Dead Drop

By Esfandiar Ghodrati

Leila Wentworth is out for blood. Her asset betrayed her on a mission in Afghanistan, killing two members of her team before disappearing into the mountains. Now he has resurfaced and she will do whatever it takes to bring him down.

Jack Holmes is in Afghanistan on his own mission but is caught up in someone else’s battle, dodging double agents and falling rocks. He has his orders. He knows what to do.

But rules were made to be broken...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esfandiar Ghodrati
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215337189

Esfandiar Ghodrati

Esfandiar Ghodrati is an entrepreneur, author, producer, philanthropist and founder of New Era Group of companies, as well as other institutions and companies. He writes books for children and adults and his work has been translated into other languages.

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Copyright © 2023 Esfandiar Ghodrati

First edition 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Esfandiar Ghodrati using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Edited by Nikki Burnett for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Esfandiar Ghodrati and Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

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Esfandiar Ghodrati

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Dedication

To my beloved mother, who always supported my dreams. Thank you. May your soul rest in eternal peace.

About the Author

Esfandiar Ghodrati is an entrepreneur, author, producer, philanthropist and founder of New Era College of Arts, Science & Technology based in Gaborone, as well as other institutions and companies. He writes books for children and adults and his work has been translated into other languages. Dead Drop is his third novel.

Prologue

There were voices. Faint, indistinct at first, but rapidly growing clearer. The comforting fog, in which she had been drifting, was lifting. There was light, but not much. And pain. A great deal of pain. A muffled groan escaped her lips.

Someone was at her side, peering into her face. Ms. Wentworth? How are you feeling?

She blinked, letting her eyes roll around to take in her surroundings. Am I on a plane? The words came out as a garbled, barely audible mess of overlapping syllables.

You’re gonna be just fine, Ma’am, said the pleasant female voice. It was a stranger. A nurse? I need you to stay still, okay?

Leila ignored the woman and made a feeble attempt to raise her head. Pain rang through her body and this time she cried out.

Ma’am! Please stay still! You’ve sustained serious injuries and you’ve been heavily drugged. You can’t get up.

Leila lay back down and took a shaky breath. Am I on an airplane? The words were still faint, but clear.

Yes, Ma’am. We’re taking you home.

For a moment Leila drew a blank, her mind consumed by the dull, constant pain and the woolly sensation in her mouth. Home? Home from where? And then she remembered. Kandahar. Fire, noise. Darkness. And Musa.

Thirty hours earlier

CIA Safe House, Kandahar, Afghanistan

The house stood among a grove of trees on the outskirts of Kandahar, a good distance from any other man-made structure in the area, and largely hidden from the view of approaching vehicles. The air outside was dry and still, infused with June heat. It was an unremarkable summer’s day, serene and quiet, for now.

Inside, behind an electronic security door heavy enough to crush an ox, the house was minimally furnished. The living room had a sofa, a couple of armchairs and a coffee table made of old, unvarnished wood. There was a TV set, but it wasn’t connected to the power outlet. Beyond the room stretched a short corridor, three bedrooms and one bathroom. A Formica table, four chairs, a refrigerator and a built-in electric stove and oven stood in the sparsely furnished kitchen.

There were four people in the kitchen. Leila Wentworth, petite with sharp, severe features and olive skin, stood at the window. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail from which several tendrils escaped to coil around her face. She was dressed like her companions in jeans and a plain shirt. Two of the men sat at the kitchen table. The shorter, stockier one was reading the news on a tablet slightly bigger than his palm. The other, tall and broad-shouldered, was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. The third man, grey-haired and with the air of a distinguished professional, moved to a desk in the adjoining room. He pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his long nose and bent over the computer monitor and security feed.

The team had been waiting for hours. Initially, they had kept up a casual conversation and even played a few rounds of cards, but now they had lapsed into a tense silence. Leila kept her gaze focused on the dirt road that wound its way through the valley, passing just a few hundred feet in front of the yard. She was protected by the reflective layer that prevented anyone outside from looking in.

