Burning Angels (12 page)

Who was there left that he could trust?

Jaeger’s mouth opened. At the last moment, he choked back the words
.
If he let them break him, he was betraying his loved ones.

He would never betray his wife and child.

He had to hold firm.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The grey man raised both eyebrows. It was the nearest that Jaeger had seen him come to any kind of spontaneous reaction. Clearly he was surprised.

‘I am a reasonable, patient man,’ he breathed. ‘I will give you another chance. I will offer
your family
another chance.’ A pause. ‘Tell me, when will your friends be arriving? Who exactly are we to expect? And how are we to recognise them?’

‘I cannot answer—’

‘Look, if you will not cooperate, things will become very difficult for you. For your family. So it is very simple. Give me the answers. When will your friends arrive? Who exactly are they? How will we know them?’

‘I cannot—’

The grey man cut Jaeger off with a snap of the fingers. He glanced in the direction of his thugs. ‘Enough. It is over. Take him away.’

The black bag was whipped over Jaeger’s head; he felt his chin slammed on to his chest and his arms jammed together.

An instant later he was on his feet, being dragged from the room like a broken rag doll.

20

Behind the glass partition, Narov shuddered. She watched in horrified fascination as Jaeger’s hooded form was dragged from the room. The two-way mirror offered her a perfect view of proceedings.

‘You are not enjoying this, I think?’ a voice ventured.

It was Peter Miles, the elderly man whom Jaeger had presumed had been shot dead in the woods.

‘I am not,’ Narov muttered. ‘I thought it was necessary, but . . . Does it have to go on? To the bitter end?’

The old man spread his hands. ‘You are the one who told us he needed to be tested. This blockage he has over his wife and child . . . this utter desperation; this guilt. It can drive a man to contemplate what he would never normally do. Love is a powerful emotion; love of a child perhaps the most powerful of all.’

Narov slumped lower in her seat.

‘It is not for too much longer,’ Peter Miles offered. ‘The biggest test – he is surely through it. If he had failed that, he would not be joining us.’

Narov nodded morosely, her mind lost in a swirl of dark thoughts.

There was a knock at the door. A much older, wizened figure entered. He planted his walking stick firmly inside the doorway, concern etched in his gaze. He looked to be in his nineties, but under his thick, bushy brows his eyes remained beady and alert.

‘You are done here, I think?’

Peter Miles massaged his forehead exhaustedly. ‘Almost. Thank God. Just a short while and we will know for certain.’

‘But was this all really necessary?’ the old man queried. ‘I mean, remember who his grandfather was.’

Miles glanced at Narov. ‘Irina seemed to believe it was. Remember, she has served with him in high-stress situations – in the heat of combat – and has witnessed how his nerve can sometimes appear to falter.’

A flash of anger blazed through the old man’s eyes. ‘He has been through so much! He may falter, but he’ll never break. Never! He is my nephew, and a Jaeger.’

‘I know,’ Miles conceded. ‘But I think you understand my meaning.’

The old man shook his head. ‘No man should have to suffer what he has been put through these past few years.’

‘And we’re unsure what effect that has had upon him long-term. Hence Narov’s concerns. Hence the present . . . procedures.’

The old man glanced at Narov. Surprisingly, there was a kindly look in his eyes. ‘My dear – cheer yourself. What will be will be.’

‘I’m sorry, Uncle Joe,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps my fears are misplaced. Unfounded.’

The old man’s face softened. ‘He comes from good stock, my dear.’

Narov glanced at the silvery-haired man. ‘He has not placed a foot wrong, Uncle. He has not let anyone down, all through the testing. I fear I was mistaken.’

‘What will be will be,’ the old man echoed. ‘And perhaps Peter is right. It is perhaps best we are absolutely certain.’

He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. ‘But if he does fall at the final hurdle, promise me one thing. Do not tell him. Let him leave this place without ever knowing that it was we who tested him, and that he . . . failed us.’

The old man stepped out of the observation room, leaving a final comment hanging in the air.

‘After all he has been through, that knowledge – it would break him.’

21

Jaeger expected to be dragged back into the stress room. Instead he was steered left for several seconds, before being brought to a sudden halt. There was a different smell in the air now: disinfectant, and the unmistakable reek of stale urine.

