In the dark room, the man flicked his gaze to the CNN newsroom, where Breaking Reports were just coming in of a man killed by a car-bomb in upstate Connecticut.

  A concerned-looking reporter was already on the street, the charred remnants of a car behind her, police tape pulled up and crowds of concerned residents gathered alongside the news vans and police cars. He read on the screen that the deceased had been named as David Floyd, former US Marine Corps, and he left behind a wife and three children.

  The commanding officer took the pen on the desk in front of him and drew a line through the man's name, nodding. Six down.

  Five to go.

  The two McLean P.D officers who took the call to check out the house with the stack of newspapers were called Beckman and Vasquez. They'd been partners for almost two years and were a good team, Beckman a Sergeant, cool and calm of Polish-German heritage, Vasquez still just an Officer but with an energy and Latina fire for justice that would change that soon enough. McLean was a relatively quiet place, a good town to be a cop. Crime stats were low in the area. Pretty much everyone who lived here was either wealthy or on their way to be, or they worked for the CIA or Congress. Murders and homicides were minimal, usually less than ten a year, and the crimes that took place were normally financial, money-laundering or tax-evasion, not violent or physical. Beckman had been a cop for twelve years and had only ever drawn his piece three times, never having to fire it. Vasquez was coming up to her third year, but had only drawn hers once. There was no soaring murder rate or any turf wars between different gangs here, and the sense of community in the area meant the locals knew most of the officers by name.

  The two cops worked five days a week, weekends off, and drove their beat in a squad car kept spotless by Beckman, covering an area of about eight square miles. They'd just taken a call from dispatch concerning a domestic enquiry. Apparently a kid who did one of the paper rounds had told his boss about a stack of papers on the front step of a property, and as the squad car pulled up outside, the two officers could see he hadn't been exaggerating.

  Beckman applied the handbrake and killed the engine. Down the street, both cops saw the beginnings of activity from pretty much every house on the street. It was a family area, lots of people walking down paths and headed to cars, firing engines and driving off to work. The muffled noise of kids being rounded up before they were packed off to school, the yellow school-bus pulling up along the street, the activity that took place in most households across the country at that time in the morning.

  But there was none of that kind of activity in the house to their left.

  When they'd taken the call, Beckman had suggested that the homeowner probably worked for the CIA. He or she would have been called away somewhere unexpectedly. That was the nature of government work, after all. Vasquez had agreed that it was a possible likelihood, and when she had checked the squad-car computer she'd found that the homeowner, a Peter Shaw, did in fact work at the CIA. But on the screen, it said he was an analyst, not the kind of guy who would be ordered off somewhere for three weeks. Maybe it was a cover. Maybe he was a field agent instead. But nevertheless, the two officers had to check.

  Stepping out of the car, the cops shut the doors and walked up the path towards the house. Beckman stepped over the pile of newspapers and approached the front door.

  He knocked three times, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to wake the neighbours.

  'Mr Shaw? McLean PD. Open up please, sir.'

  Pause. Nothing.

  'Mr Shaw? Please come to the door.'

  Nothing.

  He turned and looked at Vasquez, who shifted her gaze to the door handle.

  'Check it,' she said.

  Beckman reached over and grabbed the door handle. He twisted it, expecting resistance and for the locking mechanisms to kick in.

  But the handle twisted and the door opened.

  It slid back, revealing a still and empty hallway.

  The two officers looked at each other and simultaneously drew their service weapons, two Sig Sauer P229 pistols, from their holsters.

  One after the other, they moved inside the house, holding the weapons double-handed as they had been trained, clearing the lower level.

  It was silent, no morning activity, no man wearing headphones listening to music as he ate breakfast unable to hear the knock on the door. Vasquez turned right and headed to the living room, whilst Beckman went to the kitchen. Both rooms were empty, but there were clues that were making both officers increasingly concerned.

