Deception Game (38 page)

‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said, speaking fast and urgently. ‘Sowan may be compromised. We’ll need to make a quick exit. Ditch your position and converge on me.’

Straightaway her voice stepped up a gear. ‘Wilco, Monarch. Envoy is en route now.’

Drake’s heart was beating fast as he abandoned his rooftop observation post, making his way to the emergency fire escape. If this went wrong, both he and McKnight would need to be able to leave the area quickly.

‘Copy that. Stay on the net, Envoy. Monarch is moving to street level.’

As he removed the wedges holding the door shut and ventured into the darkened stairwell beyond, Drake sent a silent prayer that their erstwhile prisoner made it out of that compound alive. He could do nothing to help until Sowan was clear of those walls.

Until then, it all depended on him.

Taking a breath, Sowan reached out and swiped Jibril’s access card through the security reader beside the door. There was a moment of tense silence, then mercifully a green light appeared on the reader, followed by a buzz as the door’s electronic locks disengaged.

Sowan couldn’t get into the storage vault on the other side fast enough. As the door closed behind him, automatic lights sensed his presence and blinked into life, illuminating the room for the first time.

Even now, the scale of the place took him by surprise. Resembling a warehouse rather than a secure archive facility, the room was a good thirty yards long and half as wide, crammed to the ceiling with row after row of metal shelves, each laden with cardboard boxes of every shape and size imaginable. Within them, painstakingly archived and catalogued, were the evidence containers of every active operation currently undertaken by the Mukhabarat.

The air here was cool and dry, the climate monitored night and day to ensure the delicate paper documents didn’t decay. It had the feeling of a tomb, which wasn’t inappropriate considering many of the documents and pieces of evidence dealt with death in its countless forms. Everything from kidnapping and torture to execution and assassination was archived here. A world of secrets that only his agency’s most trusted members were allowed free access to.

But he didn’t need the world today. Just one laptop computer.

Focussing on that goal, he strode forward through the labyrinth as fast as his injury would allow, ignoring the countless shelves he passed along the way, and the secrets they contained. After fifty yards he reached Section G and turned left, seeking container number 43.

He was close now. He could feel it.

His heart sank when he stopped at the section he needed, staring upward in dismay. The container he needed was on the top shelf.

‘Damn it,’ he said under his breath.

Grabbing a movable ladder that had been fixed into rollers at the base, he slid it along until he’d reached the correct area, took a breath to prepare himself, and struggled up the steps. Every step was agony, forcing damaged muscle to bunch and contract as he pulled himself upward. He was sweating visibly by the time he made it to the top, having to clutch at the ladder with trembling hands to steady himself.

‘How’s it going in there?’ Drake asked over the phone line.

‘Ask me in a few moments,’ Sowan replied tersely, reaching out for the box occupying position forty-three and flipping the lid off. He held his breath as he reached inside, gripping the plastic evidence bag to pull it out.

His fears vanished the moment he saw the distinctive outline of the laptop, nestled within the sealed plastic container.

‘I have it,’ he said, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Drake’s reaction was immediate. ‘Thank Christ. Now get your arse out of there.’

He didn’t have to be told twice, clambering down the ladder with only one arm to grip the railing, while cradling the precious computer with the other. In under a minute he’d rifled through a couple of other evidence boxes until he’d found a canvas rucksack, dumped out its contents and placed the laptop carefully inside, then slung it over one shoulder.

He was ready, he’d found what he needed. His only task now was to get it to safety.

Great Falls National Park, Virginia

Marcus Cain disliked being summoned anywhere at the best of times. As deputy director of the CIA, there were few people on this earth who had either the official authority or the personal power to demand his presence. Unfortunately, the man now walking beside him on the quiet woodland trail possessed more than enough of both to force his compliance.

So here he was, out in the woods ten miles from central DC in Fairfax County. It was a cool, damp, misty afternoon in Virginia, the sky visible as an unbroken sheet of grey through the dripping tree canopy overhead. The air smelled of moss and wet earth, the ground still coated with a remnants of last season’s dead leaves that clung to his expensive shoes as he walked.

He’d never cared too much for the outdoors. His busy work schedule permitted little time for vacations, and even if that hadn’t been the case, he doubted he would have chosen to spend his time somewhere like this. But his lone companion today liked to meet here, liked the silence of the empty woodlands and the privacy they permitted. He knew each of the trails that wound their way through the area, so here they met.

‘I’m hearing worrying things from Libya,’ he began, stepping over a fallen branch as the two men walked side by side, their trail taking them close to fast-flowing river swollen by recent rains. ‘Abductions of senior personnel, police shootouts, plane crashes at private airfields. Their security services are on high alert; they suspect something’s wrong. So I have to ask, what exactly is going on out there?’

Richard Starke wasn’t a big or imposing man, didn’t project an aura of charisma or authority like so many others in positions of power. In fact, his manner and appearance reminded Cain of a history professor – pensive and thoughtful, conservative in both his words and his actions. A man who spoke less than he listened, who rarely roused himself to displays of anger, who functioned best alone with his own thoughts.

