Downfall Read online
Downfall
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part One – Memory
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two – Rationalization
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Part Three – Consciousness
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Four – Identity
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Copyright
For Ian and Trish, whose support and encouragement meant so much.
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 trut
hfully. 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.