by Matthew Dunn
Patrick poured more coffee into his mug. “He will.”
“I want to meet the team.”
“Of course. I’ll get them here now.”
Will shook his head. “Not all of them together. Get Laith, Ben, and Julian here first. We’ll meet their team leader separately.”
Will looked at the three men before him. He knew that to most people they would appear, from a distance, to be average men, and that was as it should be, for these men spent most of their time hiding among the ranks of normal people. But Will could immediately tell that the three specialists sitting in the Rossligasse house were anything but average men. He could see that they were highly professional. He could see that they were killers.
Patrick was leaning against a wall, also studying the men. “Introduce yourselves.”
“Laith Dia.” This came from the man on the left and was spoken in a deep, rich voice. The American looked tall, sinewy, and very strong. He had striking straight black hair and jet-black eyes. His physique, features, and name suggested that he was of both Moorish African and Levantine Arab heritage.
“Why did you join the CIA, Laith?” Patrick folded his arms.
Laith pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “To help senior officers like you get out of the shit.” He blew smoke. “Plus, in Delta we got to travel a lot, but it was always a quick in and out of places.” He smiled. “In this job we get to mix much more with the locals. It gives me the chance to take in the sights and shop for presents for my kids.”
Patrick nodded at the man in the center.
“Ben Reed.” The man was not large and looked like a lawyer or a doctor rather than a Special Forces-turned-CIA paramilitary man. He had immaculate blond hair and a fixed grin showing perfect teeth. “And before you ask”-he also sounded Harvard-educated-“I joined our service to impress women. But nobody told me back then that I had to keep my job a secret from them.”
The three men laughed, but Patrick did not. He pointed at Ben. “I wasn’t going to ask you that. My question is, what’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, in either Special Forces or the CIA SOG?”
Ben seemed to consider the question and then smiled wider. “Filling in my last tax returns.”
Patrick said nothing for a moment before slowly turning his attention toward the third man and nodding at him.
“Julian Garces, ex-U.S. Air Force special operative. Currently deployed in the CIA with a guy who likes shopping and a guy who can’t get laid.”
The three SOG men laughed again, and this time Will saw a slight smile emerge on Patrick’s face.
Julian was evidently Hispanic and was as tall and sinewy as Laith. He had dark, cropped curly hair and a scar down one whole side of his face. He reminded Will of the ancient and lethal Iberian warriors he’d seen depicted in paintings.
Julian’s laugh slowly receded until his face grew serious. He looked straight at Patrick. “I’ve killed ninety-seven men, which is only three less than Laith and only seven less than Ben. Add all of those deaths together, and you’ve got the number of men Roger’s killed.” His eyes looked cold. “Like my friends, I’ve been in almost every overt and covert American war that’s happened during my adult life. If you want to ask me, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is spend three months in a village in northern Afghanistan teaching medicine and other survival skills to the women and children and elders, protecting them day and night, and then having to walk away from that village when my job was done, only to see the place destroyed by Taliban guerrillas a few days later.”
Ben nodded.
So did Laith.
The three men looked at Patrick and then at Will with icy gazes.
Will held their gaze before turning to address Patrick. “They’ll do.”
“Will is the intelligence officer who is running the operation.” Patrick was sitting on the dinner table. The man he was speaking to was sitting on a chair in the center of the room. “Do you understand?”
“It’s not a difficult thing to comprehend,” Roger replied.
“Good.” Patrick nodded. “Will’s British. Could that be a problem for you?”
“Only if he has a problem with the fact that I’m of German descent.”
Will laughed.
“I’m sure that he doesn’t have a problem with that.” Patrick’s words were rapid and not jocular. “Are Laith, Ben, and Julian now bedded down?”
“Why would you feel the need to ask about my men, Patrick?”
“I don’t have such need. I simply have a need to hear how you respond to me.”
“Then you should now know that despite your profile I have no desire to be unduly deferential to you.”
“Which in turn would mean you wish to project independence and control.” Patrick slapped his hands together. “I need that.”
“What a man like you needs is rarely shared with people like me.”
Will turned from the window and looked at Roger. He walked toward the middle of the room, grabbed a dining chair, and spun it around to sit opposite Roger. Despite being seated, the man before him was obviously quite tall, but Will was pleased to note that Roger betrayed no obvious signs of being a special operations officer. Will could tell that Roger was visibly older than his men, and even though he was clearly a handsome man, with short straw-colored hair, there was something in his face that spoke of a lifetime of living with extremes.
Will nodded once. “I can tell you exactly what I want.”
Roger regarded Will for quite some time, then frowned. “You’ve been in the military. Special Forces, I would say.”
“How do you know that?”
Roger waved a hand. “You’ve got dead eyes.”
Will had been told by others that his eyes had died long before he joined the army. “French Foreign Legion. I was a GCP operator.”
Roger said, “When I was in DEVGRU, we did some cross-training with you guys. We taught you underwater insertion techniques. You taught us how to kill people while diving through the sky in a HALO insertion.”
Will sighed. “Is it of any particular relevance what units we previously worked in?”
