by Matthew Dunn
Just as he did.
He thought about some of the most challenging assassinations he’d conducted. None of them had been as complex as the one he was now planning.
But that didn’t matter, because he knew exactly what he was doing and was in no doubt that he’d be able to get close enough to his target to smell the man’s fear.
Thirty-Two
Will walked slowly along the banks of the river Spree, adjacent to several hundred yards of the remains of the Berlin Wall. A fine rain started to descend, and he pulled up the collar of his overcoat and put his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t moving toward any destination, just needed time to think—aside from traveling back to Germany, he’d done little else since his conversation with Geoffrey Pepper.
Part of him felt anger. He was certain that Peter Rhodes had given Rübner’s CIA case officer Will’s identity and home address, had wittingly or unwittingly set in motion a sequence of events that had led to his sister needing to go into hiding, and had betrayed knowledge of Will’s intention to break into Yevtushenko’s house.
But he also felt confused and sad. Peter was naturally likable, smart, irreverent, yet thoroughly professional. And he was courageous. Despite immense danger to himself, his service as a NOC had required him to play the part of an advisor to a murderous businessman with a nerveless performance. He was a natural actor, and Will now wondered if he used that skill to hide a less pleasant aspect of his personality. He decided that wasn’t the case. Peter could be a chameleon when in the field, but when he was surrounded by MI6 officers he was himself.
He leaned against the remains of the Berlin Wall, trying to decide what to do. If he involved Alistair, the Controller would send men to grab Peter, take him back to the United Kingdom, and put him on secret trial. That would almost certainly result in the officer being given life imprisonment. Will could put two bullets in his head. When the truth came out, nobody would question his action. But even though Peter deserved both, neither decision seemed right.
He stayed still for fifteen minutes, allowing rainwater to wash over his face as he stared at the river. Most of the time he rigorously protected his independence and ability to make decisions on his own. But occasionally there were moments when he wished he could walk away and let others go through the anguish of trying to decide the solutions to situations like these. Now was one of those moments.
But he had to make a decision.
He reached for his cell phone, hesitated, then called Roger.
Laith grabbed an empty mug and headed toward the safe-house kitchen. “I’ve just had a call from Roger. Will’s on his way back.”
Peter asked, “Did he get access to the Rübner files?”
Laith shrugged. “Didn’t say.” He called out, “Oh, and Peter. Will wants to meet you in one hour in the lobby of the Steigenberger Hotel. Alone.”
Laith called Will. “He’s on the move, on foot at the moment but looks like he might be trying to hail a taxi. Adam’s mobile. If he does get a cab, we’ll stick to him.”
Sixty minutes later, Will was in the departures section of Berlin Brandenburg Airport. The newly constructed international airport was bustling with travelers. Standing in the center of the concourse was Peter Rhodes, oblivious to the presence of Will, Adam, and Laith. He was motionless, staring at the flight departures board.
Will looked at his paramilitary colleagues. They were apart, fifty yards beyond Peter. He nodded at Laith, sighed, and navigated his way through the crowds. “Hello, Peter.”
The MI6 officer turned quickly, shock on his face. But then he smiled. “So many destinations to choose from.”
“I don’t envy you.”
Peter returned his gaze to the board. “I’ve got a passport, a credit card, and have no idea what I’m doing. But I did know that I didn’t fancy meeting you at the Steigenberger Hotel.”
Will was silent.
Peter muttered, “I suppose the choice of destination will be made for me. Saves me a lot of hassle.”
Will moved in front of him. “Why did you do it?”
Peter’s eyes flickered mischievously. “Because I’m a bastard.”
“No, you’re not.”
Peter lowered his head, seemed to be considering Will’s response. “I got a lot of brownie points for distributing the Rübner intelligence. It got me promoted, an increase in salary.” He looked up. “I’m getting married in a few months. My fiancée and I need every penny we can get.”
“So you decided that you couldn’t let anyone know that Rübner had tricked us and that your career had been accelerated on the basis of a lie?”
“That pretty much sums it all up.”
Will shook his head. “Peter, you could have just been honest. You’ve had a great career. You’d have been promoted anyway.”
“Maybe.” Peter’s smile faded. “Trouble is, one little lie follows another little lie and soon you suddenly realize you’ve created one big lie and there’s no way back. I should have distanced myself from them. But they were insistent. We gave Rübner the identity of Yevtushenko and the means to contact him, hoping that Yevtushenko would disappear and no one would be the wiser. We should have done so with SSCI approval, but we knew the Senate would never have given it to us. So my CIA friends made their own decision. I’d love to tell you that they did so without my knowledge, but that would be untrue.”
“You thought that if I got to Yevtushenko, he’d tell me that he’d been set up by the CIA team running Rübner, and that I’d quickly then link that person to you?”
Peter did not reply.
Will took a step closer. “Your treachery has put my sister’s life at risk.”
“What?”
“You gave the CIA team my name and home address. They gave that to the man who’s now in possession of the paper. He’s threatened to kill Sarah unless I back down.”
Peter looked confused. “They weren’t supposed to do that! They were just supposed to send you a message to your home, telling you to mind your own business.”
