Deception Game (51 page)

By the time the new day dawned, the group were already well on their way, having crossed the unmarked border into Tunisia via one of the isolated trails that was well known to Cunningham and his Tuareg guides. Cresting a low rise, the straggling procession halted as the sun crept above the eastern horizon, its first rays illuminating the small town of Dehiba on the wide, flat plains below.

A modest settlement of perhaps 5,000 inhabitants, it certainly didn’t look like much from their distant vantage point – just a collection of stone buildings clustered around what looked like a busy central plaza, with residential neighbourhoods sprawling outward in gridlike streets. It could have been any small town in the American Midwest, such was its lack of distinguishing features.

Drake knew little about this place, except that its location marked the convergence of several major roads that crisscrossed the desert. It was, according to Cunningham, the only major population centre within fifty miles, and it was on the Tunisian side of the border. That second point buoyed his spirits a little. Though he knew he was no safer here than he had been the previous day, it felt good to leave Libya behind.

‘The main square’s at the base of that hill,’ Cunningham said, handing him a pair of binoculars and pointing to a low rounded hilltop near the centre of town that, strangely, didn’t appear to have been built on.

Looking closer through the magnified lenses, Drake spotted some low brick walls and the stumps of several pillars poking from the dusty ground like broken teeth. No doubt an archaeological leftover from more ancient times, to be preserved rather than built over.

Sure enough, beyond this hill Drake could make out the town’s main square. Most of the roads seemed to radiate out from it like the spokes on a wheel, and even from this distance he could see the haze kicked up by dust and engine fumes. A busy place, with plenty of civilian traffic into which a man could blend and disappear. That was the hope, at least.

‘Yeah, I see it,’ he confirmed. ‘Should be able to get there in time.’

He might not have been familiar with the layout of the town, but his guide certainly was. Cunningham had, by his own admission, used this place as a stopping-off point many times before crossing over the border into Libya under cover of darkness.

With his course decided, Drake turned to regard the unlikely group of companions who had made the journey with him. Several of them he owed his life to, some of them he was still decidedly unsure of, and one of them bore his deepest regrets and sympathies. Nonetheless, they had all made the journey here with him in their own ways, each somehow aiding him and bringing him closer to his final destination.

But it was here that he was to part company with them, much as they might have protested, much as he might have regretted it. This final confrontation was something that had to be faced alone. In any case, his friends had another task to perform; one that was far more vital.

‘You sure you want to do this?’ Mason asked, still trying to dissuade him even now. ‘He could just kill you on sight, you know.’

Drake nodded. His plan was a gamble – no doubt about it, but Frost had been right in her assessment of Faulkner last night. He’d been one step ahead of Drake all this time because he knew how the man thought, how he acted, how he dealt with threats. The only way to beat him was to change the way he thought, to do the one thing Faulkner didn’t expect.

‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘But I have to try.’

Frost, who had been quiet until now, moved a step closer, staring up into his eyes. ‘I know this makes me sound like a pussy, but promise me you’ll be careful out there. It...well, it would be nice if you didn’t get yourself killed over this.’

Unable to help himself, Drake smiled at her. ‘I’ll do my best.’

Reaching out, she pulled Drake close, holding him in a tight, longing embrace. She knew what was coming; there was no avoiding it, but she wanted this moment before they parted ways. And so did he.

‘You’d better get moving,’ Cunningham advised when the pair at last released one another. ‘It’s further than it looks.’

Drake nodded, taking a breath and steeling himself for what lay ahead. Taking one last look at his companions, he turned and began his march towards Dehiba.

Dehiba, Tunisia – 10 May

Drake took a breath, the scorching dry air searing his throat, tiny grains of windblown sand stinging his eyes. Overhead, the sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, raising beads of sweat on his already burned and reddened skin.

Around him, locals and small groups of tourists moved back and forth through the crowded central square, paying little attention to the Westerner in dishevelled clothes leaning against the wall beside a small cafe. Perhaps the cuts and bruises marked him out as someone to studiously avoid, or perhaps the dangerous flicker in his eyes was what really kept them away. Whatever the reason, the ebb and flow of humanity seemed to part around him like a river slipping past an implacable boulder.

Glancing up, Drake turned his gaze towards the low hilltop about half a mile away overlooking the bustling town centre, where the weathered and tumbled walls of the ancient settlement still rose up against the pristine blue sky, heavy stone blocks jutting from the parched earth.

That was the place where it was supposed to happen; the place where the tumultuous events of the past week would reach their final, deadly conclusion. Everything he had fought for, everything he had sacrificed, every compromise he had made...it had all led him here.

