Deep Cover (The Trigger Man Book 2), page 30
Zang ended her call and walked back to their safe house. She sat on a deck chair opposite Pierce, sighed, and put her feet up on the table. Now the sun was higher in the sky and yellow, the weather turned hot. Soon a thin film of sweat glistened on her skin while the sunlight reflected off her emerald-green eyes.
He pointed to her coffee. “It was warm when I made it.”
She laughed. “It’s fucking hot here. Don’t think I’ll notice.” She breathed in the strong coffee aroma before she took her first sip. He’d never seen her calm and at ease until today.
“Reporting in?” Pierce asked.
She nodded.
It had taken two days to reach Berberati and prepare Dr Kiambi with everything he would need to rebuild his life, or rather everything it was possible for them to provide. During Pierce’s moments of lucidity, he’d put Kiambi in contact with David Nogambi, the UN Refugee Agency aid worker he had met in Cameroon, and a diamond trader in Abuja who owed Pierce a favour and wouldn’t double-cross him in fear for his life.
They reunited Lifeway with her husband the moment she understood Eloko and his thugs were dead and could no longer threaten her. The soldier who had claimed her, Mamadou, had held Lifeway and her children as hostages, so there was no emotional connection to untangle. Pierced sensed neither Derek nor Lifeway Kiambi had believed until this moment that it was possible they might one day escape their nightmare. But they were together again now, and they had money and a purpose. Pierce hoped they prospered and no further tragedies marked the rest of their hopefully long and happy lives together. The love Derek and Lifeway expressed to each other left Pierce feeling empty in a manner he could not describe.
Then there had been the flight on the CIA’s off-the-books Gulfstream G280 jet that transported Zang and Pierce to Swakopmund in Namibia. They never met the flight crew, and no one else shared the passenger cabin with them. Pierce had experienced similar covert flights, where no human interaction passed between the crew and the passengers. This maintained deniability and served to protect the identity of operators in the field, but Pierce had his suspicions that the powers back in Langley knew he was on the flight, which meant they had plans for him. On this tranquil morning, in this perfect retreat, he was about to press Zang on this matter.
She massaged her shoulders, perhaps to release the tension carried in her muscles. “You’re looking much better.”
He nodded. “I feel it too. The cramps and fever are gone, just as the good doctor said. So, what’s the plan?”
Zang grinned. “What do you want the plan to be?”
He shrugged. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what Langley’s intentions are.”
Her face softened. “You are no longer on our terminal list, Pierce, if that is what you are asking?”
“I figured that I wasn’t; otherwise, this resort would be the opposite of nice.”
“Pierce, you exposed Idris Walsh as the real traitor. I saw what Walsh and the others did to you, the tortures they put you through. And evidence we’ve uncovered elsewhere supports your story.”
“Evidence like what?”
“Like the murder of a Colombian forger with a talent for creating realistic but fake news and surveillance tapes. Traffic cameras recorded Walsh in the same area at the same time police responded to a gas explosion in the Colombian’s house two weeks ago. He was Walsh’s man who created all the false intel he had me and the others chasing for months.”
“Where is Walsh now?”
Zang shrugged. “He disappeared into Canada four days ago. Intel suggests he’ll be on the Cancri tomorrow, as Trager said he would be. Satellite imagery confirms Rupert Ponsonby has been there for days, and our taps into his communications suggest he’s waiting for Walsh to show up. Ponsonby also has eight South African mercenaries protecting him and the ship, not including Ponsonby’s normal security contingent. All the mercenaries are former Recces and led by a rather nasty individual called Kurt Krige. You know anything about him?”
Pierce nodded. “Doesn’t care who he works for. Once aided Janjaweed insurgents in their massacres of the Dinka people in South Sudan. The latest I heard was that he hired out his services to the Sinaloa drug cartels in Mexico. Not above killing civilians, women and children.”
“That’s the one. Did you know Walsh and Krige are friends? Have known each other for decades.”
Pierce raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”
“The more I uncover from Walsh’s past, the murkier it becomes.”
For a long moment neither spoke. Pierce took Zang’s cup and made them fresh black coffees. When he returned and placed her coffee before her, Zang was again massaging her shoulders.
“You okay?” he asked.
She smiled and nodded. “It’s nothing. Just tension.”
“A migraine?”
“No, thankfully.”
Pierce sipped his coffee and stood by the door. “What about the radioactive waste?”
“We recovered the four drums in Bayanga no problem. They’re now secure in an undisclosed facility inside the US.”
“And the last two?”
“Specialist teams are scouring the planet looking for them. We have tipped off various diamond mines, those you said were mentioned in Ponsonby’s speech, but we have to be careful who we tell, because we don’t want fanatics finding the drums before we do. So far, nothing. But regular facial-recognition and radiological scanning data sourced from all the various major airports any of our bad guys might have used suggests they’ve only flown on minor airlines within Central or Southern Africa that don’t record such things.”
“There can’t be too many mines to check?”
“But enough.”
Pierce swallowed, then drank more of his coffee. “Why do I feel this is all leading somewhere?”
She looked up at him through bright, expressive eyes. “That’s because it is.”
