Deception Game (17 page)

Responding to Libyan requests to hand over opposition leader Abu Abdullah al-Sadiq for rendition, a CIA case offer wrote, ‘We are committed to developing this relationship for the benefit of both our services.’

Malta – 6 May

Whatever his shortcomings on a personal level, Dietrich had certainly delivered the goods when it came to support for this operation.

The man himself had been waiting for Drake and his team as they disembarked Chandra’s aircraft at Malta International, grunting a terse greeting before shepherding them into a waiting car. From there, it had been a short journey to a secluded waterfront warehouse in the midst of the bustling Malta Freeport on the south side of the island. It hadn’t taken long to get there; the entire island stretched little more than ten miles from east to west, and the airport sat barely a mile from the harbour area.

A rocky, arid spit of land in the southern Mediterranean covering just 120 square miles, Malta’s geographic position as an air and naval base had given it an inherent strategic and political value that far outstripped its modest size. A succession of naval powers had conquered and fought to hold the small island over the centuries, from the Romans to the Spanish, French and British, before it had finally found independence in 1964. These days it was a major hub for commercial and cruise ships rather than warships of old, and Drake had certainly seen plenty of both as they arrived at their destination.

The warehouse now serving as the staging point for tonight’s clandestine operation had come courtesy of Dietrich’s contacts, as had the inflatable Zodiac resting on a trailer in the centre of the big open workshop, its powerful outboard motor almost as large as a car engine and certainly more powerful. Apparently it had been ‘borrowed’ from a local diving school, and was expected to be returned in the same condition it had been given.

Drake however was less interested in watercraft than he was in the equipment laid out on the collapsible workbench in front of him.

A set of four Browning L9A1 automatic pistols complete with attachable silencers was perhaps the most important aspect of their gear for this mission. The weapons were standard issue in the British military, plus a few dozen other countries, and were basically just modified versions of a design that dated back to the 1930s. Old they might have been, but they were tried and true, and hopefully enough to see the group out of trouble if it came down to it.

Normally a Shepherd team would have gone in with heavier firepower to back them up if things went sour, but as Dietrich had explained without a word of apology, this was the best he could manage at short notice. In any case, stealth and surprise were their best weapons tonight. The aim was to get in and out discretely, not to get drawn into a pitched battle they could never hope to win. The silenced Brownings would have to do.

Drake had personally field stripped and reassembled each of the four weapons, checking for flaws or – more tellingly – intentional sabotage. However, after spending nearly an hour working on them, he was obliged to admit they were all in good order. He’d even test fired a couple of rounds from each to verify the ammunition was fit for purpose.

Their other weapons for this job were far less precise than the Brownings, and intended to be used only if things went decidedly off-plan. Eight grenades – four smoke and four stun – were laid out in a row beside the handguns. Each member of the group was to be issued with one of each, giving them all a degree of much-needed tactical flexibility.

The Marine Corps motto that "Every Marine is a rifleman first" was, as far as Drake was concerned, just as applicable to Shepherd operatives. No matter what their trade, specialty or mission role, each member of his team was expected to be able to fight their way out of trouble if the need arose. For that reason, he wanted them as well armed as possible.

Stun grenades, known as flashbangs for the noise and light they produced, were non-lethal weapons designed to temporarily blind and deafen a target, making them invaluable for house assaults like this. Of course, the noise would certainly alert anyone within half a mile if they were used, but there was no telling whether they might need them.

Likewise, smoke grenades were intended to produce a dense cloud of chemically induced smoke. If they were forced to use the flashbangs for whatever reason, they might well need the smoke grenades to cover their escape.

Next to the weapons were their tactical radios – encrypted transmitter units fitted with discrete ear buds that would allow the team to communicate on a secure network without fear of electronic eavesdropping.

The flipside of that particular coin was the pair of signal jammers that they would use to disrupt radio communications amongst the guards patrolling Sowan’s compound. Resembling walkie-talkies with several antennas of various lengths protruding from one end, they were designed to broadcast static noise on all known frequencies, jamming everything from short-range radios to television sets to cell-phone coverage. Their area of effect was limited, and it would mean the team’s own radios would be similarly nullified while the jammers were active, but with luck it would buy them the time they needed to make entry.

