Sacrifice (36 page)

A fire escape.

Wasting no time, he sprinted across the 20 yards of open rooftop separating him from escape, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his side and back.

The fire door, identical to the one sealing the winch house, was also locked, but a couple of shots from the USP were enough to take care of that.

Shoving the weapon down the back of his trousers, he descended the stairs, pulling the door shut behind him.

As he’d hoped, this was a communal stairwell for guests and staff to use. One floor down, and he saw signs directing him to rooms 401–425. Ignoring them, he continued down to the next level and eased the door open, glancing both ways.

The corridor was empty. Most of the guests, it seemed, were downstairs doing whatever journalists did at this time of day. Probably drinking.

With one hand gripping the pistol, he hurried along the corridor to room 322, with the old-fashioned laundry chute opposite. This time the housekeeping lady was nowhere to be seen.

His heart was beating wildly as he fished the key card from his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he swiped it through the reader.

There was a buzz, a click as the lock disengaged, and the light turned from red to green.

Drake had the door open in a heartbeat, weapon up
and ready, sweeping every corner of the room in search of a target.

There were none. No targets, no Frost. The room was empty. All her computer gear was gone. The only sign of a struggle was the coffee stain on the green carpet near the door.

The pain of the bullet wound was nothing to the ache of guilt and grief he now felt. He had left her here unprotected, and they had found her. He didn’t know how they’d done it, but somehow Horizon had found her and taken her.

They must have traced her hacking attempt somehow.

She’s gone because of you, you stupid arsehole. You should have been here. You should have been watching her back.

Drake shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. Thoughts like that could come later, and he was sure they would. For now, he had to act.

Reaching for his cellphone, he dialled McKnight’s number, waiting while it rang out. To his dismay, it carried on ringing for some time until at last she picked up.

‘Ryan?’

But the voice that answered wasn’t Samantha’s. It was male, deep and rough. It was a voice that belonged to Crawford.

‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.

‘Ryan, listen, we’ve … got a situation here.’

‘Put Sam on the line right now, Crawford.’

‘You can talk to her when you come in.’ There was a pause, just a brief one, but long enough for him to hear hushed voices in the background. Technicians trying to set up a phone trace. ‘Where are you, Ryan?’

Drake had heard enough. Ending the call, he turned and snatched up the satchel once more.

He was being set up. Horizon had found out about their plan to hack their system and were retaliating, first by taking out Frost, then by having the rest of his team arrested. If Anya was right, and Carpenter and Cain were familiar with each other, then almost anyone in the Agency could be compromised.

He had to leave, now.

The idea that phone traces take thirty or even sixty seconds is another Hollywood fantasy. Sophisticated systems like the ones employed by the Agency could do the job in moments. More than likely, a strike team was already scrambling to intercept him.

Adjusting the satchel on his shoulder, he pulled the door open and hurried out into the corridor, pausing only a moment to drop the USP down the laundry chute. The weapon had been useful so far, but he would never get past security with it.

Hurrying down the corridor, he dialled another number on his cellphone. The phone was compromised now, but he had to risk it.

‘Did it work?’ Cunningham asked, answering the call straight away.

‘Get out of there, Matt. We’re burned,’ Drake said, his voice low and urgent. ‘They’ve got Frost. They tried to kill me.’

‘Shit,’ his friend hissed. ‘You said it was foolproof. What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’ Pushing open the stairwell door again, he took the stairs down, trying to ignore the flashes of pain that rocked him with each step. ‘But two Horizon operatives just tried to take me down. Get out of there now.’

‘And then what?’ Cunningham demanded.

‘Remember the place we met for coffee? Meet me there in an hour, and come alone. We’ll talk.’

‘Ryan, wai—’

Drake wasn’t hearing him. He cut the call without saying anything else, pried open the plastic case and removed the battery.

