Deception Game (48 page)

Drake stared back at him in tense silence. He might have been sincere, or every word out of his mouth might have been a lie. After everything that had happened, Drake no longer trusted himself to tell the difference.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ he evaded.

‘Try me.’

He sighed and took another gulp of water. ‘I was hired to bring Sowan in,’ he admitted at last. ‘The deal went sour, we had to improvise.’

‘Hired by who?’

‘A man named Faulkner. A spook with British intelligence.’

At this, Cunningham’s eye opened wider. ‘Faulkner? David Faulkner?’

‘You know him?’

‘Jesus, everybody in the Regiment knew him. Well, everyone who was around back in the day. It was long before your time, I suppose.’

Before his time. Fifteen years separated the two men. A lot could, and apparently did, happen in those ten years.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘A lot. He was around during the Troubles back in the eighties, when things were getting really out of hand, running undercover ops against our friends in the IRA. And boy, did he run them. Aye, he was all polite and gentlemanly on the surface, but underneath he was something else altogether. Liked to get very hands-on during the interrogations, if you know what I mean. And he
enjoyed
it. I’ve seen lots of men do it over the years, but not many that actually enjoyed what they did. He scared the shit out of most of us, so we avoided him as much as we could. Everyone did. That was something else he enjoyed – the fear.’

Drake let out a breath. He wasn’t exactly surprised by what he’d heard, given his encounters with Faulkner over the past couple of days. But it didn’t do much for his morale to know exactly what kind of man he was up against. A sadistic, intelligent and ruthless killer, with considerable resources at his disposal.

‘In short, Faulkner’s a man you should be very fucking afraid of. What on earth made you decide to work for a man like him?’

There was little to lose now by telling him the truth. Cunningham was already well acquainted with the sword hanging over Drake’s head, having been told the whole sorry tale during their short-lived reunion in Afghanistan the previous year.

‘Someone murdered my mother,’ he said at length. ‘Faulkner offered me answers, and like a fucking idiot I went for it. He was playing us...playing
me
all along, running some kind of black op to hand prisoners over to the Libyans in exchange for intel.’

Cunningham shook his head in dismay. ‘So why go back to Tripoli?’

‘Evidence. The Libyans kept everything to do with the project on file. Phone calls, emails, prisoner dossiers – enough to fuck him over, put him in jail for the rest of his life. Sowan went in to recover it, but his own people turned against him. They deleted all evidence of the op.’

‘So what’s on the laptop?’

Drake sighed and looked down. ‘The Americans have been smuggling weapons and equipment to resistance groups over the border. They’re building an army to topple Gaddafi.’

‘Jesus,’ Cunningham breathed. ‘That’s a disaster waiting to happen. The country would tear itself apart.’

He wasn’t inclined to dispute that assertion. ‘Faulkner found one of their key operatives and handed him over to the Libyans. Looks like he’s trying to derail their coup to protect his own interests. The details might well be on that laptop, but nobody’s managed to break into it yet.’

‘So now you’re caught between a rock and a hard place, aye? An entire country hunting you, the Agency trying to silence you, and a fucking lunatic out to kill you.’

Drake said nothing to this disconcertingly frank summary of his situation. ‘Now you know why we were here. The question is, what happens now?’

‘You mean, am I going to hand you over to the Libyans? Let them torture and execute you so I can earn a few extra quid?’ Cunningham allowed that notion to hang in the air for a few seconds, as if he himself had yet to decide the matter. ‘We were friends once, Ryan. You might have forgotten that, but I haven’t. So here’s what I’m thinking. We’re a few miles from the border; the boys can escort you over before dawn, get you into Tunisia and let you be on your way. I’ll take the woman and return her to the Libyans, maybe even claim a small reward at the same time. The rest is up to you.’

Drake was genuinely surprised by what he’d just heard. After everything that had happened between them, the tumultuous events of the previous year and the animosity that had developed since that day, Cunningham was still prepared to help him.

