Deception Game (36 page)

‘I’ll get it,’ she said, making to get up.

No sooner had she begun to rise than a shadow appeared in the building’s ruined entrance. Gripping the young specialist to hold her back, Mason watched as the tribesman dismounted his camel and leapt nimbly down from the beast, landing easily on the sandy ground.

Reaching behind him, he unwound his rifle from its strap and just stood there for several seconds, watching and listening. The weapon in his hands was an ancient Karabiner 98 – a German bolt-action rifle dating back to the 1930s. Old it might have been, but it was also one of the best long-range rifles ever made. With a proper sight, they were lethally accurate at up to 1,000 yards, and still occasionally popped up in conflicts all over the globe.

The wooden stock was scuffed and worn by decades of use, but the barrel and action still seemed to be in good order. They’d seen service in this part of the world during the Second World War, so it was possible some of them had fallen into local hands and been passed down through generations.

Apparently satisfied that the building was unoccupied, the tribesman laid his rifle against a collapsed pillar, then lowered himself to the ground and began to unwind the keffiyeh from his head, revealing a mane of long dark hair falling almost to his shoulders.

Mason glanced at Frost, leaned in close to whisper in her ear. ‘Stay here. Cover Laila.’

Her eyes were wide, and she opened her mouth to protest, likely to the effect that she should be the one to do it, but he was already up and moving before she could stop him.

Now left alone with her captive, Frost gripped her Browning automatic and turned it on Laila, flicking the safety catch to the off position. If the worst came to the worst and they were compromise, she wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

Slipping from the shadowy annex, Mason crept forward, keeping low and tracing a careful path through the maze of ruins before him. He knew that Frost had been seated against the west wall of the building, and that she had lain her knife at her feet; therefore it was off to the right of the new arrival.

There was a chance he might not see it, particularly if windblown sand had begun to cover the gleaming blade, but even a cursory investigation of that area would likely yield it up. Mason had to get to it before then.

Moving with infinite care and patience, he crept forward inch by inch. His profession as a Shepherd operative naturally required the ability to move with stealth, but for him those skills dated back even further. He’d been an Army Ranger before joining the Agency, part of a recon force specializing in operations behind enemy lines. He’d learned long ago the value of silence.

He could see the tribesman now through a gap in the ruins. Having removed a water canteen from his belt, he poured a measure into a small bowl on the ground before him. Then, to Mason’s surprise, he bent forward and began to wash his face.

Strange that someone would waste such a precious resource for washing, he thought. Still, he cared less about the man’s personal hygiene than he did about avoiding the prospect of killing him.

On he went, moving forward step by step. The sun, now past its zenith, beat down on him with merciless intensity. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and into his eyes, but he ignored the stinging discomfort as he rounded a collapsed archway, closing in on his target.

The silenced automatic was in his right hand; a round chambered and the safety disengaged. If the worst came to the worst, he could bring it to bear and drop his target in a heartbeat. From this range he could scarcely miss.

Almost there. Forcing himself to keep his breathing under control, he rounded the same block of fallen masonry he’d been sitting on earlier, catching his first glimpse of the small open space beyond.

Shit.

The knife was there all right, exactly where Frost had left it; the finely machined blade gleaming in the harsh sunlight. The sand showed no signs of covering it any time soon, and likely the only reason their visitor hadn’t spotted it was because his line of sight was partially blocked by the same pillar his rifle was resting against.

But worst of all, Mason knew in that moment there was no way for him to reach the weapon without being spotted. A gap of at least six feet without a trace of cover stood in his way. Even if he wasn’t looking in that direction, the tribesman would spot the movement out of the corner of his eye.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He glanced down at the weapon in his hands, the inevitable thought surfacing that it might be the only course of action left. He had tried. He’d come as far as he could, risked exposure to spare this man’s life, but he could go no further.

Frost had been right about one thing; it was him or them.

He looked at the target once more. The nomad had finished washing his face and had turned his attention to his hands and arms. A slight turn of his head allowed Mason to catch a glimpse of his face in profile. A youthful face, the jawline showing only a darkening of stubble around the chin and upper lip.

Just a kid. No more than sixteen.

He was going to kill a kid.

As he watched, the young man removed his boots and began to bathe his feet with the remaining water.

It was only then that his seemingly inexplicable actions at last coalesced into a logical chain of events, leading up to a simple but profound conclusion. He wasn’t washing out of a desire for personal cleanliness. He was purifying himself in preparation for Zuhr – the Islamic prayer offered up just after midday. If what Mason understood of the Islamic faith was correct, this might just give him the opportunity he needed.