  In the living room, Vasquez saw a heap of clothing on the floor, a woman's, not scattered as if it had been discarded in passion, but as if it had been torn off and dumped on the spot. She walked over slowly and saw a nightgown and some underwear, both of which were ripped.

  In the kitchen, Beckman saw what looked like the beginnings of a breakfast. There were two big bowls both half filled with what looked like some kind of bran cereal. Beside them, a carton of milk was open on the table. Beckman walked forward and sniffed over the milk, then withdrew hastily, frowning. It was off. The rest of the kitchen was spotlessly clean and almost obsessively tidy, everything where it should be, mugs hanging from hooks, pots and pans all put away, the jars on the spice rack all lined up, their labels facing outwards. But there was one thing that caught Beckman’s eye. Two things, actually. Their absence stood out seeing as everything else in the room was in place.

  There was a wooden knife rack across the kitchen by the toaster.

  But the two biggest knives were missing.

  Keeping his pistol up, Beckman reached for his radio with his free hand, pushing the buttons either side of the handle clipped to his left shoulder.

  'This is Sergeant Beckman. I need back-up at 41-44 41st Street. 10-54 in progress,' he said.

  A 10-54. A call no officer ever wanted to make.

  Possible dead body.

  'Copy that.'

  He turned and moved back into the hallway, joining up with Vasquez. The two cops glanced at each other, their faces mirroring their growing feeling of unease.

  They looked up the stairs simultaneously. Vasquez took the lead, her pistol going everywhere her eyes did, the hair-trigger on the Sig making tiny little jumps in her hands as her heart pumped adrenaline around her body. She crept up the stairs, taking care to not make a sound, Beckman following immediately behind her.

  There were two bedrooms, a small cupboard and a bathroom. The doors to three of them were open, and she could see from where she was that all three looked empty. Beckman moved up alongside her, and the two of them stood facing what must have been the master bedroom.

  The door was shut.

  They moved slowly forward, the two Sigs trained on the wood, and arrived outside the door.

  Outside the room, Beckman turned to Vasquez.

  Ready, he mouthed.

  She nodded.

  He reached for the handle and twisting it, pushed the door open.

  Outside Cobb’s office at the ARU headquarters, First Team were standing in a group, watching through the damaged glass as Cobb talked with Jackson. They'd been in there for about fifteen minutes, and even from here the four officers could see that the atmosphere between the two men was tense. Around them, the clean-up operation was still in full swing, the tech team sitting in their area and although still traumatised, were slowly recovering from their ordeal. But across the room, the four officers stood motionless, curious, concerned, desperate to be in the room with Cobb and Jackson and have some light shed on the situation. On the far right, Archer stood watching Cobb, seeing the unusual anxiety on his boss's face. Even in deep shit, Cobb was always cool and calm. To spook him, something really must be wrong.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Chalky said quietly, in the middle of the group.

  None of the other men responded.

  Watching the two men, Archer suddenly felt the phone on his tac vest vibrate and he pulled it out of its Velcro home. The screen was flashing and it was ringing quietly. He looked at the caller ID but it was a number he didn’t recognise. He pushed the green button and put it to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me,’ a familiar voice said. Feminine.

  American.

  It was Katic.

  He saw the other three officers were looking at him, and he motioned 1 second with his finger and walked off down the corridor.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How did you get this number? This is my work phone.’

  ‘C’mon, Archer, I work for the FBI.’ Pause. ‘I saw on the news here that your police station got attacked? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. They killed one of our guys though.’

  ‘How many of them were there?’ she asked.

  ‘Two gunmen.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘We don’t know. We’re trying to find out. There’s a CIA agent here now talking with my boss. You heard of Ryan Jackson before? Apparently he’s an Operations Officer.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. I can check him out?’

  ‘I thought the Feds didn’t have access to CIA files?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘So what are you going to use?’

  ‘Google, stupid. Hang on.’

  He smiled as he heard the tapping of keys down the line. There was a pause. He took a few steps back into the level and checked through the glass of Cobb’s office. He and Jackson were still engrossed in conversation.

