Deception Game (56 page)

‘Paxton, give me a report,’ Hunt commanded over the satellite phone.

‘Jackpot, sir,’ Paxton replied, a little out of breath now. ‘You should see this.’

Sure enough, he was able to angle his helmet-cam enough for Hunt to make out the inside of the container. Neatly stacked in long lines were rack after rack of AK assault rifles, along with boxes of ammunition and spare magazines.

Hunt let out a breath, slumping back in his chair as the scale of what they’d uncovered settled on him. One of the biggest arms-smuggling operations in the past ten years, and it would all be attributed to him.

‘Well done, son,’ he said quietly. ‘Clear up. I want this on record.’

‘But you all know what it will mean. There’ll be no such thing as normal lives for us after this. We’ll be at war. Cain will be after our blood – he won’t stop until he gets it, or we destroy him first. We’ll have to go dark, sever all ties to the Agency and go underground until this is all over. We’ll be branded as traitors and God knows what else, because he’ll do everything in his power to take us down with him.’

Great Falls National Park, Virginia

Once more Marcus Cain found himself on the familiar forest trail in the woods north of DC, walking with NSA Director Richard Starke. But this wasn’t like their last meeting. This was no thoughtful, composed exchange of information and ideas.

Starke’s pace was fast and agitated, his head down, forehead creased by deep frown-lines. It gave Cain an almost perverse sense of satisfaction to know the man could be upset after all.

And he had good reason to be. Operation Antonia, the group’s clandestine plan to incite an armed rebellion in Libya and install leaders friendly to their economic interests, had collapsed in dramatic fashion after a series of surgical strikes by Agency assault teams. Strikes that were far too coordinated and precise to have been anything other than an inside job.

‘Would you care to explain what the hell happened in Libya?’ Starke demanded, wasting no time on greetings. ‘You assured me the situation was being handled.’

‘I did,’ Cain acknowledged.

‘So why was our entire distribution network wiped out in the space of a few hours?’

‘I wondered the same thing, so I had my people do some digging.’ Cain sighed, opening the folder he’d brought with him for their meeting. ‘It pains me to say this, but it looks like we have a leak. Someone in the group isn’t playing for our side.’

The surveillance photos thus presented were taken from long range, no doubt from a hidden camera, but nonetheless the two participants were easily identified. Ryan Drake, the operative who had gained such notoriety over the past couple of years, and who was now known to have played a key part in events in Libya. And seated beside him in the memorial theatre at Arlington Cemetery was Charles Hunt, Cain’s predecessor as Deputy Director, demoted within the group to make way for Cain’s rising star.

‘According to our communication records, the strike orders originated from Hunt’s office,’ Cain added, his tone one of solemn regret.

Starke worked his way through the dozen surveillance pictures, staring long and hard at each one before finally closing the folder. Bowing his head, he let out a slow, pained breath.

‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention.’

‘We could bring him in?’ Cain suggested. ‘Give him a chance to explain himself.’

Starke shook his head. For once in his life, cold logic and reasoning had deserted him. ‘Don’t worry about Hunt. I’ll handle him.’

It took some effort for Cain to hide his smile as they resumed their walk.

‘That’s the price. That’s what we’ll have to sacrifice to win. But in the end, everything he throws at us will be worth it. In the end, we’ll win, and he’ll lose.’

He looked at them all, seated around him. His friends. His family. The people who had stood by him through everything that had happened so far. Would they do it one more time?

‘So...what are we going to do?’ he asked.

For the second time in as many weeks, Charles Hunt found himself at Arlington Cemetery, sweating and out of breath after his ascent up the hill to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

As always, the Marine honour guard were standing the post as he shuffled past, their backs ramrod straight, their faces as immobile as stone. He paid them little heed today, because in truth he had a more pressing errand here.

Passing through the great rows of stone columns that encircled the building, he found himself facing out into the open space of the Memorial Amphitheatre. Much as it had been during his last rendezvous here, the place was empty and unused.

Drawing on his formidable memory, Hunt counted along the rows of stone benches until he found the very one he’d sat on last time. Nothing about it was exceptional, nothing marked it out as different from the others, but he knew this was the place.

Taking a breath, he lowered himself down onto the hard, uncomfortable surface, then reached down and slowly, carefully, felt along the underside.