She gritted her teeth. Musa was late. This could mean any number of things. Perhaps he had been delayed. Or hurt. Or apprehended. None of those possibilities sat well with her, because all of them ended with the same scenario – losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve over the last year and a half. He’d better show up, and when he did, he’d better have an explanation. She tore her gaze from the window long enough to check her watch. Five hours past the scheduled meeting time and counting.

Hate to say it, but I don’t think our boy’s gonna show.

Leila resisted the urge to turn around and fix one of her special glares on the speaker with the slight British accent. Luke Rutherford was her least favorite member of the team. He was a cocky smartass, and the only reason she had approved his inclusion on the mission was that he had grown up in the region and could find his way across the Himalayas blindfolded.

She settled for clearing her throat impatiently. He’ll show.

It’s been five hours. The hesitant voice belonged to Kenny, the rookie of the bunch, who was usually too wary of Leila’s sharp tongue to voice an unsolicited opinion.

Maybe he got delayed. Spencer’s calm voice came in from the next room. He was keeping a cool head as always, the mediator of the group. Anything can happen in these situations; we all know that. Heck, last time he was over an hour late.

Big difference between one hour and five, Spence, said Rutherford. I say we reschedule.

Spencer sighed. We shouldn’t make assumptions. Let’s hang tight and see how this plays out. He could still turn up.

Sure, in a body bag. A dull thud indicated that Rutherford had started playing with his knife again.

Leila heard his chair scrape back as he got up to retrieve the knife from the wooden cupboard door, then another thud as he threw it again. Could you stop vandalizing the damn kitchen? she snarled.

Sorry, Boss. There was a trace of mockery in his tone, but no more thuds.

As much as Leila hated to admit it, Rutherford might have a point. With every hour that passed the chances of Musa showing up grew slimmer.

She had known from the start how risky the operation would be. Emal Musa had been taken into custody over two years earlier, a bright young Afghan engineer trained in the UK. He had taken up with questionable friends and developed some dangerous interests, and by the time Rutherford had brought him in, he was on the verge of becoming the Mark Zuckerberg of Islamic fundamentalist social media.

He was still young, barely twenty-four, highly anglicized and unaccustomed to much hardship. He was a thinker, a man intrigued by controversial ideas but not enough to die for them. A few extra zeroes added to his bank balance and the assured safety of his widowed mother and three siblings didn’t hurt, either.

Leila had known from the moment she met him that he would be their ticket to the Taliban, and she was right. He had infiltrated the inner sanctum and everything he gave the CIA was pure gold. He was their best chance… assuming they didn’t lose him. Assuming they hadn’t lost him already. Leila was all too aware of how easily Musa could switch sides. She didn’t trust him and despite his usefulness, she didn’t like him much, either.

Someone’s coming.

She whirled around to look at Spencer. Her heart started to pound. Is it him?

Too far to tell, he reported, keeping his gaze trained on the computer screen.

Leila walked over to him and bent to look at the feed. The cameras could pick up a bird in a tree half a mile away. She could make out the rapidly growing dot in the distance, bumping along the road leading towards the safe house.

It’s a white car… a pickup truck. The number plate’s not clear.

The other two men got to their feet and drew nearer to see.

The one in the passenger seat looks like Musa, said Kenny, as the vehicle came into sharper focus. The big guy – the driver – doesn’t look familiar.

Must be the guide he’s been talking about, said Rutherford. He sheathed the knife. The one who’s been helping him.

He must trust him if he’s bringing him here, mused Spencer.

I really wish he had come alone. Leila straightened up, her hand feeling for the gun at her hip. I don’t like dealing with strangers. What do we know about this driver, anyway?

Leila, relax. Spencer placed a reassuring hand on her arm. Musa’s no fool. If he’s been using this guy all this time, he’s got to be okay.

Leila didn’t reply. Emal Musa was a double agent – his life depended on his ability to read people, to differentiate between his allies and his enemies. He was young, but he was sharp. She had never met anyone quite like him, who grasped new ideas so quickly and was so utterly efficient. They would brief him on a strategy and before they were done, he would already have found the holes in their plan and the perfect way to plug them. This was not the sort of man who would put his life in the hands of someone he wasn’t completely sure of.

Leila knew all this, and still, she felt uneasy, as if something just wasn’t right. Nerves, perhaps. If Musa’s mission had been successful, they were about to obtain information that could deal the Taliban a fatal blow. If things had gone according to plan. And if they hadn’t…

They’re pulling up, said Spencer.