That being said, not everything about his plan sat well with Drake.

‘Laila’s been through enough,’ he countered. ‘If you hand her back to the Libyans, she could end up in a prison cell or a coffin.’

The older man shrugged. ‘Aye, and I suppose you could offer her something better? They might grill her on what happened, but at the end of the day she’s an innocent caught up in this. They’d realize that sooner or later.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘What’s your answer, Ryan?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Nope. You can consider this your get-out-of-jail-free card. You only get one, and this is yours – there won’t be another,’ Cunningham warned him. ‘Oh, and you’re welcome.’

‘I’d like to see the rest of my team,’ Drake said, not sure what else to say.

‘Aye. Thought you might.’ Rising to his feet, Cunningham held out a hand to help him up, which Drake refused.

Attempting to get up on his own, however, he soon regretted this show of stubborn defiance as his vision blurred and the familiar pounding headache made itself felt again. Clutching at the rock wall for support, Drake fought to control the rising tide of nausea and somehow managed to drag himself to his feet.

Saying nothing to this, Cunningham simply gestured to the low passageway that seemed to lead into a larger chamber beyond.

‘After you, old son.’

Mukhabarat headquarters, Tripoli

It was just past nine o’clock in the evening, with darkness descending on the city of Tripoli, when the news Bishr Kubar had been waiting for finally came through.

‘We have one of them!’ one of the communications technicians called out across the crowded operations room.

Pushing himself away from the map he’d been poring over, Kubar strode across the room to speak with him.

‘Talk to me,’ he growled, fatigue and frustration working together to leave his temper even shorter than usual. ‘Give me details.’

‘One of our roving patrols came across a Western woman out in the foothills of the Nafusa Mountains. She was dehydrated and close to death, and apparently alone.’

Kubar frowned, well aware that the reports of last night’s shooting specifically mentioned a man leaving the area. ‘Was she carrying anything with her? A laptop computer?’

The young technician’s face paled. ‘There was no word on personal possessions, but their report was filtered through three layers of military communications,’ he explained. ‘They may have neglected to mention it.’

The muscles across Kubar’s shoulders tightened. ‘What’s her current status?’

‘She’s alive. They’re transporting her to the nearest military command point for questioning.’

He nodded. ‘Find out where that is. I want to be there when they bring her in.’

Pain.

Noise and jolting movement.

The smell of petrol and old leather and cigarette smoke. The feel of rough metal against her cheek. The pressure of plasticuffs biting into the flesh of her wrists.

With her mind lingering on the edge of consciousness, McKnight struggled to process any information beyond simple physical sensations. She opened her eyes with some effort and looked around, the world swimming into bleary focus.

She was in a vehicle of some kind. Military, simple and functional. Bare exposed metal, worn seats, dirty windows. The rough growl of an engine, accompanied by the strained groan as the suspension bore them across another patch of rough ground.

Beyond the windows, darkness illuminated only by the twin beams of headlights. Night had fallen on the desert. She wasn’t sad about that – she’d seen enough sun to last her a lifetime.

She tried to move a little, and felt something tug painfully at the skin of her left arm. Looking down, she saw an IV line snaking out to a bag of some kind of liquid suspended from the vehicle’s roof. Intravenous fluids. They had given her basic medical treatment, patched her up, bringing her back from the brink of death.

Already she could feel her mind growing sharper, her thinking clearer as her body recovered from the debilitating effects of dehydration. And with that heightened awareness came a greater appreciation of the pain she was in.

Somehow she had survived her leap from the cliff top and her tumble down the rough rock-strewn slope beyond, but the fall had nonetheless left its mark on her. Her entire body ached with the pain of deep bruising, not to mention the countless sharp stones that had torn her clothes and the flesh beneath. Every inhalation brought with it a stab of pain, suggesting she’d cracked or even broken several ribs.

Yet for all that, she was alive. Somehow she had clung on long enough to be rescued, though perhaps rescue was the wrong word.