He frowned. Nothing.

Had he been wrong? Had he misunderstood Drake’s instructions?

Hunt was just rising to his feet when he saw him. A small, innocuous-looking man with greying hair, standing on the other side of the theatre.

Richard Starke, the Director of the NSA.

‘Richard, I—’

He never saw the operative come at him from behind, never had time to cry out before a plastic bag was thrown over his head and a taser jammed against his neck. He went down, jerking and shaking, unable to fathom how this had come to be.

But through the clear plastic of the bag, he was just able to make out the shape of Starke as the man turned and walked away, before the darkness closed in around him.

CIA headquarters – Langley, Virginia

In one of the New Headquarter Building’s plush conference rooms, Marcus Cain took a sip of his coffee, watching the overhead satellite feed of a small encampment deep in the Libyan desert. Around the table were seated several of the Agency’s senior directors, each making notes as the mission unfolded on the big screen before them.

One notable absentee was Charles Hunt, who had regrettably passed away from a suspected heart attack during a visit to Arlington Cemetery. Hardly surprising for an ageing man in poor health, who had just ascended the hill to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Should have taken better care of himself, Cain thought with a faint smile.

‘Package is away,’ he heard through the radio link to the pilot of the Reaper drone flying over central Libya. ‘Time on target, ten seconds.’

With Operation Antonia effectively crippled by Hunt’s interference, Cain had been able to persuade the group to adopt his own initiative. The objective he’d been pursuing since this whole thing began – the elimination of Islamic State’s senior commanders in Libya. Cutting the head off a snake before it became a monster none of them could stop.

That was worth everything he’d sacrificed. That was worth the lives lost.

‘Five seconds.’

It had been a difficult and dangerous path he’d walked, but it had been worth it. Drake had proven easy to manipulate in the end, giving him exactly what he wanted – an excuse to eliminate an old enemy within the group, and a chance to clear house. Now the man was on the run in the wake of his failure, but that didn’t concern him. Cain had someone very close, keeping an eye on Ryan Drake.

‘Impact.’

The screen was momentarily swamped by a bright green glow as the Hellfire missile impacted right in the centre of camp. As the flare slowly subsided, Cain leaned a little closer, surveying the scene of devastation with approval.

‘And that’s a hit,’ he said quietly, to scattered applause around the conference room. Another little victory in their ongoing war; for him most of all. ‘Good work, everyone.’

Leaving the conference room a short time later, he fished out his cell phone and dialled a number. A Libyan cell phone. It rang only a couple of times before it was answered.

‘It worked, I assume?’ Hussein Jibril, the head of Libyan intelligence remarked.

‘Your intel was good,’ Cain allowed.

‘As was yours.’ Not only had they eliminated an arms-smuggling operation with the potential to overthrow the Gaddafi government, but they had also provided Jibril with the names of key personnel within the Libyan military and intelligence agencies who were poised to play an active part in the coup. These demonstrations of loyalty had been enough to finally persuade Jibril to release the locations of the Islamic State commanders he had been secretly harbouring. ‘I hope our relationship continues to prosper.’

Only as long as your intel holds out, Cain thought. Jibril was another loose end that would likely need tying up eventually, but for now he still might have a role to play.

‘I’m sure it will,’ he said instead.

Bishr Kubar blinked as the van doors slid open, allowing harsh sunlight to flood in, almost blinding him. Sunrise on a new day in Libya.

But not for him.

‘Out,’ the field operative beside him barked, shoving him outside.

With his hands bound, it took no small effort to avoid falling face-first into the dirt. He didn’t want to die like that, on his knees. A real man died on his feet. That was how he imagined his father had met his end, such as it was.

‘Forward, come on,’ his guard said.

It didn’t take much imagination to see where he was headed. A shallow pit had already been excavated in the desert sand. Another man was waiting for him there at the edge of the grave. Adnan Mousa; his partner, his colleague and perhaps, in a way, his friend.

But no longer. The pistol clutched in his hand made it obvious what was soon to happen, even if his eyes still harboured some trace of sympathy and compassion. A good man called upon to do bad things.

‘Take it easy with him,’ Mousa ordered, giving the field operative a warning look.