Sure enough, the young man unrolled a small prayer mat from amongst his gear and laid it on the sandy ground, facing east towards Mecca.

Then, with great care, he stood before it, raised his hands up with his palms facing outward, then crossed them in front of his chest and began to pray.

Mason knew this was his chance. If this man was dedicated enough to pray out here alone with nobody watching over him, his mind and his senses would likely be focussed solely on his task. And for now at least he was facing away from the knife.

Taking a breath to psyche himself up, Mason moved out from behind cover and crossed the dozen paces to the fallen knife, keeping his target covered at all times with the automatic.

Reaching down without taking his eyes off the praying man, he felt around on the burning sand until his fingers brushed the edge of the blade. Sweat was pouring down his face, his throat was dry and his heart was pounding. At any moment he expected the young man to whirl around, catch sight of him and snatch up the rifle.

Gripping the blade, Mason lifted it from its resting place and began to back away, raising and planting each boot with infinite care. All the while the young man continued to recite the
s
alat
, oblivious to the danger lurking mere feet away from him.

Mason was gasping for breath when he finally lowered himself behind the substantial cover of a ruined wall, the nervous tension and anticipation held in check through sheer willpower at last making itself felt.

The prayer lasted another couple of minutes, after which the young man carefully rolled up his mat and stowed it away, along with the bowl and water canteen. Surveying the ruined interior of the building one last time, he picked up his old bolt-action rifle, turned away and mounted his camel once more to continue on his journey.

Only when Mason was certain that both beast and rider had receded into the distance did he allow himself to relax a little.

Rising from his hiding place, he was just in time to see Frost emerge from the alcove with the automatic still in hand.

‘Jesus Christ, that was close,’ she said quietly.

Mason tossed the knife to the ground at her feet, angry that her oversight had almost forced them to kill an innocent man.

‘Take better care of it next time.’

Mukhabarat headquarters, Tripoli

Sitting in silent contemplation, Tarek Sowan stared out the window of the third-floor office, watching the shadows growing across the homes and office blocks of central Tripoli as the sun began its long descent towards the western horizon.

His bandaged leg was throbbing with pain as the medication administered at the hospital in Nalut gradually wore off, though he paid it little heed. His mind was elsewhere, pondering all of the things that could so easily go wrong with his hastily conceived plan, all of the ways he could get himself and his wife killed today.

Seated opposite him was his superior officer, Hussein Jibril, carefully reading his debriefing file. A big man who always looked in need of a shave, Jibril projected an air of benign indifference in most matters, usually allowing others to take the initiative. It was a ploy, of course, intended to weed out those who took him for a fool, but an effective one all the same. Jibril was a good man who had fostered Sowan’s career and personally recommended him for his current position.

Standing behind him was a far less welcome addition to the meeting. Bishr Kubar, the bulldog, was a silent and glowering presence. It was clear the man harboured suspicions about him, as well he might given the vague story he’d spun during his hospital debriefing. But there was nothing he could do about Kubar for now.

All that mattered was Jibril.

‘Well, not much of a report,’ the big intelligence chief remarked as he removed his reading glasses and looked up from the modest document. ‘It seems we don’t have a lot to go on, Tarek.’

For his part, Sowan made an apologetic face. ‘I wish I could remember more, but they were good at what they did. I saw and heard very little the whole time I was with them – they made sure of it.’

‘So it would seem. And you have no idea what they wanted with you?’

Sowan shook his head.

His boss sighed and leaned back, his chair creaking slightly under his ample weight. ‘It’s bad, Tarek. It looks bad for us when we can’t even protect one of our own officers. These people march into our homes in the middle of the night, breeze through our security like it doesn’t exist, and take what they want.’ His air of genial indifference was gone now, revealing the wounded pride of an officer whose own competence had been called into question by recent events. ‘This can’t go unanswered. We must find who did this, no matter how long it takes.’

Sowan said nothing to this, though he felt his stomach churn at the thought of what he was about to do.

‘I’d like to go over the debriefing again, compare your story with the other witnesses,’ Kubar interjected. Then, wary of openly questioning the integrity of a fellow officer, he added, ‘Perhaps it may help you remember things you didn’t consider before.’

‘I’ve considered everything, Bishr,’ Sowan said, giving him a harsh look. ‘It’s all there in the report.’

‘And if it isn’t?’ he replied. ‘If there is some detail you overlooked? Something that may be the key to finding these people, finding Laila? Is that not worth a little more of your time, now, while it can still make a difference?’