‘Toilet,’ his captor barked. ‘Use the toilet.’

Ever since his ordeal had started, Jaeger had been forced to piss wherever he stood or squatted. Now he unbuttoned his overalls with his bound hands, leant against the wall and relieved himself in the direction of the urinal. The black bag had still not been removed, so he had to pee blind.

There was a sudden conspiratorial whisper. ‘You look like I feel, mate. Bastards in here, aren’t they?’

It sounded close, as if the speaker was standing right beside him. It sounded friendly; trustworthy almost.

‘The name’s Dave. Dave Horricks. You lost all track of time? Yeah, me too. Feels like forever, eh, mate?’

Jaeger didn’t answer. He sensed a trap. Another mind game. He finished his business and went to button up his overalls.

‘Mate, I hear they got your family. Holding them nearby. You got a message – I can pass it across to them.’

By a massive force of will, Jaeger managed to remain silent. But what if there really was a chance here to get a message to Ruth and Luke?

‘Quick, mate, before the guard returns. Let me know what you want me to tell ’em – your wife and kid. And if you’ve got a message for your friends, I can get one to them ’n’ all. How many are there? Quick now.’

Jaeger leant towards the man, as if he wanted to whisper something in his ear. He could sense the guy moving closer.

‘Here’s the message, Dave,’ he croaked. ‘Go screw yourself.’

Moments later his head was rammed down and he was whipped around and marched out of the urinal. A few twists and turns and he heard a door open. He was shoved into another room and steered into a chair. The hood was pulled off; light flooded in.

Before him sat two figures.

His mind could barely take it in.

It was Takavesi Raffara, plus the youthful figure of Mike Dale, though right now the latter’s long hair was straggly and unkempt, his eyes deep-set and dark – no doubt the result of the recent loss he’d suffered.

Raff tried a smile. ‘Mate, you got a face that looks like it’s been hit by a bloody truck. I’ve seen you looking worse, after an all-nighter in the Crusting Pipe watching the All Blacks hammer your guys. But still . . .’

Jaeger said nothing.

‘Listen, mate,’ Raff tried again, realising that humour wasn’t going to cut it. ‘Listen to me. You’ve not been taken captive by anyone. You’re still in the Falkenhagen Bunker. Those guys who threw you in that truck – they drove around in circles.’

Jaeger remained silent. If he could only get his hands free, he’d murder the both of them.

Raff sighed. ‘Mate, you have to listen. I don’t want to be here. Neither does Dale. We’re not in on this shit. We only learned what they’d done when we got here. They asked us to sit in and be the first people you got to see. They asked because they figured you would trust us. Believe me. It’s over, mate. It’s finished.’

Jaeger shook his head.
Why the hell should he trust these bastards; trust anyone?

‘It’s me. Raff. I am not trying to trick you. It’s over. It’s done.’

Jaeger shook his head again:
Screw you.

Silence.

Mike Dale leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. It struck Jaeger that he looked like a washed-out heap of shit. Even during their worst moments in the Amazon, Jaeger had never once seen Dale looking anything close to this.

Dale glanced at Jaeger with tired, puffy eyes. ‘As you can probably tell, I’ve not been sleeping. I just lost the woman I loved. You think I’d be here, dumping this kind of crap on you, after losing Hannah? You think I’m capable of that?’

Jaeger shuddered. A bare whisper: ‘I figure anyone’s capable of just about anything right now.’ He didn’t have a clue what or who to believe any more.

From behind him, he heard a faint knock at the door. Raff and Dale eyed each other.
What the hell now?

Unbidden, the door swung open and an aged, stooped figure entered, stick held firmly in his grasp. He stopped beside Jaeger, placing a wizened hand on his shoulder. He winced as he eyed the beaten and bloodied figure sitting in the chair.

‘Will, my boy. I trust you don’t resent the intrusion of an old man into these . . . proceedings?’

Jaeger stared up at him through swollen, bloodshot eyes. ‘Uncle Joe?’ he croaked disbelievingly. ‘Uncle Joe?’

‘Will, my boy, I’m here. And as I’m sure your friends have told you, it’s over. It really is over. Not that any of this should ever have been necessary.’

