Downfall

Prologue

Afghanistan – January 14th, 2011

Drake inhaled, taking a breath of the chill morning air as he surveyed the great panoramic vista stretching before him. To the north, the great snow-capped peaks of the Pamir Mountains rose high into the dawn sky, their summits glowing red and orange in the first light of the new day. To the south lay the mighty Karakoram range, still shrouded in shadows, and beyond them the unmarked border with Pakistan.

Sandwiched between these great bastions of rock lay the winding river valley of the Wakhan Corridor. For a thousand years it had been a vital trade route between East and West, carrying spices and silks from China, and traders and explorers from Europe. Marco Polo himself had travelled its mountainous paths on his great journey eastwards. In later centuries, this place had become a pawn in the Great Game between the Russians and British: two empires locked in a battle for supremacy, with Afghanistan caught in the middle.

Generations of conflict had seen this thriving trade route shut down, its eastern borders closed and its once prosperous population reduced to scattered, impoverished settlements.

But for all its dark history and troubled present, it remained one of the most starkly, uncompromisingly beautiful places Drake had ever laid eyes on.

‘I wish you could see this,’ he said quietly. ‘I always used to volunteer for last watch of the night, so I could watch the sun rise over the mountains. On a clear morning, it was so quiet, so empty. You could almost forget there was anyone else in the world.’

He glanced over at the woman standing by his side.

‘Was it the same for you?’

She didn’t reply, and he knew she couldn’t. But he asked the question anyway, because he wanted her to think about it. He wanted her to reflect on the events that had brought them both here: two very different lives that had become bound up in this place. Two people who had fought and bled in this beautiful, troubled, lonely place, their deeds a generation apart and their experiences tempered by different wars.

He wanted her to think on that, and on him.

It started with a familiar sound that disturbed the predawn silence: a distant, rhythmic thump of rotor blades. Well accustomed to the vagaries of acoustics in mountains like this, Drake knew that there were two choppers inbound, just as he knew exactly where they were coming from.

Sure enough, the aircraft appeared a few seconds later from behind a towering rock escarpment, roaring up the valley from the west at high speed. One flying higher and some distance behind to cover the lead aircraft.

Drake recognized the wide, squat profile of the UH-60 Black Hawk right away. Bringing his binoculars up, he could see that the trailing aircraft had been outfitted with the full fire-support package: rocket pods, air-to-ground missiles and rotary cannons for high-speed strafing runs. Between them, the two aircraft carried enough troops and ordnance to obliterate an entire company.

And it was all for him.

There was a good chance they’d already spotted him and his companion, exposed as they were in the middle of an open plain. If they didn’t already have unmanned aerial vehicles orbiting overhead, he’d have been very surprised.

Still, there was no sense taking chances. Removing a signal flare from his pocket, he pointed it skyward and pulled the release pin.

A single red projectile shot upwards, reaching about 100 feet before igniting, spewing sparks and orange-coloured smoke as it drifted slowly back to earth on its miniature parachute.

The choppers soon changed course, the lead aircraft quickly angling towards him while its counterpart turned more sluggishly, weighed down by heavy weapons and armour.

‘This is it,’ Drake said as the choppers closed in on them. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

The woman made no attempt to flee or resist as the lead aircraft’s nose flared upwards, slowing its forward momentum and engulfing them both in a hurricane of dust and tiny rocks from the rotor downwash.

Drake threw up an arm to shield his eyes, watching as the big chopper slowly settled on the ground about 50 yards away.

The rough, mountainous terrain that dominated the eastern swathe of this country had always been difficult to pacify, its heights and tortuous valleys naturally lending themselves to ambushes and guerrilla warfare, allowing the inhabitants to confound invading armies for centuries. Death by a thousand cuts.

His companion had made a career out of doing just that, but that had been a different time. A different war.

Anyway, ambushes were the last thing on Drake’s mind now. He’d made sure to choose a wide and relatively flat plateau where he knew a helicopter could set down without difficulty.

The second Black Hawk gunship continued to orbit overhead, its cannons and rockets standing by to decimate any enemy that dared present itself. Drake could actually see the barrels of its 20mm guns tracking around to keep him in their sights.

As the main engines of the first Black Hawk powered down, Drake watched the side door slide open and six men in full combat gear pile out, quickly establishing a perimeter around the landing site, the barrels of their M4 assault rifles sweeping the surrounding rocks and cliff faces. Drake could just hear their hushed voices as they called out to each other over their radio net, confirming the area was clear.

He made no moves as this was happening, just let them get on with their task. He’d been in their position many times in his life, and knew they’d be nervous, edgy, hyped up on adrenaline, expecting the worst. No sense provoking a fight he couldn’t win.

Aside from this, he paid the fire team little attention. They were just grunts, here to test the waters and absorb the first hits if they came. Drake was more interested in the small group still lingering aboard the chopper, protected by its armoured hull while their underlings secured the area.

Seconds ticked by as he waited for them to make their move, waited for the leader of this formidable display of military power to finally show themself.

It happened a full minute after the chopper had landed. The side door slid open once more, and two people emerged.

First out was an operative like the others who had come before him. Tall, well built and imposing, his considerable physical presence enhanced by the Kevlar vest and webbing that covered his torso, he moved with the natural confidence of a predator. This was a man born to end lives.

His face might have been called handsome but for the conspicuous scar that trailed down one side, extending from his jawline to above his left eye in a single straight gash. The result of a knife fight that had ended before either he or his opponent could claim victory.