Kubar as always was like a dog with a bone. He sensed something was wrong, and there was no way he would let it go until he got to the truth. Sooner or later he would find it; that much was clear. But Sowan didn’t need to stall him forever.

Just long enough.

‘As you say.’ Stifling a yawn, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, feigning exhaustion. It required little acting talent after everything he’d been through. ‘We can go over it again, if you think it will help.’

Jibril was quick to pick up on the fatigue in his voice. ‘How long has it been since you got any sleep?’

Sowan looked at him ruefully. ‘A while. A long while actually.’

‘I thought as much. What you need right now is rest. You’re no good to us exhausted and not thinking clearly. Get some sleep.’ He gave Kubar a pointed look. ‘Tomorrow Bishr can ask his questions.’

Kubar, for his part, was wise enough to stifle further protests. He might have been tenacious, but he wasn’t stupid. Pressing the matter would only antagonize Jibril and increase his sympathy for Sowan. However, his dark expression made it clear he was far from pleased at having his investigation suspended with questions still unanswered.

Sowan gave a pained smile. ‘I have nowhere to go.’

By all accounts, fire had largely gutted his home before local emergency crews could get it under control. His house, and likely all of his possessions, were gone. Just another thing he had Ryan Drake to thank for.

At this, Jibril nodded understanding. ‘We have sleeping quarters at Bab al-Azizia barracks. Not much in terms of comfort, but at least it’s secure. Even these bastards can’t get through an entire army division. I’ll have a couple of our agents waiting downstairs to drive you there.’

‘Thank you,’ Sowan said, rising from his chair with difficulty with the aid of a walking stick. His injured leg burned with pain, though he kept his face composed through stubborn willpower. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to freshen up first.’

‘Of course.’ Rounding his desk, Jibril shook hands with him. ‘If it means anything, I’m sorry about Laila. We’ll do everything we can to get her back.’

I’m doing everything I need to, Sowan thought as he nodded in gratitude, then excused himself from the office. Only when he was in the corridor beyond did he allow himself to start breathing normally again.

His heart was pounding as he limped down the hallway as fast as his injury would allow, knowing time was short. They would be expecting him in the parking lot downstairs, and if he delayed too long they would come looking.

He had only a limited window in which to act. He had to make it count.

Fifteen years earlier

Drake slumped down in his corner, aching, lathered in sweat, gasping for breath. It was the end of the ninth round; there was only one more, and he was quite simply exhausted. The crowd was roaring and cheering, hundreds of voices baying for blood. They were watching the fight of their lives, and they were loving every moment of the drama now unfolding in the ring.

His corner-men went to work on his battered body straightaway, trying to control the bleeding cut over his left eye, and applying a cold compress to his bruised ribs.

‘How you feeling, lad?’ Jack, his trainer, asked. He was a short, stocky man, about seventy years old, with wavy grey hair and an expressive, deeply lined face that had always reminded Drake of a bulldog.

‘How do you think I’m feeling?’ he gasped. ‘I’m fucking hurting.’

At least two of his knuckles were broken. He could feel the pain radiating out from the damaged joint, coursing in waves up his arm. He was breaking himself on a complete nobody.

‘Aye? Well, so is he.’

Drake glanced over Jack’s shoulder at his opponent. He was arguing with his trainer. The man was shouting and pleading with him to throw in the towel, but he was shaking his head, pushing aside the pleas and the protests.

Defiant to the end.

‘Then why isn’t he beaten?’ Drake demanded, anger and frustration welling up inside. ‘This was supposed to be a fucking walkover, Jack! What’s wrong with him?’

The old man leaned in close, his ugly bulldog face only inches away. ‘He’s fighting for pride. Don’t you understand? That’s all he’s got left.’

Drake had made a serious mistake with this fight. His opponent had once been a decent contender, but now he was old and past his prime, regarded as nothing but a stepping stone in his career. Anticipating an easy victory, Drake had done little training for the fight, and his lack of preparation was telling.

‘He’s making me look bad. What am I supposed to do?’ he asked, at a loss.

‘Fucking knock him out!’ Jack yelled. ‘Nobody else can do it for you. You have to stop him!’

‘Ten seconds!’ the timekeeper yelled to be heard over the crowd.

‘It’s you and him now, son. Forget the crowd, forget me, forget everything else. None of that matters. All that matters is the next three minutes. He wants this as much as you, so you have to take it away from him. Now get stuck in and finish it! Do it now!’

