Deception Game (7 page)

As he said this, two members of his team moved forward to grab Fayed; one tall, black and well built, the other short and wiry. Neither man spoke a word.

Handovers like this were always brief affairs, Drake knew. There was never any paperwork to sign, any agreements to be made, any official recognition of what had just happened. How could there be? Black flights like this were by their nature clandestine enterprises, with no paper-trails left to incriminate anyone.

Anyway, no doubt Wilkins and his team were anxious to be airborne and on their way before French police arrived to investigate the landing of a private jet at a supposedly deserted airfield. In that respect, Drake was in complete agreement. They’d be leaving as soon as they could get the truck turned around.

Already the Gulfstream’s engines were spooling up, preparing for departure. The main hatch was open, permitting a glimpse into the private aircraft’s interior.

That was when Drake caught sight of him. Another man was in there, seated in one of the big leather chairs that dotted the cabin. A man who had apparently preferred to hang back while the retrieval team handled the prisoner.

He was in his late thirties, Middle Eastern in appearance, with dark olive skin, a slender and angular face that emphasized his prominent nose, and receding hair cut short on top. He was wearing a grey suit with an open collar, but Drake sensed from his uncomfortable body language that that wasn’t his usual attire.

‘Where are you taking him?’ Drake asked before he could stop himself.

He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked that question. Perhaps it was the sight of the jet’s mysterious passenger, or perhaps his previous encounter with Fayed in the alleyway had left a lingering doubt in his mind. Either way, it had happened before he could stop himself.

Wilkins stopped for a moment and glanced back at him, that same faint smile visible beneath the bushy moustache. ‘Come on, Ryan. You know better than to ask that.’

Leaving those words to sink in, he turned away and resumed his walk toward the jet. ‘Pack it up, gentlemen. We’re out of here.’

In short order, Fayed was manhandled aboard, the outer hatch was pulled shut, and the Gulfstream’s engines roared with increased power. As the aircraft began its taxi down the runway, McKnight approached Drake, who was standing in silence watching it go.

‘What was that all about?’

Drake didn’t take his eyes off the plane. ‘Just a feeling.’

‘Good or bad?’

He wished he could answer that one.

‘Come on,’ he said, turning towards the truck as the Gulfstream roared into the night sky, heading for an unknown destination. ‘We’ve got our own flight to catch.’

RAF Mildenhall, United Kingdom – 4 May

Six hours later, Drake found himself seated in a small, cramped briefing room, skim-reading the sparse operational report he’d compiled on the flight back from France. The walls that pressed in uncomfortably close around him were plain white plasterboard, the tables low-quality wood veneer, the floor dark linoleum. Everything in here was cheap and sparse and utilitarian.

The hard plastic chair on which he sat wasn’t doing his bruised back any favours, though he tried to ignore the dull ache, concentrating instead on his work. Breckenridge had demanded a debriefing as soon as possible, which meant he wasn’t willing to wait for the team to return to Langley.

In any case, there were no transatlantic flights available for several hours yet.

Instead they had made a short hop across the English Channel before landing at RAF Mildenhall, a military airfield located near the Suffolk coast. Officially it was an RAF station, but in reality most of it belonged to the US Air Force, home to the 100th Air Refuelling Wing and various other support elements. All told, there were over 16,000 American personnel living and working here.

And where the Air Force went, the Agency was sure to follow. The Shepherd team’s unregistered flight had landed half an hour ago, its four passengers discreetly hustled away from the aircraft and into a waiting car which had ferried them to a remote administrative building on the edge of the base. And here they’d at last had a chance to draw breath and take stock of the situation.

‘So that’s what we have so far,’ Drake concluded, bringing his debriefing to a close. ‘We exfilled the area before law enforcement could arrive, and delivered the target for rendition as ordered.’

Silence filled the air for several seconds.

‘Well, I guess it could have turned out worse,’ Breckenridge’s voice crackled through the speaker unit in the centre of the table. Even from the other side of the Atlantic, Drake could hear the scorn in his voice. ‘It also could have turned out better. Your mission was to carry out a covert extraction, Drake, not to start a fist fight in the street.’

And that was about as close to a ‘well done’ as he was ever likely to get. Drake was grateful the room didn’t have video-conference facilities, otherwise he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold back from saying what was really on his mind.

‘It couldn’t be avoided. He had an escape route in mind,’ he said, his tone carefully neutral. ‘Which brings me to another point. This guy wasn’t just some admin officer; he had field training. He was ready and willing to fight in that alleyway.’

‘I’m still waiting for that point,’ Breckenridge prompted him.

Drake clenched his fists. ‘My point is, this man wasn’t just some rogue intelligence source on the run. What if he had a reason for being in Paris?’

