Sacrifice (39 page)

The air smelled of new plastic and sawdust.

In the midst of it all sat Anya, as motionless as a statue, her eyes glued to a pair of high-powered binoculars as she surveyed the desert landscape beyond the construction site. The sun was already dipping towards the western horizon, glowing like fire through the wind-blown dust and tingeing the high thin clouds scarlet with its dying rays.

To a casual observer she might have appeared oblivious to her surroundings, all her attention focused on what she was seeing.

The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. Though her eyes were occupied, her other senses were painfully alert, constantly relaying information to her conscious mind about even slight changes in her environment. If a human body approached, she would smell the scent of sweat or cologne in the air. The slightest echo of a footstep on the bare concrete floor would bring a swift and deadly response.

Her only weapon was an M1911 semi-automatic holstered against her left thigh. Of all the weapons she had used over the years, she had yet to find a more effective and reliable side arm than the venerable Colt .45. It had served through two world wars, through Korea and Vietnam, through the Gulf and countless other conflicts before and after. Nearly a century after its introduction, it remained a deadly weapon in the right hands.

It was hot in the half-built office. The dry dusty air irritated her throat, a faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. Her lower back was starting to stiffen up from holding the same position so long, and even the muscles in her arms were aching from supporting the heavy binoculars.

She ignored it all. She had long since trained herself to put aside discomfort, to disregard pain and fatigue. None of those things were important. Survival was what counted.

The object of her preoccupation sat about a mile distant, protected by perimeter fences, watchtowers, bastions of brick and concrete and razor wire. It was a fortress, old and scarred by past conflicts, but tall and indomitable, able to withstand almost any attack.

The Horizon headquarters building.

For a moment her magnified gaze strayed to the building’s upper floor, to the big floor-to-ceiling armoured windows that marked the boundary of Carpenter’s world. Such vanity, to have insisted on such a feature. Only a man like him would have desired it, to stand behind them with the world laid out below, as remote and invincible as a god.

She wondered if he was standing there at that very moment, gazing out across the city. Even Carpenter wasn’t stupid enough to permit people an insight into his private domain; the windows were mirrored, showing nothing but a volcanic sunset and distant, indistinct mountains.

In any case, her attention soon turned downward, towards the compound’s main gate. She watched as the armoured barricade swung open and, in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes, a column of four armoured vehicles rolled out, bristling with weapons and Horizon
operatives. The convoy picked up pace once clear of the gate, swinging north-east to head deeper into Kabul.

It was a third such sortie in the past fifteen minutes. Whatever operation they were mounting, they looked to be throwing all of their available manpower and resources at it.

Her contemplation was interrupted when she felt something buzzing in her pocket. She didn’t need to look at the phone to know who was calling. Only one man on earth knew this number.

Without taking her eyes off the target, she enabled the Bluetooth earpiece she was wearing and hit the receive-call button on the phone.

‘What have you found, Ryan?’ she asked, her voice calm and controlled. Whatever she was feeling inside, she had long ago learned to suppress it when communicating during operations.

‘It’s fucked,’ the man replied bluntly. ‘They were able to trace the virus back to its source. I don’t know how, but they did it. Two Horizon hit men tried to take me out when I returned from our meeting.’

Anya’s heartbeat stepped up a notch. There was pain in his voice. He was trying to hide it, but to her it was as plain as day. He was hurt.

She felt a momentary surge of concern but angrily pushed it away. His welfare was no one’s responsibility but his own.

‘What’s your situation?’ she asked, forcing herself to be cold and clinical.

‘I’m safe for now, but Frost isn’t. They got to her while I was with you.’

Again she detected pain in his voice, but of a different kind. One unrelated to physical ailments, but real all the
same. The loss of the young woman had shaken him profoundly. He couldn’t hide it.

She wondered for a moment if he would feel the same pain for her.

‘They are mobilising their forces for a big operation,’ she said, switching to something she was more comfortable talking about. ‘I would guess they are searching for you.’

‘They’re not the only ones,’ he added. ‘My team’s been detained. We must have got too close – Cain and Carpenter are trying to take us out.’

