietly. ‘Reminds me that all things end.’

  Marcus Cain was dressed in an expensive suit and tie, his hair neatly combed, his shoes freshly polished, just like everyone else here. Even Anya had bowed to expectations, donning a skirt, blouse and jacket that felt entirely foreign, and uncomfortable shoes that clicked on the marble floor. A far cry from the worn boots and battledress uniform she’d become so accustomed to.

  Both of them were playing a role, pretending to be something they didn’t want to be.

  She asked the question they both knew needed to be asked. ‘How did it go?’

  Cain didn’t need to answer. She could tell by the way his back was held ramrod-straight, the heavy burden of responsibility settling on him once more.

  ‘Walk with me,’ he said.

  Anya had read once that the designers of the CIA building had tried to evoke the atmosphere of a college campus. Taking in the extensive garden courtyard, with stressed-looking analysts taking walks across neatly manicured lawns, drinking coffee or smoking cigarettes, Anya wasn’t quite sure if their vision had been realized.

  The Agency was changing, and its home was changing with it. A massive new office complex was under construction on the other side of the courtyard, directly opposite the unassuming original headquarters building. A pair of shining glass towers framed by steel, still only partially completed, rose up into the clear blue sky, workmen swarming over them. That was the future. The college campus was making way for slick corporate professionalism.

  Anya halted by a small fish pond near the centre of the courtyard, watching the sunlight-dappled surface and the occasional glint of golden movement in the depths. The peace of nature appealed more to her now than any grand building or shining tower ever had.

  ‘They want to send you back,’ Cain said flatly. ‘Back to Afghanistan.’

  Anya closed her eyes and imagined that she was living a different life, that she wasn’t this person she’d chosen to become. That she wasn’t being called upon again.

  A passing glimpse of a life that would never be.

  She’d known it was coming, of course. She could read most people with ease, and Cain most of all. She knew him as well as she knew herself, or so she believed.

  But to hear him actually say it – that was harder than she’d expected.

  ‘They seem to think we’ve got the Russians on the ropes, that a big defeat there will be enough to start more republics breaking away. Maybe even begin the collapse of the Soviet Union.’ His words sounded hollow; just empty rhetoric spoken by someone else. ‘They think we could end the Cold War.’

  Grand sentiments, spoken by a thousand conquerors on a thousand bloody battlefields throughout history. Wage one war to end another. Kill one man to save ten.

  ‘And what do you think?’ Anya asked, staring at the surface of the water.

  ‘Me?’ He scoffed bitterly at the notion. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters to me, Marcus.’

  She could sense him wrestling, struggling to make some inner decision. A man torn between duty and loyalty.

  Duty to his country, loyalty to her.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ he said, straining. ‘You don’t owe them anything now. You’ve done everything that was asked of you and more. There’s nothing more to prove, Anya – not to me, not to the Agency, not anyone. That’s what I think.’

  He was telling the truth; that much was plain. And if she chose, she imagined Cain possessed the ingenuity and the influence to have her exempted. She could walk away from this with honour, knowing she had done her duty to the Agency.

  But the Agency wasn’t the one who really depended on her.

  ‘And the others?’ she asked, knowing she had to. ‘The men I fought beside?’

  Cain glanced away, which told her everything. Task Force Black was going back to Afghanistan, with or without her.

  ‘Then you know I can’t abandon them,’ she said, her voice measured. ‘I can’t let them go without me.’

  When he looked at her again, she felt the breath catch in her throat. ‘Would you, if I asked you to?’

  She wished she could give him the answer he wanted, but it wouldn’t have been fair. Not to him, or herself. ‘No, Marcus. I wouldn’t.’

  She took a step towards him, raised a hand as if to touch his, but forced herself to pull back. They were in plain view, with dozens of employees able to see their every move.

