by Matthew Dunn
Anyway, need a job done, ask a soldier. Dickie pushed himself up out of his armchair and marched to his intercom. “Yes?”
A man answered. “Metropolitan Police.”
“Good for you. I’m ex–Coldstream Guards. Now we know each other’s vocations, what do you want?”
The police officer hesitated before asking, “Can we come in?”
Dickie was ramrod straight, his clothes pressed to the standard of parade grounds, and asked in the clipped tone favored by British army officers, “Did I forget to pay my library fine?”
“This isn’t about you.”
“Then why are you speaking to me, sunshine?”
“We just need someone in this house to let us in.”
“We? You come mob handed? Want to bang some heads together?”
“There’s just two of us.”
“Maybe you want to plant some evidence. Fit me up, then take me away in the blues and twos.”
“Blues and twos?”
“How long you been in the force?”
“We call it service these days.”
“My school dinner ladies used to do service. You a dinner lady?”
The officer sounded exasperated when he replied, “No. I’ve been in the . . . force for fifteen years; my colleague six years.”
“Twenty-one years combined. Same length of time, I fought in four conflicts and stood in front of Her Majesty thirty-seven times. You know what Guardsmen think of coppers?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Damn right, young man. We think you’re undisciplined bullies who’d never have cut the mustard in the army.”
“Please. Just let us in. It’s not about you. It’s about Will Cochrane.”
Dickie glanced at the Telegraph. Beyond it, lights from his small Christmas tree flickered over his neighbor’s image. It added a surreal festive flavor to the spread. “Very well then. Just make sure you don’t steal anything.” He pressed the intercom’s buzzer.
Will looked out of the small airplane’s window and saw Greenland’s coast move past and be replaced by an inhospitable gray sea. The Davis Strait. The plane shook from the wind as it flew a mere two hundred yards above the water, but Ulana expertly turned it in new directions to work with the weather rather than let the icy blast toss the aircraft onto its back like a discarded toy. As he watched her motionless head, he had no doubt that she’d be able to navigate her way through parenthood with equal skill.
He recalled a day during the Spartan Program when he had received a briefing from two surviving members of the Special Operations Executive, both in their eighties. During World War II, one had been a Lysander pilot, the other an agent who’d helped rally resistance in Holland and France. The pilot had described how he’d needed to fly the agent across the Channel and land on tiny strips. His biggest fear hadn’t been being spotted and attacked by the Luftwaffe, but rather making an error and flying into the sea. The agent had concurred, saying that he was always relieved when they safely landed, even though it was in a place of extreme danger, and that he felt utterly useless during those flights.
Right now, Will knew how that felt.
If Ulana made a misjudgment, there was absolutely nothing he could do.
He was willing her to reach Canada and touch down successfully.
Detective Superintendent Barclay handed his police ID to Dickie and watched the widower scrutinize it before handing it back to the officer.
“Special Branch?”
Barclay nodded. “Based in Scotland Yard.” He gestured to his uniformed colleague. “This is Police Constable Evans. He works in Southwark Station. I thought it best to bring along a local friendly face.”
Dickie’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Evans. “Friendly face? Never seen you before. Not surprising. These days, you lot spend all your time driving around thinking you’re in some American cop flick. Forgot you got legs. Tell you what though: pop over some time for a cup of tea so we can get to know each other. I can teach you how to properly iron your uniform. You look like a bag of shit tied up in the middle.”
Barclay sighed. “It would be most helpful if you had a spare key to Mr. Cochrane’s flat.”
“Why? Thought you liked kicking doors down.”
“We’d rather not.”
“Scared he might be in there and get a bit peeved if you damage his property?”
“Is he in there?”
“Haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“That’s what we thought. But we would like a look inside his apartment. We do need to find him.”
“Think he’s left a holiday brochure lying around, telling you exactly where he’s popped off to?” Dickie was standing to attention, his arms locked tight against his sides, and felt every bit as if he were dressing down a bad recruit on the parade ground in Wellington Barracks. “Don’t have a spare, but Phoebe might. Come with me.” He eyed Evans. “You single?”
The police constable nodded.
“God help you.”
“Forty-five minutes, give or take, until we reach Canada.” Ulana banked the Islander as a blast of wind came from a different direction, causing the plane to shudder. Dense snow and ice particles were racing past so quickly that Will wondered how Ulana managed to remain oriented. She leveled the craft. “Conditions are getting worse.”
Will gripped his seat while trying to smile. “Great to hear.”
“At least it means we stand less chance of being detected. Visibility’s bad; plus no one would expect a plane to be flying low level in this shit.”
“There’s always a silver lining.” Will stared at the sea and imagined what would happen if they crashed. Would they drown or freeze to death? Either way, it would be agonizing. Yes, a bullet into the brain would be preferable.
Superintendent Barclay, Constable Evans, and Dickie reached the first floor and stood outside the apartment. Dickie knocked and called out, “Phoebe. It’s the major. I’m here with company. Male company.”
After a five-second delay, Phoebe replied, “Just give me a minute.” There was rapid movement inside the home. “Fuck . . . damn . . .”
Phoebe never liked to answer the door to men unless she was looking her best.