Roger shook his head, smiled before going serious again. “I come from a family of fighters who all served different organizations and flags. I’ve served the country of the United States as a DEVGRU SEAL and now as a team leader in the CIA SOG. My father and my uncles served deep behind enemy lines in Vietnam with the Australian SAS and on secondment with the secret MACV-SOG. And my grandfather served as a paratrooper in Germany’s elite First Fallschirmjager Division in most of the European and Russian hellholes that existed for Wehrmacht soldiers in World War Two.” He smiled. “They’re all dead now, and all I have to remember them by is a bunch of medals and photos and citations.” He looked at Will. “But I know that none of us-my forefathers, their brothers, or me-has fought for our organization or our country. We’ve all fought for the man by our side.”
Will glanced at Patrick, then turned back to Roger. His first impressions of Roger were very positive. “I’m going to give you every single detail about this operation, and I have a very specific reason for doing so. There is a strong possibility that I will be eliminated by the man we seek. If that happens, the operation must continue, and you will be in charge in the field.”
Roger shrugged. “That’s fine by me. I just need to know my objectives.”
Will smiled briefly without taking his eyes off the paramilitary officer. “You have two primary objectives: monitor a woman while she tries to make contact with our target and then help me seize the target when he reveals himself. You may have secondary objectives, but they will be determined subject to on-the-ground developments.”
Roger nodded almost imperceptibly.
Patrick spoke. “Unless something catastrophic happens, you take your orders from Will rather than me.”
Will snapped his fingers. “Forget that.” He looked at the man’s face. “Forget orders. All I need to know is this: Can you and I w
ork together?”
Roger placed his hands neatly together and then nodded. “I made up my mind about you the moment you sat down before me. You look like you know what you’re doing. The only thing that concerns me”-his words slowed-“is that you do not appear to fear your own death.”
Eighteen
The following morning Will and Roger entered Croatia. They took a taxi from the country’s main airport in outer Zagreb, and within twenty minutes they had arrived at the five-star Regent Esplanade, on the city’s Antuna Mihanoviceva. Roger got out of the car first and walked quickly into the imposing hotel. Will stayed in the vehicle, fiddling with bills to pay for the drive. When he was satisfied that Roger was in position, he handed the cash across to the driver, grabbed a bag, and made his own way into the Regent.
Will looked around the elegant, spacious reception area and spotted Lana in a corner sofa area. He walked casually up to her and kissed her on both cheeks. He had a smile fixed on his face and hoped that to anyone else in the hotel he looked like Lana’s husband or lover.
When they were seated, Will said quietly, “You’ve checked in?”
“Yes.” Lana gestured to take in their surroundings. “I’ve never stayed in a place like this. My room is lovely.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. You won’t be here long.”
She was dressed in a suit with a short, boxy jacket, a slim skirt, and leather pumps, with a gold silk scarf carefully wrapped around her throat. Her hair was pinned up high to reveal her stunning Arabic features. He felt instantly attracted to her and for a moment wondered how it would feel to genuinely be Lana’s lover. He decided it would feel good.
“Do I have your approval?” Lana raised an eyebrow, crossed her legs, and placed her hands in her lap.
“You fit right in here.” He reached down to his side, picked up his small bag, and swung it across to the floor by Lana’s feet. “I bought you some gifts.”
Lana looked at the bag and then smiled at Will.
He wagged a finger and smiled. “There’s nothing in that bag to get too excited about. While you’re here, you need money and communications equipment, so I’ve treated you to a laptop, a cell phone, a credit card in your name, and three thousand dollars. I’ve also enclosed my contact details.” He smiled wider. “I did, however, throw in a gold necklace for no reason other than to make you feel positive thoughts toward me.”
“Positive thoughts?” Lana smoothed a hand over her hair and frowned. “Why am I here?”
Will checked his watch, even though he knew exactly what time it was. “It’s nearly nine A.M., meaning the place you need to go to is open.” He withdrew from an inner jacket pocket a folded sheet of plain paper, an envelope with a printed name and address on its cover, a fountain pen, and another sheet containing the words Lana needed to copy. He carefully placed all of it on the coffee table between the two of them.
Lana picked up the sheet containing the words and silently read its contents. Then she sighed and picked up the pen. Her hand shook as she did so.
I would like the contents of this letter to be communicated to a dear old friend.
My friend is a Persian man who knew me during troubled times in Central Europe. I helped him with his dangerous tasks, and then one day he suddenly disappeared. I believed he must have been killed, and for years I have mourned his absence from my life.
Something has happened, though, which has given me hope that my friend may not be dead. A British man who works with secrets approached me nine days ago at my home in Paris. The man told me that my friend was still alive and now held a very senior and powerful position within the Iranian military. The man said that he wanted to capture my friend in order to prevent something bad from happening in the United States or Great Britain. The man asked me questions about my friend. The British man gave me his own name and contact details and said he would return to speak to me again soon.