Each step was growing more painful as the injury to his side made itself felt, but he forced himself onward, shoving his way through the set of double doors at the bottom and into a long corridor heading towards the lobby.

Without breaking stride, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket, ignoring the fact that it was powered down with the battery removed, and pressed it tight against his ear. Hopefully it would cover both the cut on his cheek and the fact that the phone wasn’t switched on.

A group of four middle-aged men, their suits struggling to contain their voluminous beer guts, were ambling along the corridor towards him, each hauling a wheeled suitcase that they could easily have carried.

Drake waited until they were within earshot before launching into his performance.

‘Well, it’s just not good enough, Nigel,’ he said, adopting his best public-school accent and trying to look as pissed off as he sounded. ‘I was told someone would meet me at the airport, and they didn’t. I was told there would be a car waiting and there wasn’t. I’ve been in a bloody taxi round half of Kabul before I ended up in this dump. How am I supposed to submit my reports if I can’t even get proper Internet access?’

The older men looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and irritation as he passed. No doubt they had been through similar shit themselves.

Drake didn’t even glance at them, striding by as if he owned the place. He doubted he would win any Oscars for his performance, but playing the part of the disgruntled Englishman was enough to allay most people’s suspicions. He might have been a loud, obnoxious asshole, but that was all they would remember about him. In their minds he was the kind of man one most often sought to avoid.

He went through the same act in the lobby, giving his imaginary friend Nigel an earful as he passed the tables of journalists and businessmen, most of whom didn’t even look up from their coffees and laptops. They had heard self-important idiots spouting the same stuff a hundred times before, and certainly weren’t impressed by it.

Even the security men at the doors wanted nothing to do with him, and he was able to breeze past without so much as a pat-down. They were there to ensure no one marched in wearing an explosive vest, not to take abuse from guests on the way out.

He kept the phone tight to his ear, carrying on a stream of complaints and abuse until the main building was at least 50 yards behind him. Then at last he dropped the act and quickened his pace, eager to put as much distance between himself and those two dead bodies as possible.

The exit from the InterContinental’s plush landscaped grounds deposited Drake on the Qargha Road; a main drag running from west to east across town. However, east was one direction he certainly didn’t want to go. The British embassy was scarcely half a mile distant, and like the Americans they were careful to keep a close watch on the roads and buildings around their compound.

Neither could he head west. The Kabul police training centre lay just beyond the hill on which the hotel sat.
When the two bodies were discovered, it wouldn’t take the police long to spot him on CCTV footage and make the connection.

He suspected they wouldn’t be sympathetic to his cause.

Instead, he headed north-west, towards a range of wind-scoured hills that rose up out of the urban clutter like a natural fortress of rock. Too steep and awkward to build on, they were more or less devoid of human habitation, which suited him just fine.

Anywhere was better than here.

Richard Carpenter surveyed the packed press briefing room, standing tall and imposing behind a lectern with the Horizon company logo emblazoned on it. There was a microphone built into the stand, but several others had been hastily added by the news crews in attendance.

He was wearing a dark blue suit that looked as if it had just arrived from the tailors, his hair neatly combed, his back straight and his eyes framed by a pair of sleek reading glasses.

‘Good evening,’ he began, scanning the crowd with his piercing gaze before glancing down to read from a prepared statement. ‘At approximately nineteen hundred hours local time last night, a team of operatives working for Horizon Defence took part in an operation to apprehend the terrorist leader Kourash Anwari. I can now confirm that this man, along with approximately a dozen armed insurgents who accompanied him, was killed in the resulting operation. There were no casualties amongst Horizon personnel. The exact details of this operation must, for obvious reasons, remain classified at this time. However, I can show you a number of pictures taken in the aftermath of the battle. Please be aware that these pictures are of a graphic nature.’

The projector screen behind Carpenter flickered into life, and a series of still images began to play, showing
the interior of a house with dead bodies, weapons and computer gear strewn around. Close-up shots showed several men who had taken rounds to the head and torso, with the gory results clear to see.