63
Pierce moved to the railing and prepared himself for what Zang was about to say. She had an easiness about her, projected confidence and independence in equal measure, and yet Pierce sensed she was choosing her words carefully. He said, “Let me guess. You want me to extract from Walsh and Ponsonby the locations of the final two waste drums?”
Zang stood so she wouldn’t have to look up at him, then stretched out the muscles in her back by raising her arms high over her head. “Yes, Pierce, that’s right. That’s why the CIA wants you to complete your mission.”
“My mission? I didn’t realise I had one.”
“Your self-appointed mission. Since Kazakhstan, your single goal has been to bring Walsh and his co-conspirators down. Why stop now?”
“I was pursuing my own objective, which was my freedom, and I’ve achieved that. Why do I need to kill Walsh? The US has plenty of covert teams that could terminate him more efficiently than I could.”
“Because you’re deniable, and the CIA needs an off-the-books assassin with the right motivation. It’s the perfect deep cover legend for you.”
Pierce laughed without humour.
He realised how tired he was, of fighting, always operating at high alert, the never-ending pretence of being someone he was not when operating under a deep cover identity, and the persistent double-guessing of his superiors’ motives supposedly on his side, but whose motivations were often greed and self-preservation. But what bothered him the most was his lack of choice. Once he’d believed the CIA would welcome him back after they learned about the hell he’d been through, but to deny him that choice now and diminish his role to that of a deniable contractor felt like salt thrown on a wound.
Pierce considered Zang’s part in this murky covert operation. He didn’t doubt her loyalty or patriotism and had witnessed how often she put her own life on the line to serve a greater good. He sensed that her intentions to help Pierce conflicted with her orders, but she wasn’t the decision-maker in this moment, only their messenger. Perhaps that was how the CIA wanted it.
“You’re upset that Langley doesn’t want you back?”
Pierce snorted out a chuckle. “What bothers me are the lies. I don’t feel any need for retribution against Walsh and Ponsonby. Sure, I’ll kill them given the opportunity, and without hesitation, because it serves a greater purpose, but don’t try to manipulate me emotionally into carrying out whatever mission you have mapped out. Give it to me straight, and then I’ll tell you if I’m willing to do it.”
Zang gritted her teeth and paced. “You want it straight, Pierce? I’ll tell it to you straight. Ponsonby and Walsh are terrorists. Nuclear terrorists at that, so the worst kind, and that also means Polytope Diamonds funds terrorism. Your mission objectives are simple. First, find the last two radioactive drums. Second, terminate Walsh and Ponsonby with extreme prejudice. Third, sink the Cancri. In that order.”
Pierce stared out across the African landscape and thought how peaceful it could have been here if they weren’t having this conversation. “Yet the CIA wants it deniable, so nothing comes back to them?”
“Exactly!” She massaged her neck again. “It’s not something you and I haven’t done a thousand times before.”
“Turn around.”
She frowned. “What? Why?”
“Zang, turn around and sit on that chair.”
She hesitated, then did as he instructed.
“You have another migraine?”
“Yes.”
“I can fix that.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
He didn’t want to talk anymore and realised how long moments of silence brought him a temporary peace. It had often been that way during his incarceration in Eloko’s camp. Days spent alone meant long periods without torture or interrogation, and he soon realised he needed them. Without speaking, his hands were on her neck and shoulders, massaging the rock-hard muscles. She flinched at first, but soon his nimble fingers worked the muscles until the tension went out of them. Working his hands brought a calmness to his mind, so he enjoyed the moment too.
Fifteen minutes later, when Zang loosened up, he looked at his palms with his fingers spread. There were no tremors.
“Wow! My migraine’s gone. Where did you learn to do that?”
Pierce stepped back and sat opposite her. “I have my secrets. So do you, and I accept that. It’s the roles we chose. But in missions we work on together, you can’t hold anything back. Give it to me straight, or I just walk away.”
She nodded and cast her eyes downwards. “That’s reasonable. We need you to be deniable because others will see the bombing of the Cancri as an act of war against Angola and possibly Great Britain since this is a British company.”
“Bombing?”
“Yes, you’ll place explosives to sink it. Given your recent, albeit fabricated history, the CIA believes you make the perfect deniable operative to pull this off. Going after Walsh and Ponsonby for revenge is a scenario that no one will scrutinise.”
“But that leaves me out in the cold when it’s all over, with more governments and organisations putting out more kill orders in my name. Far more than I have already.” An icy shiver ran the length of Pierce’s spine. No wonder direct talks with the CIA hadn’t happened. Communicating through Zang in this remote safe house was just another layer of deniability and distance if all this went wrong.
Zang stepped forward and touched him on the arm. “You’re not alone in this. All the equipment and weapons you need are ready for you. Or should I say, ready for us. I’ll be there with you, and I’ll be with you when we escape. Afterwards you and I will return to the States as a team, where we will provide you with protection.”
Pierce stared into her deep, emerald-green eyes. She never blinked nor displayed tells of concern or that she was trying to mask a lie. “Why are you coming with me, Zang? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”
She didn’t answer him.
“Langley told you to send me in alone, but this is personal for you too, isn’t it?”
