by Matthew Dunn
“Right, my dear. Let’s crack open the champers and get this”—he dipped a finger in his food and licked it—“beauty served up.”
Phoebe went to her boyfriend, caressed his face, and kissed him delicately on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
David shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tasted this. It might not match up to the Szechuan chicken dishes you get from your favorite takeaway, though in my opinion it’s an A-plus.”
“You know what I mean.”
David smiled. “When do you start your new job?”
“All three galleries have given me the weekend to think about their offers. And they all want me to start as soon as possible. I’ve got some tough decision making to do, because the jobs are all great.” She remembered Will telling her she was back in business, after she had cheekily told him she wanted him to try Internet dating. He’d been trying to lift her spirits. Now was different. She really was back in business. She was also at peace. “There’s nowhere else I want to be right now. I hope you know that.”
David looked at his girlfriend and, as he’d done so many times, wondered why the beautiful woman was so contented to be with a guy whose idea of a perfect evening was making a mess in the kitchen and listening to Dixieland jazz. Sharing his evening with Phoebe was nothing short of a miracle. “I’ve not heard from Will for a while. Guess he’s still sweating it out in Angola.”
“If he’s in Angola.”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s not, really, does it?”
“No. As long as he gets home safe.”
David grinned. “Then we can sit him in front of Major Mountjoy and watch what happens.”
Phoebe laughed and planted a big kiss on David’s lips. “I love you.”
Phoebe and David had no idea they were being watched from outside. The sky was now dark; as usual, emergency vehicle sirens and the whoosh of homebound vehicles’ tires on wet streets provided the city’s end-of-day soundtrack.
Cochrane’s apartment was in darkness.
So was the woman’s.
She was in the third neighbor’s home.
The fourth neighbor—the elderly gentleman—was alone in the bottom apartment, shouting inaudible words at what looked to be a political debate program on his television. The man reminded Michael Stein of his grandfather—old enough to tell the world that enough was enough and everyone had lost their minds.
Stein stayed in the darkness, close to the apartment block, in a location where he could not only observe the building but also the entrance to the Edwardian square across the street. He doubted Cochrane would come back here. The former MI6 officer would probably dismiss the possibility that Stein and the sniper had been watching Cochrane’s home for some time, waiting for him to turn up so they could follow him. More likely, he would have realized that his alias passport and credit card were being tracked by them. His pursuers had been onto him, Cochrane would have concluded, from the moment he booked his flight from the States to Heathrow, and they’d stayed on him ever since. Until now.
Stein could have killed Cochrane at Highgate. And Cochrane could have killed Stein. It seemed that neither wanted to do that.
Stein was in the square in case the sniper might also come to Cochrane’s home in Southwark and attempt to kill him here. Stein wanted Cochrane incapacitated, but not dead.
The sniper was there because of Thales. Stein was in no doubt about that. In his letter to the Israeli, Thales had told him that he’d deploy his own gunman. That man had followed Cochrane to Highgate, just as Stein had. The sniper was accurate and ruthless. Had Michael not rushed to Cochrane to stab him, Cochrane’s head would have been taken off its shoulders. Stein didn’t want that. Having recently stood over his brother’s grave near Jerusalem, he felt empathy for the former MI6 officer also mourning in front of a headstone.
Stein still had utter resolution. He had to stop Cochrane. Yet he was here because he didn’t want Thales’s sniper to kill Cochrane. If the sniper came here, Stein would kill him.
To be ready to do so on behalf of a man who Stein did not know still confused the Israeli assassin. He was absorbing facts, making assessments that bent with the wind like trees in a hurricane. The pretty woman in the kitchen was smiling, drinking champagne, leading her partner and the plates he was holding to a different part of the apartment. Cochrane only had three neighbors. They didn’t seem to be scared. These were their homes. How could they live near Will Cochrane if that man was bad?