He would rather have used their own gear for something like this, but there hadn’t been time to source the equipment they needed in the UK, and doing so might have set off alarm bells with police and government agencies. In any case, Frost had done a thorough check on each unit to ensure it was in good order.

Further along the bench lay an assortment of different tools and gear that would be split amongst the team, from flashlights to spare batteries, plastic cable ties, duct tape, knives, ropes, lock picks, signal flares, about $500 worth of Libyan money and some basic medical kits. He didn’t expect or hope to use all of it, particularly the last item on the list, but it never hurt to keep the bases covered. Despite all their careful planning, there was no way to predict what might happen once they were on site. As the saying so rightly went, it was better to have it and not need it, than vice versa.

‘We don’t offer warranties on this stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

Drake turned to face Dietrich, who had wandered over to check on his progress. A tall, dark-haired German in his late forties, Jonas Dietrich possessed the grim, unsmiling countenance and cynical personality of a man perpetually pissed off with life. Strange, Drake had always thought, because he seemed to have lived something of a charmed existence.

He’d started out his career with the West German intelligence service back in the 1980s, running operations in Eastern Europe against the Soviets. He’d been responsible for helping a number of high-value targets to defect to the West, willingly or otherwise, but with the Cold War winding down he’d moved to America and soon been snapped up by the Agency.

On the surface he’d seemed like an intelligent, meticulous Shepherd team leader with a flair for creativity, but by the time Drake had encountered him he’d become arrogant, overconfident and hopelessly addicted to heroin. One of Drake’s first acts had been to arrange Dietrich’s demotion to specialist, which hadn’t exactly done their working relationship any favours.

He’d straightened himself out since then and regained his former position as a team leader, but as far as Drake could see, his personality still needed some work.

‘No worries, mate. If they don’t work when we need them, we won’t be around to ask for a refund,’ Drake remarked, lifting one of the Brownings and pulling back the slide to check the action again. ‘Sure you don’t want to join us, see firsthand how it goes?’

Dietrich gave him a sour look. ‘Don’t hold your breath. The last time we worked together, I took a round through the leg and almost got killed.’

‘You also got promoted to team leader,’ Drake reminded him. ‘Not a bad trade.’

‘Why do you think I’m here?’ He gave a rare smile that looked quite out of place, and soon faded as his manner turned serious again. ‘You know, it’s a strange thing seeing everyone together again.’

Drake glanced at him. ‘Never thought of you as the nostalgic type.’

‘I’m not, but it does seem like history repeating, and not in a good way. How many times are you going to risk your life for Anya before your luck runs out?’

Drake laid the weapon back down on the table. ‘I’m not doing this for her.’

He wasn’t willing to say more than that. If Dietrich only knew his real reason for going through with this, he might not have been so willing to help them.

‘Very heroic, Ryan.’

‘None of us are trying to be heroes tonight,’ Drake assured him. ‘I’d settle for getting everyone through this in one piece.’

Dietrich said nothing to this, though his silence told its own story. ‘Our Zodiac pilot says we’ll be ready to get underway in sixty minutes,’ he said instead, concentrating on more practical matters. ‘Consider that a warning to get your shit together. He’s not likely to wait around too long.’

Though most of them could operate the Zodiac at a push, they had no first-hand experience of the waters off the Libyan coast where they intended to make landfall. Arriving in sufficient time to complete their objective before sunrise while taking into account tides and currents was no easy task.

For this reason, Dietrich had recruited a pilot for their clandestine trip tonight – an ex-Navy man who had been living and sailing in this neck of the woods for the past twenty years. Apparently he was ‘reliable’, which was Dietrich’s way of saying he was no stranger to illicit journeys of questionable legality, and therefore wouldn’t ask any questions.

‘Tell him we’ll be ready,’ Drake said.

At this, Dietrich chuckled in amusement. ‘More balls than brains, as usual. Well, it seems to have worked for you so far. Maybe it’ll be enough tonight.’