‘What if he did?’ his boss asked. ‘That’s the rendition team’s job to find out. Shepherds are there to deliver a package, not to unwrap it. You know the score.’

In that regard, at least, he was right. It wasn’t Drake’s job to question this sort of thing.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.

‘We’re also supposed to be briefed on the targets we’ve been assigned.’

‘You were.’

‘Were we?’

‘I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean, Ryan.’

That was when Drake knew something was wrong.

Ryan. He never called him Ryan.

He leaned closer to the speaker unit. ‘Then let me spell it out for you. We get called in at short notice to extract a rogue asset that even
you
could deal with, but instead we find ourselves up against a trained field operative who’s expecting trouble, and who seems to be running some kind of op from his own apartment. You tell me, how are we supposed to do our jobs if we don’t know what we’re up against?’

‘You do your job by following orders. Like all of us,’ Breckenridge replied pointedly.

‘Not all of us have to risk our lives to follow orders,’ Drake reminded him, his tone making it clear who such criticism was aimed at.

‘Stop it,’ Breckenridge cut in, his voice hard and cold. ‘If you’re trying to get yourself brought up on a disciplinary for insubordination, you’re going the right way about it. You were given an objective, and despite a few screw-ups along the way, you achieved it. This operation’s over, so I’m going to do us both a favour and forget this conversation happened. Have I made myself clear?’

Drake leaned back in his chair, saying nothing.

‘Good,’ he said, taking Drake’s silence for affirmation. ‘Your flight back to Langley leaves in six hours. I suggest you be on it. Out.’

With that, the line dropped out, leaving Drake alone to contemplate what had just happened. It might have been easy to explain away the man’s attitude as an attempt to cover up his own ignorance, or a simple belligerent desire to keep him in the dark, but Drake could tell there was something else at play. What it was, he didn’t know, but he was starting to get an uneasy feeling about the operation.

As usual, however, Breckenridge had left him with no answers. And with Franklin out of action for the foreseeable future, he had precious few avenues to pursue.

He shifted position in his chair and stretched, the bruised and knotted muscles in his back aching with the movement. He was tired and hurting, and despite his irritation at Breckenridge he had neither the energy nor the inclination to pursue the matter further that night.

‘Fuck,’ he proclaimed, that single word neatly summing up his attitude to the events of the past couple of days. Tossing his report and hand-written notes into a file folder, he pushed himself away from the conference table and strode out of the briefing room, heading for the temporary sleeping quarters allocated to him.

Sleep was the last thing on his mind, however. The hip flask of whisky waiting in his holdall was at the forefront of his thoughts now.

No such luck. McKnight was lurking in the corridor, waiting to ambush him as he left the briefing room. She’d changed into fresh clothes now that the op was concluded, and judging by her slightly damp hair, she’d showered while he’d been giving his report.

There was no sign of Mason or Frost, though he could take a wild guess that they’d headed for the nearest mess hall in search of food. The only thing the two specialists enjoyed more than arguing was eating, and happily enough they could indulge both passions there.

‘If it’s not good news, I don’t want to hear it,’ he said without breaking stride. ‘Consider yourself warned.’

‘Your threats terrify me,’ she remarked, falling into step beside him. ‘And no, it’s not good news. I wanted to talk to you about what happened in that alley.’

‘So talk,’ he prompted, still intent on reaching his room as quickly as possible. ‘I’ll listen. I’m good that way.’

‘Don’t bullshit me,’ she snapped. ‘I warned you about charging in alone.’

A passing Air Force corporal glanced away uncomfortably, trying to avoid what was clearly the beginning of a heated argument. Likely he’d been warned not to approach or interact with the Shepherd team members, but it was hard not to overhear them when they were bitching at each other in the middle of a corridor.

‘That you did,’ Drake acknowledged, brushing past the younger man. ‘And I considered myself duly warned.’

‘But you went ahead and did it anyway. Alone, like always. Your own way, like always. Same shit, different country.’

Drake could practically feel his hackles rising. ‘Your point being?’

‘When are you going to drop the lone-wolf routine and start trusting the rest of us? We’re here to help you, but you won’t let us in. Sooner or later that’s going to ruin you.’

Drake halted outside his darkened room, shoved the door open and turned to face her. ‘I’ll start trusting them when they start living up to it. You were slow, Sam. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you couldn’t help me. That’s not my problem.’

Even as he turned away to close the door on her, she shoved her foot out, barring it. ‘You arrogant asshole,’ she snapped. ‘One of these days that’s going to catch up with you.’

They were so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek, could see the tiny flecks of hazel in her green eyes, the faintly visible freckles across her nose. Her full lips were parted slightly as she drew breath, her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated in the dim light as she glared back at him.

It happened fast.