Stein stayed for a couple of hours before using his cell phone to call Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv. “I’ve lost Mr. C. Find him for me again when his documents trigger a trace. The other man hasn’t come here. That is good and bad. I anticipate the need to head east, to a place close to you. I want you to confirm or deny that possibility the moment you have new data.”
Michael turned away from the Southwark residences and walked. He reached the Thames and the golden lamps that aligned its banks. The river was a dark, lifeless sludge in the day, turned into something majestic and meandering at night by the clever positioning of some electric bulbs. It was supposed to be the lifeline of the city. If so, the city was being intravenously fed crap. That’s what made the place rotten. Neon lights, rain, and noise struck Michael as he walked to the center of the capital while he was searching for a cab to take him to an airport and away from here.
He did like London. But at night it seemed angry, brooding, dark, and lonely. In the day, it seemed to be watching him, like a wife who knows her husband’s cheated on her. Michael had to get out of here. Almost certainly, Cochrane was heading to Beirut. That was a metropolis far less intimidating to Michael than London. He knew every inch of the Lebanese city. It was his hunting ground of choice.
THIRTY-THREE
Based upon Rob Tanner’s experience, being successful at Texas Hold’em poker was 20 percent luck, 30 percent holding one’s nerve, and 50 percent knowing when to quit a hand. But this afternoon, the ratio seemed off, because Tanner was having quite a good deal of luck. He was competing against five other men, all former college buddies who were in jobs that earned them a darn sight more money than he took home, yet tonight were giving a heap of their hard-earned cash to Tanner because he was outsmarting them and was more often than not dealt killer hands.
They were in a home basement in D.C., the table covered with green felt, two cards faceup in the center, each man holding two cards close to his chest. Two of his friends were puffing on big cigars; their smoke hung motionless above the table, illuminated by a single ceiling lightbulb. All of them had tumblers of bourbon. A seventh man was at the head of the table. He’d lost all of his chips in early hands, and as a result was nominated dealer. He laid the third card faceup on the table.
The men examined the three visible cards and their own hidden cards.
Tanner said, “Raise.” He pushed forty dollars’ worth of chips in front of him.
The others responded with their decisions.
“Fold.” The man to Tanner’s left tossed his cards onto the table, facedown.
“Fold,” said the man next to him.
“Call.” This player met Tanner’s bet.
“Fold.”
“Fold.”
Together with the initial bets of twenty dollars per player, the pot was now $240.
The dealer said, “The flop,” as he laid the fourth card on the table.
Tanner examined his cards. He had an ace and a jack. On the table were two aces and two kings. His hand, then, was three aces and two kings, the best possible full house. But it was only good providing his one remaining opponent wasn’t holding two kings, giving him four of a kind. If he was, Tanner’s hand would mean shit.
Tanner said, “Check,” meaning he wanted to stay in the hand but wasn’t willing to increase the bet. He looked at his opponent.
The man was silent, his eyes flickering between his two cards that were hidden from view from Tanner and the exposed cards on the table.
“Raise,” said Tanner’s opponent. He pushed fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of chips a few inches in front of him.
Tanner tried to display no emotion, but inside he was a mess. The man could easily be bluffing—the odds against him holding two kings, when two were also faceup on the table, were significant. But Tanner had seen hands like that before. It happened in poker. Was this a bluff, or was his opponent holding a deadly four-of-a-kind hand?
There was only one way to find out. Tanner pushed all of his remaining chips across the table. Not only had he met his opponent’s bet, he’d raised it by another five hundred dollars.
His opponent didn’t hesitate, and met the bet.
Shit!
Tanner laid his two cards faceup on the table. Would his full house win? He watched his opponent.
The man smiled and laid down his two cards for all to see. Two kings.
Tanner felt his stomach wrench. The rules of the game meant that the dealer had to lay one more card on the table. Only if it was an ace, thereby giving Tanner four aces, could Tanner win. Anything less would mean Tanner’s night of poker was at an end.
