Betrayal (11 page)

Drake shook his head. He’d heard nothing from Anya since his return from Afghanistan four months ago. There had been no sightings of her, no activity, nothing. She had dropped off the face of the earth.

‘Does anyone else know she was there?’ he couldn’t help asking.

Franklin raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean, has Cain found out?’

Marcus Cain, the newly appointed deputy director, had once been Anya’s mentor, her handler and her sponsor within the Agency. But their relationship had long since turned sour, and the two former comrades were now bitter enemies. Cain’s restless attention was always on finding the enigmatic woman, and he had formidable resources to call upon.

‘Not yet,’ Franklin continued. ‘But don’t expect it to stay that way for long. Anya crossed a line tonight – the kind of line you don’t come back from. She killed innocent people, she took part in the abduction and execution of a major player in the Russian intelligence service, and she damn near caused a major international incident. Whatever she was before today, she’s now a liability. To the Agency, and to us.’

‘So what are you saying? We just hang her out to dry and be done with it?’ Drake challenged him. ‘Is that what she deserves?’

‘What she
deserves
?’ Franklin repeated. ‘Ryan, you’re lucky to still be breathing after what she’s put you through, never mind walking around as a free man. But sooner or later your luck’s going to run out. What Anya deserves doesn’t come into it. When are you going to realise that?’

Drake hesitated, stung by his friend’s cold detachment. Somehow he was reminded of how Mason must have felt standing in Drake’s office as his hopes of resuming his career were crushed.

‘We need her. She’s the only one who can end this.’

For the past eighteen months Drake and his companions had lived with a sword hanging above their heads; a sword wielded by none other than Marcus Cain. It was clear the CIA deputy director would like nothing better than to bring it down on Drake’s neck, and sooner or later he’d find a way to do it.

Only Anya possessed the knowledge and the resources to stop him. She was the key, the thread by which their fate hung. If they lost her, they lost everything.

Franklin shook his head, chuckling with grim amusement. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? There’ll never be an end to this. Anya’s doing exactly what she was trained to do – build trust and dependency, manipulate her targets, expose their vulnerability, get them to take risks and sacrifice themselves for her. You go after someone like that, and you’ll wind up dead or in prison just like she was. That’s the only end waiting for you, and I’ll be damned if you’re taking me down with you.’

At that moment, Drake knew he’d heard enough. It was as if something had snapped inside him, as if some dam had been breached and all the pent-up frustration and longing and guilt it had been holding back was unleashed.

‘You wouldn’t even have your precious career if it wasn’t for her, Dan. Let’s not bullshit each other – we both know how you landed this promotion, and it wasn’t through hard work and patience. What would happen if Anya exposed Cain for the lying piece of shit he is? Would he drag you down with him?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘Don’t give me that crap about trying to look out for me. This is about one thing: saving your own arse.’

He’d gone too far, and he knew it right away. Slamming his fist down on the desk, Franklin rose up from his chair, ignoring the pain in his back as he glared at Drake. He was visibly struggling to contain his fury, but there was more than just that. There was pain and sadness in his eyes at his friend’s accusation.

‘As your boss, I should have you relieved of duty for that,’ he said at length, his voice now dangerously cold and clinical. ‘As your friend, I should beat the shit out of you. So you tell me now, which one will it be?’

The undertone of quiet, restrained menace was enough to cut through the fog of Drake’s frustration. He exhaled slowly and unclenched his fists, his anger dissipating.

He was ashamed of himself for lashing out like that, and equally taken aback by his friend’s change in demeanour, no matter how justified it might have been. Normally composed and self-possessed, Franklin had just shown a side of himself that Drake had never seen before. A side that had only started to emerge since he took over as director of the Special Activities Division.

‘Dan, look … I’m sorry for that,’ he said after a few moments, having calmed himself a little. ‘It was wrong, and I apologise.’

‘You’re goddamn right it was,’ Franklin hit back, though his tone had lost some of its vehemence. ‘If you were any other agent,
any other
, I’d have you fired right now. I mean that.’