She looked around, taking in her fellow passengers.

There were three of them – two up front, and a third in the back with her. All male. All dressed in military fatigues. It didn’t take long to reach the inevitable conclusion.

She’d been found by the Libyan army.

Oh Christ.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked before she could stop herself.

A sharp blow delivered to her injured ribs prompted an agonized cry, and was sufficient to silence further questions.

‘You not speak!’ her fellow passenger commanded in halting English. ‘We ask question. Where is the other one?’

Ryan, she thought, with a mixture of hope and fear. With luck, he’d made it out of the area before they’d found her. But even for a man as resilient as him, the chances of survival in such an inhospitable place were almost nil. What strange irony would have saved her life and condemned his?

Samantha gave no answer to this question, which only antagonized her interrogator further. ‘You answer now!’

She looked him in the eye. He was a small man, lean and wiry, his combat helmet removed to expose the balding dome of his head.

‘I’m not telling you jack shit,’ she replied in a calm voice. ‘If you fixed me up with this IV drip, it means you’re keeping me alive so you can bring me in for interrogation. That means it’s not your job to ask questions. You’re just a grunt, an errand boy. So you might as well shut up and make this ride easier for both of us, because I’ve got nothing to say to you, asshole.’

That was when she saw the change come over him, saw his eyes open wide, saw his mouth twist in anger, saw him ball up his fist to deliver another agonizing blow. She didn’t care. If she was lucky, the stupid bastard might actually draw a weapon and kill her.

It was at this moment that the passenger up front, presumably the man in charge of this small patrol, barked an order at her new best friend. She couldn’t tell what he said exactly, but it might have meant something because the man froze immediately, glancing uncertainly from Samantha to his comrade, then reluctantly lowering his arm.

Twisting around in his seat, the patrol’s leader eyed her with something akin to amusement. ‘I know what you are doing,’ he informed her. ‘Soon you wish I had let him kill—’

His sentence was abruptly cut short by an explosion of glass as a fist-sized hole suddenly appeared in the jeep’s windshield. There was a wet popping sound, and McKnight felt something warm coating her face as the driver slumped forward against the wheel, his blood covering the dashboard and side window.

Uncontrolled, the jeep veered off whatever minor road it had been following before rolling to a stop.

McKnight had no idea what was happening, but even she had the presence of mind to throw herself down, flattening against the rear seat.

Her two companions weren’t so lucky. The man up front reached for a rifle resting in his footwell, only to jerk violently as a volley of rounds tore through his body. She heard only a faint sigh, as if of disappointment, as he slid sideways in his chair.

Last to react was her friend in the rear seat. Recognizing that the jeep was a lost cause, he threw open his door and practically fell out into the darkness, trying to make a run for it. A trio of dull thuds followed by an agonized cry told her he hadn’t made it far.

She was alone now, she realized. Alone in the back seat of the jeep, weakened and injured, her hands bound.

She could do little but watch as a figure emerged from the darkness, walking towards her with the casual self-confidence of a man in control of everything around him.

In the crimson light cast by the dashboard instruments, McKnight was able to make out a distinguished middle-aged face, a mane of neatly combed blonde hair, a charming smile betrayed by cold, calculating eyes.

‘Hello, Samantha,’ Faulkner said. ‘Good to meet you at last.’

The short, winding passage was perhaps an inch higher than Drake’s head at its apex, but he ducked down a little anyway as he passed through. His head was killing him already without adding a concussion to his list of injuries.

Emerging into the chamber beyond, Drake’s first impression was of a large bubble formed inside the rock, roughly oval in shape with the far end being somewhat wider than the entrance. The floor, probably once sloping downward towards the centre, was covered by a deep layer of sand that had been blown in and deposited here over millennia, forming a rough floor space about five metres wide and eight in length. A single fire burned in the centre of this improvised living space, providing enough light for him to make out the cave’s inhabitants.

