Betrayal (12 page)

Things weren’t looking good, and there was no sense in ducking that fact. Franklin had effectively withdrawn his support, leaving Drake few resources with which to pursue a woman who had eluded the world’s premier intelligence agency for the past eighteen months. But more than that, Drake felt the loss of support even more on a personal level.

Dan Franklin, his friend and one of his few remaining allies within the Agency, had effectively cut him loose.

‘Fuck,’ he said at length as he took another drink, feeling that one word rather aptly summed up his situation.

With nothing more to be done at Langley for the time being, he had returned home to consider his next move, and to brood on everything that had happened.

Maybe Franklin had been right, he reflected in a moment of brutal honesty. Anya had neither the need, nor apparently the desire, for his help. Maybe it would be best for everyone if he stood down from this one.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment found himself back in that small border village in Saudi Arabia where he’d spent his last night with Anya. He was talking with an old man, grey-haired and overweight; one of the few people on this earth who could rightly call Anya a friend.

‘She will not listen to reason, will not back down. I see her standing alone, surrounded by enemies. And when that happens, she will fall … I think there will come a time when you have to choose, either to stand with her or against her.’

Drake sighed and took another drink. The events of those tumultuous few days, and the heartache and danger that had come with them, felt like a lifetime ago now. So much had happened since then, it was almost possible to forget it had ever been. It was almost possible to forget the feelings she had stirred up in him; the brief moment of peace, of belonging, of connection he’d felt with her.

Almost, but not quite.

He was reaching for his cellphone almost before he knew it, quickly dialling McKnight’s number from memory. It rang a half-dozen times before a weary voice answered.

‘Ryan?’

Drake felt a stab of guilt at calling her so early. She’d pulled an all-nighter just as he had, but she had no personal stake in this. She was doing it because he’d asked her to, even though he had no right.

‘Sam, where are you?’

‘In the forensics lab at Langley. Running that analysis we talked about. Why, where are you?’

‘At home. There’s been some … changes, but I’d rather talk face to face. You think you and Keira could meet me here?’

She paused for a moment, considering his request. ‘I don’t know about Keira, but I’ll be finished here in about half an hour. With luck, I should have some results for you.’

‘Bring everything you’ve got. I’ll have some coffee waiting for you.’

‘Thought you Brits drank tea?’ she asked, a faint trace of her old humour returning.

‘Only on TV,’ he assured her. ‘See you soon.’

As it turned out, it was just over an hour before Drake heard a loud knock at the door. He’d had enough time to shower and change clothes, and although this had done nothing to remedy his lack of sleep, it had at least made him feel a little more on the ball.

The knock was repeated, louder this time.

‘I’m coming!’ he called, pulling a T-shirt on as he made for the front door.

‘Then move your ass!’ an angry female voice retorted. Definitely not McKnight. ‘Before I freeze mine off.’

Unlocking the door, Drake was practically barged aside as Frost pushed her way in, closely followed by a gust of cold wind. Her bike leathers were glistening with rainwater that was already dripping on the carpet, her dark hair a dishevelled mess. A laptop carry-case was slung over one shoulder. She spared him little more than a passing glance as she made straight for the living room.

‘Good to see you too, Keira,’ he remarked.

‘She hasn’t had breakfast yet,’ McKnight warned as she stepped in out of the early-morning drizzle. Unlike her leather-clad companion, she was dressed in casual jeans and a black winter coat, the collar turned up against the chill breeze.

Drake made a face as he motioned towards the living room. ‘Bad news for all of us.’

Frost had already made herself at home, tossing her jacket aside and flopping down on the couch where she unpacked her laptop. She also removed a curious-looking device from her carry-case, set it down on the coffee table and switched it on. Resembling a walkie-talkie with four separate plastic aerials protruding from its top, it was a portable signal jammer designed to disrupt any electronic surveillance equipment within 50 yards.

A single green light on the side confirmed the jammer was on and functioning. The house, and everything in it, was now immune to any form of electronic eavesdropping. It wasn’t the first time they had resorted to such measures, particularly when it came to Anya. This was one conversation that they certainly didn’t want Marcus Cain to find out about.

