Deception Game (20 page)

Creeping forward between the mounds of rubble and dry, desiccated bushes that marked the boundary of the area currently being redeveloped, Keira Frost was a barely noticeable shadow slipping through the darkness. Moving with nimble grace despite the heavy equipment pack weighing down on her, she edged forward, a silenced automatic in one hand and a Magellan satellite navigation unit in the other.

She had turned the screen illumination down to its lowest setting to avoid giving away her position, but even then it seemed to her eyes like a shining beacon in the darkness that surrounded her. The sooner she could dispense with it, the better.

At last the Magellan emitted a single muted beep to let her know she had reached her destination. The unit, designed to be used by aviators and round-the-world yachtsmen, was accurate to within a few metres, so she was fairly confident she was where she needed to be. Crouching down and pushing the unit into a pouch at her waist, Frost slipped her heavy pack off and laid it on the ground before her. The next piece of equipment she needed wasn’t quite as sophisticated as the Magellan, but was just as vital to her task – a long metal rod with a battery pack and a simple gauge readout at one end, and a circular magnetometer at the other.

She’d picked up the commercial metal detector from a hunting and fishing store in London just before departing the UK, selecting the most expensive one she could find in the hopes that its performance would justify the price tag.

The air was hot and humid despite the late hour, raising a sheen of perspiration that coalesced into tiny droplets and trickled down her face. Pushing a lock of damp hair out of her eyes and doing her best to ignore the discomfort, she fired up the metal detector and went to work scanning the ground. There was no real science to this sort of thing; one simply had to establish a grid and work through it line by line, like a farmer ploughing a field.

‘Come on, baby. Find me a target.’

She hadn’t covered more than a dozen paces before the magnetometer sprang into life. She had disabled the speaker lest it emit a high-pitched wail that would draw any curious civilians within a hundred yards to her position, but she was able to make out the sudden spike on the simple inbuilt measurement gauge.

Clearly the unit had found something metallic, but that was hardly conclusive in a location like this. Far from celebrating, Frost continued to move the detector back and forth, trying to establish a pattern. She couldn’t afford to waste time digging up a tin can or a vestige of some demolished building.

However, the signal remained strong and constant, and it didn’t take her long to figure out the general placement and orientation of the buried object. As far as she could tell, it matched precisely what she was looking for.

Dismantling the metal detector, she retrieved her next tool from the pack – a simple flat-bladed shovel – and went to work.

For once she was glad of their desert location. Had this operation been mounted in a cold country, the ground could well have been frozen and impossible to dig. Likewise, waterlogged ground would have left her trying to excavate a sea of mud, making her task infinitely more difficult. As it was, the dry rocky soil made for difficult going as the blade kept catching on stones, and with nothing to bind it together the dirt tended to fall off the shovel before she could properly excavate it.

Still, after digging down about two feet, she felt the blade make contact with something hard and unyielding. Wiping a hand across her dusty, sweat-stained brow, she knelt down in the small hole and used her hands to scrape away the remaining dirt, exposing a thick black cable buried in the ground.

‘Gotcha.’

Sowan’s home a couple of hundred yards away might have been a tightly controlled compound with its own formidable security measures, but such a place had infrastructure and support needs like any other. Power, water, gas, and above all, communications.

Some covert online snooping on her part had confirmed that the facility used a DSN (defence switched network) line to communicate with the outside world. In theory it was a secure hard-line data system that allowed stations all over the country to exchange information, make phone calls, send emails and perform countless other tasks that a high-level intelligence officer might require. It also allowed the men responsible for protecting Sowan’s safety to keep an eye on the feeds from the security cameras positioned around his home, meaning that even if the guards on site were neutralized, someone would still be watching.

It was impressive on paper, but the fundamental elements of the system were no more complex than a regular telephone network. They even used standard L-carrier coaxial cables buried in the ground to transmit their data, mostly relying on the fact that the cables were laid in secret and unmarked to keep them safe.

However, for someone with illegal access to construction reports and engineering blueprints, they were all too easy to find.

Satisfied that she’d found what she needed, Frost carefully removed an electrical toolkit from her pack. Running her hands through her damp hair to get loose strands out of her eyes, she wiped them against her trouser leg to remove the worst of the dirt, then set to work.

It took about two minutes to cut through the data cable’s rubber insulation, expose the copper core and connect a wireless data transmitter to it. This done, she scooped some of the loose dirt back into the hole to cover everything except the transmitter’s antenna, rendering her handiwork almost invisible amidst the jumbled stones and other debris that littered the site. Retreating a short distance, she hunkered down in a shallow depression near the berm of bulldozed dirt that fringed the perimeter of the site, then powered up her laptop computer. It took another two minutes to connect remotely to the half-buried transmitter nearby.