The first thing he saw were the two Bedouin men standing guard at the entrance; one armed with an AK assault rifle and the other with an ancient bolt-action weapon that looked older than both of them combined. Drake couldn’t help but notice the long narrow scar that snaked down the right side of his face, starting at his ear and tapering down to the edge of his mouth. But far from being a disfigurement, the scar lent him a rakish look, reminding Drake of a swashbuckling adventurer from some old pirate movie.

Facial scars notwithstanding, both men were fairly representative of the people who had somehow found a way to survive in this most inhospitable of environments – tall, lean and tough, possessing a wiry, sinewy strength that was far more useful here than any bulked-up musculature. And they bore enough of a resemblance to each other that they had to be either brothers or close cousins – a suspicion that was borne out a moment later as Cunningham introduced him.

‘Ryan, meet the boys,’ he began, gesturing to the bigger one first. ‘This is Amaha. The one with the scar is his wee brother, Iskaw. They’re Tuaregs and dinnae speak much English, so I wouldnae worry about introducing yourself.’

‘Where did you find them?’ he asked, perplexed how an out-of-work mercenary had hooked up with such an unlikely crew.

Cunningham shrugged. ‘Long story, mate. The short version is that they stirred up trouble with another tribe. Iskaw there even got into a knife fight with the chief’s son. That’s why he’s so pretty now. Got himself banished to avoid a tribal feud.’

Drake nodded, understanding all too well why such a drastic measure had been taken. Rivalry and distrust were endemic amongst the nomadic tribes in areas like this. Grudges were rarely forgotten or forgiven, and even petty disagreements could escalate into full-scale blood feuds that pulled in several other tribes and needlessly cost many lives. Severe punishments were the only way to maintain some measure of order and satisfy honour that had been slighted.

‘Anyway, his brother decided to go with him, and they struck out on their own,’ Cunningham carried on. ‘Lucky for them, they had the good fortune to run into me about six months ago. I’ve been training them ever since. Sharp as tacks, both of them. A little too much bravado at times, but they’re good lads. And Iskaw there can shoot better than either of us ever could.’

Drake wasn’t so sure an encounter with Cunningham could be considered good fortune. Still, it was plain even to him that the man meant what he said about the two Tuaregs, taking an almost fatherly pride in their accomplishments.

Switching to Arabic, Cunningham spoke a few words to the two guards, who moved aside to allow Drake entry to the larger chamber beyond.

‘Ryan! About goddamn time!’ a female voice called out, speaking with a distinctly Boston accent that could only belong to Keira Frost.

Sure enough, the young woman rounded the fire and strode towards him. Her face was bruised and grazed in places from what had clearly been some kind of physical confrontation, but otherwise she appeared to be in good health.

The Tuareg guards tensed up when Frost made her move towards Drake, but a nod from Cunningham prompted them to stand down.

The young woman’s strength certainly hadn’t failed her as she threw herself at him, grabbing him in a fierce embrace that was equal parts relief and defiant protectiveness. It took him a moment to realize her hands were bound at the wrists with thick cordage, no doubt to keep her under control, and that she’d hooked them around his neck as she clung to him. Mason, who moved into view behind her, was likewise restrained.

‘Ow! Take it easy, I’m still delicate,’ he protested, though the relief in his voice was obvious, as was the strength of his own embrace in return.

‘Goddamn it. I thought we’d lost you,’ Frost whispered in his ear. Only now, in the relative safety of this place, could she finally acknowledge how close they’d come to never seeing each other again.

‘No such luck,’ Drake replied, feigning dry humour yet unable to hide the emotion in his voice. ‘I’ll be around to piss you off for a while yet.’

Reluctantly he eased out of her embrace and took a step back to regard his two friends. They were stranded thousands of miles from home in a hostile country whose government wanted them captured, hunted by a desperate man who wanted them dead, and imprisoned by a former enemy of dubious motives. But they were all together. That at least was something.

‘Samantha?’ Mason asked, though the look in his eyes suggested he knew the answer already.