For a moment, Anya closed her eyes, mastering the emotions that vied for dominance within her. She couldn’t allow attachment and personal feelings to get in the way, she told herself. She had to be cold, clinical, logical.

Drake had become a liability. A liability she could no longer afford.

‘Go home, Drake,’ she said at last.

‘What?’

‘I said go home.’ She was doing the right thing, she knew. The only thing that would keep him alive. ‘Find the nearest ISAF patrol and turn yourself in. You can do nothing more here – you would not last a day with Horizon and the Agency hunting you.’

Silence greeted her for several seconds. He was beginning to realise she was cutting him loose, abandoning him like dead weight. ‘I thought we were supposed to be working together.’

Her grip on the binoculars tightened. ‘We agreed to cooperate. There is a difference.’

‘I can’t leave. This isn’t over yet.’

‘It is for you.’

‘And what about you?’

Anya said nothing to that. Her eyes were still on the Horizon compound.

A fortress; huge, strong, indomitable. But a fortress now lightly guarded.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled the cellphone out, dropped it on the ground and stamped on it.

‘Fuck,’ Drake growled, killing the phone.

Anya had pulled the plug. Now that he was no longer useful, she was cutting him loose like the dead weight he’d become. He should have seen it coming. In truth, what else had he expected? Anya was a survivor, not a charity.

And in some part of his mind he knew she was right to feel that way. He had let her down, just as he had let down Frost and the rest of his team.

No. He couldn’t allow himself to entertain those thoughts. Not now. He could still make this right.

Pocketing the phone, he glanced out onto the road from the alleyway he’d taken position in. The sun was already slanting down towards the western horizon, casting long shadows across the streets and buildings of central Kabul. A little further down the busy main road lay the coffee house where he and Cunningham had sat only this morning. It felt like a lifetime ago now.

No way was he waiting there for Cunningham to show up. There was always a chance his friend would have brought someone with him, or been tailed here. Drake wasn’t going to make a move until he was sure Cunningham had come alone.

He had used some of the money stolen from the cameraman to purchase a pair of sunglasses and a fake
suede jacket at the nearest street market. It was hardly sophisticated, but it was enough to hide his stained T-shirt and the cut on his cheek.

He’d also helped himself to a couple of packets of painkillers. At 5 cents per packet, their quality was dubious at best, but he needed something to take the edge off. His ribs were throbbing, each breath bringing another stab of pain.

At last he spotted Cunningham hurrying towards the restaurant on the other side of the road. He watched his friend closely as he halted outside. Like Drake, he was dressed in civilian clothes, but he didn’t doubt the man was armed.

He was glancing around now, looking for Drake but trying to be subtle about it. If Drake saw him make eye contact with anyone nearby, or glance upward to one of the windows overlooking the street, he would bail without a second thought.

He did no such thing. Neither could Drake see any people or cars in the immediate vicinity holding position for no good reason. There were no furtive glances, no subtle hand movements that might indicate the use of discreet radio transmitters, no men or women turning their heads slightly to speak into their collars.

Of course, it was a busy street with dozens of civilians coming and going, and therefore impossible to keep track of everyone. There was always an element of risk to meetings like this. Training and observation were useful tools, but ultimately one just had to go with gut instinct.

Fuck it, he decided, emerging from the shadows. He managed to keep the pain hidden from his face as the gunshot wound protested at the movement. Maybe those painkillers weren’t such a bargain after all.

Cunningham spotted him as he was crossing the street,
though he was careful to keep his expression neutral. Saying nothing, he hurried forward and met Drake on the sidewalk.

‘Not here,’ he said quietly, steering Drake down a side street that was too narrow for cars to pass through.

Drake wasn’t about to argue. He didn’t want to be on the main drag any longer than necessary. If Horizon were after him they would almost certainly have men patrolling the city’s main thoroughfares.

‘Talk to me,’ his friend said, low and urgent. ‘What the fuck happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ Drake admitted.

It happened fast. Clapping a hand on his shoulder, Cunningham yanked him backwards, spun him around and drove him into a breeze-block wall.