Kenny got to his feet, his hand moving to his gun just in case.

It’s him. Leila could see his face now as he opened the passenger door of the battered truck and jumped to the ground.

Musa was a handsome man of average height, with black hair cut very short and brown eyes hidden by sunglasses. He looked, as always, a little nervous. He had his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He glanced over his shoulder twice before making his way towards the door. The driver, dressed in the traditional salwar kameez, opened his door but remained in the car. Musa approached the front door.

I’ll go greet our guest, said Rutherford with a grin, and headed down the dim corridor towards the front door.

Leila remained silent, watching Musa. He stood uncertainly on the doorstep. He tilted his head backwards and scanned the roof, searching for the camera that he knew was watching him. He took his hands out of his pockets and started fidgeting. He rubbed the back of his neck, scratched his ear, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He had always been like that – unable to sit still, constantly itching to move as if the world was far too slow for him.

A simoon is rising, close your eyes and take cover, he said. His voice was soft but clearly audible. He repeated the words, glanced over his shoulder again and waited.

Step up to the door and say that again, Spencer said into the mike beside the computer.

Musa took a step closer and stared at the number hammered into the door. The number contained a tiny retinal scanner, almost invisible against the dark grey metal. He repeated the code. The voice-recognition software analyzed the words and produced a positive result, and then the retinal scanner confirmed his identity. They could never be too careful.

Clear, Leila called to Rutherford.

She heard the loud click of the front door being unlocked. Another click, another, a metallic thud, a creak, and then Rutherford’s brusque voice – Were you followed?

No.

Sure?

Of course, I’m sure.

By this time all four members of the team had gathered in the foyer to meet Musa. He looked up and removed his sunglasses. His gaze came to rest on Leila.

You’re late, she snapped.

Sorry. We had a small problem with transport. My friend’s car gave us trouble and we had to find another. It took some time to get the truck.

You figured we’d wait forever, did you? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him.

He shrugged. I thought you might. It’s good to see you alive and well, Agent Wentworth.

She raised her eyebrows at him. You have something for me?

Yes. I think you’ll be pleased.

Leila nodded. Come on in.

As Rutherford started to close the door, they heard a loud shout from outside. Musa whirled around, his eyes wide.

Wait! he hissed. It’s my driver. Something is wrong. He ran back outside to the truck. The driver was still inside, shouting in Pashto and gesticulating wildly.

Leila hurried outside, Spencer and Rutherford on her heels. What the hell is going on? She could make out only part of what the man was saying; he was speaking too quickly. Did he say someone was following you?

He says there’s an SUV heading this way. Musa’s expression was grim. Are you expecting someone?

Of course not. Leila reached into her waistband for her gun. Get him out of that truck and take him inside. I thought you said you weren’t followed!

We took every precaution, I assure you! he protested, then told the driver to come out of the car and follow him.

Just get inside! she snapped irritably. She had known that something would go wrong. She had felt it in her bones. She squinted into the distance and spotted the vehicle. It’s heading our way and it’s moving fast.

Local? asked Rutherford, cocking his gun.

I don’t know, but it doesn’t look good. Leila glanced over her shoulder to make sure Musa and the driver were safely inside the house, and in that split second everything became clear.

She saw the driver’s bulky frame under his robe, too bulky, disproportionate to his arms and head. There was something wrong with his shape, as though he had stuffed something under his clothes, something he didn’t want them to see. She saw the expression on his face as he turned to look at her. The fear and panic from a few moments ago were gone, replaced by calm and resolve. She saw her team, all of them outside now, weapons at the ready. She saw Musa standing in the doorway instead of continuing into the house. He was staring right at her, aware that she was onto him, waiting to see what she would do. Her gaze shifted back to the driver, to the hand that was sliding under his clothes.

Get down! she screamed, raising her gun. She fired once, twice, and the driver jerked, crumpled and fell.

Spencer was already on the ground, with Rutherford about to follow suit, but Kenny had started running towards the fallen driver, whose belt of explosives was now partially visible through his blood-soaked salwar kameez.