But Starke was no history professor, and his quiet demeanour masked a ferociously intelligent mind backed by a capacious memory, a deep understanding of the world he helped to shape and direct, and an iron will to make his objectives happen.

Cain would have expected nothing less from the director of the National Security Agency, America’s premier source of signals intelligence, charged with monitoring global communications for potential threats, espionage, listening in on rival nations and just about anything else their government might need. Very little escaped his knowledge, in particular the events currently playing out half a world away in Libya.

‘There have been some problems. We’re handling it,’ Cain assured him. He’d known this was going to be a difficult conversation.

Starke glanced at him, his grey eyes giving away nothing at all. Even Anya would have been hard pressed to discern the man’s thoughts and motivations. But Cain was in no doubt that Starke was assessing him, regarding him with that same cool, calculating, analytical mind, perhaps judging whether he was worthy of the position to which he’d been elevated.

‘You know, I like you, Marcus,’ he said at length. ‘You’re smart, capable and creative. You see things your predecessor didn’t. That’s why I vouched for you, put my own reputation at stake to bring you into the group.’

And there lay the heart of this discussion. The group, as it was known to those who were truly part of it, though it had no true name even amongst its most senior and trusted members. For others, those on the outside, or foolish enough to believe they understood its nature and purpose, it was known by many names: the section, the circle, even the faction.

Each was as true and as false as the other, for that was the very nature of the group; a twisting serpentine force of baseless lies and formless shadows. Deceit and subterfuge were its modus operandi, misdirection its greatest weapon.

The irony was that this most secretive of organizations made no effort to hide it existence. Indeed, its members had actively encouraged speculation over the years, with careful leaks of misinformation, expertly fabricated trails of breadcrumbs for those willing to follow. And people had followed – they always did. The rumours, claims and counter-claims had slowly blended fact with fiction, truth with lies, eventually becoming so thoroughly seeded into popular culture that normal people had long since dismissed them as ghost stories and wild conspiracy theories.

Secrecy wasn’t their veil. Apathy and ignorance was what kept them hidden in plain sight.

But for all their misdirection, the group was very real.

To their allies they represented a shifting entity of uncertain identity and active deceit, coupled with undeniable strength, unknowable goals and unproven loyalty – a dangerous combination that bred mistrust and paranoia. To their enemies they were a true nightmare; a foe that could strike from any direction, that seemed to thwart any stratagem and strike at weakness no matter how well hidden.

‘That’s not a privilege; it’s not a reward or a token of respect. It’s a responsibility, perhaps the greatest and most terrible responsibility anyone could ever wish for. You wanted a seat at the big table – this is how you have to earn it. In short, this is one responsibility you do not wish to take lightly, Marcus. The group doesn’t reward failure with second chances.’

‘Have I ever let you down?’ Cain asked frankly. ‘In all the years we’ve known each other, have I ever given you reason to doubt me?’

Starke raised his eyebrows in a gesture that might have been grudging acknowledgement.

‘The risk of failure is growing,’ he observed with clinical detachment. ‘If we’re discovered—’

‘We’re handling this,’ Cain repeated, driving home the point with absolute conviction. ‘Antonia is on schedule, just as we discussed. In a few days, we’ll be in a position to change the balance of power across the entire region. Millions of lives will be changed forever. Isn’t that worth the risk? Isn’t that what the group exists to do?’

Starke had stopped walking, had turned to look at him, regarding him with those depthless, unknowable grey eyes. Those eyes that gave away nothing. Cain met those eyes without reservation, without fear. Fear could destroy men like him.

‘We’ll see,’ Starke conceded, turning away to resume his walk.

Mukhabarat headquarters – Tripoli

Most of the cars in the facility were stored in an underground parking lot, regularly patrolled by security teams armed with handguns and sniffer dogs, in case one of the cars was carrying something more sinister than a speeding ticket.

Usually the parking lot was accessed via a pair of elevators at the west and east ends of the building, but these were heavily used by overweight analysts who couldn’t be bothered making their own way between floors. Sowan had no desire to encounter such people now, or indeed one of the operatives Jibril had assigned to escort him off the premises. For all he knew, they could be looking for him already.

Instead he sought out the nearest stairwell and made his way down, taking the steps as fast as his injured leg would allow. Every movement sent lightning bolts of pain shooting upward from his thigh, but he clutched at the railings for support and forced his way through the pain. Pain could be dealt with later, when he was far away from this place.

‘Where are you now?’ Drake asked.

‘In the stairwell, heading down.’

‘Good. Take it slow and steady. Don’t run.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Sowan grunted, anger flaring up for a moment. ‘You are not here.’

‘I know. But I’m close. Once you’re outside, I can help you.’

