Sacrifice (31 page)

Cortez nodded to the sniper in gratitude. Rising from his chair, he spared McKnight only the briefest of glances. ‘Ma’am.’

There was little warmth in his dark eyes.

The investigation had stalled, and there was no getting around that. Despite their best efforts, they had been unable to find any more information on the Horizon operatives assigned to the convoy, the forensics teams had found nothing useful at Mitchell’s murder scene, and interviewing witnesses had achieved nothing except to waste a couple of hours of their limited time.

They were rapidly running out of both time and options – two factors that McKnight was now acutely aware of.

She only hoped Drake was having more luck.

Located in western Kabul, the Inter-Continental Hotel was one of the few secure, well-appointed hotels in the city, and as such was usually awash with journalists and foreign businessmen. It didn’t have the glitz and glamour of the more prestigious Serena Hotel, but they still took security seriously.

The building had been laid down in the late 1960s, and bore all the hallmarks of that distinctly uninspired period of architectural design. Big, square and imposing, it looked as much like a block of flats in the East End of London as a luxury hotel. It had been the only large hotel still operating in the city by the time of the 2001
invasion, and had therefore become a staging area for news crews from all over the world.

Things hadn’t changed much, Drake reflected as he and Frost made their way through the automatic glass doors and into the wide lobby area, their boots squeaking on the faux marble floor. Western men and women were gathered together on chairs and couches, sharing serious-looking conversations. Notepads, laptops and cellphones were everywhere, while waiters bustled back and forth with trays of coffee and bottled water.

‘You’re really spoiling me, Ryan,’ Frost remarked with a playful grin, taking in their plush surroundings like a kid in a sweet shop. ‘How come you never do stuff like this when we’re back in the States?’

‘Always had you figured for a cheap date,’ Drake replied as he made his way towards the elevators on the far side of the check-in desk, trying to look unobtrusive. People came and went all the time in places like this, but most journalists were alert for new faces.

He had booked them a room for the night, paying for it out of his own pocket to avoid drawing undue attention. In any case, he didn’t expect they would need it for more than a few hours. From what Frost had told him, it wouldn’t take her long to access Horizon’s servers once Cunningham had planted her Trojan program.

All she needed was Internet access and a secure place to work from. With metal detectors and security guards at the main entrance, the Inter-Continental seemed like their best bet.

A quick elevator ride brought them to the third floor, which was in the middle of being serviced by the looks of things. A plump middle-aged woman was busy dumping the contents of her laundry cart down a chute
just opposite room 322. She didn’t even acknowledge them as they squeezed past.

As he’d expected from a place like this, their room was a plain, unspectacular affair. The owners must have had a real love affair with the colour green, he thought. The carpets, the bed, the chairs, the curtains, even the bedside lights were all a drab olive hue.

Still, colour schemes aside, everything looked clean and efficient. It was certainly more than enough for their needs.

Throwing open the curtains, Drake found himself confronted with a panoramic view of central Kabul. Situated on a hill overlooking the city, the InterContinental’s rooms provided views that were impressive to say the least.

Frost wasted no time unpacking her laptop. As the unit powered up, she reached for the room service brochure and began flicking through it.

‘No way,’ Drake said, snatching it from her grasp. ‘You’re here to work, not to stuff your face on my dollar.’

She couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds, yet the young woman had a voracious appetite that seemed to know no limits, especially when the food was free.

‘Screw you,’ she replied, pouting. ‘Consider this my hazard pay. You know I’m breaking at least a dozen federal laws for you, right?’

Drake looked at her for a long moment, then reluctantly handed the menu back. ‘Fine. But keep your mind on the job.’

That seemed to improve her mood. ‘Relax. As soon as your buddy Cunningham plants the Trojan, I’ll get in, find what we need and bug out. They won’t even know I was there.’

Drake wished he shared her sense of confidence. He
didn’t doubt her abilities, but neither was he inclined to underestimate the people they were up against.

He glanced at his watch again. Almost time.

‘I have to go out for a while,’ he said, drawing the curtains once more. ‘My phone might be busy, so text me if you find anything.’