“Shit.”
The three men stood patiently.
“Bollocks.”
Six minutes later, the door opened. Phoebe stood before them, her hand on her hip, wearing a little black dress and heels. It was her sultry look, and all the more remarkable for the fact that a few minutes ago she’d had no makeup on and had been wearing a dressing gown.
Though they had absolutely nothing in common, not for the first time Dickie thought that his Guardsmen could have learned a thing or two from Phoebe. Most of them needed at least an hour to get themselves into their number-one uniforms. Phoebe could do so in a fraction of the time.
Dickie pointed at the men by his side. “Coppers, looking for our boy Cochrane. Bloke in uniform needs motherin’; probably can’t tie his own shoelaces.”
Phoebe eyed the constable, a slight smile on her face, her eyes wide and penetrating. “Do you need mothering?”
Dickie interjected, “They want to do some snooping. Need a key to Cochrane’s place.” He glanced at the officers. “Lost the use of their legs.”
Phoebe frowned. “What has Will done wrong?”
Dickie clasped his hands behind his back. “Seems Mr. Cochrane’s been living a lie, and Plod here wants to punish him for that.”
Will opened the flask, poured himself a drink, and was surprised to see that his cup wasn’t filled with bad tea; instead it contained soup. He took a sip of the liquid. It was homemade and he could taste beef, vegetables, fennel, paprika, cream, and a hint of lemon. Ulana was right; during his service in MI6, he’d done a lot of first-class travel and had availed himself of food that was as refined as it could be at thirty-seven thousand feet. The soup tasted just as good as anything else he’d consumed in a plane; actually, better. He wondered if
Ulana had prepared it especially for him. Most likely, yes.
Holding the mug in two hands, he eased back into his seat while trying to stop the soup from spilling out as the plane was buffeted. Alongside a British passport and credit card in the blown name of Robert Tombs, a dodgy American passport, eight thousand dollars, and a handgun and spare clip, the soup was all he had. It was important. Something good that was here to help him.
He thought about his home in West Square. It was now just as he wanted it: a place that was homey, safe, and contained his treasured art, antiques, and musical instruments. A year before, he’d taken his possessions out of storage so that they could be prominently displayed, partly to cheer up his new place, but more important, to barrage his senses with beautiful and interesting things. They were healthy distractions from the wholly unhealthy sense of feeling utterly alone and unwanted. He dearly hoped he’d be back home sometime soon.
As Phoebe, Dickie, and the police officers reached the top of the next flight of stairs, David opened his door and asked, “Everything okay?” He was wearing a chef’s apron and holding a large knife; Kid Ory’s “Society Blues” was in full swing within his apartment.
Barclay eyed the knife. “Best you put that thing away.”
David glanced down, looking embarrassed. “Oops. Sorry.” The flabby mortician smiled. “Don’t worry—I only use knives on dead things. What’s going on?”
Phoebe told him.
“A spy? On the run? That can’t be right.”
Dickie said, “Read the papers, Sunny Jim.”
“They’re always full of shit.”
“Not this time.” Dickie nodded toward the officers. “They want us to let them into his flat so they can search the place. We’re here to exercise our civic duty to ensure they’re not bent coppers who’re going to nick stuff. Care to join us?”
Barclay pointed at the blade. “By all means join us, but you’re coming without that thing.”
“Sure.” David placed the knife on a shelf and rubbed his hands over his food-stained apron. “How exciting. Cochrane a spy. Who’d’ve thought?” He winked at Phoebe. “I always thought he looked like one of them boxers you fancied. Makes sense though. All those trips away. Who does he work for? Communists? Terrorists? Please tell me, not the Chinese.”
Barclay ignored the questions and strode up the final flight of stairs.
Despite her heels, Phoebe kept pace and unlocked the door. After it swung open, she held her hand to her mouth and exclaimed, “Oh no!”
They all moved into Will’s apartment. The beds in the bedrooms had been overturned; drawers had been pulled out and upended, their contents spilled on the floor; and the clothes in the closets had been slashed with razors or knives. The living room was in an even worse state. It had been comprehensively torn apart to the extent that all around them was carnage. Will’s German lute had been smashed; his paintings had been ripped from their frames; foam had spewed out of his chairs and sofa where they’d been cut; everything had been damaged beyond repair.
Dickie was visibly shocked and disgusted. “Vandals? Burglars?”
Superintendent Barclay calmly moved around the room, examined the barred windows, went back to the front door and got on one knee to scrutinize the lock, reentered the living room, and methodically examined everything within the room. A few minutes later, he asked, “Does anyone else have a key to his front door?”
Phoebe shrugged. “Apart from Will, don’t think so. He told me never to lose my key copy, because he didn’t have or want any more spares.”
David pointed at the lute. “Bloody idiots. Reckon they could have sold that for a few thousand quid.”
Dickie huffed. “We’re dealing with scum here. Might be able to pick a lock but, sure as eggs are eggs, whoever turned this place over didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Wouldn’t have any idea about the real value of things. No discipline. Utter scum.”
Barclay stood in the center of the room. “That’s one possibility.”