Last of all, the images concentrated on Anwari himself. He was lying sprawled on his back, partly curled around a leather sofa he must have fallen over. By the looks of it, he had taken a couple of rounds to the chest. His eyes were wide and staring, seeing nothing, his expression blank.

Other shots followed, showing the dead face compared to some still images lifted from the hostage tapes, highlighting key similarities in eye and facial structure, and also showing his hand with the missing fingers.

With the brief presentation over, the projector was powered down and attention switched back to Carpenter. ‘We can confirm that this is the man responsible for the recent series of terrorist attacks against Coalition personnel, and the kidnapping and execution of the American hostage yesterday.

‘We will of course be working with ISAF and the Department of Defense to guard against possible reprisal attacks in the coming days and weeks, but for now we believe that a major terrorist threat has been eliminated today, and another step taken in the road to peace in Afghanistan.

‘This operation should serve as an example to everyone of what Horizon can accomplish – that we have the personnel, the expertise and the ability to neutralise high-level insurgent leaders while minimising civilian casualties. We stand ready to assist ISAF in any way necessary, and with the proper resources and mandate, I believe we can make a lasting difference to this country.’

Pausing for a moment, Carpenter removed his reading glasses and looked up at the gathered reporters.

‘Our only regret is that this operation came too late to save the life of the American hostage executed yesterday.’ He looked down, as if struggling to maintain his composure. ‘As a former soldier myself, I know all too well how it feels to lose good people under my command. The thoughts and prayers of everyone at Horizon are with his family at this time. Thank you.’

No sooner had he finished speaking than a barrage of questions poured in from the assembled reporters.

‘Does this mean you’ll be expanding your operation here?’

‘Are you trying to take over from the Coalition?’

‘How were you able to track him down?’

Their questions were met with silence. Stepping down from the podium, Carpenter turned and walked away with solemn dignity. His every step was illuminated by countless camera flashes, but he paid them no heed.

However, there was one person in the room who wasn’t eager to get his attention. With cameras flashing and voices clamouring around her, Anya watched in stony silence. She had listened to Carpenter’s impassioned speech and noble sentiments with absolute disgust, knowing full well how hollow his words were.

You’re a fine actor, Richard, she thought as he walked away, vanishing through a side door with a couple of Horizon officials flanking him. He had played the part of the solemn, dignified leader perfectly. A seasoned old warrior, a decorated soldier stepping into the breach once more to serve his country.

The media would be eating out of his hands.

Only she knew him for who he really was.

Both McKnight and Keegan looked up when the door opened and Crawford strode into the conference room. The expression on his lean, tanned face was hard to read, but it was obvious he hadn’t come with good news.

Two security agents hovered by the door, keeping their side arms to hand in case anyone made a move. After their earlier run-in with Keegan, they were taking no chances.

‘What the hell is going on?’ McKnight demanded, gesturing to the TV screen.

Only minutes earlier, the news anchor had switched from her recap of Anwari’s death and the Horizon press conference to a breaking story about the murder of two journalists at the InterContinental hotel in central Kabul. Even CNN seemed to grasp the significance of the murders, and already theories of Taliban reprisal attacks were being thrown around.

‘Does this have something to do with Ryan?’

The older man stared at the screen for several seconds. ‘When does it
not
have something to do with him? Boy’s been a pain in my ass since he got here.’

McKnight felt her stomach knot. ‘What happened?’

‘You tell me, McKnight.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She could feel her throat tightening, her heart beating faster under his intense stare.

‘Bullshit you don’t,’ he snapped, advancing on her. ‘We pulled the hotel security footage. A few hours ago Drake and Frost checked into a room together, and somehow I doubt it was for an afternoon fuck. He leaves, comes back and takes an elevator ride with two guys, neither of whom survives the trip. Then straight after he tries to put a call through to
your
cellphone.’