Sure enough, Kubar felt the grip on his arm ease. A lot of Mukhabarat men were being taken to places like this, and likely he wanted to avoid the same fate.

‘Thank you,’ Kubar said quietly, appreciating the gesture.

Mousa looked at him sadly. ‘You know why you’re here.’

‘I do.’ Resisting or even pleading for his life would be futile, so he simply walked right over to the grave and stood at the edge, staring down into the shallow pit.

Even now, he could scarcely believe how dramatically it had all fallen apart. The plan. The great scheme to rid Libya of Gaddafi and establish a new, truly progressive government, to rebuild this land into a modern and democratic country. The plan he’d persuaded himself could actually work, had risked his own life and killed to protect.

All gone.

It was he who had killed the man captured in Paris, slipping a cyanide pill into his food and ending his life before he could be tortured into compromising the plan. And he would have broken sooner or later. Every man broke – Bishr Kubar knew this better than anyone.

At the time it had been a necessary sacrifice. That was what he’d told himself. But now it was just another futile death in a country littered with them.

They’d come for him just after he’d sat down to start his work that day, his first cup of coffee still steaming on his desk. He’d never even had a chance to take a sip, he reflected as they’d led him away. Strange, the things one remembered.

‘Why, Bishr?’ Mousa was asking, disturbing his thoughts. ‘Why did you do it?’

Kubar shook his head in sad resignation. Even now, the man still didn’t understand. How could he, when he represented the very ignorance and unquestioning obedience that had brought this country to its knees, that kept the population cowed and fearful, that bred the kind of petty infighting that had claimed Kubar’s own family?

How could he make his former friend understand that those same qualities would one day find him out here in a shallow grave just like this?

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he said instead, too weary to fight that battle.

Mousa took a step back, perhaps interpreting his words as casual dismissal of his last attempt to reach out to him.

‘Do you want to say a prayer first?’ he asked, his tone stiff and formal as if he were reciting from a script.

At this, Bishr Kubar did something he hadn’t done for a long time. He smiled.

A prayer. To whom? Who would be inclined to help him now?

‘Just get it over with,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t have—’

His words were cut short by the crack of a single shot, and he pitched forward into the shallow grave.

George Washington University Hospital

Dan Franklin was reviewing the daily briefings that he insisted be brought to his hospital room, wanting to keep himself in the game despite everything that had happened, despite the fact he still couldn’t feel anything in his legs. More than anything, it was a way of keeping his mind occupied, keeping him from thinking too much about what the future might hold for him.

He was interrupted when the door to his room flew open and his private secretary rushed in, the look in her eyes bordering on panic.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ she stammered.

‘What is it, Barbara?’ he asked, wondering if her intrusion had been prompted by some kind of personal emergency. Normally a composed and efficient woman, he couldn’t imagine anything less than the death of a loved one rattling her like this. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sir, we’ve got a problem at Langley. Internal security teams just showed up, started shutting everything down. We’re being locked out.’

Franklin felt his blood run cold. ‘On whose orders?’

‘Marcus Cain.’

His hands curled into fists, the blood pounding in his ears. ‘Get me Cain’s office. I want to speak to them now.’

‘No need for that, Dan. We can take care of this right here.’

Franklin looked up as a tall, ruggedly handsome man strode into the room. Now in his mid fifties, he wore his extra years with the same easy confidence as his expensive, tailor-made suit. This was a man well used to wielding power and authority, and bending others to his will.

Marcus Cain.

Barbara shrank aside to make way for the pair of agents accompanying him. Their aggressive bearing made it plain this was no normal meeting.

‘Please, don’t get up on my account,’ Cain said, his tone faintly mocking.

Franklin eyed the deputy director from his bed. ‘What brings you here?’

‘I’m the bearer of good news, Dan,’ Cain replied, smiling coldly. His piercing blue-grey eyes were locked with his. ‘From today, your workload’s going to be a little lighter.’

Franklin frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m shutting down the Shepherd programme, effective immediately.’

Franklin stared at the deputy director in utter disbelief, wondering if he’d misunderstood. One look into Cain’s eyes was enough to persuade him otherwise. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he protested. ‘On what grounds?’

Aside from the fact that the Shepherd teams were a vital part of the Agency’s internal security apparatus, one couldn’t simply shut down an entire top-secret programme involving hundreds of support personnel and dozens of field operatives. It was impossible.