  ‘Bulls-eye,’ she said, as he returned to the top of the stairs.

  ‘You found something?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a news report from The Washington Times. Dated April 23 1999. CIA agent Ryan Jackson awarded Distinguished Intelligence Medal for Outstanding Performance and Service.’

  ‘What does the report say?’

  ‘Hang on.’ Pause. ‘He was twenty six at the time. There’s a photo too. They had a presentation ceremony in DC where the Deputy Director of the CIA pinned it on his suit. All the top people from the Agency were there, as well as the Chief of Staff. Damn, Archer. This guy was a hero.’

  ‘What was it for?’

  ‘It doesn’t say. Just the official blurb- for performance of outstanding services, for achievement of a distinctly exceptional nature in a duty or responsibility. He must have got it on a covert operation. They don’t even hint in specifics at what he did to earn it.’

  Archer nodded and turned, checking back. Through the glass he saw Cobb scribbling something on a piece of paper, drain a cup of coffee and head towards his door, Jackson following close behind.

  ‘Shit, I need to go,’ he said. ‘Looks like something’s happening.’

  ‘OK.’ Pause. ‘It was good to talk you.’

  ‘And you. It always is.’

  He pictured her smile, the other end of the line.

  ‘Speak soon,’ she said.

  He ended the call and slotted his phone back in its home on his vest, then walked quickly down the corridor, stepping past a forensics detective in white coming the other way. He saw Cobb and Jackson were over by Nikki in the tech area, who was back at her desk although still pretty shaken up. Cobb spoke to her in a low voice, passing her the paper, and she nodded, then turned to her computer and started working away at something, seemingly keen to be distracted and get back into the usual routine.

  Archer re-joined the other three officers, who sensed him return and glanced his way.

  ‘Who was that?’ Chalky asked.

  ‘Wrong number,’ Archer said.

  Beside him, Porter gave a grunt of I've had enough and walked forward, approaching Cobb who had turned and was walking back towards his office.

  ‘Everything OK, sir?’ he asked.

  Cobb turned and looked at Porter and the three other officers. Archer could see him weighing up his options, wondering if he should involve them in whatever was going on. Behind him, Jackson checked the time on his watch, then pulled out a mobile phone from his pocket and started texting something.

  'We want to help,' Porter added, reading the situation.

  Cobb looked at him, then nodded. Very well.

  ‘My office,’ he said.

  He walked in, Jackson just behind him, and the four task force officers followed swiftly, moving inside and taking up positions around the room.

  Cobb looked over at Chalky, who was closest to the exit.

  ‘Shut the door, Chalk,’ he said.

  Chalky did so as Cobb looked at Jackson, who was leaning with his back to the wall on Cobb’s right.

  ‘May I tell my men what this is all about?’ he asked.

  Jackson nodded. 'Go for it. It's both our asses if you don't.’

  So Cobb leaned back in his chair and he began to speak.

  TWELVE

  ‘It was 1999,' Cobb said. 'I was twenty six, and was working on a six-month transfer detail at MI6. The war in Serbia was really taking off, and things in Kosovo were going from deep shit to worse. NATO had just got involved, As you may recall, there were two sides, the Serbs and the Albanians, the Christians versus the Muslims as the press liked to portray it, dubbing it a modern holy war. But to the rest of us, it was just a real damn mess. It was already a bad situation, but then NATO stepped in and started shelling Belgrade like it would fix all the problems.’

  He paused.

  ‘I’m sure you know the history. They’ve been fighting over that land for centuries, as far back as 1389. A conference right here in London just over a hundred years ago officially stated that the Kosovo lands from then on would belong to Serbia and Serbia alone. But during the last century, the population in the area gradually became more and more Albanian. Serbia ended all self-government in Kosovo in 1989, and the police force became all Serbian. The Albanians in the region were pissed. They had lost jobs, political rights and dignity. And soon enough, as the 90’s ticked by, they started to demand their independence, saying that the land wasn’t Serbia’s but theirs.’