Jaeger reached up with his bound hands and clasped the old man’s arm tightly.

Uncle Joe squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s over, my boy. Trust me. But now the real work begins.’

22

The President sniffed the air appreciatively. Washington in springtime. Very soon the cherry trees would be in bloom, the city streets lined with pink blossoms and the air thick with their heady scent.

It was a favourite time of year for President Joseph Byrne; a time when the bleak winter’s chill lifted from the eastern seaboard, ushering in the long, balmy months of summer. But of course, for those who knew their history, those cherry trees also embodied a dark and inconvenient truth.

The commonest were a strain called the Yoshino cherry – descendants of some three thousand saplings shipped to the USA in the 1920s, as a gift of eternal friendship from Japan. In 1927, the city had hosted its first ever Cherry Blossom Festival, which quickly became a regular date on the Washington DC calendar.

And then, in 1942, the massed ranks of Japanese warplanes had descended on Pearl Harbor, and overnight the Cherry Blossom Festival had come to an end. Sadly the Japanese promise of friendship hadn’t turned out to be quite as eternal as had been first suggested.

For three years the USA and Japan had been locked in the bitterest of conflicts. But post-war, the two nations had rekindled their friendship. Necessity certainly made for strange bedfellows. By 1947, the Cherry Blossom Festival had been resurrected, and the rest, as the President was fond of saying, was history.

He turned to the two figures beside him, gesturing at the sweeping view, the first touch of pink lighting up the distant treetops, those closest to the waters of the city’s tidal basin.

‘A fine sight, gentlemen. Each year I worry that the blooms might fail to materialise. Each year they prove me wrong.’

Daniel Brooks, the director of the CIA, uttered a few suitably appreciative remarks. He knew that the President hadn’t summoned them here to admire the view, striking though it might be. He’d prefer to get down to the business of the day.

Beside him, the Agency’s deputy director, Hank Kammler, shielded his eyes from the sunlight. It was clear from their body language that the two CIA men couldn’t bear each other’s presence. Other than a presidential summons like this, they endeavoured to spend as little time as humanly possible in each other’s company.

The fact that Hank Kammler was slated to be the next director of the Agency – once Brooks was forced to stand down – made the older man shudder. He could think of no worse a figure to take over command of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency.

The trouble was, for some inexplicable reason, the President seemed to trust Kammler; to put his faith in his dubious abilities. Brooks couldn’t understand it. Kammler seemed to have a peculiar hold over Byrne; an unfathomable hold.

‘So, gentlemen, to business.’ The President waved them towards some comfy chairs. ‘It seems there has been some trouble in what I like to think of as our backyard. South America. Brazil. The Amazon, to be specific.’

‘What’s it concerning, Mr President?’ Brooks asked.

‘Two months ago, seven individuals were killed in the Amazon. Mixed nationals, but mostly Brazilians; none were American citizens.’ Byrne spread his hands. ‘Why does it concern us? Well, the Brazilians seem convinced that those doing the killing were Americans, or at least under the control of an American agency. When I shake hands with the Brazilian president and get asked about this, I don’t like feeling I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.’

The President left a weighty pause. ‘Those seven individuals were part of an international expedition, the purpose of which was to recover a Second World War warplane. It seems that when they got close to their objective, a mystery force started to hunt them down. It’s the make-up of that force that has brought this to my office.’

Byrne eyed the two CIA men. ‘That hunter force had significant assets at its command, assets that only an American agency could bring to bear – or so the Brazilian president argues. They included Predator UAVs, Black Hawk stealth helicopters, and a fairly impressive array of weaponry.

‘So, gentlemen, is this something that either of you might be aware of? Is there any way it could be the work of a US agency, as the Brazilians seem to be suggesting?’

Brooks shrugged. ‘It’s not beyond the realms of possibility, Mr President. But put it this way, sir: it’s not something I have any knowledge of. I can check and we can reload in forty-eight hours, but I know nothing about it right now. I can’t speak for my colleague.’ He turned to the figure beside him.

‘Sir, as it happens, I do know something.’ Kammler threw a withering glance at Brooks. ‘I make it my business to know. That warplane was part of a project known back then by various codenames. Point is, Mr President, it was top secret then and it is entirely in our best interests for it to remain that way.’