  ‘When I joined the Agency, I asked only for a chance to prove myself. And because of you, I was given that. You believed in me when no one else did, Marcus, and I will always be grateful to you,’ she promised. ‘But if I step back now, let my friends, my… family go into this fight without me, what have I done with that chance? All I have done is proven men like Carpenter right. I will not do that.’ She sighed. ‘If I have been asked to go in one more time, then I will. That is my duty to them. Let me do it, and let me finish this the right way.’

  She saw him close his eyes, and was reminded of the same look that had been on her face moments earlier. That glimpse she had allowed herself of a different life. Perhaps he was seeing the same thing. She could almost feel the emotion boiling away inside him, could sense his need to embrace her, but knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not here.

  But she knew something else. For better or worse, he accepted her decision.

  Little did either of them know that it would alter the course of their lives for ever.

  * * *

  Paris, France – 30 March 2010

  Seated at an outdoor café in the city’s historic Latin Quarter, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, Anya took a sip of her latte. The long dark-haired wig she’d donned for this outing helped keep much of her face from passers-by.

  According to Alex, this was where they would make contact with their target. She had run the operation in her head countless times on the way here, trying to anticipate everything that could go wrong, trying to devise a counter to every obstacle, but ultimately she knew there were far too many variables to accurately plan for. She would have to fall back on her wits, quick thinking and experience.

  She shuffled uncomfortably as pain radiated from her injured ribs. She had changed the dressing around her wound, binding it as tight as she could without restricting her movement or breathing, but it was making life difficult all the same.

  She was certainly in no shape for a physical confrontation, which was something that might be required of her if their target decided to resist. If she was anything like her father, Anya expected Lauren Cain wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  * * *

  ‘Well, this place really puts York uni into perspective,’ Alex said as he surveyed the vast open courtyard of Paris-Sorbonne University, surrounded by classically proportioned buildings, vaulted archways and magnificently carved stonework. Even the students looked as effortlessly stylish as their surroundings.

  ‘How does it look?’ Anya’s tinny, electronic voice buzzed in his ear. She’d set him up with a concealed radio that fitted almost invisibly into his ear, allowing them to communicate while he went about snooping for their target. It did however leave the discomforting impression that Anya was with him at all times.

  ‘I don’t think I fit in here,’ he said, watching as a pair of male students
in designer jeans and sunglasses sauntered past, takeaway coffee cups in hand and satchels slung casually over their shoulders. Even their hair looked like it had just been professionally styled.

  When he’d been that age, he’d had to make do with a can of energy drink and last night’s cold takeaway before stumbling out of his student flat, looking like shit on legs. For some reason, these people looking better than he ever had stirred a sense of envy that was hard to ignore.

  ‘You are young, scruffy and badly dressed,’ Anya pointed out. ‘You look exactly like a student should.’

  ‘Aw, that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day,’ he countered sarcastically. ‘Also, fuck you. At least I’ve lived a life, unlike these metrosexual tossers.’

  ‘Stay focussed, Alex. Remember why you’re here.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ he said sullenly. ‘No sign of her yet.’

  According to the online snooping he’d done en route, Lauren was working up to a thesis on key figures in French neoclassicism, and would frequently consult the university library for its collection of historical documents and correspondence. It sounded boring as shit, but then he’d never had much appreciation for such things.

  With the library entrance lying on the far side of the square, this seemed like a logical place to intercept her. He’d committed Lauren’s face to memory, and was confident he’d spot her if she passed this way.

  ‘By the way, it’s just occurred to me that we’re missing a vital element of this operation.’

  ‘What?’ She sounded concerned, even over the radio.

  ‘Neither of us have codenames. I mean, come on – we’re doing all this secret-agent stuff without codenames?’ He tutted and shook his head. ‘I want mine to be Broadsword. Yours can be Danny Boy.’

  ‘Alex, we’re on an encrypted radio net, and it is only the two of us speaking,’ Anya said. She was using her exasperated schoolteacher tone again. ‘We don’t need codenames.’

  ‘Bollocks, I’m using it anyway,’ he said firmly, refusing to be robbed of his chance to reference Where Eagles Dare, his favourite war movie. ‘Broadsword out.’