Suddenly he froze, alerted by the click of shoes on the steps further down. Pulse hammering in his ears, Sowan leaned out over the railing to view the stairs below, and sure enough spotted a man in a grey suit making his way up. He was big and burly, the light reflecting off the top of his shaven head, but crucially he wasn’t rushing up as if he was moving to intercept a wanted fugitive. Rather, he seemed to be taking the steps at his own pace.

Realizing there was little option but to bluff his way past, Sowan quickened his pace, forcing himself to walk straight and steady despite the pain. Rounding a corner, he found himself approaching the man in the grey suit.

He barely looked up at Sowan, his attention instead focussed on the cell phone in his hands as he typed out a text message.

‘I don’t care if you have to work on this all night,’ Sowan growled into his phone in Arabic, using it to block the man’s view of his face as they passed each other. ‘Those reports were supposed to be in two days ago, and I’m not going to take the blame for your mistakes.’

The other man had clearly heard such things many times before, and gave a pained look as he passed by.

Letting out a breath, Sowan quickly covered the last flight, grateful beyond words when he reached the base of the stairs.

Like most of the rest of the building, the doors at the bottom which opened out into the parking lot were controlled by key card access. Removing Jibril’s card from his pocket, he swiped it through the reader. There was a crisp beep, and a buzz as the door’s magnetic locks disengaged.

He was out.

The parking lot beyond occupied most of the building’s subterranean footprint, easily a hundred yards across and almost the same in length. Brightly lit by harsh electric strip lighting suspended from the concrete ceiling, the parking lot offered few places to hide save for the occasional support pillar. His only saving grace was that the place was less than half full at such a late hour, making it easier to find Jibril’s car.

Like most intelligence agencies, the Mukhabarat never stopped no matter what time of day or night it was, but its employees were still only human. Unless there was a major incident, the building operated with minimal staff overnight.

‘Keep your eyes open for security cameras,’ Drake advised. ‘Try to use the phone to block their view of you. And don’t run. Running draws attention.’

‘Any other insights?’ Sowan asked with unveiled sarcasm as he made his way down the rows of parked vehicles, trying to look like he knew where he was going. There were plenty of silver cars here, many of which conformed to the same basic size and shape of Jibril’s vehicle.

He had the key fob in his hand, and every so often gave it an experimental press to see if any of the nearby cars responded. So far nothing.

He was about half way down the row when the echo of voices drew his attention to the right, where a two-man security team had just appeared from behind the elevator bank. One of the guards glanced his way, giving a disinterested nod of acknowledgement.

Sowan nodded back, trying to look equally disinterested. Just another tired and stressed analyst making his way home at the end of a long day. At least he looked the part, unshaven and dishevelled as he was.

Pressing the key fob again, he carried on with his seemingly fruitless quest.

‘I can’t find it,’ he said, his quiet tone belying the mounting sense of urgency he felt. ‘There’s a security team here. They’re watching me.’

‘Just keep looking,’ Drake said. What else was he going to say? Give up and turn yourself in? ‘It’s no big deal. People forget where they park all the time.’

Chancing a look at the security team, he saw the same guard glance his way again. There was a hint of curiosity in his gaze now. Sowan wasn’t acting like the other drivers he was so used to seeing.

‘They sense something is wrong,’ he said, feeling himself tense up involuntarily. He knew that tension would manifest in his body language – something the guards were trained to look for.

‘Listen to me,’ Drake said, cutting in. ‘When I was a kid, I stole a video game from a shop in Brixton.’

Such was Sowan’s dismay at his bizarre change in subject that he actually forgot about his dangerous situation for a few moments. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Listen, this is important. Keep walking and listen. I was eight years old, probably in with the wrong crowd. You know the story. Anyway, I wanted to impress my mates, so we agreed to each steal something from a shop on Brixton High Street. I chose a Game Boy game, because I thought it was more impressive than anything they took. So I walked down the aisle calm as you like, swiped it and stuffed it in my jacket and turned to leave. That’s when it hit me. I couldn’t do it. I felt like everyone in the world was watching me. All I had to do was walk out the main door, but every step was like walking through treacle.’

Sowan was so perplexed by his story that he passed right by the security team on the other side of the parking lot, scarcely noticing them as he went.

‘That’s when I realized the secret to getting out of these places. Act like a dickhead. Act like you’re pissed off at the world, like you own the place, like nobody’s got a right to get in your way. Act like you couldn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks of you, because you’ve got no time for them. So I did. And I walked.’

Sowan paused, alerted by the distinctive
whup-whup
of a car’s central-locking system disengaging. Glancing left, he finally spotted Jibril’s silver Lexus LS parked in the far corner of the lot, and made straight for it.

Practically collapsing in the driver’s seat, he closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. ‘I’m in,’ he said, hardly believing it was true.

‘Good man. See? Act like a dickhead. Works every time.’

‘Did it work for you?’ he couldn’t help but ask.

‘Nope. The security guards nailed me before I’d gotten ten yards from the store. Makes a good story, though.’

Sowan shook his head as he turned the ignition over and fired up the engine.