He would live or die by what happened today.

His pulse was pounding strong and urgent in his ears, almost drowning out the tinny ring of the cell phone as he held it against his head. The man he was trying to reach would be wary of calls like this. He wouldn’t answer readily, might not answer at all in fact. Either way, there was nothing he could do to change it.

All he could do was wait, and hope.

And just like that, the ringing stopped. He was connected.

‘So you’re still alive, Ryan,’ a voice remarked on the other end of the line. A smooth, confident, controlled voice. Not the voice of a man whose own future hung in the balance just as much as Drake’s. ‘And you’re late. Didn’t I make it clear what was at stake?’

‘You did,’ Drake replied, his eyes scanning the crowds around him. ‘I have what you want.’

‘Then I suggest you bring it to me, so we can finish our business.’

Drake knew this was the moment of choice. His last chance to back out.

‘No,’ he said, speaking with calm finality.

There was a pause. A moment of confusion and doubt; a chink in the armour momentarily exposed. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We both know I’m dead the second I hand it over. You’d never let me live after everything I’ve seen, everything I know.’ He was committed now. There was no going back – the only choice was to move forward. ‘So I suggest you remember this moment, because this is as close as you’re ever going to get to what you want.’

To his credit, his adversary remained surprisingly composed in the wake of this blatant act of defiance. A different man might have railed against him, shouted down the line about how foolish Drake’s actions were and how he would surely be punished for them.

But this man was another sort.

‘Ryan, maybe you’ve forgotten the reason we’re in this position,’ the calm, pleasant voice went on. ‘If you need reminding, I’m quite prepared to leave behind a piece of her at our meeting place. And believe me, it’ll be a piece she’ll miss.’

Drake closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing down the fear and horror at what he was hearing, because he knew well enough that this was a threat his adversary was quite prepared to make good on. A sadist who took pleasure in inflicting suffering on others.

‘You won’t do that,’ he replied, sounding more confident than he felt.

‘Really? Enlighten me.’

‘I’m offering you something better.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘There are three ways this could go. First, you kill her, I release the files across the internet, then I turn all my attention to hunting you down. Believe me, I’m good at finding people, and I’m prepared to devote every waking moment of my life to finding you. And when I do, anything you do to her will be nothing but a happy memory compared to what I do to you. Second, you kill me before I can get to you. The files have been uploaded to an automatic email server, and without me to stop it, everything you’ve worked to cover up gets released within two hours of my death.’ He allowed that prospect to hang there for a moment or two. ‘Either way, you lose.’

‘As do you, Ryan,’ he reminded him.

‘There’s more at stake here than you and me. We both know what you’re really playing for. Are you ready to give all that up, watch it fall down around you?’

There was a pause. A gambler weighing the risks against the potential rewards. ‘I presume there’s a third option?’

Drake took another breath of the sandy, stifling air. ‘You give her back to me, unharmed. I agree not to interfere with your plans or tell anyone what we found, you agree not to come looking for me, and everyone walks away. It’s that simple.’

‘Very heroic of you,’ he remarked with dour humour.

‘I’m no hero. Never was,’ Drake said, truly meaning it. ‘And this isn’t my war. I just want it to end.’

This was it. He had said and done everything he could. The rest depended on the man on the other end of the line.

And then he heard it. Not some vicious curse, not a growl of anger or even a muttered promise that he would pay for this one day.

What Drake heard instead was a low chuckle of amusement. The laugh of a man finally springing a trap that had been long in the making.

‘Come now, Ryan. We both know this can only end one way.’ He paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in. ‘Look down.’

Glancing down, Drake saw something on his stained and crumpled shirt. A splash of red light that hadn’t been there before. The glow of a laser sight.

‘Wouldn’t run if I were you. You’re covered from two different directions, and my friends are just itching to pull those triggers.’

They had found him. Somehow they had tracked him here, predicted this move, known exactly what he was going to do. And now they had him out in the open, the time had come to spring their trap.

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than a black SUV pulled up nearby. The rear doors flew open and a pair of men leapt out. Men Drake had encountered before. Men who had tried to kill him more than once over the past few days, and who wouldn’t hesitate to do so now if they were given the order. Their hands were on weapons hidden just inside their jackets, ready to draw down on him if he so much as twitched.

‘Like I said, Ryan,’ the voice on the line said, filled with the confidence of a man in total control of the situation. ‘This can only end one way.’

Drake lowered the phone as the retrieval team closed in on him.