The young woman looked up from her laptop, frowning. ‘You’re leaving
now
?’

‘I need to speak to Franklin,’ he lied. ‘It should be morning in DC by now. He can keep Breckenridge off our backs for a while. And if we do find something on Horizon, we’ll need his help to bring them down.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘Do you trust him?’

‘I don’t trust anyone,’ he said, one hand on the door. ‘Especially not you.’

Frost gave him the finger before resuming her work.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

It was 8:30 in the morning in Virginia, and already shaping up to be a warm humid day typical of early August. The light fog lingering over the Potomac had almost burned away, and the sun shone down from a cloudless blue sky.

Surrounded by all the trappings of power that came with the position of Deputy Director of the CIA, Marcus Cain sat with his feet up on his desk, cup of coffee in hand as he read over his daily briefing sheet.

He had been promoted to this position after the debacle in Iraq last year, successfully managing to distance himself from Special Activities Division, from Drake, and most importantly, from Anya. After more than a year without incident, it was almost possible to forget the whole thing.

Almost, but not quite.

His intercom buzzed. It was his private secretary; a brisk, efficient woman in her fifties, who had been with him for the better part of a decade and knew him about as well as anyone.

Laying his coffee aside, he hit the accept button. ‘Yeah, Carol?’

‘Sir, I have a call for you on line one,’ she informed him, her tone calm, composed, devoid of emotion.

It could have been his dry cleaner or the President of Russia on the phone; it made no difference to her. Serving with the Agency as long as she had, Carol had learned the fundamental rule of her job – that what happened behind these walls stayed behind them for ever.

‘It’s Mr Carpenter, sir. He was very insistent on speaking with you.’

Cain’s brows rose. He knew that name well enough. It had been some time since he’d spoken to the man, and truth be told he had no desire to do so now. But he also knew Carpenter wouldn’t have contacted him without good reason.

‘Put him through, Carol.’

‘Yes, sir. Transferring him now.’

The line buzzed once as the call was transferred, and Cain picked up his phone to take it.

‘Richard. It’s been a long time,’ he began. Not long enough, he didn’t add.

‘Yes, it has,’ Carpenter agreed. His voice sounded deeper and rougher than Cain remembered. Then again, choking on the dust and grit of Afghanistan twenty-four hours a day probably did that to a man. ‘I hear you’re moving up in the world these days, Marcus. Congratulations. When are you planning to run for President?’

His tone was heavy on sarcasm and light on sincerity.

‘I’m assuming you didn’t call to discuss my career plans?’ Cain said, eager to get to the point.

‘What? No time to shoot the breeze with an old friend?’ Carpenter taunted, chuckling to himself. ‘Well, I guess a man like you doesn’t have much time for friends these days.’

Cain suppressed a flash of annoyance. Carpenter had been a pain in the ass as long as he’d known him; an
arrogant, self-serving opportunist willing to trample over anyone in his pursuit of glory. He had been relieved beyond words when the man finally took early retirement to start his own security firm.

‘I’m still waiting for that elusive point.’

And just like that, Carpenter’s jovial attitude vanished. ‘You have a Shepherd team out here led by a man named Drake. He’s been poking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. I want him and his team gone, now.’

Cain frowned. He had been briefed on the mission to find and recover Hal Mitchell, just as he was briefed on everything concerning Ryan Drake. The man had been a thorn in his side ever since the events of the previous year. He might have been neutralised for now, but he remained a potential threat.

Cain had been happy for him to be sent to dangerous places like Afghanistan, where the chances of the issue resolving itself were infinitely greater.

‘That’s your problem, not mine,’ he countered.

‘It seems to me like Drake is everybody’s problem.’

‘How so?’

‘Come on, Marcus. We both know what happened last year. Don’t forget it was
my
company who supplied you with operatives for that job. And lost plenty of good men in the process.’

Not that good, Cain thought to himself. Despite outnumbering their opponents two to one, Carpenter’s supposedly elite operatives had proven no match for the Shepherd team sent in to take them down. Cain suspected the man hadn’t brought his A-list players to the game that day.