Drake swallowed hard and shook his head.

His companion closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry, Ryan.’

‘It’s not your fault. Nothing could have been done,’ Drake said, knowing he couldn’t let himself think about it now. Not here, not in front of everyone.

‘What...what happened out there?’ Frost asked. Her eyes were glistening, though she was able to hold it together, likely because she didn’t want to show weakness in front of their captors.

Drake let out a breath. ‘It was quick. Let’s leave it at that for now.’

She was wise enough not to press him further.

‘Sorry about the ropes,’ Cunningham interjected, nodding to their bound hands. ‘But they didn’t exactly give us a warm welcome.’

Drake wasn’t surprised. Frost had been captured, imprisoned and brutally interrogated as a result of Cunningham’s betrayal last year, not to mention losing a close friend and comrade in the ensuing battle. He didn’t doubt she would have happily torn his throat out if she’d had the chance.

‘Untie them,’ he ordered.

‘Aye? So the wee banshee there can go in for round two?’ Cunningham shook his head. ‘I dinnae think so, mate.’

‘Nobody’s going to attack you,’ Drake assured him, giving Frost a pointed look. ‘Not now. Not after what happened today.’

The young woman cocked a dark brow, her relief at Drake’s return now soured by distrust. ‘Did I miss something, Ryan? This Scottish prick’s the reason Keegan came home from Afghanistan in a fucking box.’

‘He’s also the reason I’m not dead,’ Drake reminded her.

‘So, what? You guys are best friends again?’ she challenged him, eyes flashing with anger. ‘That how this works?’

‘The way this works is that we don’t fuck with him, and he doesn’t kill us all. So nobody’s going to do anything stupid right now.’ Gripping her arm, he pulled her close and spoke quietly in her ear. ‘He’ll answer for Keegan. But not today.
Not today
.’

The young woman stared back at him, the conflicting emotions of the moment clearly evident in her pale-blue eyes. Nonetheless, even she understood the necessity of cooperation, and reluctantly gave a nod.

With the matter settled, albeit with difficulty, Drake glanced at Cunningham. ‘Let them go. You’ll have no trouble from us.’

Cunningham studied him for a long moment before finally speaking a command to Iskaw, who lowered his weapon and drew a knife from his belt to cut their bonds. Drake couldn’t help noticing that it was one of the military-issue blades given to his team by Faulkner.

Frost noticed it as well, and wasted no time speaking up as Iskaw severed the ropes at her wrists. ‘I’ll have that back now.’

Whether he understood the actual words was debatable, but clearly the intent wasn’t lost on him. He smiled in amusement before sheathing the blade once more.

The young woman took a step towards him, but Drake was quick to intervene before she did something they all ended up regretting.

‘Pick your battles, Keira.’

Frost hesitated a moment, then looked past him to the young Tuareg hunter, who seemed greatly amused by her defiant spirit. ‘Keep smiling, asshole. I’ll be taking that knife home with me.’ Then, composing herself once more, she turned her attention back to Drake. ‘Tell us what happened in Tripoli. How screwed are we?’

The look in Drake’s eyes said it all. ‘You’d better sit down for this one.’

She did, as did Mason. They listened in tense silence while Drake laid it all out – Sowan’s arrival at Mukhabarat headquarters, the deletion of the evidence against Faulkner, the unexpected discovery that had forced him to improvise an escape, the desperate flight through the streets of Tripoli and the sudden, deadly ambush by Faulkner’s men.

‘They were ready for us,’ he concluded. ‘He knew what we were planning.’

‘That son of a bitch,’ Frost snarled, angrily tossing a stick onto the fire. ‘The fucker’s toying with us. He knows every move we make before we even know ourselves.’

Mason however had taken a more pragmatic view. ‘He knows that we’re going to do because he knows
you
, Ryan. You said yourself that he recruited you, probably studied you. He knows how you think. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

‘Well, that depends on what Keira can dig out of that laptop.’ Drake didn’t add that if she found nothing of use, they were pretty much out of options. Instead he turned to Cunningham. ‘Where is it?’

