For Matthew – who ensures life is never dull

Prologue

Dehiba, Tunisia – 10 May 2009

Drake took a breath, the scorching dry air searing his throat, tiny grains of windblown sand stinging his eyes. Overhead, the sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, raising beads of sweat on his already burned and reddened skin.

Around him, locals and small groups of tourists moved back and forth through the crowded central square, paying little attention to the Westerner in dishevelled clothes leaning against the wall beside a small cafe. Perhaps the cuts and bruises marked him out as someone to studiously avoid, or perhaps the dangerous flicker in his eyes was what really kept them away. Whatever the reason, the ebb and flow of humanity seemed to part around him like a river slipping past an implacable boulder.

Glancing up, Drake turned his gaze towards the low hilltop about half a mile away overlooking the bustling town centre, where the weathered and tumbled walls of the ancient settlement still rose up against the pristine blue sky, heavy stone blocks jutting from the parched earth.

That was the place where it was supposed to happen; the place where the tumultuous events of the past week would reach their final, deadly conclusion. Everything he had fought for, everything he had sacrificed, every compromise he had made… it had all led him here.

He would live or die by what happened today.

His pulse was pounding strong and urgent in his ears, almost drowning out the tinny ring of the cell phone as he held it against his head. The man he was trying to reach would be wary of calls like this. He wouldn’t answer readily, might not answer at all in fact. Either way, there was nothing he could do to change it.

All he could do was wait, and hope.

And just like that, the ringing stopped. He was connected.

‘So you’re still alive, Ryan,’ a voice remarked on the other end of the line. A smooth, confident, controlled voice. Not the voice of a man whose own future hung in the balance just as much as Drake’s. ‘And you’re late. Didn’t I make it clear what was at stake?’

‘You did,’ Drake replied, his eyes scanning the crowds around him. ‘I have what you want.’

‘Then I suggest you bring it to me, so we can finish our business.’

Drake knew this was the moment of choice. His last chance to back out.

‘No,’ he said, speaking with calm finality.

There was a pause. A moment of confusion and doubt; a chink in the armour momentarily exposed. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We both know I’m dead the second I hand it over. You’d never let me live after everything I’ve seen, everything I know.’ He was committed now. There was no going back – the only choice was to move forward. ‘So I suggest you remember this moment, because this is as close as you’re ever going to get to what you want.’

To his credit, his adversary remained surprisingly composed in the wake of this blatant act of defiance. A different man might have railed against him, shouted down the line about how foolish Drake’s actions were and how he would surely be punished for them.

But this man was another sort.

‘Ryan, maybe you’ve forgotten the reason we’re in this position,’ the calm, pleasant voice went on. ‘If you need reminding, I’m quite prepared to leave behind a piece of her at our meeting place. And believe me, it’ll be a piece she’ll miss.’

Drake closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing down the fear and horror at what he was hearing, because he knew well enough that this was a threat his adversary was quite prepared to make good on. A sadist who took pleasure in inflicting suffering on others.

‘You won’t do that,’ he replied, sounding more confident than he felt.

‘Really? Enlighten me.’

‘I’m offering you something better.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘There are three ways this could go. First, you kill her, I release the files across the internet, then I turn all my attention to hunting you down. Believe me, I’m good at finding people, and I’m prepared to devote every waking moment of my life to finding you. And when I do, anything you do to her will be nothing but a happy memory compared to what I do to you. Second, you kill me before I can get to you. The files have been uploaded to an automatic email server, and without me to stop it, everything you’ve worked to cover up gets released within two hours of my death.’ He allowed that prospect to hang there for a moment or two. ‘Either way, you lose.’

‘As do you, Ryan,’ he reminded him.

‘There’s more at stake here than you and me. We both know what you’re really playing for. Are you ready to give all that up, watch it fall down around you?’

There was a pause. A gambler weighing the risks against the potential rewards. ‘I presume there’s a third option?’

Drake took another breath of the sandy, stifling air. ‘You give her back to me, unharmed. I agree not to interfere with your plans or tell anyone what we found, you agree not to come looking for me, and everyone walks away. It’s that simple.’

‘Very heroic of you,’ he remarked with dour humour.

‘I’m no hero. Never was,’ Drake said, truly meaning it. ‘And this isn’t my war. I just want it to end.’

This was it. He had said and done everything he could. The rest depended on the man on the other end of the line.

And then he heard it. Not some vicious curse, not a growl of anger or even a muttered promise that he would pay for this one day.

What Drake heard instead was a low chuckle of amusement. The laugh of a man finally springing a trap that had been long in the making.

‘Come now, Ryan. We both know this can only end one way.’ He paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in. ‘Look down.’

Glancing down, Drake saw something on his stained and crumpled shirt. A splash of red light that hadn’t been there before. The glow of a laser sight.

‘Wouldn’t run if I were you. You’re covered from two different directions, and my friends are just itching to pull those triggers.’

They had found him. Somehow they had tracked him here, predicted this move, known exactly what he was going to do. And now they had him out in the open, the time had come to spring their trap.

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than a black SUV pulled up nearby. The rear doors flew open and a pair of men leapt out. Men Drake had encountered before. Men who had tried to kill him more than once over the past few days, and who wouldn’t hesitate to do so now if they were given the order. Their hands were on weapons hidden just inside their jackets, ready to draw down on him if he so much as twitched.