‘You were compensated for your loss,’ Cain reminded him. ‘That’s what it comes down to in the end, isn’t it? Money?’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ His tone was icy cold. ‘Just because you wear expensive suits and do your killing from an air-conditioned office in DC, doesn’t mean you’re any less dirty than I am. We both made a deal with the devil, Marcus. Five years ago, Moscow. Ring any bells?’

That stopped him in his tracks.

‘I wonder what would happen if your dirty deal with the Russians was leaked to the media? It’d be a feeding frenzy, I’d say. You’d be ruined, and you’d probably take the entire Agency down with you.’

Cain’s grip on the phone tightened. ‘Is that a threat?’

‘A warning,’ Carpenter corrected him. ‘We both have things we’d rather keep private. It’s in all our interests to make sure Drake is … handled.’

Cain could feel his heart beating faster, the blood pounding in his ears. Carpenter was right. He was an arrogant, dangerous, ruthless son of a bitch, but he was right. If the truth came out, everything he had worked towards, sacrificed and compromised for, would vanish in an instant.

Cain exhaled slowly. When this was over, Carpenter would get what was coming to him. He would make sure of that.

‘I’m listening,’ he said at last.

Bibi Mahru Hill, Kabul

Overlooking the vast urban sprawl of the city of Kabul, and with panoramic views of the mountainous landscape that surrounded it, the sandy rounded hump of Bibi Mahru Hill had always been a popular spot for locals. Now, since the fall of the Taliban, it had become one of the city’s best-known tourist sites.

The main attraction, as incongruous as it appeared in such arid surroundings, was the Olympic-sized swimming pool, complete with 10-metre-high diving boards. But like so many grand undertakings begun in this country, it had never come to fruition. The massive concrete shell had never been filled, the rusting diving boards never used for their intended purpose. It was another empty, decaying memory of the Soviet Union’s failed attempt to bring Socialism to Afghanistan.

Its more sinister legacy was that it had been widely used by the Taliban to conduct executions. A 10-metre fall into an empty swimming pool had proven an ideal means of inflicting a slow, painful death on enemies of the regime.

A small crowd of locals and foreigners were milling around the edge of the pool, watching groups of kids splashing in the cloudy unfiltered water that had collected
in the deep end, their shrieks of laughter echoing around the concrete enclosure. In a country that had seen three decades of war and conflict, such sounds were a rare but welcome occurrence.

Standing at the opposite end of the pool, Drake watched a group of young men posing for a picture in front of the rusted hulk of a Russian BTR-60 armoured personnel carrier, all grinning and giving Winston Churchill-style V-for-victory signs. Most of them probably hadn’t even been born when the Soviets pulled out.

Making his way here hadn’t been easy. Avoiding the main roads and the endless checkpoints that went with them, he had instead travelled through the city’s unpatrolled maze of side streets and back alleys. He could almost sense the brooding hostility amongst many of the locals he passed along the way, though he had done his best to ignore it, simply keeping his head down and walking on.

Nonetheless, he had eventually reached the crown of Bibi Mahru Hill unmolested. He was still perspiring after the long hike uphill in 90-degree heat, but nonetheless made the rendezvous on time.

Now all he needed was Anya.

A couple of Westerners with expensive-looking cameras were taking photos of the area, probably journalists looking for a new angle on an old subject. Drake was careful to stay out of shot, more from force of habit than fear of exposure. He had made sure his route from the drop-off point had been long and winding, and had worked a couple of street markets into his journey to confound anyone who might have been tailing him.

His attention was drawn to one of the photographers who seemed to be heading in his direction. It was a woman, tall and statuesque, with long dark hair tied
back in a ponytail and partly covered by a baseball cap. She was clad in the hiking boots, cargo pants and loose shirt combination that seemed to be regulation apparel for Westerners around these parts. Her eyes were hidden behind Ray-Ban sunglasses that probably cost more than most of the men by the pool made in a month.

She was looking at him. Somehow he could almost feel her eyes surveying him, watching him intently. Only one person he knew had such an effect on him.