Dark Spies

by Matthew Dunn

  That evening, Ed Parker entered his home in Arlington and poured himself a large Scotch. He didn’t always drink whiskey after work, but he’d had a bad taste in his mouth all day and needed something fiery and toxic to burn it out.

  Catherine was in the garden greenhouse, tending begonias, achimenes, and cyclamens while singing to the plants. Gardening was a relatively new hobby for her and made her smile and relax, and anything that made Catherine happy and contented was a damn fine thing as far as Ed was concerned. She was wearing a gray woolen cardigan with leather elbow patches and her favorite “hippie chic” skirt, which reached her ankles; her raggedy gray hair was kept in a bun by two knitting needles. She described it as her pottering look, though in recent years it was rather more the predominant Catherine look. Ed didn’t mind. She looked gorgeous, the way that many middle-aged women do when they relax into life after surviving all the crap. Moreover, Catherine was not only Ed’s loving wife; she was also his perfect antidote to the pissing contests he had to put up with in the Agency.

  He knocked a few times on the kitchen window until she heard him, looked up, and smiled. He raised the full glass of liquor to the window, pointed at it, mimicked gulping it down in one, then crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue, and wobbled his head as if he were blind drunk. Catherine laughed, knowing that it was her husband’s call to arms to share an aperitif with him after a bad day at work.

  His cell phone beeped, and to his amazement he saw he had an SMS from Sheridan. He’d never received a message from him before, and didn’t even think the man knew how to send them from his phone. Probably Sheridan’s long-suffering wife had finally succeeded in getting the grumpy bastard to learn how to use the cell, even though she barely spoke to him after their marriage had nearly fallen apart during their last overseas Agency posting. Given that they had no children, there was no one else in the Sheridan household who could have taken on the unenviable task. The image made Ed smile, and he imagined Sheridan huffing and puffing about civilian technology being just for kids. Of course, Catherine had rightly pointed out several times that Ed was equally useless with technology, and recently she too had needed to explain to him the basics about texts, contact lists, and how to press Send. He took a sip of his whiskey, read the message, and frowned.

  Did you see him in action? Jellicoe nailed it. Screwed the bastard to the wall.

  Catherine entered the kitchen, pulled out the knitting needles, bent over, and swished her long hair to release raindrops gathered during the short walk between the greenhouse and their home. “Cocks In Agency day?”

  That put the smile back on Ed’s face. “Yeah, one of them.”

  Catherine walked to the refrigerator. “Well, there’s only one thing to do.” She grabbed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a chilled glass and poured herself a drink. “Pizza delivery, followed by me taking a soak with a bit of 50 Shades, and”—she blew him a kiss—“see where it goes from there?”

  Ed loosened the knot of his tie. “What about Crystal?”

  Their nine-year-old daughter.

  “Last-minute sleepover at Debbie’s place.”

  Ed shrugged. “We’d better make the most of it then.” He walked into the living room, flicked on the TV, and started trying to find the right channel while muttering, “Fucking . . . fricking . . . shit . . . why, why, why do they make this playback thing so damn complicated?”

  Catherine took the controller from him, pretended to be exasperated, and asked, “What program?”

  “Senate hearing. Four o’clock this afternoon.”

  It only took her a few seconds to find. “I’ll call for the pizza. Usual?”

  “Yeah, but extra jalapeños.”

  “Not concerned about heartburn?”

  “Least of my worries.”

  Catherine laughed as she walked out of the room. “On your head be it, but don’t let it spoil our fun later tonight.”

  Ed slumped into the sofa and pressed play. God, there was Jellicoe, sitting behind a desk and microphone while facing seven senators, his ridiculously expensive suit only serving to make the plump man look like a 1920s mafioso with a heap of cash but no taste.

  Ed turned up the volume.