The dealer said, “The river,” as he laid the last card.
“God damn it!” exclaimed Tanner’s opponent. He must have been distraught.
Because the card was an ace.
Tanner smiled. “Shit happens.” He pulled the entire pot of chips to his side of the table, and as he did so his cell phone rang. Mason. He listened to the admiral for a few seconds before interrupting him. “What? Now? But it’s a Saturday afternoon.” He grimaced and moved the cell a few inches away from his ear as Mason started shouting. He could still hear Mason saying something about how ships don’t stop sailing just because it’s a weekend.
“Got to go, boys.” Tanner cashed in his chips.
One hour later, Tanner entered Mason’s office in the Pentagon. The normally composed admiral was pacing the room and looked furious. Standing and looking out of a window was the CIA officer Patrick Bolte. In the center of the room was Mae Bäcklund, wearing a summer dress she ordinarily wouldn’t be seen dead wearing at work. And sitting in an armchair at the far end of the room was an immaculately dressed middle-aged man who Tanner didn’t know.
Tanner winked at Bäcklund. “Didn’t have you down as a dress-up kinda girl. Makes you look hot. And makes me feel weird thinking that.”
Bäcklund responded, “Don’t worry, because the feeling’s not mutual. You stink of booze and cigars.”
Tanner grinned. “Boys’ day.”
Mason barked, “Enough!” He looked at Patrick. “Please tell them what you’ve told me.”
Patrick turned to face them. “I can’t get hold of Cochrane.”
Bäcklund frowned. “Has he lost his nerve?”
“I can’t get hold of him,” Patrick repeated with deliberation.
Tanner rubbed his hands. “Has he gone dark? Off the radar? I’ve heard those terms in movies. Do you spooks use them in real life? I really hope you do.”
“Shut up.” Mason locked his eyes on Patrick’s. “I put my trust in Cochrane, and that trust included being kept regularly apprised of his progress.”
Patrick knew he had to tread carefully with the admiral. “More often than not, he works alone. He doesn’t recognize chains of command. Look, I know it’s frustrating, but—”
“Frustrating?!” Mason stood. “The only thing that’s stopping Capitol Hill from blundering into wrong decisions, and Israel from storming over its borders, is my ability to calm everyone’s nerves. And to do that I need to look them in the eye and convince them that our man is on the case and that I’m reassured by his progress. How can I do that if I’ve no idea where he is or what he’s doing?”
“Lie.”
“What?”
“Lie.” Patrick held Mason’s gaze. “We have to put our trust in Cochrane, regardless of whether he’s keeping us in the picture.”
“No. We. Don’t.”
“You of all people can keep the bureaucrats off our backs.”
“If I have conviction to do so, yes.” Mason turned to his subordinates. “We’ve got minimal time left. But, based on your research, is there anyone else who can take over from Cochrane? A CIA officer? Special Forces? Maybe even FBI?”
Bäcklund and Tanner were silent.
“Admiral Mason,” said the man who Tanner didn’t know. Whoever he was, he was a very well-spoken Englishman. “I flew from the United Kingdom to the United States because operatives previously under the command of Patrick and me will now no doubt be in a state of shock, having heard the dreadful news about Mrs. Koenig. I wish to offer them my condolences. But that could have waited for a few days. The reason Patrick quite rightly told me this morning that I needed to get on the next available jet to Washington is because he astutely predicted Cochrane’s silence would prompt you to lose faith in our former colleague. He knew that mere words wouldn’t win you over, only hard facts. The issue you’ve faced thus far is that hard facts have been barred to you and indeed most others within the inner circle of Western intelligence. I’m hoping to make your life easier.”
Tanner asked Mason, “Who is this guy?”
The admiral locked his penetrating gaze on his subordinate. “This guy is one of the highest-ranking officers in MI6. His name’s Alistair McCulloch.” He returned his attention to Alistair. “I’m listening.”