She looked away and lowered her eyes. “Mark,” she’d never called him by his first name before, “I have a plan. A two-pronged attack, one of us striking from the air and the other from the sea. And I have a means of securing us on board with no one knowing. And the means to get us out again.”
He sensed she still wasn’t telling him everything. “Your superiors ordered you to send me in alone. So why are you helping me?”
She caught his stare and held it. “Because you and I are the same, and this is wrong, sending you in alone. We are just not alike because of our skills and experience, but also because of our motives. People hurt me badly when I was younger, and the same happened to you. I can see it written all over that mask you call your face. You hide your feelings well, but not from me. I see it because I wear the same mask.”
“How do you know about my past?”
“I don’t know your secrets, specifically, just as you don’t know mine. But I can see how past trauma defines you as much as mine defines me. We understand each other, and I need people in my life who understand me. They don’t come along that often.”
“How do we get on board the Cancri?” Pierce asked, his body rigid.
Zang stiffened and stepped back. “Odel Nunes. Angola’s Minister of Natural Resources. He’s connected to all this, through regular bribes Ponsonby pays him. Ponsonby has been reneging on his deal, which naturally has upset Nunes, making him our way in. Nunes plans to meet with Ponsonby soon to secure his next bribe payment. The CIA therefore has arranged for Nunes’s regular pilot to come down with bad food poisoning, allowing me to step in and replace him.”
She explained the rest of her plan.
Afterwards, Pierce thought through her strategy and saw that it might work.
But he didn’t tell her how he would alter it to suit his own needs once the mission was in play.
64
Pierce woke suddenly.
A foreign noise alerted him into consciousness. Without moving, he listened again for the noise.
The safe house was dark this late into the night. The air felt cool after the day’s heat, but still warm enough to sleep without sheets. He remained motionless, feigning unconsciousness until he recognised the noise that had awakened him.
The hum of the kitchen’s refrigerator.
In his pyjama pants and bare chested, he tiptoed into the kitchen with his Glock 19 in his left hand. The refrigerator’s rumble had changed frequency. This was what had woken him, so nothing of concern. Pierce opened the door and closed it again. The noise dropped off to an almost imperceptible purr.
A second noise.
He turned in a blur, Glock raised and lined up on the potential threat.
Less than two metres from him, Rachel Zang stood wearing only a short T-shirt, her SIG Sauer semi-automatic aimed at his forehead. Her long arms and legs shone white in the starlight filtering through the windows.
They locked eyes, neither moving. Neither lowering their weapons.
She dropped her pistol and tore off her T-shirt. Naked, her slim but muscle-honed body glistened with sweat. Firm breasts seemed to point straight at him. Her shallow breathing grew in intensity.
Pierce’s heart rate increased. The pace of his breathing soon matched hers.
She rushed him, jumped and straddled him around the waist.
Pierce dropped his weapon, his mouth all over hers. One hand gripped her firm bottom, holding her close to him, the other entangling her hair at the back of her scalp, pulling her head close to his. Their mouths entwined. Her breasts pressed firmly against his chest.
He carried Zang to her bed and threw her on it. She tore off his pyjama pants and pulled him down. Kissing turned into lovemaking.
Pierce soon felt lost in the intensity and urgency of the moment.
He had wanted this for too long.
65
Fifteen minutes later they lay panting on their backs, staring at the fan rotating overhead, with sweat dripping off their naked bodies. Rachel’s long, slender left leg lay draped across his thighs. Pierce’s hand rested on her belly, feeling the rhythm of her breathing. Her hand rested on his jaw, tracing the stubble that would be a beard soon if he didn’t trim it.
She laughed. “That was… unexpected.”
Pierce felt the palpitations in his heart. His stomach felt alive with fluttering butterfly sensations. “I feel I should call you Rachel now.”
“That would be nice, Mark, but only during moments like this. On a mission, I’m Zang, and you’re Pierce. Helps keep the boundaries clear.”
They lay for a moment, not speaking, just feeling each other’s presence and aliveness. He wondered if she felt the same palpitations and fluttering.
It had been too long since he’d last enjoyed the pleasures of physical intimacy. He’d recognised his desire for Rachel Zang the moment they had met, and now that they had acted on their mutual attraction, he wanted more. He felt purposeful again, like he had rejoined humanity after being apart from it for so long.
“You liked me even when I was Irina.”
He couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question.
“I did,” he said, and realised he meant it. “I’m still trying to accept that you planned on killing me in Kazakhstan.”
She sat as she tucked her long dark hair behind her ears. “About that…”
Pierce sat too, sensing the conversation was about to turn in an unexpected direction. “What is it you’re not telling me, Rachel?” He tried out her first name. Speaking it caused his chest to heave.
She smiled as she rested her hand on his shoulder, just above the bandage over his bullet graze, which was healing without complications now that it had been properly treated and Pierce had commenced on a treatment of antibiotics. Both their bodies displayed the numerous cuts and bruises they’d endured over the last week, and older scars from past missions and traumas gained in the field. “Until we met, I honestly thought you were a terrorist.” She looked away. “But it wasn’t you who I was after. Not really.”