‘Like I said, Ryan,’ the voice on the line said, filled with the confidence of a man in total control of the situation. ‘This can only end one way.’

Drake lowered the phone as the retrieval team closed in on him.

Part One

Rendition

To date, at least fifty-four countries are known to have participated in the CIA’s extraordinary-rendition programme, many playing host to so-called ‘black sites’ where detainees are held and interrogated for an unlimited period of time without any legal rights. The number of people imprisoned in this fashion may never be known.

Chapter 1

Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia – two weeks earlier

The sheer scale of Arlington Cemetery never ceased to amaze Drake. Occupying more than 600 acres of land on the west bank of the Potomac and located a mere twenty-minute walk from the White House, the immense complex was both physically and symbolically close to the heart of the nation. Its size and scale served as an eternal reminder of the sacrifices made by generations of Americans, from the Civil War all the way up to the present day. And it was here, beneath the gentle shade of blossoming trees, that 400,000 of America’s war dead rested, their graves laid out in neat rows of white headstones that stretched almost beyond sight.

It was a sobering, reflective sort of place, and one that Drake had visited more than once in the past few years, either to pay respects to fallen comrades or just to be alone with his thoughts.

Today however he had a different purpose here.

Turning left off Roosevelt Drive, he began his ascent up a steep grassy hill towards the memorial complex at the top, passing a group of people heading in the opposite direction. A mixture of ages and genders, but comfortable enough around each other that they almost certainly belonged to the same family. An old man in the centre of the group, leaning heavily on a walking stick as he made his way down the hill, was likely the reason for their visit. He was wearing a dark blue navy cap with the name of some warship emblazoned in frayed gold lettering, though he’d passed by before Drake could get a close look at it.

He didn’t suppose it mattered. It meant something to its owner, and that was what counted.

Strange how differently America regarded its war veterans, he thought with a fleeting sense of regret as he ascended the steps. Here they were treated with respect, even reverence. The old cliché that a man in uniform could walk into any bar in the country and have at least one guy buy him a beer was, in Drake’s experience, still alive and kicking. Back in the UK, the best they could hope for was a shoddy state pension and bingo night down at the ex-servicemen’s club.

He did his best to push these thoughts from his mind as he reached the top of the steps, taking in the scene beyond. Standing in the centre of the wide open plaza was an immense marble sarcophagus, its white surface bright in the afternoon sun.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was one of the most sacred places in the whole of Arlington; an eternal monument to the thousands of soldiers who had perished unknown on the battlefields of the world, their identities forever lost.

It was guarded twenty-four hours a day, no matter the weather, by the Sentinels – elite members of the 3rd US Infantry Regiment known as the ‘Old Guard’ – and today was no exception. Uniform immaculate, back ramrod straight, sunlight gleaming off his mirrored sunglasses, a single soldier carrying an old M14 rifle paced slowly back and forth in front of the tomb. So precise were his movements, and those of every other Sentinel who had come before him, that a perfect square had been worn into the marble paving by the long decades of their watch.

A few tourists were there taking pictures of the spectacle, probably viewing it as a curiosity akin to the Queen’s Guard standing motionless outside Buckingham Palace. Drake was content to bypass them as he headed for the Memorial Amphitheatre located behind the tomb.

To a casual observer his demeanour was little different from any of the hundreds of other people milling around the cemetery that day. He walked with the easy, comfortable pace of a man heading somewhere with no great urgency, neither hurrying nor dawdling. His posture was relaxed without appearing nonchalant, confident without swagger, his expression conveying little beyond the superficial interest of an average visitor.

Only his eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses that didn’t look the least bit out of place on that warm sunny afternoon, betrayed the keen, eager gaze of a trained operative, drinking in every detail of his environment and the people within it. His gaze leapt from face to face, looking for any hint, any telltale clue that they weren’t who they were pretending to be.

Drake had made a living out of finding people, many of whom didn’t want to be found, and he’d become very good at spotting something out of place. A gaze that lingered a little too long, a twitch that betrayed tension and intensity where none were warranted, an involuntary shift of posture to accommodate the uncomfortable bulk of a concealed weapon. He’d seen it all in his time, and his senses were on alert for it now.

He relaxed a little as he drew closer to the amphitheatre, content for now that no one amongst the spectators had shown undue interest in him. That didn’t mean no one was watching, of course, but Drake had grown used to covering his back over the past couple of years.

He’d grown used to a lot of things over the last couple of years.

Normally reserved for Veteran’s Day services and other public events, for the most part the massive outdoor theatre stood empty and unused. There was little for tourists to see or do inside, and no monuments stood within its columned walls, so few people lingered there long.

In short, it was a good place to talk without fear of interruption or eavesdropping. And this was one conversation he didn’t want overheard.

Edging around one of the big stone columns that formed the outer boundary of the theatre, Drake paused a moment to survey the space within. Rows of benches radiated outward from the main stage, rising up gradually towards the outer periphery of the theatre.

Not one of them was occupied.

Drake glanced at his watch and took a breath, considering his next move. He could break cover and venture out into the centre of the theatre, making his presence known to anyone who might be waiting, but doing so would leave him exposed and vulnerable. It went against his instincts to go into a situation like this at a disadvantage.

On the other hand, he could remain where he was and see if his contact decided to take the initiative. However, meetings like this often lived or died based on mutual trust, and it was possible his contact was harbouring similar doubts. The last thing he wanted was for them to get cold feet and walk away, especially since he had gone to such pains to make this happen in the first place.