With that less-than-encouraging remark, he turned and strode away, lighting up a cigarette as he went. Once he was well out of earshot, Frost ventured over to speak with Drake.

‘Guy still gives me the creeps,’ she remarked, casting a dark glance after him. ‘I don’t care what anyone says. He’s bad news.’

Drake chewed his lip. ‘He’s what we’ve got.’ Turning his attention back to matters at hand, he gestured to the equipment laid out on the table. ‘Run a check of the radios and the jammers.’

‘I already tested them,’ she protested.

‘Test them again.’

He was already heading for the doorway leading to the quay outside.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get some air,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in five, and I want those checks finished.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Frost called out mockingly, then added in a quieter tone, ‘Asshole.’

‘I heard that.’

‘You were supposed to.’

It was a warm, balmy evening in the southern Mediterranean as Drake emerged onto the waterfront quay that fronted the warehouse. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, its dying rays casting a final spectacular display of fire on the canvas of clouds overhead. A faint breeze sighed through the palm trees that fringed the waterfront, carrying with it the tangy scent of the ocean, and the rather less palatable odour of diesel fumes from the nearby Malta Freeport.

He watched as a massive bulk cargo hauler, its decks piled high with bus-sized storage containers that resembled so many multi-coloured Lego bricks from this distance, eased out of its mooring. Its passage was assisted by teams of small but powerful tugboats, water frothing at their sterns as they laboured to keep the immense vessel on course.

Taking a breath, Drake reached into his pocket for his cell phone, then held it for a moment, silently debating the wisdom of this decision. It was certainly a breach of operational security to be making a private call on the very eve of their mission, but at the back of his mind lurked the telling possibility that he might not get another chance.

He’d dialled the familiar number almost without thinking. Whatever else happened, he had to at least try to make amends.

The phone rang out for some time, causing him to question whether or not she’d even answer his call, before it suddenly went silent.

‘What is it, Ryan?’ Jessica asked impatiently. ‘I thought I told you not to contact me.’

Drake winced inwardly at her scathing words. ‘I know. I know, Jess. I just...’

He sighed, looking out across the glittering waves to the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, far beyond his sight, lay the Libyan coast. And the man who had ordered his mother’s death.

‘What is it?’ she prompted him. ‘Whatever you have to say, say it and get it over with.’

‘Look, I don’t have much time. I had to go away, just for a couple of days.’

‘Go away? Go where, Ryan?’ The anger was still there, but there was something else beneath it now. ‘Christ, please tell me you’re not working. Not for
them
. Not now.’

‘It’s not for them,’ he assured her. ‘Believe me, it’s not. I can’t go into the details, but if things work out the way I hope...well, you might be able to throw that gun away, after all.’

Silence greeted him. Tense, fraught, anguished silence.

‘If not, I wanted you to know that...you were right.’ He swallowed, raising his chin a little as a faint breeze blew across his exposed skin. ‘I should have been there for you, Jess. I told myself I was doing the right thing, that I was fighting the good fight, but really I was running away from it. I should have been there for you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t. I know that doesn’t change anything, but...I at least wanted to be honest with you for once. I wanted you to know I’m sorry, and...I love you.’

‘Ryan, don’t—’

‘Take care of yourself,’ he whispered, ending the call. He’d powered down the phone before she could call him back, unwilling to listen to any attempt to dissuade him from his plan. He was set on his course now, and one way or another had to see it through.

It was a shitty thing to do – just another item to add to the list of his mistakes over the past couple of years – but if everything went wrong tonight and he didn’t come home, at least his last words to her wouldn’t have been spoken in anger.

Drawing what comfort he could from that, Drake slipped the phone into his pocket and headed back inside to continue his work.

An hour later, and Drake and his team were geared up and ready. The Zodiac boat had already been rolled into the water and detached from its trailer, ready for its passengers to embark. The pilot was waiting behind the wheel, engines idling, with Dietrich beside him. He would accompany them as far as the Libyan coast, then make the return journey with the boat to Malta.