“Possibility?” Dickie’s face was flushed with anger. “Think you’ve spent too long in an office. Forgotten what it’s like to live among”—he swept his arm—“parasitic vermin.”
Barclay’s eyes flickered as he rotated around, staring at the damage. “I’ve been to thousands of burglaries and places of mindless vandalism. They’re either one or the other, but never a combination.” He looked at Major Dickie Mountjoy and smiled. “You know what coppers think of most military men?”
The old soldier held his gaze with stubborn resolve. “That we put our lives on the line to keep civvies like you safe in their warm beds?”
“I’m sure most of us think that way. I’m also sure we think that you’re hindered by a hierarchical need for order and discipline that requires you to be linear thinkers who can’t visualize anything outside of a tiny box.” Barclay looked around one last time, while deciding that he needed to get back to the Yard to make an international call. “A professional entered this property, and that person, most likely with the help of other professionals, did all the damage you can see.” He crouched down and picked up a battered French viola by its broken neck. “This isn’t vandalism or burglary. It’s a systematic search. And I think I know who authorized them to do so.”
The coastline was barely visible through the inclement weather, but it was most certainly drawing nearer and looked as rugged as the seaboard vista that Will had seen as he’d approached Greenland. But this was Canada. He’d have zero help here and would somehow need to travel west and south to reach America.
He screwed the thermos shut, opened the sandwiches, and took a bite. The bread tasted home baked, and inside was salmon that had been smoked, drizzled with lime juice, and sprinkled with cracked peppercorns. Again, not what he expected. After he swallowed a mouthful, some of it was involuntarily squeezed back up his gullet as the plane repeatedly bounced midair. He winced, desperately trying not to vomit out the food that Ulana had prepared with care and most likely a desire to ensure her passenger died with a full and contented belly. Thankfully, he managed to swallow it back down, though the bodily action had left an acrid sensation in his throat and mouth.
Ulana shouted, “Make ready. We’re landing on a deserted track. It’s going to be a bumpy landing. You can sue me later.” She turned the plane and flew even closer to the sea.
The lower altitude meant Will could no longer see the land; instead it looked like Ulana was going to put the Islander onto water. He put on his jacket, gloves, balaclava, and ski goggles. Then a thud, followed by staccato jolts as the plane’s wheels came into contact with land. Will lurched forward as Ulana slowed the aircraft, thrust out his arms to prevent him from head-butting Ulana’s seat, and forced his upper body back as the Islander came to a halt.
Ulana turned the engine off, quickly donned her winter gear, jumped out of the plane, opened Will’s door, and shouted, “Come on. Duty Free’s open.”
Will stepped out of the plane and was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of the wind. It was even stronger than it had been in Greenland. And as he looked around, the place looked more desolate and barren. Mountains were at least twenty miles away; most of the land around him was relatively flat, windswept, and covered with snow and ice that was being whipped into a frenzy by the gale. There were no buildings here, no sign of any life.
Ulana reached into the craft, opened a compartment, and withdrew a spade. “Quickly, now.”
Will ran alongside her for 150 yards until she abruptly stopped and thrust the spade into the snow.
“X marks the spot. You’ll need to go down at least two feet and four by three feet wide.” She checked her watch. “Start digging. I’m going to inspect the aircraft for any damage.”
As she sprinted back to the plane, Will grabbed the spade and began his task. His wrists and arms jarred in pain as he slammed the spade into the frozen ground, making him wonder if he’d be able to remove much more than a few inches of snow and soil. But he con
tinued anyway, knowing that he’d die out here if he didn’t access the cache. Ten minutes later, he’d gotten down to one foot.
Ulana reappeared, cupped a hand next to his head, and shouted, “I’m good to go.”
A fresh gust of wind pushed her back so quickly that Will had to grab her arm to stop her from crashing to the ground. “You should wait until this dies down!”
“Too dangerous. This kind of weather usually hangs around for days.” During which time, she’d freeze to death or be captured. “I’ve got to make the flight back before it gets worse.”
The wind sounded like the howl of a wolf, though many times louder.
“Please, Ulana! Come with me. We can lay low somewhere until it’s safe to come back here.”
Ulana shook her head. “Never done that before and I’m not going to start now.” Though Will couldn’t see it, underneath her balaclava she was smiling. “As tempting as it may be to lay with you for a day or so.”
Will was about to make further objections.
But Ulana held out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Cochrane. Word of advice: if it doesn’t work out, don’t do prison. Every wannabe hard man will want to test himself against you. When you’re exhausted, one of them might get lucky.”
Will could see that Ulana’s mind was made up. He shook her gloved hand. “Be safe and take a risk by going back at a higher altitude.”
“High altitude, low altitude. Different risks. Same outcome.”
Will didn’t know how to respond, then settled on “What are you going to call your boy?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Something strong.” She patted him on the arm. “Just occurred to me—there’s one good name I can think of.” She pointed north, shouted, “Nearest road’s eight miles that way,” turned, and ran back to the plane.
Will watched her while continuing the excruciating dig. The task in hand made Will admire Ulana and her team even more. Most others would have found the futile yet backbreaking and fraught task of maintaining the Canadian border a soul-destroying job. Not so these Russians.