He was about to begin a circle of the theatre’s outer wall when he heard footsteps on the stone floor, coming his way. Slow and heavy, accompanied by slightly laboured breathing. An older man, overweight, perhaps not in good health.

Gripping the Browning high-powered automatic hidden in a pancake holster at the small of his back, Drake readied himself for the hundred different ways this could go wrong, and slipped out from behind the pillar.

The man standing facing him was in his early sixties, black, of average height and above average weight, his close-cropped hair and moustache speckled with silver. Even a cursory glance revealed a man who wore his years with some discomfort; his shoulders were stooped, his forehead deeply lined by years of care and worry. The collar of his expensive suit was loosened, and there was a visible sheen of sweat on his brow.

The climb up here had clearly not been a pleasant one for him.

He tensed for a moment at Drake’s sudden appearance, but quickly regained his composure at the realization this was the man he’d come here to meet. The young Shepherd team leader who had contacted him covertly through an intermediary, who had insisted on a face-to-face meeting away from Langley, who had promised he possessed information of great importance to the Agency.

‘I hope you didn’t drag me all the way out here just to shoot me, son,’ he remarked coolly, his dark eyes flicking downward, indicating the hand that Drake was keeping behind his back. ‘I’m sure they’ve got a nice spot picked out for me at Arlington, but I’d rather not take it just yet.’

Drake’s grip on the weapon relaxed, some of the tension easing, though he didn’t let go of it yet. ‘Director Hunt.’

‘So they tell me.’

Charles Hunt was the officer in charge of the CIA’s Counterproliferation Division, tasked with monitoring and intercepting the flow of illegal arms worldwide, from missing ammunition crates at Russian supply depots all the way up to Iranian attempts at purchasing nuclear secrets. Their job was to stop weapons from ending up in the hands of America’s enemies.

‘Are you here alone?’ Drake asked.

‘As alone as any of us can be these days,’ he said, glancing upward, as if they might glimpse a surveillance drone circling overhead.

Drake’s eyes hardened. ‘I’m not playing games. If you were followed here—’

Hunt’s greying brows drew together in a frown. ‘Mr Drake, I’m not in the habit of lying to people. And I’m also not in the habit of dragging my fat ass out of my very comfortable office for secret meetings at national monuments with every crackpot who tries to contact me. But I know who you are, so I chose to show some faith in you today. Maybe you should do the same with me, and lose the attitude, along with the gun.’

Reluctantly Drake let go of the weapon.

‘Better,’ Hunt remarked.

‘You said you knew who I was,’ Drake prompted him.

‘You made a name for yourself with that business in Russia last year. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing remains to be seen, but you can bet your ass people are taking notice. That makes you either an enemy to be destroyed, or a commodity to be used.’ He surveyed Drake with a critical eye. ‘Personally, I’m not sure whether you deserve a commendation or a firing squad after the shit you pulled.’

Drake decided to let that one pass. His actions the previous year technically amounted to treason; he’d aligned himself with a foreign intelligence service without any kind of authorization, not to mention aiding and abetting a wanted terrorist. Not for the first time, he caught himself wondering just how many enemies he’d made over the past couple of years.

‘I’d settle for ten minutes of your time,’ he said instead. Despite the tension of their initial meeting, he was very much aware that a divisional director of the CIA wasn’t the sort of man to be trifled with. Simply getting access to him without alerting a dozen different department heads had been an ordeal in itself, forcing Drake to negotiate a minefield of protocol and hidden lines of reporting, not to mention calling in a few favours.

Whether or not it had been a wasted effort hinged on what happened in the next ten minutes.

Hunt glanced at his watch – an old model bearing the US Marine Corps seal – then turned his dark eyes back on Drake. ‘All right, Mr Drake. Ten minutes. I suggest you make it good.’

Drake certainly couldn’t promise that. The only thing he could guarantee was that it would be worth hearing.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced an electronic device that resembled a small walkie-talkie with several aerials affixed to it, and flicked a switch mounted on the side. A single green light was the only indication that the signal jammer was now active, though anyone trying to use a cell phone or any other communications device within fifty yards would certainly know about it.

Hunt regarded the device with a raised eyebrow. ‘That bad, huh?’

Drake gestured to one of the benches nearby. ‘You might want to sit down for this.’

He did, and he listened for a lot longer than ten minutes as Drake related the events of the past two years, from the operation to rescue a prisoner named Maras from a Russian jail, to the dirty war being waged by a private military company in Afghanistan and the death of the chief of Russian intelligence last year. And all of it tied together by the legacy of one man: Marcus Cain.

Cain, who was now the Deputy Director of the CIA, and next in line for the top position if the current leader stepped down.

‘That’s quite a story, son,’ Hunt remarked when Drake finally brought his extended narrative to an end. Despite his flippant choice of words, it was clear Drake’s tale had nonetheless made an impression on him. ‘But why tell it to me?’

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. A very old saying, and one that was often misused in trivial rivalries. In this case however, Drake could only hope that the adage proved true.

If so, he could think of no better enemy for Cain than the man whose position he had usurped two years ago. Hunt himself had once occupied the post of Deputy Director, and been hotly tipped to assume the mantle of leading the world’s foremost intelligence agency before too long. That was until an abrupt reshuffle of the Agency’s executive level had seen Hunt effectively demoted to divisional leader. Still a position of some power and influence, to be sure, but the message was clear – there was a new star player on the field, and his name was Marcus Cain.