‘Security concerns.’ Reaching into his jacket pocket, Cain unfolded a printed sheet of paper and laid it down beside Franklin. ‘I know you’re trying to stay across everything, so here’s another briefing for you. The programme’s being shut down, pending official review.’

‘Bullshit,’ Franklin snapped, shoving the official orders back at him. ‘You can’t just shut us down. The Agency needs us.’

‘No, Dan. The Agency needs field agents it can trust. And right now, that’s not you. My people are already at Langley securing all your files and data, so it’s up to you how you handle this. Personally, I thought you might like to keep some shred of dignity and give the order yourself. Then you can concentrate on...recuperation.’

Franklin’s hands curled into fists as he stared at the deputy director. ‘You son of a bitch. How dare you?’

Cain turned to his two bodyguards. ‘Give us the room, please.’

Nodding, the two men turned to leave, making sure that Franklin’s secretary left with them. As the door closed, Cain moved over to stand by the full-length windows, studying the panoramic outlook over central DC.

‘I do miss my old office,’ he remarked thoughtfully. ‘It’s the view. You can’t put a price on a good view.’ He smiled as an old memory surfaced. ‘You know, the first place I ever owned was an apartment in Boston. Little one-bedroom place. Not much to look at, really. The heaters didn’t work right and the windows rattled in their frames every time the breeze got up, but I didn’t care. It was the view that kept me there – perfect, right on the ocean. In the evening, when the sun was going down, it looked like the whole sea was on fire from Quincy Bay all the way to the horizon. I used to sit there and just stare at it, imagining what was out there. I think that’s what people like so much about a good view. Not what they can see, but what they can’t. The possibility of what lies beyond that horizon, instead of what they’re stuck with.’

‘What the fuck is this about, Marcus?’ Franklin demanded, in no mood for such philosophical reflections. ‘We have a deal.’

Cain let out a faint sigh and turned away from the scene beyond the windows.

‘
Had
a deal,’ he corrected. ‘You were supposed to keep your dog from biting anyone. Drake broke our agreement, went into Libya without authorization and blew a major operation in the process. Years of work has been lost because of that man.’

Franklin could feel himself paling. Libya, covert operations...Jesus, what the hell had Drake done?

‘There must be another explanation.’

‘Read the debriefing documents yourself if you want. I’m not going to sit around waiting for him to cause another disaster; not when there are lives at stake. This ends now,’ Cain promised him. ‘Whatever protection he had, it’s over. As of today, he’s an enemy – of the Agency, of the State, of
us
.’

Franklin’s eyes were wide as he stared at his nemesis across the room. ‘Wait just a Goddamn—’

‘Time to choose a side, Dan,’ Cain interrupted, taking a step towards him. ‘You’ve been sitting on the fence for a long time now, playing both sides, waiting to see which one would come out on top. I can’t say I blame you. You’re smart, cautious, and you and Drake have a history together. Unfortunately, the one thing he doesn’t have is a future. Only I do.’

‘I could ruin you,’ Franklin reminded him.

‘And I could kill you and destroy your reputation forever,’ Cain replied with a flippant shrug. ‘Like I said, things are changing. It’s a brave new world, but there’s no room in it for men like Drake. Only one of us is going to be standing at the end of this, so it’s time for you to choose. Are you with me, or against me?’

Franklin was shocked, stunned by the sudden seismic shift that had just taken place in his world. Just like that, the rules had changed. The game he had believed himself close to mastering had vanished before his eyes.

All that was left was Cain, the master player.

The last man standing.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Cain said, turning away. He was just reaching for the door when he turned around and glanced at Franklin for the last time. ‘By the way, I hope you feel better, Dan.’

As he closed the door behind him, leaving Franklin alone, the former director of the Shepherd programme clenched his fists and closed his eyes as utter defeat washed over him like a tide. It had all fallen apart. The shaky truce that he’d negotiated had at last come to an end.

Now it was war. A war that could only have one victor.

‘Goddamn you, Ryan,’ he whispered.

That was when he felt it. Movement.

Frowning, he opened his eyes and looked down at his bed covers. And sure enough, the fabric wrinkled slightly as his foot twitched beneath.