‘Come on, Keira. We need this now,’ Mason said, pacing anxiously back and forth the cramped workshop. Shelves laden with spare hard drives, cooling fans, power supplies, circuit boards, memory sticks and countless other pieces of electronic hardware crowded in around them, giving the already small room a claustrophobic air.

The owner of the computer repair shop had granted them use of his workshop after a little persuasion – and bribery – on Cunningham’s part, though he was keeping a wary eye on the small group of foreigners from the shop entrance.

‘I’m working as fast as I can,’ the young woman bit back, her eyes never leaving the computer she was hunched over. The hard drive they had salvage from Sowan’s laptop had been crudely wired into it, allowing her to inspect its contents. ‘It’s locked down by some kind of custom encryption scheme I’ve never seen before. More sophisticated than anything the Agency uses.’

‘Can you break it?’ Mason asked.

‘Nope. Whoever designed this was really fucking paranoid about security,’ she acknowledged, throwing her hands up. ‘The second I try to copy the drive or make a brute-force attack, it’ll delete the entire thing. Nobody’s getting into this without the decryption software.’

Mason let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Goddamn it. Ryan’s depending on us.’

It was at this moment that Cunningham felt the buzz of his satellite phone in his pocket. Turning away from the others, he opened it up to read the incoming message.

It was from Iskaw, observing events in the central square about a mile away. His brief missive explained that Drake had been picked up and driven away by Faulkner’s men.

Right on schedule, Cunningham thought, turning his attention back to the two specialists.

Drake blinked as the hood was yanked off his head, harsh light flooding his eyes and giving him his first view of his surroundings since being marched in here from the car outside. He glanced around, trying to take in as much as of his environment as possible.

He was in a room of some kind, long and wide, with rough wooden floors and corrugated steel walls. A factory or warehouse of some kind, he assumed. He knew he was on an upper floor, because he’d been dragged up at least one flight of stairs to get here.

Light filtered in through dirty windows set at intervals along the walls, and in the high ceiling overhead. He guessed the place had fallen into disuse, since he saw no machinery, storage boxes or office equipment anywhere in the vicinity.

However, he could hear the drone of traffic and the occasional car horn outside, which meant he was still somewhere in Dehiba. The car ride here hadn’t lasted more than a couple of minutes through the busy town streets.

As for his purpose here, that much at least was obvious. Killing him in full view of hundreds of people would have been inconvenient. Faulkner wanted somewhere private and secluded to go about his work.

As if in response to these dark thoughts, the man himself sauntered into view, carrying a single wooden chair not unlike the one Drake was currently tied to. As always, he appeared well rested and well groomed, not a hair out of place or a hint of fatigue in his eyes. Dressed in a white cotton shirt, khaki-coloured trousers and a light jacket, he looked like a high flying businessman taking a few days out of his busy schedule for some rest and relaxation.

Setting the chair down front of Drake, he surveyed his prisoner with a welcoming smile.

‘Mind if I take a seat, Ryan?’ he asked. ‘Damned heat’s more than a man can stand.’

Without waiting for a reply, he sat down and made himself comfortable, then produced a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

Glancing over Drake’s shoulder, he nodded to someone out of sight. ‘Could I have something cold, please?’

Within moments, another man strode into view with a plastic bottle of water, handing it to Faulkner as if he were a waiter at a high-class restaurant. Unscrewing the top, Faulkner took a careful, almost dainty sip. Drake resisted the urge to lick his parched, cracked lips.

‘Well, here we are again, Ryan,’ he remarked, once he was satisfied. ‘Catching up over a few quiet drinks. Brings it all to a close rather nicely, don’t you think?’

All the while his eyes were on Drake, scrutinizing every move he made from across the short distance that separated them; every twitch of a muscle, every glance, every movement of his arms and legs. A master poker-player sizing up his opponent, trying to get a feel for what kind of man he was up against.

Drake stared right back at him, his vivid green eyes filled with absolute hatred. This was the man who had killed Chandra, who had killed Sowan, who had taken McKnight hostage and tried to have his entire team murdered. This was the man responsible for handing over countless men to be tortured and executed by the Libyans, all for his own personal gain.

Did he even care? Did the slightest flicker of remorse and humanity still burn beneath that polished exterior, or was it all just business to him?

‘You’re wondering how I found you,’ he observed. ‘How I knew where you’d be when you took such pains to disappear, drop off the grid, or whatever those idiots in the CIA call it these days. Don’t worry, we’ll get to that part in good time. But for now, I’m more interested in the information our friend Tarek passed on to you.’