Drake was certain that such a demotion, especially in the closing years of Hunt’s career, must have left a deep impact on him. Deep enough, perhaps, for him to aid Drake in destroying the man who had so derailed his plans. It was a rotten trick to use a man’s bitterness and resentment for one’s own ends, but the chance to win an ally in the highest levels of the Agency’s power structure was something Drake couldn’t pass up.

‘Because I’m not the only one who wants to see Cain take a fall,’ Drake answered. ‘I know he replaced you as Deputy Director, and I’m guessing it wasn’t your decision to step down. He fucked you over, just like he fucked over everyone else he’s ever come into contact with. Whatever you were expecting to do with the rest of your life, it’s all been taken away because of him. Well, this is your chance to take something back. Help me expose the things he’s done. Help me stop him before more innocent people get killed. I can’t promise you’ll get back everything you’ve lost, but I can promise he’ll lose a lot more than you ever did.’

Drake had never been one for stirring speeches or impassioned monologues. All he could do was set out what he knew, what we wanted, and what Hunt could do to make it happen. It was a gamble, to be sure – this whole meeting had been a leap of faith, in fact – but it was a gamble he felt he had to make.

And now, his sentiments delivered, all he could do was wait for Hunt’s reply. It wasn’t long in coming.

Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t the fit of laughter that suddenly overcame the man seated beside him. ‘And I’m supposed to just take you at your word on all this, right? Some random field agent contacts me out of the blue with wild stories of secret conspiracies and an offer to resurrect my career, and I just leap in with both feet and hope for the best?’ Hunt shook his head in disbelief. ‘Mr Drake, you’re still a young man, so I can forgive a little naiveté on your part, but what you’re asking is ridiculous.’

And yet, Drake couldn’t help but notice that Hunt had made no effort to defend Cain, or to warn him of the treasonous nature of his proposal. Taking his lack of reprimand as tacit acknowledgement that his accusations had merit, Drake pressed on.

‘You said you were willing to show a little faith.’

‘Faith and blind faith are two different things, son. So far you’re not giving me a hell of a lot to put my faith in.’

Drake couldn’t blame him for that. ‘I’m here. We both know you could have me arrested after everything I’ve said to you. But I came anyway because I’m willing to risk my life to bring that fucker down. I want to do that, but I can’t do it alone. I need people in positions of influence. People who still have the power to hurt him. People I can rely on. People like you.’

‘Very touching, but what makes you think you could trust me even if – and this is a big if – I agreed to help you?’ Hunt asked.

Drake nodded to the watch on Hunt’s left wrist. ‘That’s a nice watch. You were with the 2nd Battalion, 7th Marine Division in Vietnam. Did two tours. Wounded at Khe Sanh while trying to rescue a squad that was cut off and surrounded, even though you’d been ordered to wait for support. Before that, you petitioned to bring charges against a fellow Marine for terrorizing Vietnamese civilians, even if it meant betraying one of your own.’

If it was important to know your enemy, it was even more so to know a potential friend, as Drake had learned through bitter experience. When he’d first conceived of this plan, he’d spent weeks learning every aspect of Hunt’s life and career, probing as deep as he could without being flagged by the Agency. By now he felt as if he knew the man as well as Hunt knew himself.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, the divisional director produced a handkerchief and used it to wipe the perspiration from his brow. ‘You’ve done your homework. Bravo. What’s your point?’

‘My point is that everything I’ve learned about you so far tells me you’re a good man. You’re ready to stand up for what’s right, and you’re not afraid to risk your own arse to do it. And the fact you still wear that watch tells me you haven’t forgotten that. That’s why I took the risk to contact you. That’s why you haven’t walked away, and I think that’s why you want to believe in me now.’

‘A good man,’ Hunt repeated, snorting in derision. ‘That’s a real nice sentiment, but those things happened a long time ago. Things were different then. There were rules to follow, a code of conduct, a line between right and wrong. Sure, we might step over it on occasion, but it was always there, no matter what.’

He sighed then. A weary sigh of a man fighting an unwinnable battle for far too long. ‘Then you get into… this line of work. And you realize the line you put so much faith in never really existed. It only existed in your mind, because you wanted to believe in it. You needed to believe in it. But all the belief in the world doesn’t make something true. The truth is, people can do just about anything they want and get away with it. All they need are three things – the will, the brains, and the right friends. And believe me, Marcus Cain has plenty of all three.’ He flashed a grim smile. ‘How do you think he became Deputy Director in the first place?’

Drake clenched his fists as he regarded the man seated beside him. ‘So he gets away with everything he’s done? Is that what you’re saying?’

Hunt shot him a piercing look, as if to remind him of who was the more senior here. ‘No, that’s what you’re saying. I’m saying that you don’t take on a man like Cain by making a few half-assed accusations and expecting the world to fall in line behind you.’

‘I don’t need the world behind me,’ Drake insisted. ‘But I do need you.’

‘To do what, exactly?’ Again that weary smile. ‘Call the President and have him fire Cain this afternoon? Or maybe haul him up in front of a Congressional hearing, air all the dirty laundry in public?’

‘That would work for starters.’

‘I’m sure it would, but we both know that’s not going to happen. If anything at all is going to come of this, I need to know what you know. First, tell me what actual evidence you’ve got against Cain.’