Taking a deep breath, Drake rose up on weary legs to start his last round.

Drake was crouched on the roof of a residential apartment building, overlooking the main road leading to the headquarters of the Libyan intelligence service. It had been easy enough for a man with his skills to sneak up here unseen, quietly disabling the lock on the fire door that led out from the building’s central stairwell, and wedging it shut behind him.

Nobody else was coming up here without him knowing – he could be sure of that.

From his vantage point, he could just about make out the yellow-painted three-storey office complex that housed this country’s most feared secret police force, its facade partially screened by trees, though it was impossible to get closer without risking detection.

From what he could discern, the HQ building itself was set within a large walled compound complete with vehicle checkpoints, guard posts and barbed-wire entanglements. Formidable enough security measures at the best of times, but it was the ones hidden from sight that were of greater concern. More than likely that compound contained enough armed operatives to see off all but the most determined assaults.

Not only that, but in his clandestine journey across town Drake had spied several men that were almost certainly plain-clothed agents. He’d been in the business long enough to recognize fellow operatives when he saw them, and though they didn’t exactly announce their presence, it was clear they were there to keep an eye on the local population.

And he knew why.

It might have trying to join the good-boys club in recent years, but the Gaddafi regime was far more fearful of its own people than it was of foreign invaders. As it should have been. One didn’t maintain an iron grip on power for nearly four decades through popular approval, but rather through fear and intimidation. With near total control over the media, and a culture of surveillance and distrust permeating every aspect of Libyan life, any hint of dissent or talk of rebellion was swiftly and ruthlessly put down.

In short, no one, Shepherd team or otherwise, was getting into that compound unless they were granted access. And he’d allowed Sowan, the one man who held the key to his salvation, to waltz right into that impregnable fortress. If he didn’t feel like coming out, there was absolutely nothing Drake or his team could do about it.

Not for the first time, he found himself questioning the wisdom of his hastily conceived plan. It was a move born from desperation, and that was a poor motive for any course of action.

‘Monarch, this is Envoy. How’s your copy?’ McKnight signalled via his radio earpiece. The tactical radios were discreet enough to wear without much fear of discovery, particularly with the keffiyeh to cover most of his face.

Well aware of the danger of travelling together, they had agreed to part company for the time being, with Drake taking up position as close to the headquarters building as possible. McKnight meanwhile was stationed at a coffee house about a quarter of a mile away, seemingly a popular destination for tourists. Either way, at least it allowed her to blend in easier.

‘Good copy, Envoy,’ he replied. ‘No activity. What’s your situation?’

‘Well, the coffee’s pretty good here. But I’ve had some fat Italian guy creeping on me for the past twenty minutes. Think he’s taking a leak right now.’

Drake couldn’t help but smile. Her report didn’t exactly conform to radio discipline, but he didn’t mind. Their radios were operating on an encrypted frequency, so nobody else could listen in on the conversation. It was just the two of them.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. I plan to take him up on his offer if this thing goes south.’

This time he actually chuckled in amusement. For a few precious seconds he allowed himself to forget their precarious situation, forget the danger and the paranoia and the fear that had driven them since all this had begun. They had been under near-constant pressure since their arrival in Libya, and as much as they were trained to deal with such things, it was a relief to step back from it just for a moment.

‘We’ll get through this,’ he said quietly, his voice carrying a more serious tone now. ‘I promise.’

‘I know.’ She lapsed into silence then, but he could sense she had more to say. Something that had been preying on her mind. ‘Ryan, I—’

‘Wait,’ he interrupted. ‘Don’t...don’t say anything, Sam. Just for a few seconds.’

Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly, the drone of traffic and people and music and the countless other sounds of the bustling city fading into the background of his consciousness as the seconds stretched out. He could feel the warmth of the setting sun on his face, the faint breeze sighing in from the Mediterranean.

McKnight might not have been on that rooftop with him in person, but she was connected to him all the same. He imagined her there beside him, the scent of her, the warmth of her skin next to his, the feel of her breath on his cheek.

Just for a moment.

‘There’s something I need to ask you,’ she said, breaking the spell.

‘Yeah?’

‘Back at that farm, when you had Laila hostage. Those things you threatened to do to her...Would you really have gone through with it?’

Drake was glad then of the distance between them. Glad she couldn’t see the look in his eyes. Glad she couldn’t know what was in his mind, and his heart.

‘It didn’t come down to that,’ he said quietly. ‘I knew Sowan would break.’

‘But if he hadn’t,’ she pressed him. ‘What then?’