‘I bet you are,’ Drake agreed. ‘We can’t have the ugly truth getting out, can we?’

‘And whose version of the truth might that be?’ Faulkner asked. ‘Yours? Sowan’s? Do you even know what this is all about, or are you just making uneducated guesses based on what you’d
like
to believe?’

‘I’d like to believe you’re in a world of shit right now,’ Drake said truthfully. ‘That’s why you’re talking to me instead of having me killed. You found me; there’s no getting around that. You could kill me any time you want, but we both know you won’t.’

Faulkner said nothing. He just sat there watching Drake while he raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink.

‘You’re afraid of what’ll happen if you pull that trigger. Sorry, I mean order someone else to pull the trigger, because we both know you don’t like getting your hands dirty. You’re afraid of what will happen if I’m not around to stop all that embarrassing evidence from getting out. You brought me here to negotiate because you knew there was no other way to get what you want, but you needed to do it from a position of strength. So congratulations, you’ve found me. But it doesn’t change the fact that I have what you want, and there’s only one way you’re going to get it – my way.’

Caitlin Macguire was crouched virtually motionless on the rooftop of the disused factory overlooking downtown Dehiba, her M110 semiautomatic sniper rifle resting on its collapsible bipod at the edge of the roof.

Having long ago honed her mind and body to ignore the discomfort that often went hand-in-hand with the profession of sniping, she was oblivious to the burning heat, the intense glare and the windblown dust that irritated her skin with every passing moment. All her attention was focussed on the street below as she shifted her sights from target to target, her keen eyes scanning every passing civilian through the rifle’s magnified scope.

Situated near a busy thoroughfare as they were, there was a constant stream of civilians moving in both directions, many with their heads and faces covered. Any one of them could be a hostile, requiring constant observation and threat-assessment.

It was a difficult, frustrating task for any sniper, but one that she wouldn’t allow herself to fail at. After all, she’d made a living out of killing men trained to evade people just like her, and over the years had grown extremely proficient at it. She had no intention of ruining that fine track record today.

In any case, they had Drake now. Once Faulkner got what he needed out of the man, they could get out of here and leave this fucking desert behind.

Her radio earpiece crackled with an incoming transmission. ‘There’s too many civilian targets. It’s a fucking mess down there.’

That was Sam Tarver; another member of their team posted in a second sniping position on the rooftop of an apartment building not far away. Between them they could cover pretty much the entire area; at least in theory. The reality was that they were becoming overwhelmed with the hustle and bustle of a busy town, and the strain was taking its toll on her comrade.

Without breaking concentration, Macguire reached out and touched the transmit button that she’d fixed to the rifle’s fore-grip.

‘Stay focussed on the main approach,’ she instructed. With Tarver being the weaker of the two snipers, it made sense to give him a stationary target. ‘I’ve got the side streets.’

‘Let’s just kill this arsehole and get the fuck out of here,’ Tarver growled.

‘We’re almost finished here.’ Macguire made a quick mental note of Tarver’s position, lest she was forced to turn her rifle on him. It wouldn’t be the first time she had taken such an extreme measure. ‘Don’t lose your nerve now.’

Whatever his reply to this curt instruction, he had the good grace to turn off his radio first. Lucky for him, she thought, as she focussed her sights on another target.

‘I’m annoyed with you, Ryan,’ Faulkner said after considering Drake’s words. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of aggravation over the past few days, wasted my time and forced me to do things I’d sincerely hoped to avoid. And for what? What have you really achieved with all of this nonsense?’

‘For starters, I’ve exposed you for what you are.’

‘Really?’ Faulkner looked intrigued. ‘And what exactly do you think I am?’

‘The polite version is that you’re a lying, murdering, manipulative piece of shit. You handed innocent men over to the Libyans to be tortured and executed. You betrayed an Agency operation, and God knows how many men died for that. And you did it all for what? Another step up the ladder? Another commendation to mount on your office wall?’ Drake shook his head, still mystified at the man’s motivation. ‘Is that enough, or should I keep going?’

Far from being angry with his scathing assessment, Faulkner merely chuckled in amusement. ‘You actually think this is about me, don’t you?’ He reached for his bottle of water, taking a drink to settle himself. ‘All of this...everything we’ve done here, everything we’ve sacrificed, and you think it was about
me
going after a
promotion
?’

Drake said nothing, even managed to keep his expression carefully composed as the older man tried to taunt him. And yet, there was no denying that his words had exposed a doubt; something that had been lurking in the back of Drake’s mind since Sowan had first revealed the truth to him. The one question his subconscious had been asking him again and again without answer – what if I’m missing something?