  ‘But the Serbs disagreed,’ Fox said. Cobb nodded.

  ‘And in 1998, the exact same as in 1389, the fight was breaking out all over the country again, across the plains and in the valleys, two sides going at each other just as they had six hundred years ago.'

  He paused.

  'Like all wars, some really bad stuff happened. Houses and villages were torched, women raped, villagers and civilians executed, entire towns razed and burned to the ground. Stuff that the BBC and CNN didn’t show in their reports.’

  The room was silent as each man listened closely.

  ‘Anyway, I got called into my boss's office in March 1999, just before the NATO bombing of Belgrade had begun,’ Cobb continued. ‘To my surprise, there was a covert operation that he wanted me to handle. He claimed that he was passing it to me because he wanted to give me an opportunity to see what I could do, more responsibility, to see how I handled the pressure, etc. But even at the time I knew that was all bullshit. The fact is, no one else wanted it. It should have been a military job, but for some reason that I never discovered, no one would touch it, all making up long and elaborate excuses as to why it wasn’t possible. So it got passed down and I ended up being the schmuck who was too junior to say no. If I did, I would have been transferred straight out of there and stuck behind a desk. My career would effectively have been over before it had begun.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘What was the operation, sir?’ Porter asked.

  Cobb flicked his gaze at Jackson, who stood watching him silently, his arms folded. The American nodded and Cobb continued.

  ‘Three soldiers from NATO ground forces had been kidnapped. One of ours, a British Army infantry Corporal, and two United States Marines. Intelligence reports said that they were being held somewhere in the Drenica Valley, a long gully in central Kosovo where a lot of the fighting took place. It was my job to find them and get them out. NATO had forces on the ground, but we had extensive access to undercover operatives, drones, bugs and wire-taps.’ He paused. ‘I was working on this alone with a carefully selected team of six. No one aside from the absolute minimum knew about it. My boss said that we couldn’t risk any kind of leaks. If the press became aware of the situation, it could compromise the safety of the hostages. There would be ransom demands and possibly filmed executions.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Soon enough the team under my supervision found the three men by using a drone. It was just as they said. They were being held captive by a group of eight soldiers. I relayed this to my senior officer and he ordered me to organise the rescue operation, which was strange too.’

  ‘Why?’ Chalky asked.

  ‘At MI6, they use covert and undercover operatives, secretive tactics, similar to the work the CIA does. We weren't a military hit-and-run squad and definitely not a rescue team. But nevertheless, he ordered me to handle it, and put me in touch with an American agent from the CIA to assist me. That happened to be Agent Jackson here.’

  The four ARU officers looked over at the American, who nodded, his expression unreadable, his arms folded. Cobb continued.

  ‘Given that two of the hostages were US Marines and that it was a NATO operation, Agent Jackson wanted American soldiers in the rescue team, as well as our own,’ he said. ‘Consequently, it ended up being a six-man squad, two teams of three. Captain Charlie Adams of the British Army in charge, Sergeant Derek Spears of the United States Rangers his second-in-command. And the official name for the unofficial rescue was Operation Blackout.’

  He paused.

  ‘The rescue operation would be performed by foot,' he continued. 'The captives were being held at a remote camp far away from both the Serb and KLA ground forces, out in the valleys towards Bosnia. We couldn’t use aircraft near their citadel. RPGs and bazookas were one of the most commonly used weapons in the war and we didn’t want to risk taking a hit. So the plan was to drop the team four miles to the east. They would infiltrate at night, move in, rescue the three hostages, then head back to the extraction point where it was safe to fly and for us to pick all nine of them up. We had to wait on the weather, and once it was in our favour, we were ready. Jackson and I were working together from a command post inside MI6, co-ordinating the operation. And on a Thursday night in late March in 1999, Operation Blackout was a go.’

 

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