“Well, they decided to do much worse. And after you told them I was going to break into Yevtushenko’s house, they put a team in place to stop me escaping and to get me shot by the Russian cops.”
Peter shook his head. “No, no. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I told them in case there was stuff in there that you shouldn’t see—to give them the chance to get there first and sanitize the place.”
Will said between gritted teeth, “You played right into their hands. Who are they?”
Peter huffed. “I might have been played for a fool, but my mouth’s shut on that. You’re going to put me in a cell and throw away the key.” He looked around, his eyes locking on Adam, then Laith. Nodding, he looked back at Will. “It appears that you might do worse. I’ve no reason to speak to you.”
Will pointed at the flight departures board. “You can get on one of those flights . . .”
Peter frowned.
“. . . if you tell me who was running Rübner, the identity of the people you were working with to stop me getting closer to Yevtushenko.”
“You’d just let me walk away? I doubt that.”
“Where’s your fiancée?”
“England.” Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Today she’s getting measured for her wedding dress.”
“You can never see her again.”
Peter lowered his hand. His face was now pale.
“You’ll be arrested if you try to set foot in the U.K.; you’ll be arrested if anyone spots you in Europe; the States aren’t an option; nor are any of the Commonwealth countries.” Will raised his voice to be heard over the din coming from the crowds around them. “It won’t be a case of just walking away. You’ll be on the run, by all accounts with very limited funds. What I’m offering you is a life of looking over your shoulder, of poverty, of living in some hellhole, petrified that at any moment your front door is going to be kicked in. But maybe that’s a better option than solitary confinement in a maxim
um security prison, or”—he glanced toward Laith and Adam—“a more absolute solution.”
Peter looked confused. “Why would you do that for me?”
“That question’s been plaguing me for the last twenty-four hours.” He pictured Luke’s head ripping open when he shot him in Gdansk. “Maybe I’m just sick of doing the dirty work.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
“You need to make a decision!”
The crowds were getting thicker, and though travelers brushed against the two MI6 officers, they stayed still.
“Decision, Peter.”
Beads of sweat ran down Peter’s face, and he screwed his eyes up as if he were in pain.
“Time is running out!”
“Okay!” Peter’s breathing was fast. More quietly, he repeated, “Okay.”
“Who was running Rübner?”
Peter stared directly at Will, his expression imploring. “Somehow, can you get a message to my fiancée? Tell her I’m truly sorry.”
Will nodded.
“Thank you.” Peter looked at the flight schedules. “Can’t go anywhere West, nowhere first world, nowhere with a U.K. extradition treaty in place.” He smiled bitterly. “You’re right; it has to be a hellhole.” His breathing slowed. “Look after the section. They need you.”
“That’s not your concern anymore. You keep your mouth shut about everything you know. And if you warn off Rübner’s CIA handlers, I’ll personally come after you.”
Peter nodded. With resignation, he said, “I’ve no reason to speak to them now. After all, keeping their secret has got me to this place. There’s four of them. All are very senior Agency case officers, with a lot of power and autonomy.” He held out his hand.
Will hesitated, then shook it. “If ever you see me again, run.” He lowered his voice and said with genuine concern, “Look after yourself.”
Peter smiled. “I’ll try my best.” Glancing around, he laughed. “I don’t think the arrivals section of the country I’m headed to is going to look anything like this.” He looked at Will one last time. “Rübner’s CIA handlers have the code name Flintlock.”
PART IV
Thirty-Three
Kurt Schreiber walked along the corridor toward the door, which was flanked by two armed bodyguards. He entered a vast, sumptuous room containing leather sofas and armchairs, original paintings by Leopold Bode, Hans Dürer, and Matthias Grünewald, a large log-burning fire that had been prepared by one of the twelve-bedroom property’s housekeepers, and walls clad in oak panels that had been taken from a nineteenth-century Prussian man-of-war. Extending down one side of the room was a forty-yard balcony where, during the summer months, he would frequently spend time eating or drinking with his numerous shady business associates while admiring southeast Germany’s Bavarian Alps and overlooking the valley two thousand yards beneath them. But today, the sliding glass doors were shut to prevent the icy mountain air and snow from entering the warm residence.
On the border with Austria, the isolated mountaintop property was Schreiber’s favorite retreat. Because it was extremely difficult to access and was at all times guarded by at least twenty armed men, it was also his most secure.
The old man sat in his usual armchair by the fire, poured a glass of Camus Cognac Cuvée, took a sip of the liquor, and rested his glass on the coffee table, next to a plate of Abendessen bread and a file. The room had an air of serenity, Heinrich Schütz’s Zwölf geistliche Gesänge played softly in the background.
He tore off a chunk of bread, raised it to his mouth, and paused midair. He imagined over one hundred million men, women, and children eating their last mouthful of food before spewing blood-drenched vomit and dying.
That’s what would happen if Slingshot was enacted.
Schreiber chuckled and tossed the bread into his mouth.
He leaned forward and opened the file. Six sheets of paper were inside. He placed them next to each other and stared at the men’s profiles and their attached photos.