The M4 carbine at his shoulder was lowered but held in a firm grip, ready to be swung into action at a moment’s notice. His face, so often given to expressions of malicious glee, was cold and stony in that moment. All business.

Even he looked fearful of what might happen next.

Jason Hawkins was intimately familiar to Drake, and all too dangerous in his own right, but they both knew it was the woman he was protecting who was really in charge here. The woman who had exited the chopper not with the solid, confident leap of a trained operative, but with the more cautious and tentative step of a civilian. The woman who was wearing an expensive tailored suit instead of camo fatigues, and who looked as uncomfortable in her Kevlar vest and winter jacket as any VIP or government dignitary forced to visit conflict zones.

The woman who was watching him now, her expression caught between wariness, curiosity and burgeoning excitement. Just the sight of her was enough to stir similar feelings in Drake.

Tall, dark skinned and with her shoulder-length hair arranged in a sleek side parting, she projected an air of calm, precise, calculated intellect. Her trim physique, straight back and confident stride spoke of an active life that permitted few indulgences. She must have been at least 50 by now, yet there was an agelessness to her that wasn’t the result of vanity, cosmetics or surgery, but rather some great inner well of energy, discipline and drive to excel in everything she did.

The pair halted about five yards away, Hawkins covering Drake with his assault rifle now that he was so close. Taking no chances in case Drake was wearing a suicide vest or clutching a pair of grenades with the pins removed.

‘You know the drill,’ the big man said. ‘Let’s see those hands. Slowly.’

Drake smiled in amusement. ‘Nervous, Jason?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Depends what you came here for.’

He said nothing to that, but kept Drake covered with the carbine, though Drake noticed his finger edge a little closer to the trigger. Just looking for an excuse to fire.

Letting him sweat just a little longer, Drake raised his hands into view, palms open, fingers outstretched. He had come to this meeting with nothing. No concealed firearms or blades, no hidden body armour, nothing with which to defend or attack.

No tricks. No backing out now.

‘That’s enough,’ the woman commanded. ‘Ryan came here in good faith, and so have we. Lower your weapon.’

‘Ryan caused a lot of problems for us.’

She gave him a sharp look, repeating her command. ‘Lower your weapon.’

Reluctantly the lead operative complied.

Drake smiled again, amused by this show of forced obedience. Like an attack dog eager to get stuck in, but more afraid of his master than his potential enemy. As well he should be.

Both Drake and Hawkins knew what she was capable of.

Satisfied, she nodded to Drake’s prisoner. ‘Well, let’s see her.’

Her head was covered with a black hood that rendered her blind and, of course, kept her face hidden. Reaching up, Drake grasped the fabric and yanked it off with a quick, efficient motion.

There was a moment of tension as the hood came away, and Drake saw Hawkins instinctively raise his weapon despite his orders to stand down. He watched as the man’s fleeting look of surprise shifted rapidly into disbelief at the sight that confronted him, then finally the growing realization of what this moment truly meant.

Drake had lived up to his reputation and more, had justified the trust shown in him and repaid it a hundredfold. And he’d returned with the biggest prize of all. The woman who had eluded the CIA’s best hunters time and again, who had given Hawkins the facial scar he bore today, who had fought her way out of every trap laid for her and countered every attempt to defeat her.

Anya.

‘I’ll be damned,’ Hawkins said under his breath, his familiar sneer returning. ‘I told you I’d be seeing you again.’

Anya could do nothing but glare at him in impotent fury, her mouth gagged, her hands bound. The cuts and bruises marking her face attested to the fact she hadn’t come quietly. And here she was, her options exhausted, her reserves spent, her time up.

Anya, defeated by the one man she trusted above any other.

‘Oh, Ryan,’ the older woman whispered, shaking her head in wonder as she surveyed the bound and gagged prisoner standing before her. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

Drake’s smile was triumphant as he tossed the hood away.

‘It’s good to be back, Elizabeth.’

Part One – Memory

In 1953, the CIA began the top-secret project known as MK-Ultra to investigate the use of psychoactive drugs, mental conditioning and hypnosis for the purpose of mind control, information gathering and psychological torture. The programme was officially discontinued in 1973.

Candidate B-16 was waiting for her as the door slid back into the wall and she stepped through into the silent, blank room beyond, seated patiently at the metal table in the centre of this perfect white cube. Another blank canvas waiting for her to paint upon.

This one looked like a good prospect, she thought. She’d read his file, analysed his assessment reports, but she always deferred her final judgement until she’d had a chance to speak with them face to face. Thirty years old, in excellent physical condition, intelligent and quick to learn. A man in the prime of his life, at the peak of his physical prowess.

But she would help him to become so much more.

‘Good morning, candidate,’ she said, sliding into a chair opposite him. The echo of her voice was oddly deadened by the sound-absorbing materials covering every surface, designed to filter out all ambient noises and distractions so that they could be truly alone.

He looked at her, his expression neither hostile nor welcoming. He was assessing her, just as she was assessing him. ‘It’s afternoon, actually.’

She ignored this.

‘This will be our first session together; the first of many, I hope. It’s a chance for us to… get to know each other a little. I’d like to ask you a few questions before we begin, and I need you to answer them fully and truthfully. Would that be okay?’

He shrugged. ‘Ask away.’

She smiled faintly, laying down a file folder on the table. It contained a summary of every aspect of this man’s personality, codified and analysed and broken down into data, tables, dry facts and figures. She had a selection of predefined questions to draw from, but she didn’t need them now. She’d written the list herself and knew every one of them by heart.