  Fifteen minutes later, he turned off the TV and briefly considered resigning from the Agency. Because Jellicoe had told everyone watching the hearing that the Agency was hunting a British intelligence officer named Will Cochrane, had pulled out a photo of Cochrane and held it up so that the room’s cameras could zoom in on it, and had concluded that it would be better for anyone who saw Cochrane to kill him on sight rather than risk attempting to capture him alive.

  Though Ed had as much vested interest in Ferryman as Jellicoe and Sheridan, and had agreed that Cochrane needed to be captured, he’d wanted the manhunt to be done under the radar and Cochrane to be punished by due legal process. Plus, he’d learned that Cochrane had an incredible history of serving Western intelligence. Whatever reason Cochrane had disobeyed orders in Norway, he still deserved to be treated with respect. Now, his name and face were blown and Jellicoe had encouraged everyone who owned a gun to shoot to kill if they spotted him in their backyard.

  Catherine sat next to him. “Everything okay?”

  Ed shook his head in disbelief. “Our best . . . best operative. We . . .” He gestured his glass toward the television, spilling whiskey on the carpet. “We . . . It’s not right. We shouldn’t be doing this to him.”

  Lindsay Sheridan looked at the silver-framed photo of Charles and her standing together in their college graduation gowns and couldn’t decide if the image was making her feel sad or regretful. They looked so young then, happy, her with the nice engagement ring Charles had given her a week before the photo had been taken, Charles with his arm around her and an expression of pride and contentment. What a nice man he’d been then, before he’d joined the Agency, before they’d gotten married, and before they’d been posted overseas several times, culminating in her indiscretion with a fellow diplomat. She couldn’t blame him for being angry about that—not at all—but she could blame him for what led to her being unfaithful. Over the course of years, he’d become a changed man, distant from her and sharp-tongued. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d wanted just to run away from him. All right, they had joint ownership of their home in Montgomery County, but that was the only complication they’d face in a divorce settlement, given that they had no kids. That, and the fact that he had an almighty psychological hold over her.

  She placed the photo next to others on a mahogany side table, rubbed a duster over all the frames, and sighed. A world-class education, and yet she was reduced to dusting a house for a man who showed no signs of loving her.

  She heard the sound of tires on the gravel driveway and glanced across the sumptuous living room. Outside, she could see a limousine. One of the men in the rear was her husband, the other was Senator Colby Jellicoe. Oh Lord. That meant brandy and cigars stinking up her home, with her being banished from the living room while the men spoke in hushed voices about world affairs and how to spy on them.

  It was a shame Ed Parker wasn’t with them. At least then these types of meetings were bearable. Ed was a nice guy, would help her prepare drinks in the kitchen, chat to her, raise his eyes in disdain when Charles or Jellicoe would be barking orders at her from the other side of the house, tell her that she’d lost ten pounds even though she hadn’t, and say that his wife Catherine sent her love and dearly hoped that Lindsay was fucking her way through the neighborhood just to spite her ungrateful bastard husband.

  The difference between Catherine and Ed’s marriage and her own couldn’t have been more stark.

  How times had changed since their days on the diplomatic circuit. Then she’d be at her husband’s side, wearing a ball gown and gorgeous perfume, looking radiant, and working the room to support her husband’s work for the CIA.

  Now she was reduced to being treated with contempt and locked away from all things glamorous, interestin
g, and intelligent.

  God, she wished she could turn back the clock and undo some of the things that had happened. Too late now. She was condemned to this life.

  TWELVE

  Alistair and Patrick knew for a fact that if they stood side by side they’d be the exact same width as Bo Haupman, because they were standing next to each other and were in front of the FBI director in Marsha Gage’s ops room.

  As usual, Alistair was immaculately dressed, though on this occasion he’d opted to turn up wearing a three-piece tweed suit that, together with his slicked-back blond hair and good cheekbones, made the MI6 controller look like an early-twentieth-century royal who’d decided that a weekend in the Scottish Highlands was in order.