With the connection established, her laptop automatically scanned the various channels and electronic signals coursing through the wire, linking them into its own data-management program, which then separated and decoded them into something usable.

Six minutes after unearthing the cable, and Frost now had access the house’s electronic security systems. She could even tap into the video feeds from the security cameras, giving her a near-total picture of what was going on within Sowan’s compound. Unbeknownst to the men guarding him, the system in which they placed so much faith had just been turned against them.

Even as she scanned each video feed, taking in everything she could discern about the layout and security setup, she began recording footage from the cameras directly onto her laptop. When she turned out the lights, she would switch to this recorded video, making it appear to anyone else watching that all was normal.

Reaching up for the radio microphone at her throat, Frost hit the transmit button. ‘This is Overwatch. We’re in,’ she reported, her voice low and calm. ‘I have eyes on three armed Tangos in the compound. Two walking the perimeter counter-clockwise, one in a guard hut by the main gate.’

She would much rather have been alongside the rest of the group as they prepared to make entry, but the signal jammers they were about to employ would render her computer just as useless as the radios and other gear inside the compound, and she needed it to maintain the facade that everything was normal. So for now, she had little choice but to remain crouched down in her dusty hole in the ground, waiting for the rest of the team to begin the assault.

‘Copy that,’ came Drake’s crackly reply. ‘Monarch has eyes on the compound. Moving in sixty seconds. Stand by to cut the feeds. Over.’

Monarch
was Drake’s radio codename for the duration of the operation. Mason was to be known as
Cameo
, and McKnight was
Envoy
. None of their chosen call-signs meant much on the face of it; they were simply a means of identifying each other without resorting to actual names. The only stipulation about such things was that they had to be short and easy to say, and more important easy to differentiate even over a bad radio signal.

‘Understood. Good luck, Monarch.’

Considering he was about to venture alone into a heavily defended compound in one of the most secure districts of a foreign city, where the smallest mistake could see this entire house of cards collapse, she had a feeling he’d need all the luck he could get.

They all would.

A hot night.

Hot, damp and humid; the air still and stifling.

Outside, the chirp of cicadas and other night insects echoed through the warm darkness; a strange nocturnal music of changing rhythm and intensity. A dog barked somewhere off in the distance, and a car drove by on the tarmac road that ran outside the entrance courtyard, the old engine rough and unrefined.

Tarek Sowan lay sprawled on the bed, chest rising and falling as he slept. But it was a troubled sleep that brought little rest. The covers were thrown in a tangled mess by his feet. It was too hot to sleep with them on. Overhead, a ceiling fan rotated slowly on its fixture, the low hum of the motor serving as a constant backdrop to the familiar sounds of a neighbourhood at night.

A faint breeze, imperceptible but for the slight stirring of the curtains it provoked, sighed through the room, carrying with it the scent of sea air and concrete and freshly cut grass.

Sowan stirred, shifted position slightly and reached out, feeling the familiar warmth of his wife’s body beside him, and relaxed a little.

In the walled courtyard down below, a wooden guard post had been built beside the main gate, its roof offering some protection from occasional bad weather – if not from the heat – for its lone occupant.

With his chair tilted back and his boots resting on the desk, he stared listlessly at the trio of security monitors facing him. In total, half a dozen cameras covered every approach to the walled compound, making it virtually impossible for anyone to get in unnoticed.

And if they did somehow manage to get past this first line of defence, he and two other armed tactical agents were on hand to deal with them.

As a high-ranking member of the country’s Mukhabarat el-Jamahiriya, also known as the National Intelligence Service, Tarek Sowan had almost certainly made enemies both at home and abroad in his time. Plenty of people would like to see him, and perhaps the government he served, taken out.

Despite the monotony of night shifts, protecting this man while he slept was a duty that he and his comrades took as seriously as a heart attack. After all, the Mukhabarat didn’t look kindly upon failure. If Sowan were killed or abducted, the blame would fall squarely on those charged with protecting him.

He glanced up as one of his fellow operatives strolled past the hut, his uniform neatly pressed, hand resting lightly on the automatic holstered at his hip. The two men exchanged nods, silently acknowledging each other, and their mutual boredom. This late at night, they had exhausted most topics of conversation anyway. All that was left was to patiently endure the next three hours until shift-changeover.

He was just settling back in his chair when suddenly the three monitors blinked and went out, displaying only blue test screens to indicate they were receiving no signal.