‘What’s the date today?’

‘February 4th, 2002.’ No hesitation, no difficulty in recollection. Not yet, at least.

‘And who is the president of the United States?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Answer the question, candidate.’

He sighed impatiently. ‘Last I checked, it was George W. Bush.’

‘Good.’ Attitude, a little defiance and impatience with trivialities, just as his psych profile had indicated. ‘Do you know where you are?’

‘Fort Bragg, North Carolina.’ He tilted his head. ‘Would you like to know my favourite colour too, Doctor?’

‘I’ll ask the questions.’ She leaned forward a little, studying his reactions carefully. ‘Tell me, why are you here?’

‘I’m supposed to begin training for a new special forces group being developed. But so far all I’ve done is sit around in hospitals and padded rooms. So, either I’ve lost my mind and this is all a delusion, or there’s something you guys aren’t telling me.’ He leaned forward too, matching her posture. ‘That’s my story. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’

She smiled faintly, looking at him across the table. The tense posture, powerful body, the bright-green eyes focussed on her. The keen and dominant mind seeking to understand her.

Well, he would understand soon enough. She’d make sure of it.

‘I’m here to help you, candidate,’ she replied. Yes, this one was going to make an excellent subject, she’d decided. ‘I’m here to make you more than you are, more than you ever thought you could be. And I think you and I are going to get along very well indeed.’ She reached for the folder in front of her and flipped it open. ‘So, let’s get started.’

Chapter 1

CIA headquarters, Langley – January 8th, 2011

As the acting director of the CIA, it wasn’t often that Marcus Cain found himself summoned to meetings these days. In reality, there was now only one man within the Agency that had the authority to demand an audience with him.

That man was Inspector General Frank Hogarth.

For the past six months, Hogarth and a specially selected team within his directorate had been investigating the sudden death of Cain’s predecessor, Robert Wallace. The Department of Justice and the FBI had of course been conducting their own inquiry, but protocol and pride demanded that the CIA itself investigate the possibility of foul play. After all, it wasn’t every day that their most senior officer died in the line of duty.

Today was the day Hogarth’s team delivered its conclusions.

‘Director Cain, thank you for coming in,’ Hogarth said, rising from his chair and rounding the small conference table to shake Cain’s hand.

Hogarth wasn’t a big man by any means; in fact, Cain stood a good six inches taller than him. Short and rotund, his fleshy face hidden behind a thick beard and wire-rimmed glasses, his curly dark hair reduced to a few thin, wiry patches on top, Hogarth’s appearance was that of a bank manager at some quiet out-of-town branch, coasting comfortably to retirement with no aspirations to rise any higher.

In short, he was a genial and unassuming man who was easy to underestimate, as many had done to their cost. Cain had known him for more years than he cared to remember, and while he considered their relationship fairly cordial, he was always aware that Hogarth was not someone to be trifled with.

He had an eye for detail that bordered on obsessive, and when it came to investigating possible wrongdoing, he left absolutely nothing to chance. Every testimony and piece of evidence was thoroughly and ruthlessly examined, every inconsistency exposed and cross-referenced. And no amount of political pressure or bribery would convince him to expedite or curtail an investigation.

‘Always a pleasure, Frank,’ Cain lied, well aware that a great deal rested on what happened in this room today.

Technically Hogarth reported to the CIA director and was therefore subordinate to Cain himself, but his remit to investigate potential crimes, corruption or misconduct within the Agency was effectively unlimited, allowing him access to any person, department or information deemed pertinent. Within the confines of this room at least, Hogarth now outranked Cain.

Even worse, Cain’s extensive network of informants and loyal subordinates within the Agency had all failed to find dirt on Hogarth: no skeletons in his closet, nothing that could be used as leverage. He was, in a rare departure from the norm within the intelligence community, both uncorrupted and untouchable, which made him extremely dangerous.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ Hogarth offered as he took a seat back at the table, slipping on a pair of reading glasses to consult the file laid out before him. A second officer, his adjutant, was also seated, there to act as a witness to the meeting.

Cain was also permitted a representative of his own choosing, but he’d declined. The fewer people present for this, the better.

‘I’d rather get right down to it, if you don’t mind.’ When Hogarth glanced up over the rim of his glasses, Cain added, ‘Got a backlog of reports to work through.’

The inspector general smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his deep-set eyes. ‘Well, we’ll try to make this as painless as possible.’ Glancing at his adjutant, he added. ‘Steven, would you start the tape?’

All of Cain’s previous interviews had been similarly recorded. They had been voluntary meetings on his part, so the tone hadn’t been as heated as an official interrogation, but the questions had been no less probing. Cain was the last man to have seen Director Wallace alive, and therefore a great deal of the investigation into the man’s death had focussed on him.

As the digital recorder did its thing, Hogarth raised his voice, assuming a more official tone. ‘For the record, meeting reference SI224/7, presentation of investigation findings and recommendations. The date is January 8th, 2011. Present are Acting Director Marcus Cain, Investigator General Frank Hogarth and Special Investigator Steven Burke.’

With this minor record-keeping task out of the way, Hogarth turned to Cain. ‘Now, Director Cain, protocol normally requires that this meeting be chaired by an officer at least one rank higher than the subject of the investigation. Given that you’re currently serving as acting director and this therefore isn’t possible, please confirm for the record that you waive the regulation in this instance.’