  It was a deliberate look—one that played up to the English gentleman stereotype but also unsettled the established norm of bland attire within the FBI HQ.

  Patrick’s image was also chosen with care. His suit jacket was off, slung over his shoulder and held in place by one sinewy finger; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie was loosened. The CIA officer looked like he was about to administer rough justice to a terrorist in a top-secret Agency facility in Southeast Asia.

  Haupman gestured toward Marsha. “This is Marsha Gage. She’s running things.”

  Alistair stepped forward, smiled, and held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, young lady.”

  Marsha placed her hand in his and didn’t know what to think when Alistair lifted it and kissed the back of her hand. “Ain’t been young for a while, sir, nor called a lady for as long as I can remember.” She turned to Patrick.

  No kiss from him, instead a firm handshake, a wink, and the comment, “Bet you’re delighted that you got three dinosaurs assigned to your team.”

  Haupman said to Marsha, “Let me know what you need.” He smiled. “And don’t let these spooks do their Jedi mind games on you.”

  After Haupman left the ops room, Marsha placed her hands on her hips and nodded toward two desks that were facing each other in the middle of the room. “These are yours. Sheridan’s desk is over there, and I hope you appreciate that I didn’t sit you next to him. Thankfully, he’s not here right now.”

  Alistair rubbed his hands and faked enthusiasm. “Wonderful. So what do you want us to do?”

  Marsha frowned. “Help.”

  “To do what?”

  “Catch your boy.”

  Patrick asked, “How long we gotta be here playing cops and robbers?”

  “Until the robber’s captured.”

  Alistair glanced at Patrick with a faint smile on his face before returning his attention to Marsha. “Considering that we could be here for a while, can we request some things?”

  Marsha shrugged. “Sure. Whatever equipment or data you need.”

  “Excellent.”

  Both men whipped out pens and paper and wrote lists. They handed the sheets to Marsha.

  Marsha tried to keep her expression neutral as she read the notes, though she desperately wanted to smile. She looked at the two men before her, spies who she’d been advised had been two of the more powerful individuals in Western intelligence, before they’d recently had their horns removed. But now they just seemed to be a joke, particularly the crazy Englishman. “Really?”

  Patrick nodded. “You did say anything.”

  Alistair added, “When you get to our time of life, it’s the little things that keep us going.”

  She looked at the lists again.

  Patrick wanted a chess set, De’Longhi espresso machine, menus of the best Italian and Indian delivery services in D.C., a picture of a nice sunset or something like that to keep him calm, a once-daily visit from a sports masseur who could loosen the knots in his upper back, a bottle of single-malt whiskey and two cut-glass tumblers, and a soundproofed cubicle to put around shitty Sheridan.

  Alistair had requested a wine refrigerator, a box of Cuban cigars and a humidor, matinee tickets for the National Theatre in case there was a lull of activity in the manhunt, Darjeeling tea and a high-quality tea set, and a catapult with a range of no less than half the length of this room with pellets that would sting but not cause serious injury.

  Marsha sighed. “I’ll get you some of these things.”

  “Splendid.” Alistair walked over to Marsha’s map of the world. “I had one of these on my wall when I was a boy at Eton.”

  “Eton?” Marsha joined him. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Alistair’s expression turned icy, and he lowered his voice so that only Marsha could hear him. “Jellicoe has to all intents and purposes issued a death sentence for Cochrane.”

  “He was authorized to do so.”

  “Not by me.”

  “Seems others have a bigger say right now.”

  “Quite so. You agree with them?”

  “Not on a shoot-first, ask-questions-later basis.”

  “You’d do it properly?”

  “Yes. But make no mistake—if Cochrane wants a fight, we’ll fight back.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  “Kinda not sure that it’s in my interest to have you two here, because . . .”

  “We might hinder.”

  Marsha nodded. “I get it, but it’s a fact that you’ve got a vested interest in keeping Cochrane underground.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Marsha frowned. “Why?”