Alistair nodded at Patrick, who handed each of the three Pentagon staffers a single sheet of paper.
Alistair did the same, stating, “They are security clearance forms. Three of them have legal status in America; the other three are legally binding in the U.K. Please read their contents carefully. Sign them if you wish. Leave the room if you do not.”
Mason and his staff signed the forms and handed them back to the intelligence officers.
“Excellent.” Alistair opened his briefcase and withdrew three files, all identical in content. On the covers were a series of letters and numbers. They were a code that referred to Task Force S and specifically the work of its prime field agent, Will Cochrane. “I had to bring those in a diplomatic bag. They can’t leave my sight. I’ll be taking them back to London when you’ve finished reading them.” He handed the files to Mason and his staff. “This is Will Cochrane. The files detail what he’s done for us for fourteen years in MI6 and the Agency. The clearance letters you’ve just signed mean that if you breathe one word of what you’re about to read to anyone, you’ll live out the rest of your lives in solitary confinement within a maximum-security prison.” Alistair crossed his legs, placed his fingertips together, and closed his eyes. “Let me know when you’re ready for a further chat.”
Bäcklund and Tanner were the first to finish reading the files. But Mason was still reading an hour after he’d opened the file, because he was taking great pains to absorb every single detail about Cochrane and his work, while his mind worked fast and on multiple levels.
The admiral closed the file when he was finished. His expression and tone were softer when he asked Alistair, “This is all fact?”
“Indeed, all fact.”
Patrick added, “Some of it I witnessed in person.”
Mason was silent for a minute. “His capabilities shine through, but . . .”
“Yeah, there’s a ‘but.’” Patrick sat next to Alistair, opposite the admiral. “As his former managers, we’d have preferred someone half as capable and twice as obedient to run in the field. Thing is, though, that would’ve helped us, but wouldn’t have helped getting the jobs done.”
“Why did you let someone like this leave MI6?” This was to Alistair.
Many times, Alistair had asked himself the same question. “The joint task force was shut down.”
“You could have easily redeployed him.”
“We could have.” Alistair pointed at the file in Mason’s hands. “But in there he was surrounded by orders and protocols.�
��
“Which he constantly disobeyed and ignored.”
“Admittedly. But now he’s out of the service, he can do what he likes and how he likes, without any repercussions.”
Mason’s cold expression returned. “Including not keeping us apprised of his progress.”
“He doesn’t work for you. Or for me. That’s the deal, and we have to remember that. I’m asking you to consider keeping your faith in Cochrane. He’ll have gone silent for a reason. But that doesn’t mean he’s not still hard at work. Please—he’s done this before and I’ve pulled my hair out in the process. I know how it feels to sit where you’re sitting now. However, he’s always delivered.”
Mason was deep in thought. “You two, Cochrane, Roger Koenig, Laith Dia, and Suzy Parks. That was the task force?”
“Yes. We had others come and go, but only on a temporary basis. The core full-time team was the individuals you’ve just mentioned.”
“Koenig’s dead. Cochrane’s allegedly working for us, though is nowhere to be found.” He darted a look at Patrick. “You seem to have no clearly defined role in the Agency. And you, Alistair?”
“I’m just like Patrick—director without portfolio. Nobody on either side of the pond knows what to do with us. So they leave us alone. And that’s fine as far as we’re concerned.”
“The others?”
It was Patrick who answered. “Laith Dia and Suzy Parks have left the CIA. I think they thought a career in the Agency outside of the task force wasn’t ever going to give them what they needed.”
“Where are they now?”
“Suzy and her husband and child live in Virginia. So does Laith, though he’s divorced and lives in an RV.”
Mason asked Alistair, “When do you fly back?”
Alistair replied, “Tomorrow evening. I need to visit Laith and Suzy at their homes in the day. We never really had a proper chance to say good-bye.”
“And where are you staying this evening?”
“Why do you ask?”
