Deception Game (10 page)

‘I need to speak to one of your department heads named David Faulkner as a matter of urgency,’ Drake began, wasting no time on pleasantries. ‘He works for Section 6. This concerns national security.’

‘Sir, I’m afraid we can’t transfer calls to specific employees. If you’re calling to report a terrorist threat, you have to—’

‘I’ll speak to him, and him alone,’ Drake cut in. He knew full well what their procedures were, just as he knew they were trained to route priority calls to departments normally inaccessible to the outside world if the situation called for it. ‘If you won’t transfer me, then trace this call and pass my details on to him. Tell him Ryan Drake wants to speak with him. He’ll know who I am.’

It was early evening, and the Red Lion Inn was already bustling with groups of people out for dinner, hikers from the nearby Beacons slaking their thirst, and locals just there to relax and shoot the breeze over a few pints. It seemed like a decent place to do any of those things in Drake’s opinion, seated as he was at a corner table with a pint of lager. The public room was low-ceilinged and L-shaped, with a comfortable, well-worn feel to it. Even the deeply stained roof beams overhead looked like they were actually real, and not some tacky twenty-first century attempt replicate period charm.

An open fireplace at the far wall was smouldering away, the smell of wood smoke mingling with that of cooking food from the kitchen, the distinctive odour of draft beers, and the faint lingering aroma of tobacco – a legacy of the days when people were still allowed to smoke in pubs.

With his brief summons delivered to the good people at the Foreign Office, Drake had left the hospital and journeyed back to his mother’s house, hoping to link up with Jessica again. No such luck; the house had been locked up when he’d arrived. He could only assume she’d returned to her home in central London, though she was still refusing to answer his calls.

However, her absence had at least afforded him an opportunity to inspect the house in a little more detail. Locked doors and windows had presented little obstacle for a man with his skill and training, and in short order he’d discretely made entry so he could search the place for some clue as to his mother’s recent activities. He wasn’t exactly proud of having broken into his own mother’s home, but finding answers had been the overriding priority.

In the event, there was little to see on cursory examination. The paperwork and folders in her office had yielded little beyond household accounting and personal correspondence. Nothing remotely suspicious. Same deal with her laptop – no passwords, no encryption, and an internet history that held nothing more interesting than news sites, online shopping and banking.

The only point of interest had been the collection of Word documents on her hard drive, which he assumed to be journalistic pieces in keeping with her profession. He hadn't had time to peruse them all, but a random selection had revealed a heavy emphasis on Libya, particularly human-rights abuses by the Gaddafi regime, conspiracy theories about the dictator’s collusion with the West and even his harbouring of international terrorists. Not much to go on, but it was a wrinkle worth noting, and something he’d keep in mind.

Anyway, he wasn’t surprised by the lack of definitive evidence. Whatever secrets Freya Louise Shaw had harboured, he doubted she would have been foolish enough to leave them in such an insecure location.

Reluctantly he’d locked the place up and taken his leave, sensing he’d find little else of interest. Lacking the energy to travel into London tonight, he’d booked himself a room in the nearby village of Madley, intending to grab what rest he could and tackle his problems in the morning.

The much larger town of Hereford was just a couple of miles away and would have offered more options, but he was reluctant to visit any of his old haunts. The chances of bumping into a former comrade from the regiment were slim, but the last thing he wanted right now was to have to paste on a fake smile and reminisce about old times.

He’d done enough reflecting on the past already today. What concerned him now was the present.

Jessica was in trouble; there was no denying that. He hadn’t expected her to just fall back happily into her old life after everything that had happened, but nonetheless he’d hoped that time and distance from him would help her regain a sense of normality. That was what he’d tried to tell himself – leave her alone, give her some time, don’t remind her of what happened.

Everything will be all right eventually.

But it wasn’t, and maybe it never would be. Perhaps he would have seen it if he’d looked a little closer, thought a little more about it, questioned her outward displays of positivity. Had her forced optimism been nothing but a mask to hide a growing problem? Had she been holding it together this long only for his sake?

And what of his mother? What secrets had Jessica hinted at that she’d been so reluctant to share with them? What the hell had she been involved in that had brought about such a sudden, violent end?