  Alistair did not answer, instead asked, “No sightings at all?”

  Marsha followed his gaze at the map. “I threw in the wild-card option that he might be heading west. We had a possibility in Greenland, but that turned out to be nothing.”

  “The world’s his oyster.” Alistair’s eyes rapidly took in everything he could see on the map. “You assure me that you’re going to do this professionally? That you’ll take him alive if you can?”

  “Yes, but I can’t assure you that the mavericks think the same way.” She was referring to the CIA.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to assure me on a matter that’s beyond your control.” He was deep in thought. “Jellicoe’s appearance at the Senate yesterday has changed everything.” He turned his gaze to Marsha. “Patrick and I will help you in every way we can, because we want you to find Cochrane, before the mavericks close in.”

  Marsha momentarily wondered if Alistair was trying to flatter her, but rapidly decided not. The MI6 controller’s blue eyes were cold, piercing, and gleaming with intelligence. She’d been wrong about him. He most certainly wasn’t crazy or a joke. “Okay, I buy that.”

  “I’m so glad you do.”

  “But you’re putting a lot of faith in me. Cochrane could be anywhere.”

  “Does that challenge daunt you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I’d heard. And I’d also heard that you were head of the Bureau task force hunting Cobalt.”

  Marsha hesitated before asking, “Haupman told you that?”

  Alistair nodded. “I told Director Haupman that you and Cochrane had Cobalt in common, because I’d tasked Mr. Cochrane to capture Cobalt.”

  In a near whisper, Marsha asked, “Do you know why they pulled the plug on the Cobalt operation?”

  “No. I asked, and was told to mind my own business. I kept asking, and kept getting told the same thing. I do know it was authorized by our prime minister and your president. But why they made that bizarre and downright dangerous decision is beyond me. By my calculation, Cobalt’s money has enabled terrorists to kill at least seven thousand people during the last five years.”

  “Our most conservative assessment is three times that figure.”

  “And you could be right.”

  “I should still be looking for Cobalt.”

  “I agree, but like it or not, we’ve both been given a different assignment.” Alistair took a step closer to the map and put on his reading glasses. “What’s motivating Cochrane right now?”

  “To stay alive, evade capture, vanish, probably change identities and live out the rest of hi
s life in a country without a U.S. extradition treaty.”

  “Maybe. Come closer.”

  Marsha took a step forward.

  Alistair pointed at the map. “It was a good hunch to look west.”

  “Just covering bases. It produced shit.”

  Alistair turned toward her, and in a flash his icy demeanor was replaced with a look of utter charm. “My dear, you underestimate yourself that easily?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “That’s my girl.” His icy expression returned. “It’s quite possible that Mr. Cochrane has an altogether different motivation. Have you heard of a CIA operation code-named Ferryman?”

  “Means nothing to me.”

  “Nor us, but Ferryman protocols are responsible for putting my boy on the run. And he won’t like that one bit.” While keeping his eyes fixed on Marsha and without looking at the map, he stretched out his arm and placed a finger on a country. “Keep looking west, because I think Cochrane’s motivation is to find pure gold.”

  Marsha looked at the map. Alistair’s finger was positioned in North America.

  THIRTEEN

  Despite his best attempts not to, Will imagined that the noise of his boots crunching over ice was rather the sound of his vertebrae grinding together. Though it wasn’t carrying anything aside from the weight of Will’s muscular physique, his back was in agony from his efforts to get across a landscape that was equal parts beautiful, undulating, frozen, and terrifying. He’d trained and operated in places like this many times before, but this was different because he had no backup, no job, no identity, and no purpose beyond establishing why his former employers had turned on him.

  For years he’d felt dislocated from the real world. But it was perverse compensation that the secret world had made up for that by embracing his flaws and unique talents. Now that that world no longer wanted him, he felt more alone than ever, and he could feel the weight of the planet crushing him with the heel of its boot.