He sighed wearily, his anger apparently expended. Leaving the window, he lowered himself into his expensive leather chair, the strain of his job seeming to weigh more heavily on him at that moment. He looked tired and worn, though he was barely into his forties.

He leaned forward, staring intently at Drake as if trying to reach out to him. ‘As your friend, I’m asking you to give this up, before you cross the same line as Anya. You’re so caught up in following her, little by little you’re becoming her. Let this one go, Ryan. Please.
Let it go
.’

Drake was silent for a moment, surprised by the conviction, the raw emotion in his friend’s voice. In his own way Franklin was trying to help him, trying to guide him, trying to save him from himself. And in part of Drake’s mind, he knew the man was right. Few people could have listened to his words and not been moved by them.

But he also knew what his answer would be, just as Franklin did. Anya had saved him, in more ways than one. The bond between them was stronger than either was prepared to admit, but both acknowledged it all the same.

He couldn’t give up on her. He
wouldn’t
give up on her.

‘You know I can’t do that.’

The director of Special Activities slumped back in his chair, defeated.

‘Then whatever you’re going to do, you’ll have to do it without me,’ he said. ‘I can’t support you on this. I’m sorry.’

And that was it, Drake realised. Franklin had just pulled the plug on him. Drake was on his own now, with no resources to call upon, no backup, nothing.

‘Yeah,’ Drake said, rising from his chair. ‘So am I.’

Montreal International Airport, Canada,
20 December 2008

Three o’clock in the morning was a graveyard shift by anyone’s standards, but like any major airport, Montreal International’s food outlets never shut down completely. No matter how ungodly the hour, there was always someone around who needed to eat or drink.

‘One black coffee, no sugar,’ the barkeeper said, laying down the steaming brew on the wood-veneer counter in front of Anya. A gangly young man barely out of his teens, his jet-black hair was worn long and brushed forwards so that it almost obscured one eye, in what she assumed was the fashion these days.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked in a tone that suggested he really hoped the answer was no.

‘Just the coffee, thanks.’ Anya flashed a weary smile as she handed over a ten-dollar bill, playing the part of the strung-out traveller. And in this case, it wasn’t entirely fictitious.

After an uneventful and thoroughly boring eight-hour drive from Washington, DC, she had crossed the loosely policed Canadian border without incident, her fake ID barely checked by the officers on duty. From there it had been a short hop to Montreal airport where she had returned her rental car and made for the check-in desk.

Security had been a mere formality, consisting of a glance at her passport and a quick swipe through the biometric reader. Unlike America, Canada was still somewhat relaxed about international travellers, hence the reason she’d chosen to escape via Montreal instead of Dulles or Newark.

Ahead of her lay another nine hours of transatlantic inactivity; a prospect she greeted with a mixture of relief and trepidation. On the one hand it would mean a chance to grab some much-needed rest, but on the other it would mean being stuck on an aircraft over which she had no control.

She’d always disliked flying, and that sentiment had only increased in recent years. She hated the cramped seating, the dry stale air, the press of humanity all around her, and most of all the feeling of imprisonment that descended on her every time the outer hatch sealed shut.

Anya had spent a good part of her life incarcerated in one form or another. And as loath as she was to admit it, those experiences had left their mark on her, both physically and emotionally.

She pushed those thoughts aside as she took her first sip. She wasn’t particularly thirsty, but like most travellers with time to kill before their flight, grabbing a coffee just seemed like the thing to do. Most of the retail outlets were closed anyway.

A TV was mounted overhead, tuned to a news channel that was replaying coverage of the sniper attack in Washington. Anya was careful to keep her attention elsewhere, lest the barkeeper see something in her eyes that stuck with him. She had no desire to dwell on the gory results of her handiwork.

‘Ma’am?’

She looked up from her coffee, instantly on edge. Perhaps she hadn’t guarded her expression as well as she’d thought. Or perhaps the CIA had just released a picture of her to the world’s media, and her friend behind the bar was about to pick her up on it.