‘That’s your problem in a nutshell, Ryan. You see the obvious, but the bigger picture is lost on you.’ Faulkner shook his head as if in disappointment. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t keep to our agreement. You might actually have opened your eyes.’

‘And what would I have seen?’ Drake challenged him, his voice betraying just a hint of doubt now.

He saw a flicker of a smile. The smile of a man who had at last witnessed his opponent make a misstep. ‘The group I represent...well, let’s say they exist a little beyond the almighty CIA. Their reach and their goals are broader than any one agency, because unlike you, they see the bigger picture. Military, industrial, political, economic...it’s all part of one big tapestry to them. And right now, they have their eyes on Libya. They know the Gaddafi government will fall sooner or later – all they’re doing is speeding up the process. They’ve been channelling weapons and equipment to certain factions in the country for some time now, so that when the time comes, we know the right side will win. Our side.’

‘You mean warlords.’

He shrugged. ‘One man’s warlord is another man’s freedom fighter. History is the only judge, and we’re the ones who write history.’

‘For what?’

‘Why does one ever show interest in these hot, unstable, miserable little countries? Oil, old boy.’ He said it as if it were an obvious fact that Drake should have picked up on long ago. ‘By conservative estimates, there are nearly 50 billion barrels of it beneath the Libyan desert. Enough to make anyone with a controlling stake embarrassingly rich. For example, people who backed the future leaders of Libya in their bid for power.’

‘Money,’ Drake spat. ‘You’re doing this all for money?’

Again that smile. ‘Still not seeing the bigger picture. Like I said, money is just one part of a larger whole. Libyan oil will be enough to keep the wheels turning in America for the rest of the century, and reduce their dependence on Russian and Persian Gulf reserves. With Gaddafi no longer around to shield them, Islamic State will have nowhere left to run, and we can kill them all. Everybody wins, really.’

‘Except everyone who’s going to die in the war you start.’

Faulkner’s eyes betrayed neither regret nor remorse. Far from it, Drake saw only triumph in them. He had found Drake’s weakness, had exposed a chink in the armour, and now he was ready to deal the finishing blow.

‘Sorry, Ryan, but that ship’s sailed. The war’s coming no matter what any of us do. You were right about one thing, though,’ he conceded. ‘This is the part where I show you just how easy you were to manipulate.’

Reaching into his jacket pocket for a radio, he spoke a short, quiet command. ‘Would you bring her in, please?’

Drake could hear footsteps moving behind, slow and deliberate, the squeak and bump of wheels moving across the rough floorboards. His bonds made it impossible to turn around, but soon it didn’t matter. Soon the man in question strode into view, bringing with him the woman he’d risked everything for.

His first sight was of the prisoner, strapped to an office chair much like himself. A woman, her skin reddened by exposure to the desert sun, cut and bruised in countless places, her dark hair hanging limp and dirty. A strip of duct tape across her mouth prevented her speaking.

But she was alive. Her eyes were locked with his, the intensity of that single look conveying more than mere words. He well understood the grief and despair she was feeling at seeing him thus imprisoned, because he felt exactly the same thing at seeing her.

Reassured at least that McKnight was alive, Drake looked up at her captor. It was a man he had twice placed his trust in, to his great cost.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Matt Cunningham said, circling around in front of him. ‘I didn’t want it to come to this.’

Drake watched him through narrowed eyes, his hands curling into fists as he strained against the ropes. ‘You fucking—’

‘Language, Ryan. No need to make a scene,’ Faulkner chided him. ‘Not that I don’t sympathize, of course. Nothing quite compares to that sinking feeling when you put your trust in someone and they let you down. Believe me, I know.’

‘How did you...?’ he trailed off, seemingly unable to go on.

‘How did we turn him?’ Faulkner finished for him. ‘Well, every man has his price. Money, power, influence...whatever. In his case, it was something more fundamental.’

‘Amnesty,’ Cunningham explained, his voice edged with sadness and regret. ‘They offered me immunity from prosecution after Afghanistan. No more looking over my shoulder, no more waiting for the axe to fall. There aren’t many second chances going around these days, son. You know I couldn’t turn it down.’

Indeed he did. Cunningham was, if nothing else, a survivor.

‘Don’t feel too bad, Ryan,’ Faulkner said. ‘We’ve both played the deception game in our own way, but I’ve been playing it a lot longer than you.’

Drake looked up, staring right at his former friend. ‘I hope it was worth it, Matt.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Faulkner answered for him. ‘On the subject of which, do you have something for me, Mr Cunningham?’