As waves of pain washed over him, Cunningham grabbed him by the jacket and leaned in close. ‘You don’t know?’ he said through gritted teeth, his face just inches from Drake’s. ‘I risked everything for you, you fucking prick! “I don’t know” isn’t fucking good enough!’

Those painkillers still weren’t doing their job, but Drake had recovered enough to bat his friend’s hand away, his green eyes blazing with anger.

‘Maybe I should ask you the same question, Matt,’ he hit back. ‘You’re the one who planted the virus. How do I know you didn’t fuck it up intentionally? For that matter, how do I know you haven’t called your Horizon mates to come and lift me?’

This seemed to cut through Cunningham’s anger. Taking a step back, he looked his friend up and down. ‘Aye, we could play these games all day,’ he conceded. ‘But believe me, I’m in just as much shit as you, Ryan. Now tell me what happened to you.’

Quickly Drake related his arrangement with Frost at
the InterContinental, his brief departure and return, and finally his encounter with the two Horizon operatives in the elevator.

‘They’re both history,’ he concluded. ‘I had no choice.’

Cunningham swore under his breath and looked away for a moment. ‘You’re sure they were from Horizon, aye?’

‘They were the same arseholes who tried to stop us getting to the crash site. Believe me, I’d remember them.’

His friend said nothing to that. ‘So why did you run?’ he asked instead. ‘Why not contact your mates at Langley?’

‘Because I don’t
have
any friends at Langley,’ Drake hit back. ‘Not now. My team’s been detained. Carpenter has contacts within the Agency and he’ll use them to shut down the investigation from that end while he hunts for me at this end. Either way, I’m fucked.’

‘From both ends, no less,’ Cunningham remarked with a sardonic smile.

Drake wasn’t impressed. ‘Piss off. We just lost our best chance of bringing him down.’

‘And what makes you think Carpenter was behind this?’ he asked. ‘What proof do you have?’

Drake exhaled slowly, weighing up how much to tell him. He didn’t want anyone knowing about Anya unless there was no other choice, but neither could he convince Cunningham unless he gave him something.

‘I met with a source,’ he said at last. ‘Don’t ask me who. They told me Mitchell was brought in to investigate Carpenter and Horizon. Whatever Mitchell uncovered, Carpenter found out about it and ordered him killed. When we came in to look for him, Horizon tried to block our investigation every chance they got, and when we got too close, Mitchell was conveniently executed. First he takes away our reason for being here, and when we
still refuse to leave, he comes after
us
. He’s trying to hide some kind of arrangement with Kourash and his group.’

‘Not exactly up to date on current affairs, are you?’ Cunningham said. ‘Carpenter and Horizon are the new golden boys in the War on Terror. They announced the death of Anwari and his mates at a special press conference. The media are all over it.’

The wound at Drake’s side blazed with pain as if the bullet had just struck home for the first time. He was shocked, dumbfounded by what he’d just heard.

‘Kourash is dead?’ he repeated.

‘Aye, and then some. I saw the pictures – they weren’t taking any chances with that arsehole. He’s gone for good.’

Gingerly Drake settled himself on a large rectangular block of stone which had perhaps once served as a front doorstep, wincing and clutching his side as he did so. He was tired, and the wound was hurting more than he cared to admit. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out his tab of aspirin and dry-swallowed a couple.

It didn’t make any sense. If Carpenter and Horizon had struck some kind of deal with Kourash to gain safe passage through his territory, and had apparently used him to take out Mitchell, why kill him now?

‘It doesn’t change a thing,’ Drake decided. ‘Whatever he’s trying to hide, he’s willing to kill for it. And we’re next. The only way we’re getting out of this – and the only way I can get Frost back – is if we take Carpenter down.’

It was Cunningham’s turn to look unimpressed. ‘Aye? What are you going to do, Rambo? Charge in there, guns blazing?’

‘That wasn’t my first plan.’

‘Then what is your plan, Ryan?’ he asked, his impatience
obvious. ‘Because from where I’m standing we’ve got jack shit. We’ve got no information, no resources and nobody on our side. We don’t even have a fucking safe house to hole up in.’