‘Eyewitness testimonies. Field operatives and Agency personnel that have been coerced into silence by him. All of them are prepared to testify against him.’

‘Which means jack shit in situations like this,’ Hunt countered. ‘Witnesses can be discredited, blackmailed or just made to disappear. I need something real.’

Drake said nothing for several seconds, weighing up how much he could reveal, how much to risk. There was one final card he could play, but it was the kind that could only be played once. There was no telling what reaction it might provoke, but he sensed this was a critical moment. Hunt’s faith in him was wavering, his initial interest giving way to scepticism and doubt.

He had to offer something meaningful, and there was only one way to do that.

‘I’ve got Anya,’ he said at last.

That was when Hunt’s demeanour changed. Like a lucky punch delivered in a losing fight, the tide seemed to turn at that moment. ‘She’s still alive?’ he asked, his voice hushed.

Drake nodded.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he breathed, letting out a long sigh. ‘Where is she?’

Drake gave him a look that made it plain he wasn’t going to give such information away to a man he’d just met, no matter how good his character appeared to be. In any case, he couldn’t tell Hunt even if he’d wanted to. Anya was a ghost, appearing where and when it served her purpose, and vanishing into the shadows when it didn’t. She might have been an ally, but only on her own terms.

‘Point taken,’ Hunt conceded. ‘But will she help?’

Drake glanced away, running a hand through his hair. ‘She wants to see Cain go down as much as we do.’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘She’ll help,’ Drake assured him.

Hunt regarded him in thoughtful silence for a few moments. ‘Let’s say you’re right; that everything you’ve told me is true and that I should trust your word. Even you must understand that it’s not about whether you’re right or wrong, it’s about who’s willing to say you’re right. Who’s willing to stand by you, and who’s willing to stand by Cain. Who knows they stand to lose so much if he goes down that they’ll do everything in their power, take any risk, to stop it happening, because they know that if his lies and secrets are exposed to the world, theirs will be too.’

Drake had heard such dire warnings before. ‘I know Cain’s got friends in the Agency—’

‘I’m not talking about the Agency,’ Hunt cut in. ‘I’m not talking about Congress or the Pentagon or the White House, or any other building you care to mention.’

‘So what are you talking about?’

‘Wake up, Mr Drake. The real power in this country doesn’t lie in buildings that give guided tours, or men who have to answer to oversight committees or voter groups. The real decision makers are the ones you can’t see, that you don’t know about because that’s exactly how they choose to make it. They’re the ones who stand to lose the most if Cain goes down, and they’re the ones who’ll do anything it takes to stop it from happening.’

Drake was silent for a moment, searching for a diplomatic way of saying what was on his mind. He was rapidly tiring of the game Hunt seemed to be playing. He’d come here to enlist this man’s help, not to listen to riddles and innuendo.

‘So who are these people?’

‘One step at a time, Mr Drake,’ Hunt cautioned him. ‘Even I don’t know all of them, and I’m certainly not dumb enough to tell you the few I do know. But they’re the people who will fight hardest to stop Cain going down, and they’re the people we should both be extremely afraid of.’

Drake looked at him. ‘And yet, you’re still here.’

‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘Because despite everything, despite all the compromises and the little bits of myself I’ve had to give away over the years, I still remember that line in the sand. I believe… no, I want to believe it’s still there. And I think you do too.’ He rose to his feet with the deliberate effort that his age and build demanded. ‘Find me something I can use. Then we’ll talk, Mr Drake. For now, that’s the best I can offer you.’

Drake sighed and nodded, recognizing Hunt’s offer for what it was. He had an ally, a reluctant one who wasn’t ready to risk his own neck just yet, but an ally all the same. It certainly wasn’t everything he’d hoped for, but it was the best he was going to get.

For now, it would have to suffice.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Drake promised, slipping his sunglasses back on.

Chapter 2

United Kingdom – 1 May

Freya Shaw blinked her eyes open, her mind returning to awareness.

She was lying on her side in the cargo compartment of a small van. There were no windows that she could see. The sides and floor were simple metal; thin outer panels bolted onto steel reinforcing ribs, interspersed with small holes for latching bungee cords or other devices to stop things rolling around. A single electric light burned overhead; harsh and bright and relentless.

It was obviously a well-used vehicle. The paintwork on the walls had been dented and scratched in countless places by heavy jostling cargo, exposing the dull gleam of bare metal beneath. The floor was covered with dried mud, discarded cigarette butts and pieces of paper that had long since decayed into dried, yellowed pulp. Rust was taking hold in places, slowly eating away at the vehicle’s frame like a cancer.

But for all the van’s unkempt condition, her captor had clearly taken care to leave nothing in the cargo compartment that could aid a possible escape attempt. No sharp pieces of metal that could slice through the plasticuffs, no tools that could be used as improvized weapons, nothing.

Another hard jolt, this one violent enough to slam her head painfully against the floor. Reluctant to take another pounding, she managed to get her feet beneath her and forced herself up into a sitting position, bracing her back against the side of the van. Each jolting movement seemed to reverberate down her spine, but it was better than being knocked unconscious again.