‘I do,’ Cain agreed.

‘Good, then we can proceed.’ Glancing down at his printed report, Hogarth began to read. ‘Now, in the matter of Special Investigation 224 regarding the death of former CIA Director Robert Wallace, the investigation team has concluded that some anomalies in terms of forensic evidence were present at the scene of his death. These anomalies are summarized in Section 3 of the report. The investigation team also found minor inconsistencies in witness testimonies provided by Acting Director Marcus Cain regarding Director Wallace’s state of health at the time of their last meeting, this occurring at approximately two pm on the day of his death. These inconsistencies are summarized in Section 4.’

Cain could feel himself tensing up as Hogarth went on. He had taken every possible step to make Wallace’s death appear like an accident, employing a clean-up team to retrieve his body, prepare it and stage it to make it look like the man had died in a car accident. But such endeavours were by nature rushed jobs, hurriedly carried out before the victim was reported missing and a search begun. And in the case of a high-profile government employee like Wallace, time had truly been against them.

Hogarth and his people by contrast had had all the time in the world to pore over every detail, analyse every fibre and shred of evidence. Inevitably they would find holes in the story. Any subterfuge, no matter how well constructed, would eventually collapse if it was poked and prodded enough. The only question remaining was whether any of the holes were big enough to undermine the narrative he’d constructed.

Hogarth paused, knowing that this was the critical moment.

‘With these factors taken into account, none of these inconsistencies offer a compelling alternate explanation for Director Wallace’s death. Also, given the recent personal loss suffered by Director Cain shortly before the incident, it would be unreasonable to expect a perfect recollection of events on his part,’ he concluded, giving Cain a faint nod.

‘It’s therefore the determination of this investigation that Director Wallace suffered a severe myocardial infarction shortly after departing his meeting with Director Cain, lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a ravine running parallel to the road where he was driving at the time. This hypothesis is consistent with the results of his autopsy carried out shortly after his death, and with Director Wallace’s medical assessments in the months leading up to his death, indicating he was experiencing high levels of stress and anxiety associated with his position. Cause of death was determined as a combination of the aforementioned heart attack, and blunt force trauma caused by the crash. Our investigation therefore concurs with our colleagues at the FBI that Director Wallace’s death was accidental, and recommends no further investigative action be taken at this point.’

Laying down his report, he regarded Cain, his gaze cool and assessing. ‘Do you have any comment regarding these findings, Director Cain?’

Cain shook his head, careful to keep his expression neutral. To show even a hint of relief now could well give Hogarth enough ammunition to rethink his findings.

‘For the record, Director Cain has indicated negative.’ Hogarth cocked an eyebrow before adding, ‘And do you agree with the recommendations of this investigative summary?’

‘I do.’

‘In that case, sir, we consider the matter concluded. The complete findings of the investigation are in the report in front of you. If you have any questions about any aspect then please contact my office. Meeting concluded at approximately 10.30.’

‘Great work as always, Frank,’ Cain said as he stood up with a copy of Hogarth’s report tucked under his arm, easily a couple of hundred pages long. Both men knew he was never going to read it in any depth, but Hogarth was the kind of man to cross every T and dot every I, even if no one ever saw them. ‘Pass on my compliments to your team.’

‘Will do, Marcus. It’ll mean a lot coming from the acting director,’ Hogarth remarked, slipping into a slightly less formal mode now that they were no longer discussing official business. However, Cain hadn’t missed the emphasis he’d put on the word ‘acting’, reminding him that his new position was by no means permanent. But that was a battle he had no interest in fighting today.

He was about to wrap things up when Hogarth took a step closer and lowered his voice. ‘There’s just one thing that keeps… niggling me.’

‘Really? What’s that?’ Cain asked, faking benign interest.

‘Oh, nothing much. Just one of those loose ends we never quite managed to tie up. I mean, it’s not like this is on the record or anything…’

He was fishing; Cain felt a flash of irritation towards the rotund man who simply wouldn’t let it alone. Of course he could end the conversation right here, make his excuses and leave like nothing had happened. But it had happened. And he knew such an abrupt dismissal would leave a lingering suspicion in Hogarth’s mind. Nothing more than a tiny scratch, barely noticed, but one which might slowly fester over time.

The only choice was to deal with it now.

‘Try me.’

‘Well, it’s Wallace’s personal secretary,’ Hogarth admitted. ‘She was one of the last people to speak with him before he logged out of Langley the day he died. He told her not to transfer any calls through to him for the rest of the afternoon, said he was going to be out of town for a while.’

Cain shrugged. ‘Makes sense. He was coming to speak with me. I guess he didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Exactly, but it’s the instruction he gave her afterwards that bothers me. He told her that he might need to schedule a meeting with the director of national intelligence the following day, depending on how it goes. Those were his words. Any idea what he might have been referring to?’

Cain could guess what the investigator general was thinking. Hogarth knew the two men had had a turbulent working relationship, and he suspected there was more to their meeting than a simple personal visit. But he couldn’t prove it. He was reaching, giving Cain one last prod to see if he might slip up.

Cain managed to adopt a patient, understanding expression. ‘We’ve been over this in my debriefing, Frank,’ he pointed out calmly, rationally. ‘Like I said in my statement, we didn’t talk about work. He came to offer his condolences for the death of my daughter.’ Cain composed himself, and for once his expression of pain wasn’t entirely fake. ‘He said I should take as much time off as I needed, then he left. That was the last time I saw him.’