General Leon Michurin, Russian, deceased. Seven years ago, his alcohol-abused body took its final gulp of vodka.
General Alexander Tatlin, Russian, deceased. The chain-smoker had died last year in agony from lung cancer.
Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev, Russian. The former senior SVR officer had moved to southern France ten years ago to grow wine, while keeping his mouth firmly shut about his previous life in espionage.
General Joe Ballinger, American. The retired four-star general, who’d previously spent all of his adult life on a war footing, now spent most of his days analyzing his vast investment portfolio from his New York mansion.
CIA officer Thomas Scott, American. A man who’d wanted to be head of the CIA, got passed over for promotion, and resigned from the Agency in disgust. Since then, the Yale-educated former operative divided his time between teaching at Harvard, sitting as a trustee on the boards of several charities, and participating in political think tanks.
Admiral Jack Dugan, American. After retirement from the military, Dugan had used his military connections to carve out a lucrative career in the arms industry. His wealth had not only enabled him to buy a three-million-dollar home in Potomac, Maryland, it had also funded his successful U.S. senatorial campaign.
The six men who’d attended the Berlin meeting in 1995.
He put a finger on the photo of one of the four surviving members.
The treacherous bastard who intended to give evidence about Slingshot to The Hague.
He recalled Dugan’s comment to him.
We’re the kind of men who like to have impenetrable security wherever we go.
Lifting Dugan’s profile, he placed his rimless reading glasses on and muttered, “Your security has caused me a lot of trouble.”
Thirty-Four
At midmorning, Will, Roger, and his men watched the Jeep stop at the side of the deserted country lane on the outskirts of Berlin. The land around them was featureless, flat, and made more dreary by a persistent rain that was turning to hail. Suzy got out of the car, pulled up her jacket’s hood, and approached their stationary vehicles. Despite the weather, all of the men were standing on the side of the road.
Will asked quietly, “What have you got for me?”
She told him about Interpol’s request for any information on Kurt Schreiber, the location of an unknown high-value witness in the Netherlands, and the impending hearing in The Hague.
Will lowered his head, deep in thought. He felt weary, had only managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep each day since the paper escaped his clutches in Gdansk. “You think Schreiber’s the witness?”
“Impossible to know.”
“Still nothing on the word Kronos?”
“Nothing.”
Will thought about Sarah. Every six hours he received SMSs from Betty to update him on her safety. “We need to go after Rübner’s wife and daughter. Rübner himself will most likely be invisible. But children need schools; wives like to socialize. Find them, we’ll find Rübner. And when we get him, we’ll make him talk.”
Laith spoke angrily. “We’re not in the business of harming women and kids.”
“My sentiments exactly.” Will ignored the hailstones hitting his face. “There’ll be no harm; we’ll just put the fear of God into them. We have no other choice.”
Mark rubbed his stubbly face. “I’m not comfortable with this.”
Nor was Will, though he couldn’t show that doubt to his team. “Could you sell out your country’s agents and do that simply for money?”
The former SBS commando shook his head. “Fuck, no.”
“I doubt any of us could.” Will nodded. “Rübner will stick close to Yevtushenko and the paper. That means his family’s in Europe, possibly Germany itself.” He walked away and stood with his back to the others in the center of the deserted road. He stayed like this for one minute as the others watched him, then turned and looked at Suzy. “Scour Europe, find Rübner’s family.” He tu
rned to Roger. “I need you to do something for me today. After it’s done, rejoin your team and use your men as a hunter-killer unit. Once Rübner’s family has been located, get him, make him talk.”
“You’re not joining us?”
Will shook his head. “Tonight I’m going to visit The Hague.”
Mikhail stayed motionless, prone on the ground. He watched the officer and his men move back toward their vehicles. The paramilitary team and American analyst drove away from him; the MI6 operative came right toward his hidden location.
Who should he follow?
He made a decision.
This time he would not let the MI6 officer out of his sight.
Thirty-Five
Alina removed Maria from the new baby carriage Will had bought her, put the child into a high chair supplied by the shabby Minsk café, and placed her daughter’s food on the table between them. The place was a third full. Outside it was snowing, and the road adjacent to the eatery was a mix of white snow and muddy slush.
A waitress came to her table and snootily asked, “Are you going to buy anything?” She pointed at a sign. In Belarusian, it read ONLY FOOD PURCHASED IN THESE PREMISES MAY BE CONSUMED HERE.
Alina felt angry, unzipped her purse, and saw that it contained barely enough rubles to buy her a mug of coffee. She ordered a drink, and added, “I doubt this shit hole sells baby food, and if it did I wouldn’t poison my child with it.”
The waitress stormed off.
Alina unscrewed a jar of homemade turnip and carrot puree, sat down, and began spooning the meal into Maria’s mouth. “Daddy’s going to come home soon.”
Maria swallowed some of the food as bits of it dribbled over her chin. She grinned and made a chortling sound.
“We have to believe that, don’t we?” She scrapped the mess off Maria’s face, trying to keep her tone light and happy, even though she felt exhausted with worry and over the last few weeks had burst out crying at the most random of moments. “Maybe Daddy could take us out for a picnic. Would you like that?”