She flicked her tongue over her lower lip, tasting blood. The left side of her face was throbbing with the dull pain of bruising where she’d been struck by a heavy object. That was the last thing she remembered before darkness had engulfed her.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a silent cry of frustration and fear and impotent anger. She could guess where all this was leading, could anticipate the end that was coming for her, and knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

With a final shuddering lurch, the van halted. The rough growl of the engine ceased a moment later, and the light went out, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Trying to still her wildly beating heart, Freya held her breath and strained to listen. She could hear footsteps outside, and the jangle of keys being removed from a pocket. With a click, a lock was disengaged and the rear doors swung open on creaking hinges. Cool night air rushed in, and she could feel moisture on her exposed skin.

A dark figure clambered up into the cabin and strong hands grabbed her under her armpits, hauling her to her feet. She could do little to resist as she was forced out of the van and into the waiting darkness beyond.

They had halted in a patch of waste ground; Freya knew that right away, from the towering walls of an old factory in the distance, broken concrete crumbling away to expose rusted steel reinforcing rods beneath. Gravel and loose stones crunched beneath her feet as she was led down a slope away from the van. The ground was treacherous, and she briefly lost her footing as the stones beneath her gave way, only for her captor to pull her upright.

‘It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. You don’t have to do this. I’m worth more to you alive,’ she said, knowing how futile and pathetic her words must have sounded. How many times had her captor heard those same words, uttered by desperate men and women in the final moments of their lives?

At the bottom of the slope, dark muddy water glimmered in the faint moonlight. Rainwater that had collected over time in the depression. A yank at her arm brought her to a halt about half way down.

‘Get on your knees,’ a cold, clinical voice instructed her.

Freya swallowed hard, knowing what was coming. She’d known the moment she’d awoken in that van. This was where she’d been brought to die.

For a moment she caught herself wondering who would eventually find her body out here. A labourer on his way to work? A kid out playing with friends? Some guy taking his dog for a walk?

She knew it was ludicrous to be thinking of such things, yet she couldn’t stop herself. She had faced danger more than once in what had been a long and eventful life, had even seen death up close and personal, yet for all those experiences she never could have imagined such an end for herself.

Dying out here in some muddy hole in the ground, unmarked, unknown, uncared for. It didn’t seem real. It was a dream, a nightmare, a feverish imagining conjured up by a restless mind.

‘No,’ she said, forcing the word out through gritted teeth even as her heart thundered in her chest. ‘I won’t.’

Yanking her arm free, Freya turned around to face her adversary, eyes gleaming with defiance. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of putting a bullet through her head from behind.

‘You look me in the eye, you coward,’ she said, staring right at them. ‘Look me in the eye when you pull the trigger.’

If she’d expected her words to strike a chord, to engender some kind of reaction, she was to be disappointed. A second came and went. A second broken only by the sigh of the evening breeze, and distant hoot of an owl, and the hammering of Freya’s heart.

‘You shouldn’t have come looking for me.’

She saw the barrel of a weapon raised, saw the long snout of a silencer gleaming in the thin sliver of moonlight.

Freya let out a breath. ‘Of all the people, I never—’

A 9mm slug passing through her chest silenced that sentence before she had a chance to complete it. She let out a strangled gasp, as if in surprise, then fell backward and collapsed to the ground, her body skidding down the rocky slope until it came to rest in the pool of stagnant water.

As darkness closed in around her, Freya’s last thought was one of simple, heartfelt regret.

Ryan, I’m sorry.

George Washington University Hospital, Virginia

Like most people, Drake had no great love of hospitals. He’d spent more than his share of time in them over the course of his career, having been wounded numerous times in the line of duty, and had few pleasant memories of those stays.

Today however he was here not for himself, but for a friend.

‘You know, it doesn’t matter how much plastic surgery you get,’ he said, pasting on some fake joviality as he entered the private room. ‘You’ll always be an ugly bastard.’

Dan Franklin, the current head of the Agency’s Special Activities Division, and a man Drake had long considered a close friend, was sitting upright in the bed, propped up by several pillows while he flicked idly through the channels of the wall-mounted TV opposite. He looked about as bored and listless as a man could be, and yet seemed to perk up immediately on Drake’s arrival.

‘Well, shit. And here was me thinking how much I’d kill for some intelligent conversation. Be sure to send someone in when you leave, okay?’

He was grinning at the playful banter, but Drake could see the pain etched into his features. It seemed to have become a constant companion of his in recent years, and the toll it was taking was becoming harder to ignore.

‘I’ll do that.’ Reaching into the plastic bag he’d brought with him, Drake laid some issues of Time and Newsweek on the bedside table. ‘Here, this should keep you going for a while. Now, there’s some big words in there, so if you get stuck, be sure to call one of the nurses to help you.’

Franklin made a face. ‘Wasn’t planning on being here that long.’

Pulling up a chair, Drake sat down opposite him.

‘Seriously, though, how are you doing, mate?’ he asked, surveying his friend honestly for the first time in a long time. He’d aged noticeably, Drake realized almost in surprise. Franklin was only a few years older than himself, but he looked at least a decade more. There were lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there a just a few short years ago, his dark blonde hair now had faint streaks of silver at the sides, and recent weight-loss had left his face looking sallow and gaunt.

He shrugged with grim resignation. ‘The consultants came in today. Apparently I have the vertebrae of a 90-year-old with arthritis. They’re recommending spinal-fusion surgery.’

Drake felt his heart sink. The two of them had once served together in Afghanistan. Both young, both strong and ambitious and competitive, until a roadside bomb had ended Franklin’s military career. Shrapnel embedded in his spine had required hours of surgery and months of difficult rehab, and left him in near-constant pain that had worsened noticeably in recent years.