Hogarth studied him, before nodding and spreading his hands in a gesture of finality and acceptance. ‘Well, like I said, it’s just one of those little things.’

Cain laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not every question gets to be answered, Frank. We both know that.’

Letting go, he turned and strode out of the room with the folder under his arm, fully intending to dispose of it at his earliest convenience. The investigation was concluded, and finally he was in the clear. He could put all this bullshit behind him and focus on the real work that lay ahead.

That was enough for him.

Chapter 2

Zurich, Switzerland

Alex Yates was running, pounding up the snow-covered slope, his legs driving him onwards with grim, almost frantic determination. The soft crump of freshly fallen snow beneath his boots was interspersed with the rasp of his breathing as he eagerly sucked fresh, cold air into his lungs. Beneath his heavy winter jacket, he was already perspiring as he pushed his body harder and harder, refusing to give in to the burning fatigue in his muscles.

There!

Spotting a target to his right, he whirled around, dropped to one knee, then raised the MP5 submachine gun up to his shoulder. The bulky suppressor unit attached to the barrel made it heavier, differently balanced than it should have been, but he was learning to compensate for this.

Get a good sight picture. Don’t fire until you’re ready. It’s more important to shoot true than to shoot first.

His target, nothing more than a sheet of paper with the outline of a human body printed on it, drifted into the centre of his weapon’s iron sights. Bracing himself, he depressed the trigger and felt the rattling, jarring recoil as the suppressed weapon spat out a burst of 9mm rounds. The centre of his target disintegrated into a ragged hole as the bullets tore through it, while ejected shell casings disappeared, sizzling, into the snow beside him.

Good hit. Keep moving. Faster!

Rising to his feet, his breath misting in the cold air, he resumed his charge up the hill. Another target fell to his deadly accurate fire as he pushed on, pounding through the snow, slowing only to eject the magazine from his weapon and press another one home. He couldn’t tell how many rounds remained in it, but it didn’t feel like many judging by the weight. Better to have a full mag at the ready.

He caught movement at the edge of his vision and instinctively turned towards it, coming within an instant of firing before realizing it was nothing but a hare bounding away from the commotion. The small animal leapt nimbly between the drifts, its white fur blending easily with the winter terrain, before disappearing amongst the pine trees that lined the slope.

Stay calm. Don’t fire unless you’re sure of your target. Move!

Sweating and breathing hard, Alex resumed his ascent, eyes sweeping constantly left and right, eagerly seeking the next target.

He soon spotted not one but two enemies about 30 yards to his left. One was rising from behind a fallen tree trunk as if it were a sniper about to take a shot at him, while the other stood in open ground to its right.

Alex went for the sniper first. Another innocuous paper target with bullseyes in the centre of the chest and head to measure the shot pattern, the kind found on rifle ranges the world over. But Alex wasn’t seeing a simple paper target. He never did.

What Alex saw was a man, tall and big and powerful. A man whose face was marked with a scar that left the corner of his mouth turned upwards in a sneering, disparaging smile.

Raising the weapon again, Alex sighted this target and opened fire.

Too soon! You fired too soon!

His shots fell too low, chewing up the tree trunk but missing his intended target. Adjusting his aim and cursing his lapse of judgement, he held the trigger down, expending the remainder of his magazine in a single, continuous stream of automatic fire that tore a dozen finger-sized holes in the paper surface.

Click.

Out of ammo. No time to change mags.

Allowing the submachine gun to fall on its sling, he reached for the Beretta 9mm semi-automatic at his waist, drew it and brought it up into firing position. He thumbed off the safety catch, braced himself for the noise and recoil, then fired.

Unlike the MP5, this weapon wasn’t silenced, and the crack of each shot seemed to reverberate inside his skull, leaving his ears ringing and his head aching. But that didn’t stop him firing. Again and again he squeezed the trigger, the weapon snapping back against his wrists, the rounds tearing through his target to impact in the snow field beyond.

But Alex didn’t see that. Instead he saw…

…the barrel of an assault rifle rise towards him, and the smiling visage of his adversary as his finger tightened on the trigger. Alex tensed up, frozen in terror, waiting for the first shot to slam into his unprotected body.

Then in a blur of movement, someone stepped in front of him just as the rifle spat a crackling, thunderous burst.

The young woman stiffened suddenly, looking down in surprise at the red stains spreading across her chest. Then slowly her legs crumpled beneath her and she fell.

‘Lauren!’ Alex cried in horror and…

…anger as he advanced towards the target, the Beretta clutched in both hands, pumping round after round into it. Oblivious to the noise, the pain in his wrist, the pounding of his heart and the aching fatigue in his body.

He saw his enemy with that scarred, twisted smile of his. Mocking him, mocking the young life he’d just ended, the future he’d just destroyed—

Alex jerked back suddenly as a figure moved out from behind a tree right in front of him. A hand shot out and grasped the Beretta, forcing it skywards, away from his target. Away from his enemy.

‘That’s enough!’ Anya said, her voice as hard and commanding as her severe expression. ‘Cease fire.’

Alex blinked, reality seeming to snap back into place around him as if he’d just been awoken from a nightmare. He tried to calm himself, regain his composure.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied, lowering his gun and engaging the safety just as she’d taught him. ‘Change the targets over and I’ll do it again.’

The woman shook her head. ‘You’ve been at this all afternoon, Alex. You’re exhausted, you need to rest.’