She turned her eyes on the young barkeeper, her mind already switching gears into survival mode. If it came to it, she knew she could take down a man like him with ease, but getting out of the airport would be another matter entirely.

He nodded towards the TV overhead, looking nervous. ‘I couldn’t help noticing you weren’t watching the news.’

Anya tensed, readying herself to act.

‘You … mind if I turn the volume down?’ he asked sheepishly, then held up a couple of dog-eared textbooks he’d been keeping beneath the bar. ‘I was kinda hoping to do some revision, and the noise breaks my concentration.’

Anya might have laughed had she been less on edge. She understood now why he’d been so unenthusiastic at her arrival – he was a college student, probably working the graveyard shift for some easy money while he was studying.

‘Of course,’ she said, hoping her relief wasn’t too obvious. ‘Feel free.’

At this, his previously sombre face broke into a smile. ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he said, using a remote to mute the TV. Within moments he had the books open and spread out on the bar.

‘What are you studying?’ Anya asked out of idle curiosity as she took another sip.

‘History,’ he replied without looking up. ‘Cold War history. I’ve got to write a paper on the Soviet defeat in Afghanistan bringing about the collapse of the USSR. And it has to be handed in by Monday or
I’m
history.’

Anya couldn’t hide a faint smile of amusement. He could scarcely have found a better person to interview than the woman sitting right in front of him, and he’d never know it. She was also struck by the realisation that he probably hadn’t even been born when she was fighting for survival out there.

She felt her cellphone buzzing in her pocket. Excusing herself from the bar, she retreated a short distance to take the call, adopting a conversational tone when she spoke.

‘Good to hear from you again,’ she began.

‘I assume there were no problems?’ Her contact felt little need to reciprocate the upbeat tone, speaking instead in the clipped, efficient, almost mechanical voice she’d come to recognise as emblematic of his personality.

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ she assured him, unwilling to talk about Drake. Aside from startling her and prompting a hasty withdrawal from the rooftop, he had caused no real damage. Yet.

With luck, he’d have enough sense to stay out of something that was none of his concern. If not, she’d have no option but to deal with him. She hoped for his sake that it didn’t come to that.

‘Good. Our party has drawn a lot of attention. We’re popular these days, it seems.’

She knew that both the CIA and the FSB would now be working furiously to track them down after the attack in DC, and that they would leave no stone unturned in their pursuit. But then, that was exactly what their plan called for. The only question was one of timing.

Timing was everything.

‘So you’re free to meet on Sunday?’

‘Just as we planned,’ he confirmed. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again.’

‘And you,’ she replied, closing the phone down.

Returning to the bar, she downed the remainder of her coffee and set the cup down. The young man didn’t even glance up from his books.

‘Good luck with your paper,’ she said, content to leave him to it.

Washington, DC

Drake was in a foul mood as he threw open the front door to the disorganised, neglected space that he called home, with Franklin’s earlier words of admonishment still ringing in his ears. A chill early-morning wind followed him in as he slammed the door shut.

For a few seconds he just stood there, soaking up the quiet darkness around him and allowing his restless mind to relax a little. After a long day and night of ringing phones, whirring computers and tense meetings, the silent and empty house was a welcome relief to his senses.

His house in Bethesda on the north-west side of DC was much like his office: cluttered and untidy, with coffee cups, magazines, books, dirty plates and various other bits and pieces scattered about. The curtains were drawn, blotting out the murky grey morning that was slowly taking shape outside.

Discarding his coat, he turned his attention to the sideboard, seeking the bottle of Talisker whisky that resided there. Drake couldn’t stomach the American brands. His drink of choice was a good Scottish single malt, preferably from the Western Isles for the smoky taste they imparted.

Pouring himself a generous measure, he eased himself down on the couch with a sigh and took a pull on the Scotch. The drink was warm, rich and powerful, lighting a fire inside him. He wasn’t prone to drinking to excess these days, but right now he needed something to take the edge off.