I am scared. I have fled my Paris home, even though in doing so I have left an ill mother alone. I have traveled eastward to put distance between me and the secret British man, although I am sure he will find me if he wishes to do so.
But I hope that my old friend can find me first. It is my hope that my name is still on your records and can be linked to my old friend so that this communique can be passed to him with urgency. It is my hope that he replies to this letter. For the time being, I can be found at the Regent Esplanade hotel in Zagreb.
If my friend is alive, I cannot bear the thought that he may be captured and incarcerated or murdered. I am willing to help prevent that from happening. I am willing to tell him all that I have learned from the British man. I am willing to give him details about the British man so that he may be seized. I will do so if my friend will do something for me in return. Please tell my old friend that I wish to be with him again.
Yours,
Miss Lana Beseisu
Will pressed his cell phone against his ear and listened to Roger’s words.
“I watched her go into the building. She’s now back at her hotel.”
Will nodded. “Good. When are your men joining you?”
“They’ll be with me in one hour.”
“All right. Then your first primary objective has commenced. Even though she’ll be unaware of it, your team needs to stay around her day and night.”
Will closed down the phone and tapped fingers against the inner door of his airport-bound taxi. Lana had hand-delivered the letter to the Iranian embassy in Zagreb. It was addressed to the attention of the defense attache of the embassy, the IRGC man whom Harry had identified. Will hoped the man would realize the importance of the letter and immediately communicate its contents to the IRGC headquarters in Iran. If he did so, it should take the IRGC minutes to link Lana Beseisu to Megiddo. In turn, Will hoped that Megiddo would feel he had no alternative other than to respond to the letter in order to ascertain whether his operation against the West was completely compromised. He hoped that Megiddo was not based in faraway Iran but instead was close by in Central or Eastern Europe. However, Will knew that so much now rested on hope itself. He breathed deeply and for the first time in days felt that he was no longer in total control of events.
Will sat in the Zurich safe house, opened the laptop, and read Lana’s e-mail.
Dear Nicholas,
I have received a reply. What should I do?
Love, Lana
Patrick emerged with a mug of coffee and a serious expression on his face. “There are no more flights back to Zagreb for at least eight hours.”
Will checked his watch. “It’s not ideal, but find out which member of Roger’s team is on rest and get him to bring the letter to me.”
He typed on the laptop before Patrick could respond.
Dear Lana,
At seven-thirty this morning, please go to your hotel’s 1925 Lounge. The place should be empty, but please choose a corner seating area with a table. Place the letter response on the table and leave the bar no later than seven-forty-five.
Yours, Nicholas
Will sent the e-mail and took two big gulps of his steaming coffee. He looked up at Patrick. “It will be tight, but there’s a nine-twenty A.M. Croatia Airlines flight out of Zagreb. One of Roger’s team should be able to get the letter to me here by midday.” He glanced back down at his laptop as it bleeped. Lana had responded and would follow her instructions.
Laith Dia pulled off his Helly Hansen arctic parka and tossed it over the back of a chair. He tousled his straight black hair with his fingers and then rubbed a large hand over his neck. He pulled out an envelope, which he gave to Will before sitting in one of the armchairs.
Will studied the envelope, gently feeling its weight in the palm of one hand.
“If it’s got explosive in it, then that should have been detected as I went through security at the airports this morning.” Laith lit a cigarette and jabbed it in the direction of the envelope. “But its contents could be coated in poison.”
Will nodde
d slowly while examining the edges of the envelope’s seal. He then carefully opened the letter. Within was a single sheet of paper, which he withdrew and examined. He saw that it had been cut along the top. He held it up to the light coming through the room’s window and then placed it on his lap. He scrutinized the envelope before smiling and discarding it to one side. He picked up the letter again and spoke to no one in particular.
“It was written in a hurry. The nearest stationery available was used, and in this case it was stationery belonging to the Iranian embassy in Zagreb. The author of the letter cut off the paper’s header to try to disguise its origin, and there is no watermark on the sheet. But the author forgot to check the inside of the envelope. If he had done so, he would have spotted a tiny giveaway inscription underneath one of the glued folds.”
Will read the letter.
Dear Miss Beseisu,
I am delighted to receive your letter, and it seems a lifetime ago since we last saw each other. I regret that I had to leave Sarajevo without saying good-bye. I would have liked to thank you for your work, but alas I was needed urgently in my own country and therefore had to leave more promptly than I anticipated.
It is an appealing thought to become reacquainted with you. It is important, however, that you understand that since we knew each other I have grown to become a cautious and suspicious man. The information you say you carry may prove invaluable to me. It may also be a means to expose and capture me. I do hope that is not the case.
But I do wish to trust you, and I have an idea how that can be achieved. Call your secret British friend and tell him to meet you somewhere. That place must not be in Croatia, as, if you are telling me the truth, it is important that you do not actually draw him close to you. When the meeting has been arranged, you must give me the man’s name and tell me where he will be. It will be me, rather than you, who will then meet the British man.
For now we can continue to communicate via the embassy in Zagreb.
Your friend
Will handed the letter to Patrick, who read it and smiled.