Proud to the last and weary of rehabilitation, he’d refused further medical intervention until the bitter end. Only when he’d started experiencing numbness in his legs and difficulty walking had he finally ceded to the inevitable and sought treatment.

‘Will that fix it?’ he asked, knowing how stupid and simplistic such a question must have sounded, as if the human body were a car engine in which one could just swap out defective parts.

Franklin gave him a weary smile. ‘Maybe. That’s what they told me – maybe. Then again, it could also leave me paralysed from the chest down. Either way, I’d be out of action with the Agency for weeks, if not months.’

At this, Drake actually let out a laugh. ‘Dan, the free world will survive without you for a few weeks. If that’s what you’re worried about, put it out of your head right now.’

‘And where will that leave you?’ Franklin asked, lowering his voice. ‘We both know the deal here. If I’m laid up in a hospital bed, I can’t protect you.’

Drake was all too aware that the man sitting before him was about the only thing that had kept Cain from having him assassinated these past couple of years. The deal he had struck not to reveal Cain’s part in the hijacking of American drones and the subsequent murder of innocent civilians had maintained an uneasy status quo. But both parties were starting to realize that this truce couldn’t last forever.

And if something happened to Franklin, it wouldn’t take long for the sword to fall.

Leaning in closer, Drake looked his friend hard in the eye. ‘Mate, I want you to listen to me very carefully. This isn’t about me now. This isn’t about the Agency or Cain or any of that other stuff – this is about you. You’re hurting, I can see that, and you need help. You can’t go on like this. So get yourself sorted out before it’s too late, for God sake. We’ll deal with the rest later.’

Franklin swallowed and looked away for a moment. ‘That’s not the only reason, Ryan,’ he admitted. ‘Ever since this happened, I feel like I’ve been living on borrowed time, like there was a bomb ticking away inside me and every day I’ve been waiting for it to go off. Now we’re down to it, I’m… scared shitless. Not of dying, but living as a cripple, pissing into a bag for the rest of my life, having people pity me. I can’t live like that. I don’t… I don’t have what it takes to make it through that.’

Drake felt terrible for his friend. He shared some of the man’s apprehension of what lay ahead, felt his frustration at watching his physical abilities slowly dwindle. And beneath it all, he felt something else. Guilt. Guilt that it had happened to Franklin and not him. Guilt that it had been his friend’s Humvee that had triggered that roadside bomb. Guilt that Franklin had put off this surgery for so long out of loyalty and duty, when Drake had done so little for him in return.

What could he possibly say to the man? If it were him, would he have the courage to go through with surgery that could leave him paralysed for life? What reassurance could he offer?

‘You deserve your life back, mate,’ he said at last. ‘If this is your best – your only – chance to get it, then there’s no choice to make, is there?’

Franklin held his gaze for a long moment, as if still wrestling with the matter in his mind. Then, reluctantly, he reached for the magazines that Drake had brought him.

‘Let’s see what crap you brought,’ he conceded, his voice carrying an undertone of grim determination. ‘Might need it if I’m going to be here a while.’

Drake was in a less than jovial mood when he returned to his home in Fairfax just west of central DC later that evening, having stopped off to buy a crate of beer and enough burgers, steaks and sausages to feed a small army; which in reality was pretty much what he was about to do.

A busy day at Langley followed by his visit to Franklin’s hospital room had left him running late, and as he pulled into his driveway he let out a sigh of exasperation at the sight of two cars and a motorbike already parked up in front of his house.

‘Shit.’

There was no sign of the drivers, and for a moment he wondered if his teammates had decided to bin the whole thing and head to the nearest bar instead. However, as soon as he killed the engine and stepped out into the evening air, the sound of music blaring from the back yard told him they had decided to start the party of their own accord.

Grabbing the beers from the passenger seat and piling the pre-packed food awkwardly on top, Drake hurried around the side of the house, nudging open the side gate with his foot.

Sure enough, Cole Mason, Samantha McKnight and Keira Frost were already in the unkempt square of grass that he called a back yard, armed with drinks of their own. The rear door of the house was wide open, the hi-fi from his kitchen resting awkwardly on a chair with a power cord trailing back inside.

‘Well, look who decided to show up!’ Mason said when he spotted Drake. He held his beer up in a mock salute. ‘Good of you to arrive late for your own party, man. I was getting ready to order take-out.’

‘I was getting ready to raid your fridge,’ Frost chipped in.

‘Looks like you already started,’ Drake said, glancing at the beer she’d apparently helped herself to. ‘I don’t remember giving you a key.’

The young woman shrugged, entirely unconcerned. ‘It’s our job to break into places. As far as it goes, yours was pretty easy. You should get someone to look into that.’ She downed a mouthful of beer as if to emphasize her point. ‘By the way, your music collection sucks. Had to resort to the radio.’

Drake cocked his head, listening to the Black Eyed Peas blaring out. ‘This what the kids are listening to these days?’ he asked with a wry grin.

He saw a flash of anger in her eyes at his implied insult. ‘How the fuck should I know, Ryan?’

Keira Frost was now in her early thirties, but her short stature and diminutive frame made her look years younger. Much to her annoyance, she was often still asked for ID when buying alcohol – something that provided Drake no end of amusement, and which he made a point of reminding her about at every opportunity.

‘Anyway, you were the one who arranged this thing,’ she reminded him. ‘Then you disappear and stop answering your cell. What happened?’