The older man retreated to the far end of the cave, returning presently with the computer hooked under one arm. Hesitating a moment, he held it out to Frost, who snatched it out of his hand, laid it carefully on a low boulder and opened it up.

First impressions weren’t good. The screen was marked by an obvious crack extending all the way across, and her initial attempts to power it up met with failure.

‘I need tools. A screwdriver, pliers, whatever you’ve got,’ she said, holding a hand out like a surgeon waiting for a vital implement.

It was Cunningham who came to her aid, much as she hated to accept his assistance, handing over an old and very well used Leatherman multi-tool. Unfolding a Philips-head screwdriver from the tool, Frost went to work on the laptop, removing the screws that held the outer casing together.

As the last one came undone, she managed to pry the plastic casing free and tossed it aside, exposing the machine’s inner workings.

It didn’t take long to see where the problem lay. The battery must have been damaged in the crash, allowing its acidic contents to leak into the delicate circuitry surrounding it. Already they could see the corrosive effects discolouring and warping the components the acid had come into contact with.

‘Well, that ain’t good,’ the technical specialist said under her breath, pulling the battery free and tossing it aside. Letting out a vexed sigh, she looked up at the others. ‘The motherboard’s screwed. We’re not going to be getting much out of this thing.’

Drake closed his eyes, the headache returning with greater force in that moment. ‘What about the hard drive? Has it been destroyed?’

Working quickly, she unscrewed the metal casing which housed the laptop’s memory unit. Situated on the opposite side from the damaged battery, it appeared to be untouched by the leaking acid.

‘I don’t think so,’ she concluded after careful inspection. ‘But it’s useless unless I can hook it up to another machine. And there aren’t many of them in this neck of the woods.’

‘It was all for nothing, then,’ Laila said from a dark corner of the cave, her voice raw with grief and laced with disgust at Drake. ‘All of it. Tarek’s life, his sacrifice.
You
failed him, just as you failed all of us. But still you live, Ryan Drake. Somehow you survive. It would have been a mercy on us all if the desert had taken you.’

Frost, never one to take an insult well at the best of times, rounded on her. ‘Why don’t you shut the—’

‘Keira! Stop it,’ Drake cautioned her, holding up a hand in an appeal for silence. ‘She’s right. I
did
fail.’

Frost, caught off guard by his frank admission, stared at him in silence. So did Mason, and even Cunningham.

‘I failed all of you,’ Drake repeated, raising his chin a little as he faced up to his personal mistakes. ‘You followed me here. You supported me and you risked your lives for me, because I convinced you it was the right thing to do. But I was doing it for all the wrong reasons. I came here for revenge, to punish the man who took someone from me. But I was wrong. I gambled with other people’s lives, with your lives, and...a good man is dead because of that. And Sowan
was
a good man,’ he said, looking straight at Laila now. ‘I was wrong about him, too. He trusted me. He gave his life to try to put things right, he deserved a lot better than what he got. I failed you both, and I failed Sam. And Chandra. All of them are gone because of me.’

There it was. His confession. His admission of guilt, for all the difference it made. He’d fucked up, and now he had to live with it. It might be hard for him, but it would be infinitely harder for Laila.

She said nothing. She had no words left for him, but he did see something in the flickering light of the nearby fire. He saw tears glistening in her eyes before she turned away, retreating into herself.

‘So what do we do now?’ Frost asked.

‘Faulkner took a risk appearing in Tripoli like that. He came close, even killed Sowan, but he exposed himself at the same time. Because he was afraid – afraid of what we’d find. Afraid of what’s on that hard drive.’ Drake was staring into the flames as he spoke. ‘I say we find out why. We get it out of the country, and we release its contents to anyone willing to listen.’

Drake looked up at Laila then, the red and orange flames reflecting in his eyes. There was only one thing left on his mind now.