For now, he was left with a lot of questions and no answers.

Drake sighed and took a sip from his pint of Carling. Despite his troubled thoughts, he knew he wasn’t going to achieve much more this day, nor did he want to. He was tired and run down after the events of the past few days, and in need of rest. A few more pints would probably grant him his wish, then he could try to pick up the pieces in the morning.

He was just laying the glass down when he became aware of it. That feeling you get when someone’s eyes linger on you just a little too long, their gaze a little too intense.

Someone was watching him.

Without reacting, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and held it up as if he were checking his emails or composing a text. Situated in a corner as he was, nobody could see the screen but him.

Instead he powered up the camera function. Staring at the screen with an expression of bland disinterest, he slowly moved the phone in his hand, panning it from left to right across the crowded public room.

At a table near him were a group of men in their seventies, probably locals judging by their clothes and demeanour, chatting amiably amongst themselves with not the slightest interest in what was going on around them.

At another table, a middle-aged couple picking at their dinner, an empty bottle of wine standing upside down in an ice bucket waiting to be replaced. Conservatively dressed, the woman looking slightly bored, the man looking slightly drunk. Neither one glanced at him.

Further back, a group of younger men in hiking clothes, celebrating the end of a long day’s hill-walking with pints all round. They looked to be in good spirits, laughing and joking amongst themselves. One of them rose a little unsteadily and ambled up to the bar to order another round.

That was when Drake spotted him. A man standing on the far side of the bar beside some of the other patrons, nursing a glass of Coke. Mid forties, dark jacket that was easy to conceal a weapon inside, close-cropped hair and a serious, focussed demeanour that was out of sync with the atmosphere in the bar.

No, it wasn’t just him, Drake realized then. The woman beside him, posing as his companion, was part of it too. She was younger, perhaps in her late thirties, slender of build, with long red hair, pale skin and sharp, hardened features that stopped somewhere short of attractive.

Another person might have glanced at the unremarkable pair and seen nothing out of the ordinary. Average height and build, neither ugly nor appealing, no distinguishing features to speak of. The sort of people one passed every day without ever seeing.

But for Drake, the thing that set alarm bells ringing was their eyes. The look, the intensity, the constant awareness of everything going on around them. He had come to know that look all too well.

This was no married couple out for a quiet drink – they were field operatives. They had been sent here to watch him, and perhaps more. But why? And by whom?

Focussing the camera phone on the two of them, Drake zoomed in enough to get a decent image of their faces and surreptitiously took a photo. He'd run the image through facial recognition later, try to discern their identity.

Now that he’d established he was being watched, the question was what to do about it. Trying to run was a bad move. For all he knew there could be more of them waiting outside, and he didn’t have a weapon with him.

If this man and woman were part of a team sent to lift him, they were unlikely to do it in the middle of a crowded bar. But then, he couldn’t stay here forever. The place would have to close sooner or later, and then he’d have no choice but to leave.

Alone he might have been, but it didn’t have to stay that way. He could summon the rest of his team, currently encamped at RAF Mildenhall awaiting his return, but it would take them hours to get here. Anyway, he was reluctant to involve his companions in his own problems, particularly when he didn’t yet understand the nature of the threat.

He was contemplating his next move when he spotted a third man entering the public room. A man who turned and made his way straight towards Drake’s table, as if he’d known exactly where to find him.

And of course, he almost certainly did.

He was slightly below average height, but well dressed and well groomed, his expensive fitted suit emphasizing the trim figure beneath. He was, as Drake knew, easily in his fifties by now, yet there was scarcely a line on his face. His thick blonde hair showed not a strand of grey, though the lighting in the bar betrayed the tinge of artificial colouring, and as Drake looked closer he couldn’t help but notice the unnatural pattern of hair plugs at his temples.

David Faulkner had always been a man of many interests – one of which, apparently, was himself.

‘Hello, Ryan,’ he said, smiling with pleasure as if he’d just been reunited with an old friend. ‘Room for one more?’

Without waiting for a response, he helped himself to a seat at the small table, studying Drake for a long moment.