Drake could feel the muscles in his throat tightening, because she was asking a question he’d avoided himself until now.

You’re afraid, a voice in his head said accusingly. Is it because you know the answer and you’re afraid to admit it, or because you don’t, and that scares you even more? Do you really want her to know what kind of man you once were, and could still be? Or are you scared that man isn’t as deeply buried as you thought?

‘You and the others are my priority. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, Sam.’ He sighed and looked up to the evening sky, wondering how many times those same words had been used to justify horrific, deplorable acts. ‘Whatever it takes.’

Silence greeted him. It wasn’t the answer she’d sought, wasn’t the reassurance she needed, but she was smart enough to know it was the best he could truthfully offer.

‘There are people nearby. I have to go,’ the woman said, her voice somehow more remote, more detached and businesslike. She was back in work-mode now. ‘Signal when you have something.’

‘I will.’

Easing the door open, Sowan slipped inside and quickly pulled it closed behind him, letting out a breath. He was alone, for the time being at least.

The familiar, mundane office in which he now found himself was an absurd contrast to the frantic, desperate events of the past twenty-four hours that had seen the rest of his life turned upside down.

Even he had to admit there was a certain comfort in the familiarity of it all – the cheap wood-veneer desk with coffee rings all over, the obligatory framed picture of Colonel Gaddafi hung on the wall, the stack of papers awaiting his attention and the antique letter-opener resting on top. A gift from his father-in-law when he’d been promoted to his current position.

None of that was important now, however. What he cared about was the computer occupying the centre of the desk. That was where he’d find the information he needed. That was what might well mean the difference between life and death, for him and for Laila.

Limping over to the other side of the desk, he eased himself gratefully into the worn office chair, reached out and switched on the machine. A low hum permeated the small office as cooling fans whirred into life.

As he waited for the machine to boot up, he glanced at the desk again, his gaze lingering on the framed picture that had occupied this office almost as long as he had.

It was a photograph, taken several years ago on a beach far to the east of Tripoli, well away from buildings and cars and noise and disruption. A photograph of Laila. Momentarily distracted, she hadn’t even realized he was taking her picture. It truly was a moment frozen in time. A moment for which he was forever grateful.

Normally he hated taking pictures. The formality of it, the awkwardness, as if human beings were mannequins to be posed and positioned with no will of their own. But not that time. That time he’d caught her in a perfect moment, sitting on the pristine white sand, knees drawn up to her chest, staring out across the waves in silent contemplation.

It was her eyes that had so captivated him. The look in them was one of such great wonder and wistfulness, that even years later he still found himself moved by it. He’d always wondered what she had been thinking at that moment, but in all these years had never brought himself to ask. In truth, he didn’t really want to know.

Some things were better left unknown.

The computer was ready. Logging into the secure network with his own credentials, he called up the main file directory and inputted a single search term – Minos.

Minos was the codename under which the prisoner-exchange project had operated. Perhaps given the subject matter, its moniker had been assigned with a certain dash of ironic humour, for Minos was a figure in ancient Greek mythology who forced the king of Athens to choose men and women to send to his twisted, winding labyrinth, never to return.

As the directory opened up, Sowan found himself confronted with multiple sub-folders dedicated to every aspect of the programme, from prisoner dossiers to logistical arrangements for their incarceration, debriefings about their capture, interrogation reports, networks of aliases and additional contacts.

Everything within this directory had been carefully saved and catalogued, and not for simple reasons of posterity. One never knew when a seemingly innocent piece of administrative data could prove to be a useful tool, or weapon, if the need arose.

Eager to download what he needed and get the hell out before he was missed, Sowan selected the main prisoner-transfer list and opened it up.

No files found.

‘What?’ he gasped, trying again.

No files found.

Trying to convince himself it was merely a fluke, an oversight, an error, he opened a different directory, this one filled with time-logged communications between Libyan intelligence and their Western counterparts.

No files found.

With mounting desperation, Sowan opened another file, and another, seeking an exception, only to meet with the same chilling result every time.

The entire Minos directory had been deleted.

Letting out a pained sigh, Sowan held his head in his hands as the full magnitude of his discovery sank in. Someone within the Mukhabarat was trying to erase all record of the project. Someone with administrative-level authority. Who? Why?

That was when it happened. A click from the door. The click of a lock being disengaged, moving parts working, a handle being turned.

Glancing up from the screen, Sowan watched as the door swung open to reveal his superior, his friend, his mentor. Hussein Jibril, the Director of the Mukhabarat.