Musa jumped backwards into the house and started to close the door. Leila frowned, confused. What the hell was he doing? Did he really think he could hide from them? And then she realized the truth. She turned to look at Kenny, on his knees beside the dead suicide bomber, and even as her lips formed the words she knew it was too late to save him.

Kenny, run! She flung herself at Rutherford, who was closest to her, dropping them both to the ground and rolling behind the truck.

The explosion tore through the air. She heard it roar for a second before the world went silent, transforming into blinding light, red heat and flying debris. Somewhere, amidst the chaos, she saw Rutherford’s blood and grime-streaked face screaming silently, his hands dragging her along the ground, pulling her up. Then there was sudden, searing pain and darkness.

*

Leila gritted her teeth against the pain. She couldn’t even identify which part of her body was injured – she was aching all over. Where’s my team?

The nurse frowned and glanced over her shoulder at someone standing behind her. They’re all on board, being attended to. I’m afraid it was too late to save one of them. I’m sorry.

Leila nodded and a spasm ran up her neck. Poor Kenny. The others?

The nurse hesitated. I think you should focus on getting some rest. Your friends are being looked after.

Leila sighed. I just need to know if we lost anyone else.

No, Ma’am. One casualty.

Leila slumped against the gurney, relieved. She felt a painful pang at the thought of Kenny, but she couldn’t focus on that now. She had to know what had happened to Musa.

Ms. Wentworth, how are you feeling? The nurse had stepped aside, replaced by an aide Leila recognized from Langley.

Thank God, she muttered. Someone who can give me some real information. I’m fine. Look, I need to know how many bodies were recovered.

Two, Ma’am. One of ours, one local.

Leila’s pulse started to race. Musa had escaped. He was probably hurt, but by now he could be anywhere.

The aide was still talking. Someone hit the panic button in the safe house just a few minutes after the explosion, but by the time we got there you were all unconscious.

Leila nodded. Rutherford must have managed to get back into the house after the bomb detonated. She vaguely remembered him carrying her. Had he seen what happened to Musa? She’d have to ask as soon as he was able to talk. And the SUV? What can you tell me about that?

Ma’am?

She heaved an impatient sigh. Just before the explosion, there was an SUV approaching the site.

The aide shook his head. I know nothing about that. It must have been gone by the time we arrived.

Check with Big Brother. Big Brother was the surveillance system that kept tabs on the safe house. Even if Rutherford hadn’t reached the panic button, one of the people monitoring Big Brother’s feeds would have spotted the explosion and called it in.

The aide dropped his gaze and scratched his nose.

Fear gripped Leila, and combined with her pain and frustration it was enough to make her lose what little composure she had left. Spit it out! she snapped.

The aide flinched. Uh, I’m sorry, Ma’am. There was a little glitch in the Big Brother system. What I mean is… the feed that covers the house was interrupted.

Leila felt suffocating panic steal over her as the implications sunk in. Musa had planned everything down to the letter. He had managed to tamper with Big Brother, which meant he had people inside the US intelligence community, perhaps even inside her unit in the CIA. How long?

About an hour.

Long enough for him to set off his suicide bomber sidekick and make his escape. Leila’s breath came in short, anxious bursts. Pain flared in her chest, but she ignored it. She had to find Musa. He knew too much – he could destroy everything. She had to find him and fix this mess.

Who’s responsible for that feed?

I don’t know.

Then find out! she shrieked. An agonizing spasm gripped her, making her cry out. Get people out there! We have to find that SUV! She forced herself up, gritting her teeth against the pain.

Ma’am, please calm down.

Don’t tell me to calm down! He’s getting away!

Arms appeared out of nowhere, strong arms pushing her back against the pillow, trying to strap her in. Leila struggled.

Listen to me! Someone has to get back to Kandahar! Someone has to check Big Brother! We have to find out how he did it, and who’s helping him! We have to…. She barely registered the prick of the needle until the fog started to fill her head again, crowding out all coherent thought. No, wait. You can’t…

Once again everything went dark.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Ten months later

The briefing room was silent, except for the quiet electronic buzz of the computers. Leila stood in front of a screen, her hair now cropped short, studying the projected image in front of her. The face of a killer.

She paced the