‘Soldiers don’t get to choose when they fight. You told me that.’

If anyone could use her own words against her, she supposed Alex was the prime candidate. That didn’t mean his interpretation of her words was correct, however.

‘You’re not a soldier. And pushing yourself to breaking point will not change that.’

He wasn’t listening, concentrating instead on removing the spent clip from the MP5 and finding a fresh one from the bandolier he was carrying. ‘Just get the fucking targets set up.’

He was making to return down the slope when Anya stepped in front of him, blocking his path. ‘That wasn’t a suggestion,’ she said, her tone quiet but firm. ‘Stand down now.’

Alex’s frustration and resentment threatened to break his self-control. She could almost feel the anger, the rage simmering inside him like a pressure cooker unable to find release. This was a situation that had been building for some time, and which she knew she’d have to deal with sooner or later.

It might as well be now.

‘Come back to the house with me,’ she said. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

The young man cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is that a suggestion?’

‘An invitation, but I hope you’ll accept it.’

Alex bowed to the inevitable. ‘Fine.’

Anya’s home was about a quarter of a mile further down the mountainside, overlooking the shores of an Alpine lake near the Swiss border. A pleasant, remote spot that afforded remarkable views on a clear day, and far enough from the nearest town that the dense woodland could be used as a makeshift shooting range without attracting unwanted attention. It had served her well over the past few years, providing not only a measure of security and defence, but some much-needed isolation from an increasingly hostile and chaotic world.

Alex was sitting uncomfortably on an armchair in one corner of the living room when Anya returned from her brief foray into the cellar. Broodingly silent, he looked like an errant schoolboy that had just been sent to the principal’s office.

Anya pulled up a chair opposite him, reached into her pocket and laid a single photograph on the armrest of his chair. Its edges were a little frayed, and it was starting to curl a little, but the picture was still quite recognizable.

It was a picture of a young woman in desert combat fatigues, perched on the edge of a sand dune with a weapon cradled in her lap. She was looking at the camera, but there was no playful smile on her face. Instead there was an almost ferocious determination coming from her, as if she were about to go into battle.

‘Do you recognize her?’

Alex looked down at the youthful, serious face beside him, then up at the woman seated opposite. Twenty years of trials and hardships might have separated the two of them, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

‘That picture was taken during Desert Storm. About a year after I came back from Afghanistan. I weighed about 80 pounds when I returned, could barely walk across the room without help.’

Anya leaned back in her chair, searching for the right way to express what she needed to say. ‘But I was determined to get back in the fight. I trained every day, worked so hard that I threw up, ignored what the doctors told me, convinced myself I needed to be better than I was before. I thought if I trained hard enough, I could… erase everything that had happened, somehow leave it behind.’

Alex’s eyes were still on the picture. ‘Why show me this now?’

‘Because, Alex, I see the young woman in that picture sitting in front of me now,’ she explained. ‘And I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.’

This situation was partly of her own making, she knew. Alex had come to her a few months ago, asked her to teach him how to fight, to protect himself, so that he wouldn’t be a liability or a burden on anyone again. And after some deliberation, she had recognized the merits of this request and agreed.

She’d done it partly to give him the knowledge and skills he’d need to survive in this dangerous and unforgiving world he’d become part of. But mostly she’d hoped to divert his mind from the dark thoughts that weighed heavy on him since their deadly confrontation with Cain in Berlin the previous year.

In the first respect at least, she had been extremely successful. Alex had proven not only a willing but an able pupil, throwing himself into every task set for him with a fierce, almost obsessive dedication that was quite out of character.

The results spoke for themselves. Once weak and unfit from a life of bad food and little exercise, his body had hardened and strengthened over the past several months. He could strip down and reassemble weapons, shoot to a reasonable standard, even defend himself hand to hand after many painful but instructive lessons on her part.

He had worked hard all right. Perhaps a little too hard.

‘And you think I’m trying to forget?’

Anya sighed. ‘I know what Lauren meant to you. I know you blame yourself for what happened—’

‘Blame myself?’ His lips drew back in a grim, bitter smile. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Anya. I don’t blame myself. I blame that fucking sadistic bastard Hawkins for gunning her down right in front of me. And I blame Cain for putting her there in the first place. And sooner or later I’m going to kill them both for what they’ve done.’

And there it was. Anya couldn’t blame him for feeling like that, but such a path only had one end for someone like Alex. The enemies he’d set himself against were far beyond his abilities, no matter how much she might train or prepare him.

‘Alex, I understand why you want them dead. But… that’s a fight you can’t win.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘No we won’t, because this goes no further,’ she informed him firmly. Whatever deluded fantasy he was harbouring needed to be squashed now. ‘Your training is finished.’

‘Then what the hell was this all for?’ he demanded. ‘Why teach me all this stuff?’

‘You asked for my help, I gave it to you.’

‘You bullshitted me to keep me busy.’

Anya gave him a sharp look. ‘I taught you to defend yourself, not to go looking for a fight. Believe me, the Agency will give you a fight you can never hope to win.’ She sighed. ‘Lauren gave her life to save yours. Throwing it away on a lost cause won’t bring her back.’

Alex seemed to wilt at the mention of her name. Anya saw a moment of doubt in him, a moment of begrudging understanding. But it was quickly masked, turned into something that would serve him better. Defiance, anger, rebellion.

‘So what’s your plan?’ he challenged her. ‘Wait? We’ve done nothing but sit on our arses for six months, and where has it gotten us? Cain’s the director of the CIA now. Fuck me, he’ll probably be president by this time next year. How long do you really think it’ll be before he finds us?’