Drake glanced away. He’d turned off his cell phone in the hospital and must have forgotten to switch it back on again. ‘I was visiting Dan.’

McKnight approached him. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘Ask me in a few days when he gets out of surgery,’ he said, powering his phone up.

‘That bad, huh?’ Mason asked. Having been wounded in the line of duty himself, and endured a difficult and lengthy rehabilitation, he understood Franklin’s situation better than most.

Drake said nothing to this.

‘Well, you’re here now,’ McKnight said, sensing his discomfort and moving to change the subject. ‘What do you say we get drunk and burn some food?’

Despite the tension of his earlier meeting with his friend, Drake couldn’t help but smile a little. God knew, he could use a drink after today.

In short order, Drake had fired up the gas barbecue set against one wall of the yard, and set some of the meat to cooking on the grill. He hardly considered himself a gourmet chef, but even he could work a barbecue without too much difficulty, and before long the group descended on the grilled meat like they hadn’t eaten in a week.

Food, drink and banter are a good combination at any time, and the atmosphere soon became relaxed and jovial, Drake’s earlier tardiness quite forgotten. With the drink flowing, it wasn’t long before they were swapping old stories of past exploits, many of which they’d heard before, but which always seemed to get more entertaining the more they had to drink.

Even Drake found himself enjoying the company, and was beginning to appreciate the merits of hosting such a get-together with his teammates. It was an idea borrowed from their fallen companion John Keegan, who had been killed during a mission in Afghanistan the previous year.

Keegan had made a point of inviting the team to his place for dinner, either to celebrate the successful end of another operation, or just as an excuse to eat and drink. In truth, most of the food he produced looked like it had seen the business end of a flame-thrower, usually prompting mockery and jibes from the rest of the team, but perhaps that had been part of the fun. Perhaps it had even been Keegan’s intention all along, Drake reflected as he sat on his back doorstep, comfortably full and slightly drunk as he stared up at the evening sky.

If nothing else, he hoped the man himself approved of his efforts.

His philosophical musings were interrupted when McKnight approached, easing herself down next to him.

‘So what’s the verdict?’ Drake asked.

‘Nobody’s dead yet,’ she acknowledged with a sly smile. ‘Could have been worse.’

Drake glanced at her. ‘You’re flattering me. I don’t suppose Jamie Oliver needs to start job-hunting just yet.’

‘Who?’

‘He’s a British…’ Drake began, then thought better of it. ‘Never mind.’

She seemed content to let that slide. Instead she took a drink of beer and glanced over at Mason and Frost, who were in the midst of an animated conversation that seemed to lie somewhere between the shared telling of an anecdote and a full-blown argument. Knowing Frost, it was probably a little of both.

Still, both of them seemed to be enjoying it.

‘Thanks for doing this, Ryan,’ McKnight said quietly. ‘Having everyone here. It’s… well, it means something.’

‘You’ve all done a lot for me – more than I had any right to ask.’ He flashed a grin. ‘The least I can do is burn some cheap burgers for you.’

This prompted a laugh, though it soon quietened as her expression turned more serious. She leaned a little closer, her hazel-coloured eyes searching his. ‘Did you hear anything more from Hunt?’

Drake shook his head. It had been several days since his meeting with the former Deputy Director at Arlington; days that had been ominously quiet for all of them. In truth, he didn’t expect to hear much from the man, when he’d made it plain he wouldn’t act until Drake had something concrete he could use.

‘Do you really trust him? What if tries to screw us over?’

The thought had crossed his mind more than a few times. Despite his rigorous background checks, despite the research and the observation and even the gut instinct that told him Charles Hunt was of a different sort from Cain, he couldn’t deny the possibility that this could all go terribly wrong.

‘As far as he knows, I’m working alone,’ he said, knowing that wasn’t what she was really asking him. ‘I’m the only one he can screw over.’

‘You know you’re not alone, right?’ she said, her voice soft and quiet now.

He could feel McKnight’s eyes on him, but tried not to look at her. He knew his answer wouldn’t have satisfied her, and that she might mistake his effort to protect her for mistrust, but it was better than the alternative. Until he knew where things led with Hunt, the rest of the team stayed out of it.

McKnight opened her mouth to say something else, but before she could speak, Drake felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He reached in and fished it out, ready to reject the call if it was anything work-related, but instead frowned when he saw the caller ID.

‘What is it, George?’ Drake answered, making no effort to hide his irritation.

With Franklin out of action, George Breckenridge had taken over as head of the Shepherd Programme, effectively becoming Drake’s immediate superior. Drake knew little of the man’s background except that he’d never been a field agent, his talents lying instead in management and administrative work. In a nutshell, this meant climbing the corporate ladder, taking credit for other people’s work and ingratiating himself with the Agency’s higher echelons of command.

His new – if temporary – position saw him managing half a dozen Shepherd teams and coordinating all regional activity within the programme. In Drake’s opinion, they couldn’t have picked a worse candidate for the job.

A difficult and fractious man at the best of times, Breckenridge had taken an immediate dislike to Drake and his team. The animosity between the two men had only intensified since Franklin’s admission to hospital. Without Dan there to mediate, Drake had a feeling things were only going to get worse.

‘Drake, we need you to come into the office,’ came the brisk summons. ‘As soon as you can.’

Breckenridge always made a point of calling him Drake, for the same reason Drake called him George – because he knew it pissed him off.