‘I love coming here, Ryan,’ Frost said as she glanced around at the disorganised living space. ‘Makes my place seem like a palace.’

‘Yeah? Well, I suppose everything seems big from your point of view,’ he remarked to the diminutive specialist, moving behind the breakfast bar to fire up the coffee machine. He guessed they could all do with some.

‘So how did things go with Dan?’ McKnight asked, guessing that was part of the reason he was at home and not at Langley.

Drake glanced up as the machine started to dribble black liquid into the first cup. ‘Put it this way, I wouldn’t count on any more support from his end. He doesn’t think it’s worth the risk trying to find Anya.’

‘Can you blame him?’ Frost asked. ‘She’s connected to a major terrorist attack. She’s about as burned as they come.’

‘She’s not a terrorist,’ he said firmly. ‘She must have had a reason for this.’

‘Okay, so maybe she’s trying to spread love and peace through the medium of bullets. Either way, we know she was the sniper.’

‘Let me worry about the motive,’ he said, handing her a steaming cup. He knew she’d have kicked off if he didn’t offer her a coffee. ‘All I need from you is the method. Did you get anything from the cameras at the lock-up?’

She shook her head. ‘The lock-up itself wasn’t covered by any cameras, so I missed the vehicle changeover. But the main gate logs all vehicles coming in. I managed to catch our friends as they arrived with Demochev.’

Turning her attention to her laptop, she called up an image file and maximised it so that it filled the screen. Sure enough, the Chevy cargo van was plainly visible as it pulled up to the main gate, the driver leaning out to swipe his access card through the reader.

‘Can you zoom in?’ Drake asked.

Manipulating the black-and-white image, Frost focused in on the driver. He was wearing a baseball cap and was careful to keep his head tilted away from the camera, denying them a good look at him. The only thing Drake could tell for sure was that he was of lean build, and apparently fond of tattoos, judging by the symbols and images etched into his exposed forearm. There was scarcely a square inch of skin left untouched, and he had a feeling he knew why.

‘The local tattoo parlour did well out of that guy,’ McKnight remarked.

‘Those aren’t professional,’ Drake said as he surveyed the crude hand-inked images. ‘Those are prison tattoos. Russian.’

Tattoos were a big thing in Russian prison culture, the arcane and seemingly random pictures and symbols forming a complex and richly diverse language that could reveal a great deal about their owner. Drake had seen more than a few in his time. After all, many of the warlords and organised crime leaders the Agency operated against had spent time in Russian jails.

Seeing one he recognised, he looked at Frost again. ‘Can you zoom in any tighter on his hand?’

Increasing the resolution to maximum, Frost focused the screen on the driver’s outstretched hand, the image now rendered grainy and pixillated by her efforts. But sure enough, a single word had been etched into his skin in simple, bold letters.

CEBEP

‘What’s that?’ the young woman asked.

‘It’s the Russian word for “north”,’ Drake explained. ‘Our friend there did time in a Siberian prison.’

She said nothing, though for once she actually looked impressed with his insight.

‘And the devil?’ McKnight prompted, nodding to the image of a demon near his wrist.

‘That’s for someone who holds anger and hatred towards the government.’

‘Figured as much,’ Frost said. ‘Shame he didn’t get his name and address on there too. Would’ve made our job a lot easier.’

Drake folded his arms. The tattoos might have given an insight into the man’s background, but not his identity. Or more importantly, his intentions.

‘What about the vehicle they left in? Did we get any images of that?’

The young specialist shook her head. ‘This place wasn’t exactly Fort Knox. They only log vehicles as they enter.’

‘They must have brought it in at some point to have it standing by.’

‘No shit. But it could have happened weeks or even months ago. You want to cross-reference every vehicle that’s passed through those gates in the past six months, be my guest.’

He didn’t. ‘So who was the lock-up registered with?’

‘Some outfit called Marcell Removals. They took out a short-term lease about a month ago.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a bullshit company – there’s nothing on them.’

He wasn’t surprised. ‘What about Anya?’