For that, Anya had no answer. She and the rest of the group had escaped the confrontation in Berlin by the skin of their teeth. They’d been broken, both mentally and physically, by their brutal ordeal and left in no shape to mount any kind of offensive operation for some time. Instead they had retreated into hiding to rest and recuperate.

But this isolation had slowly lapsed into inertia as the days and weeks drifted by, as summer waxed and waned, the leaves turned brown and died, and the first snows of winter began to fall. Time had passed, and their desire to strike back at their enemies had faded.

They’d tried to make plans at first, of course. Meeting almost every day to discuss recent events and snatches of news that had reached them, trying to plan their next move. But these gatherings frequently descended into bitter arguments and recriminations that achieved nothing, and no firm consensus was ever reached.

Eventually they’d grown less frequent as their futility became obvious, and now it was almost unknown for the whole group to gather together. They were drifting apart, she knew, going their separate ways as the shared purpose and leadership that united them sputtered and failed.

Anya had rarely sought to question their lack of action, but deep down she knew the truth. They were afraid. Afraid they would gamble and lose again. Afraid none of them would make it back next time.

It was a fear that even she wasn’t immune to.

‘We have survived this long,’ she replied. It was a weak retort and they both knew it.

‘Is that all we’re doing now? Surviving? That’s what our glorious leader decided?’

Anya had no good answer for him. What the group needed now was strong leadership to reunite them. She herself couldn’t provide it; too many of them had served under another, been through too much with him to answer to an outsider like her now.

What they needed was Ryan Drake.

But he was no longer with them. The Ryan Drake they needed hadn’t been present since their escape from Berlin. The man left behind in his place had become sullen, withdrawn and uncommunicative, spending most of his time isolated in his apartment in Zurich, brooding on his past decisions and failures.

‘It hasn’t been an easy time for any of us. Ryan included.’

Alex’s expression made it plain he wasn’t convinced by that remark, or impressed by Drake’s conduct thus far.

‘Then help him,’ he said, telling her what she already knew. ‘Or get rid of him and move on. But do something, because we can’t keep going like this any longer. Someone needs to lead us out of this, and if he can’t do it any more…’ Alex shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you need me to tell you.’

She didn’t, and she also didn’t appreciate his insinuation that Drake was some lost cause that they should simply abandon. She wouldn’t allow herself to entertain such a notion. But that didn’t mean she was able to refute it either.

Feeling he’d made his point, Alex rose stiffly from the chair, his legs starting to cramp up now he’d been sitting immobile for a while, and handed her back the photograph.

‘It’s a nice picture,’ he said quietly. ‘You should take better care of it.’

Anya leaned back as Alex departed, staring at the snow-covered mountains beyond her window but seeing nothing. Her thoughts were turned inwards, weighing up everything Alex had said. She hardly considered the young man a fountain of wisdom under normal circumstances, but even she was obliged to see the truth in his warning.

As difficult as it was to face up to, she knew deep down that something had to be done. The group needed a leader. It couldn’t be her, so that left only one possibility. The only question was whether he still had it in him.

Well, we’ll find out soon enough, she thought as she reached for her cell phone and set about composing a message.

Chapter 3

It was barely an hour after his meeting with Hogarth that Cain’s personal cell phone chimed with an incoming message. There weren’t many people who had access to his number, and he had a hunch who it might be.

The message was brief, direct and to the point.

NEED TO TALK. USUAL PLACE. 13.00.

And that was it. The sender didn’t bother asking for acknowledgement, because there was no doubt about who held the power in this particular relationship. For now at least.

Cain knew exactly what the topic of discussion would be at today’s meeting, and that was fine with him. For once, he had good news to deliver.

Thus, at one pm that day he found himself out in the woodland of Fairfax County, about ten miles from central DC. It was an unseasonably mild January afternoon in Virginia, the sun valiantly striving to break through the barrier of cloud that had hung low for most of the morning. The air smelled of moss and wet earth, the ground still covered by a carpet of last year’s leaves.

It was a remote spot with only a few trails threading their way through the lichen-covered tree boles, lacking much in the way of scenery and offering little incentive for hikers or tourists, which made it ideal for meetings like these. However, a protective screen of armed agents patrolled the woods at a discreet distance just in case.

His contact was right on time, as always. Some men might have made Cain wait, but Richard Starke wasn’t that kind of man. He was as precise and punctual as a Swiss watch, his mind structured around a world of mathematics, codes, ciphers and algorithms. As the director of the National Security Agency, America’s premier codebreaking and electronic surveillance organization, these things were as vital to his daily life as oxygen.

His appearance mirrored his fastidious personality. Neither tall nor short, not overweight nor athletic, he was as thoroughly average a physical specimen as one could conceive. His face often wore a thoughtful, pensive expression, as if his mind was immersed in bigger issues, never quite in the here and now. A man who spoke less than he listened, who never sought the limelight and functioned best alone with his own thoughts.

His suit, shoes and tie were of good quality but conservative and practical, lacking any hint of style, flair or personality. Even his greying hair was cut short and neatly side parted, always in the same style, never a hair out of place.

Cain had known Starke for over a decade, and his appearance had changed so little that he often felt like he’d travelled back in time whenever they met. A grey man in grey clothes. To a casual observer, he was a nobody. Just another one of DC’s anonymous government drones toiling away in some cubicle or windowless basement office. Easy to overlook, easy to forget, easy to underestimate.