He frowned, more irritated than concerned at this stage. The compound had recently been upgraded with a new suite of cameras, and they were still chasing down occasional glitches in the system. The fact that all of them had gone down simultaneously suggested it was a fault with the receiver in the guard hut.

Still, there were procedures to follow. For all he knew, this might have been a test of his own diligence and decision-making. The Mukhabarat were just as paranoid about their own employees as they were about the population they were charged with ‘protecting’. Any hint of incompetence or dereliction of duty was punished with ruthless dedication.

Not only were the feeds from the security cameras routed to his guard hut, but they were also relayed to the Mukhabarat headquarters building a couple of miles away. Whatever he saw, they saw. Or didn’t see, in this case. They would be expecting a situation report.

Letting out a vexed sigh, he reached for the radio handset mounted on his desk and keyed the transmit button. ‘Post 18 here. Possible camera fault. Please advise. Over.’

His report met with no response, save for an unusually loud static buzz that rang in his ears. Poor atmospherics? Unlikely, since the weather seemed calm and fair tonight.

‘Repeat, this is post 18 reporting camera faults and loss of signal. Please respond. Over.’

No reply. The crackle and buzz of electronic distortion continued.

His irritation at the unexpected fault was now tempered with a growing undercurrent of unease. Problems with the cameras he could put down to simple technical glitches, but loss of radio contact was less easy to explain.

Switching frequency to the personal headsets used by his fellow guards, he hit transmit again. ‘All units, we’ve lost camera signal. Any activity outside?’

Again there was no response.

He frowned, checked the frequency and keyed the radio again. ‘All units, report in.’

Nothing. It was as if his two comrades had ceased to exist.

‘What the—?’

He was just rising to his feet when suddenly a figure moved in front of the open window, seeming to appear from nowhere. He saw a blur of movement, something pointed at him, and then suddenly his world was on fire.

He went down, jerking and shaking violently as thousands of volts surged through his body, utterly incapable of reaching up to remove the two little metal prongs embedded in his chest. By the time the agony ceased, he was curled up in a foetal position, muscles still trembling and breath coming in laboured gasps.

He was powerless to resist as his hands were pulled behind his back and secured in place with a pair of plastic cable ties, followed a moment later by his ankles. He tried to let out a warning cry as a gag was tied around his mouth, but all he could manage was a strangled groan. And throughout the whole ordeal, he never once saw the face of his masked attacker.

With the guard neutralized, Drake crouched down in the shadows cast by the wooden shed that served as a guard hut. The black balaclava was hot and clung uncomfortably to his face as his body temperature rose steadily from both the exertion and the tension of the moment, but he ignored it. Concealment was more important than comfort now.

He remained crouched in the shadows, a silent and deadly presence, his senses painfully alert to the slightest noise as he surveyed the compound. His finger was on the trigger of the silenced Browning, ready to bring the weapon to bear the instant he spotted a threat.

Apart from the two-storey villa that dominated the central area, most of the compound was given over to the storage and movement of vehicles. A wide gravel turning space encircled a stone fountain in front of the villa, while a double garage stood against the wall on the far side. He had no idea what was inside, but from the general affluence of his home, Drake was willing to bet that Sowan’s cars reflected his status as a high-ranking government employee.

Framing the driveway were stretches of short, coarse grass that were likely as close to a lawn as one could get in such a hot, arid country. Fruit trees and decorative shrubs were growing near the compound walls; all of it looked well ordered and maintained, probably by professional gardeners. Faulkner would have been quite at home here.

Radio communication with his fellow team members was impossible as long as the signal jammer carried on his belt kit was still transmitting. The deceptively innocuous little devices had disrupted their enemy’s communications, buying them the time and the confusion they’d needed to make entry to the compound, but the door swung both ways. Their enemies couldn’t talk to each other, but neither could they.

He had no way of knowing whether Mason and McKnight had succeeded in taking down the other two guards, though he imagined their failure would be announced promptly enough by the crackle of gunfire. For now, all he could do was trust in their abilities.

They had agreed in advance that the signal blackout would last sixty seconds. Sixty seconds to scale the nine-foot wall, drop down on the other side, take out three armed men and prepare to assault the house. Glancing at his watch, he counted down the time remaining like a starving man waiting to eat.

Five, four, three, two, one...

Switching off the signal jammer, Drake reached up and touched his transmit button.

‘Monarch. Guardhouse secure,’ he said, his voice low. The tactical microphone was picking up the vibrations in his throat rather than the sounds coming out of his mouth, so no matter what was going on around him there was never a need to raise his voice. ‘Sitrep.’

‘Cameo. Tango down,’ came Mason’s voice in reply. Calm, controlled, focussed. ‘No further contacts.’