Before he was even aware of it, his mouth was on hers, hard and insistent, driven by the sudden, powerful need that had come over them both. He couldn’t say whether it was the danger they had faced together in Paris, the lingering anger and frustration that had yet to find an outlet, or the fear of the uncertain future that lay ahead. He couldn’t say, and nor did he care at that moment. Neither of them did.

Far from being shocked or surprised, Samantha returned his gesture in equal measure, pulling him close with eager, overwhelming desire as her body strove to meet with his. He could feel her arms around his neck, her fingers running through his hair as they backed into the room, Drake kicking the door closed behind him.

Heart pounding, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, Samantha let out a strangled moan as the rising tide of pleasure reached an unbearable peak within her and suddenly burst forth, engulfing her in wave after wave of glorious release.

She clutched at Drake as her muscles tightened, her fingers raking his back, feeling the warmth and the strength in him as his own pleasure came not long after. He thrust in and out of her a few more times before at last relaxing on top of her, utterly spent.

She couldn’t say how long they lay together like that, their naked bodies entwined, breathing hard, hearts beating so close they were almost as one. She could hear the sound of the movement in the corridor outside, the droning hum of an air conditioner, the distant roar of a jet coming in to land outside. Normal sounds of people and activity that she’d heard most of her life, and that she always found somehow comforting.

At last he raised his head up to look at her, his green eyes shining in the dim light filtering in through the drawn blinds. It was dawn outside, grey and pale and indistinct.

He said nothing, and for that she was glad. This wasn’t a moment for words. It was enough just to be alone together.

She saw a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Was he pleased with himself? She supposed he had some right to be, if the tingling afterglow of his efforts was anything to go by.

‘Something funny?’ she asked, curious.

‘Arrogant asshole,’ he said, repeating her earlier insult. ‘Nice choice of words. Not sure I deserved that one, though.’

In truth, their argument hadn’t quite been the intense confrontation they’d made it out to be. That wasn’t to say her grievances were entirely unfounded, but she wasn’t quite as ready to quit his team as anyone who’d observed them might have believed. Still, appearances had to be kept up, as it were.

She grinned mischievously. ‘No, you did. Someone has to keep you in line.’

‘And you think you’re up to the job?’

Leaning forward, he kissed her, light and playful. At the same moment his hand traced a path along her side, fingers just brushing the contours of a small firm breast. She let out an involuntary gasp as he squeezed a sensitive nipple, the feeling caught somewhere between pleasure and pain.

‘Still think you can keep me in line?’ he whispered in her ear, seemingly enjoying the reaction his touch had provoked.

‘Well, that depends,’ she sighed, closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the pleasurable sensation. Then, deciding he’d had his fun for now, she reached down between his legs and grasped him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to show that she could if she wanted to. ‘What do you think now?’

Again she saw that smile. A silent acknowledgement that neither one was there to hold sway over the other. Then, just like that, he pulled away, rolled off her and reached for something in his canvas holdall lying beside the bed.

‘Not losing your stamina, are you?’ she teased, her smile playful as she watched him. She couldn’t help but notice the play of tight corded muscle beneath his skin as he moved; the strong, wide shoulders and well-defined arms. As he turned around, her eyes followed the firm pectoral muscles downward as they gave way to a flat stomach and narrow waist. Drake was a well-made man in the prime of his life, his body hardened and tempered by years of training and experience.

But it was a body that bore the unforgiving marks of those experiences, from the faded silvery white lines of deep gashes, many of which had been sutured closed, to the distinctive circular mark of an old gunshot wound. As evidence of his more recent escapades, his back and right shoulder were deeply discoloured by heavy bruising, complimented by the red crust of cuts and grazes. Drake had taken more than his share of injuries in the course of his career, both in the Agency and before, and seeing it literally laid bare before her was a sobering reminder of just how many times he’d brushed with death.

He glanced at her with a wry smile. ‘I was on my way here for a reason, you know. It wasn’t all for show.’

Lifting a hip flask out of his holdall, he unscrewed the top, held it to his lips and took a drink. When he held it out to her, she accepted it and sipped the contents, savouring the powerful smoky, almost salty, flavour.

‘Bowmore?’ she said uncertainly, responding to his unspoken question.

‘Ardbeg,’ he corrected. ‘Right island, wrong whisky.’

‘Damn it.’ She was slowly learning the different varieties of Scotch, though it was hard going and there were so many different brands – many of which were beyond her ability to pronounce – that she wondered if she’d ever get a handle on it. ‘Give me a glass of chardonnay any day. Maybe one day I’ll teach you fine wines as payback.’

‘Good luck,’ he snorted, taking another drink.

It was at that moment that she caught a twinge of pain in his face, perhaps caused by moving the wrong way at the wrong moment. He reached down, his hand instinctively covering the gunshot scar that marked the left side of his abdomen.