‘You’re looking well, old boy,’ he remarked conversationally, his English accent as refined and precise as his clothes. An Old Etonian, raised on rugby pitches and country estates. ‘Life in the States been treating you well?’

Drake’s green eyes flashed at his light-hearted banter. ‘That depends on your point of view, David.’

Spotting the new arrival, a waitress made her way through the maze of tables to take his drinks order.

‘Give me a fresh orange juice, would you, dear?’ Faulkner asked, flashing a charming smile at her. The kind of smile that came courtesy of dental bleaching. ‘And another pint of whatever my good friend here is having.’

As the young woman headed off to the bar to fetch their drinks, Drake surveyed the older man across the table. ‘Wasn’t expecting a personal visit.’

‘I can’t sit down with an old friend for a quiet drink or two?’Faulkner affected a look of wounded pride. ‘After you left such a charming message with the Foreign Office, it seemed only right that I drop by and say hello.’

‘We were never friends,’ Drake pointed out. ‘You found me because you used MI6 resources to track me, which means you have something important to tell me.’

It was hardly professional to talk shop in a public place like this, but their table was located in a secluded corner where few could overhear, and the ambient noise was sufficient to prevent their words carrying far. Plus, Drake was feeling belligerent and was happy to blow off steam any way he could.

Faulkner was still smiling at him, but there was a little less warmth in his eyes now. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he acknowledged. ‘Firstly, I wanted to offer my condolences about your mother. I’m sorry for your loss, Ryan.’

Drake had to hand it to him, Faulkner was a good actor. If he didn’t know the man better, he almost would have bought it. Then again, intelligence handlers like Faulkner made a living out of spinning bullshit and making others buy it.

‘Did your two friends up by the bar come to offer their condolences as well?’ Drake asked, nodding to the pair of field operatives.

He chuckled in amusement. ‘Still sharp, I see. That’s good. But really, I wouldn’t trouble myself about them. They’re quite charming, in their own way, and useful. Can’t have too many friends – that’s what I always say.’

‘Depends on the friends,’ Drake said, draining the remnants of his first pint. ‘You know why I left that message for you, I assume?’

‘I do.’

‘Section 6 has taken over the murder investigation. Why? What are you trying to cover up?’

No sense beating around the bush. Drake’s question was framed as directly as he could put it. Unfortunately, if he was expecting a similarly direct answer, he was to be disappointed.

Faulkner took a sip of his orange juice, taking his time before going on. True to his health-conscious nature, he rarely drank alcohol, and Drake doubted he’d be sampling the steak pie or burgers on the pub’s evening menu.

‘The answer concerns you as much as it does her.’

‘What do you mean?’ Drake asked. He had no desire to sit here and listen to this man speak in riddles.

‘I mean, like any good piece of intelligence, it comes at a price. I can tell you what you want to know, but in return I want something from you.’

Drake didn’t like where this conversation was heading one bit. ‘What, exactly?’

‘Let’s start with what I know about you, Ryan,’ Faulkner said. ‘Firstly, I know things didn’t work out well with Special Operations in Afghanistan.’

‘That’s interesting, considering you recommended me to them,’ Drake observed pointedly. Faulkner was the British intelligence officer who had plucked him out of the regiment after his second tour in Afghanistan, recognized his potential and offered him a place in a ‘special task force’ he was helping put together with the Americans.

That had been seven years ago. A lot had changed since then.

‘Do you want to know what else is interesting? I’m largely the reason you’re not in a military prison right now, Ryan. Or worse.’ He allowed that one to sink in for a moment or two. ‘After that business with Operation Hydra, they were all set to drop you in the deepest, darkest hole they could find. I had to call in quite a few favours to stop them.’

Drake could feel himself tense up. Just the mention of Hydra had brought back memories of a time he’d much rather forget. Memories of a day that had changed the course of his life forever.

And it had all started with the man sitting opposite him.

‘And of course you did that out of the goodness of your heart,’ Drake remarked cynically. Faulkner had many qualities, but altruism wasn’t one of them.

He shrugged, taking another sip of his orange juice while he studied Drake closely. ‘It’s a bit like buying a new hammer to tighten a screw. It might not be the right tool for the job at hand, but you keep it around because you know one day it’ll come in useful.’