‘Envoy, Tango down. Standing by.’

‘Overwatch. Alarm system disabled.’ Normally acerbic and volatile in daily life, Frost was a model of self-control at critical moments like this. ‘You’re clear to move.’

‘Copy that,’ Drake replied, letting out a silent breath of relief. ‘Overwatch, move in and cover our exit. Envoy, Cameo, on me. Rendezvous at the main entrance. Move.’

‘On it.’

‘Envoy and Cameo are en route.’

Rising to his feet and keeping his weapon up and ready, Drake rushed across the turning circle, passing the stone fountain in the centre, the gentle splash of falling water a strange counterpoint to the hard crunch of boots on gravel and the loud, urgent pounding of his heart.

The next phase was the most critical of all – apprehending their target.

Sowan stirred again, his unconscious mind alerted that something had changed, some tiny shift in the nature of his surroundings that might be important, that might constitute a danger. His dark lashes flickered for a moment, held still, then parted.

For several seconds he lay there, mind caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, wondering what had disturbed him. His eyes scanned the shadows of the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing obvious that he could see, and yet his instincts told him to be alert.

Then, he heard something – a muted thump from somewhere deep in the house. Against the background of insects and the tinkle of water in the fountain outside it was almost indistinguishable, but his hearing was particularly sensitive to such disturbances.

Something was happening, he realized, and that realization soon drove away the last vestiges of sleep. In the course of his life, he had learned that the ability to wake quickly, and to trust his instincts when they told him something was wrong, often meant the difference between life and death.

Now was such a time.

Easing himself out of bed without disturbing the sleeping woman beside him, he reached into the bedside drawer and felt his fingers close around the cold metal grip of a Beretta pistol. He drew back the slide a fraction of an inch, just enough to see the faint glimmer of the brass shell casing in the breach.

Now armed, he rose from the bed and crept across the room, his body taut and ready. Eyes by now accustomed to the darkness, he advanced into the hallway, keeping the pistol low. The only sounds he could hear were the faint tread of his bare feet on the carpet, and the beating of his own heart, strong and steady despite his growing unease.

Fear was useful in itself. Fear kept you alert, kept you focussed. But fear unchecked could lead to panic, and panic got you killed.

Another tiny shift in air pressure sighed past him, carrying with it the scent of fresh-cut grass and flowers outside. An open window? An open door?

The first room on his left was the study. Gripping the pistol in sweating hands, he paused outside the door for a moment before opening it. Within stood his writing desk, cluttered with papers and documents, and his computer still humming away on standby. Nothing out of place.

He repeated the same process in the spare bedroom and bathroom, clearing each room as he had been trained to do as an infantryman in the Libyan army so long ago. Old lessons, perhaps, but ones which had never left him.

In short order, the first floor was secure.

As he reached the end of the corridor, he moved down the stairs to the ground floor. The stairs were old and wooden, and a daunting task to negotiate without making noise, but he knew the loud spots and his feet sought the best path almost by themselves.

As he emerged into the main reception hall, the front door came into view. It was standing ajar, open just a few inches, the warm night air seeping in.

He felt a tiny bead of sweat forming at his temple. Someone was in here. How the hell had they been able to get past the guards outside, and defeat that lock without triggering the alarm? This building was supposed to be impregnable.

He was just turning towards the alarm unit when a voice spoke up; a man’s voice, hard and commanding. ‘Don’t move.’

Fear charged through him. He froze, glanced down at the pistol, wondering whether the intruder knew he was armed. Maybe, if he was quick...

‘Forget it,’ the voice warned. ‘You’ll just die.’

Sure enough, he felt something cold and metallic jammed against the back of his head. The barrel of a weapon.

‘Drop the gun. Now. Drop it!’

With little option but to comply, Sowan laid the gun down on the floor at his feet. Straightaway his attacker kicked it away. The weapon skittered and slid across the tiled floor, coming to rest in one corner of the reception hall.

‘Turn around, hands behind your head.’

Sowan turned slowly to face the man who might very well have been sent here to kill him. However, before he could even take in the man’s appearance, he blinked and squinted as a bright flashlight was shone right in his face.

Carefully examining the bewildered and dishevelled-looking man standing before him, Drake concluded immediately that he was the same man he’d seen on the flight out of Paris.

‘On your knees. Now.’

Again Sowan complied, knowing better than to resist an armed man who had the drop on him. He had overcome his initial shock at the sudden encounter, and his mind had quickly rallied, going into threat-assessment mode.

The man had spoken in English, which meant he knew or suspected that Sowan also understood the language. His own knowledge of national accents wasn’t perfect, but he detected a British lilt to his attacker’s voice.