Frost made a face, suggesting the news wasn’t good. ‘There were no cameras in the apartment building she fired from. I was trying to backtrack her movements using traffic cams, but it was slow going. Knowing her, I wouldn’t be surprised if she disappeared like a fart in the wind.’

Neither would he. Anya had made a career out of evading detection, and had survived on the run for the past eighteen months despite Cain’s best efforts to capture her. He doubted she would allow herself to be caught now.

With no progress on the security-camera front, Drake turned his attention to McKnight. ‘Sam, anything from you?’

He held a second cup of coffee out to her, but she shook her head. Unlike Frost, she didn’t live off the stuff.

‘Well, the sniper rifle’s a dead end. No pun intended,’ she added. ‘Serial numbers and ID marks were removed. No hairs, fibres or prints were found on it. It’s a serious piece of hardware, though – a KSVK 12.7 Russian, designed by the Degtyarev plant for taking out armoured vehicles and concealed snipers. It packs more punch than a Barrett Fifty Cal, and it’s lighter. According to the intel I was able to dig up, they were only ever issued in small numbers to special forces teams in Chechnya. The Russians really know how to build guns.’

They’ve had plenty of practice, Drake thought.

‘And the explosives?’

She nodded, consulting the chemical analysis results she had printed out. ‘According to this, it’s a compound called Danubit. Some company in Slovakia manufactures it. Normally it’s used for industrial applications like mining and rock blasting. Packs a hell of a punch, though – I’d guess it took less than a pound of the stuff to vaporise that lock-up.’

‘So who would have access to it?’

‘Virtually anyone,’ she admitted. ‘It’s exported to mining and construction companies all over the world. Anyone with a licence to drill or build could get their hands on it.’

He sighed, disappointed she hadn’t found anything more specific. They needed something to narrow down their search, and this, like the rifle, seemed to be a dead end.

‘There was one other thing,’ she added, turning her attention back to the printout. ‘The chemical analysis turned up some unusual trace elements in the explosive. Nickel, cobalt, cadmium, selenium … lots of heavy metals that aren’t part of the explosive reaction.’

He frowned. ‘Sounds like the stuff you’d find in your average car battery. Wouldn’t it have come from the van when it blew up?’

She shook her head. ‘No, this stuff was everywhere, in equal quantities. The van’s battery was still more or less intact even after the explosion. Whatever it was, it was part of the bomb itself. The blast must have rendered it aerosol.’

Drake raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not sure how it could be used to their advantage. ‘Any theories?’

She shrugged. ‘If I had to make a guess, I’d say the explosives were contaminated somehow, either during manufacture or storage.’

‘So where would you find nickel, lead and all that other crap?’ Frost wondered.

‘A chemical plant,’ Drake suggested.

The young woman made a face. ‘Plenty of those to choose from.’

McKnight shook her head, still mulling it over.

Then, just like that, her eyes lit up as an idea came to her. ‘Blacksmith.’

‘Huh?’

‘If this contamination came from some kind of airborne pollution, all we need to do is find a site that matches it,’ she explained, growing more excited as the idea took shape. ‘The Blacksmith Institute is an environmental agency that monitors industrial pollution all over the world. I used a bunch of their papers to write my thesis back in college. If anyone can tell us where this contamination came from, they can.’

She turned her attention to Frost, and the laptop she was still holding.

‘Keira, if I give you the list of trace elements, can you tie in with their servers and do a search for possible sites that match?’

Frost made a face. ‘Could be a hell of a long list without any search parameters.’

‘Then narrow it down to construction and mining complexes,’ Drake suggested.

‘And focus on Russia and Eastern European countries,’ McKnight added, the ideas seeming to flow easily when she had Drake to bounce them off. ‘Everything we’ve seen so far is of Russian origin. It seems logical that the explosives were as well.’

‘On it,’ the young woman said, already bringing up Google to search for the site.

Deputy CIA director Marcus Cain looked up from his computer at the knock on his office door. Normally his private secretary would be there to screen anyone seeking an audience with him, but this early in the morning he was alone.

‘Come in,’ he called out, knowing already who was on the other side.