That was exactly how he liked it.

‘Marcus,’ Starke said as he approached, which was about as close as he came to a welcome. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did Cain.

‘You wanted to talk,’ he mentioned.

Starke didn’t break stride, instead brushing right past him. ‘Walk with me.’

Cain fell into step beside him as he strolled along the forest path. He said nothing further, knowing that Starke spoke and acted only when he was ready.

They’d been walking almost a full minute before he considered it time to begin the conversation.

‘Hogarth’s finished his investigation.’

His tone made it plain this wasn’t a question.

Cain nodded. ‘Wallace’s death was an accident. No further action will be taken.’

‘Of course it won’t,’ Starke snorted. When Cain glanced at him, he carried on. ‘Who do you think made that happen?’

Cain didn’t respond.

‘The group has people in his department. We always have,’ Starke explained patiently. ‘We made sure they were on his investigative team, and the right evidence found its way to him.’

‘The group’, as Starke referred to it, was the collective organization made up of prominent figures in each of the country’s major intelligence, military and even executive agencies. A powerful assemblage of like-minded individuals united by a common goal, as influential and dangerous as it was secretive and insular.

For those on the outside, or foolish enough to believe they understood its nature and purpose, it was known by many names: the Section, the Circle, even the Syndicate. Each moniker was as true and as false as the other, since that was the very nature of the group. Deceit and subterfuge were its modus operandi, misdirection its greatest weapon.

To their uneasy allies and those coerced into doing their bidding, they represented a shifting entity of uncertain goals and identity, a dangerous combination of risk and reward that stifled insurrection and sowed the seeds of mistrust and paranoia. To their enemies or anyone unlucky enough to be caught in their path, they were a terrifying foe that could strike from any direction, thwart any stratagem and strike at any weakness.

They were everywhere and nowhere, as impossible to locate as they were to guard against.

Cain had been associated with this group for the best part of two decades, had risen slowly through their ranks via careful political manoeuvring and displays of skill, yet even he didn’t know their full size and capabilities. They employed a great many people, but each was told only what they needed to know and no more. Few, if any, understood their ultimate goals and motivations.

For men like him, who had been lucky enough to find favour and rise from the lowest levels, actually earning their trust was a long and arduous process. Only now, with his rise to director of the CIA, did Cain stand a chance of interacting directly with the inner circle: the men at the very top of the pyramid who controlled the vast organization beneath.

‘I’m grateful for their loyalty,’ Cain said at last, his voice measured.

‘Don’t be,’ Starke replied. ‘This was damage limitation, nothing more. We both know Wallace didn’t come to you that day to offer his condolences for the death of your daughter. The clean-up crew you used were sloppy, they left evidence behind that we had to deal with. You should have contacted me, we could have arranged better mitigating actions.’

‘Time was a factor. I didn’t want to—’

‘You didn’t want us to know, you mean?’ Starke interrupted. ‘Surely you realize that about the group by now, Marcus? We know everything.’

Cain reconsidered his approach. There was little to be gained by feigning innocence. ‘Wallace could have compromised us. I had to take action, and I didn’t want to risk contacting you.’

‘That’s a mistake I suggest you don’t make again,’ Starke informed him coldly. ‘The group doesn’t appreciate members acting on their own initiative. We haven’t survived as long as we have by tolerating loose cannons.’

It was a sobering reminder that his position was far from safe, no matter what Hogarth’s investigation had decided. Cain knew all too well that careers and even lives had been ended by the group for acts of insubordination.

‘So why did you help me?’

Starke paused. ‘We’ve got a lot invested in you. For now at least you’re still considered useful, but think carefully on that, Marcus. Investments are only maintained while they continue to pay off.’

Cain clenched his fists, well aware of the implicit threat. But at the same time, he began to perceive a tension in Starke’s posture, a strain in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Starke possessed many admirable traits – a ferocious intellect, a ruthless ability to solve problems and a formidable political savvy, to name but a few – but to Cain’s trained eye he had always been a poor liar, preferring to obfuscate and reinterpret rather than fabricate a new reality. Starke’s was a profession that dealt in facts, numbers, calculations, probabilities, not active deceit and subterfuge. That was Cain’s domain, and he was very good at it.

He began to perceive the man beside him in a new light, to understand that the source of his unease was more personal than collective.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said suddenly, deciding to play his hand. ‘You did this.’

‘What?’

‘You’re the one who’s got too much invested in me, not them,’ Cain said, his tone harder and more forceful now. ‘You vouched for me, brought me into the group, helped me rise through the ranks. If I go down, then ultimately you’re the one they’ll blame. That’s why you’ve kept this from the group. It was damage control of your own reputation, wasn’t it, Richard?’

Starke stopped walking and turned to face him. His thoughtful expression had been replaced by a look of anger. And Cain knew he had him. After all these years, he finally had the measure of the man.

‘Be careful, Marcus,’ the NSA director warned him. ‘You’re forgetting yourself.’

Cain raised his chin. ‘I know exactly who I am. I’m the director of the CIA.’

‘Acting Director,’ Starke reminded him. ‘Until they find someone permanent.’

‘You’re looking at him.’

‘The office of CIA director is a political appointment, not an executive one,’ Starke informed him tersely. ‘You need the president and congress behind you. There will be hearings, investigations, confirmations.’

‘So what? My record speaks for itself, and the group owns enough of congress to