Slingshot s-3

by Matthew Dunn

The officer paused for thought. “I have the field officer’s name and home address.”

  “From the golden source?”

  “Of course.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Lawrence was the first to speak. “We can’t do anything with that information. It’s too risky.”

  Tibor disagreed. “The information can be used without us getting our hands dirty.”

  Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “Give the name and address to someone who’ll do the work for us?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Damien clapped his hands. “We give it to Yevtushenko. .”

  “Who relays this data to whoever masterminded his exit from Russia. .”

  “A man who’s not going to sit around and wait for MI6’s finest to come knocking on his door.”

  Lawrence said, “Yevtushenko will have destroyed his cell phone. We’ve got no way of sending him a message.”

  Tibor grinned. “You’re forgetting about his squeeze. I reckon that if we send the message to her, she’ll find a way to get in touch with him: another cell number that no one knows about, a safe-deposit box, a third party. Who knows how she’ll do it, but we do know that Yevtushenko’s biggest weakness is his devotion to her. He’ll have cut all other ties, but I suspect he’ll have kept lines open with his woman. We gotta hope they have some private communication system in place.”

  “It’s a long shot.”

  “We’ve got nothing to lose by trying it. Trouble is, Rubner must have told him we’re Agency.” Tibor drummed his fingers on the table. “Though, does that matter? He’ll be confused about our motives, but he can’t ignore the message. We tell him that we’re sorry we misled him a year ago, that we still care about him, are looking out for him, have learned that he’s got himself caught up in something big, that the Brit is coming after him.” He smiled. “This should bury the Yevtushenko issue once and for all. We encourage the private contractors to take the MI6 officer out of the equation. Are we all in agreement?”

  The others nodded.

  “Excellent.” Tibor glanced at the door. Beyond it, thousands of CIA officers would be hard at work. Few of them knew about the existence of the four-man team in the room.

  A team that carried the code name Flintlock.

  And the CIA director’s nickname, The Chosen Ones.

  “Then let’s set things in motion.” Tibor nodded toward the exit. “But, as ever, not a word to the children.”

  Four

  Will Cochrane pulled up the collar of his overcoat, thrust his hands into pockets, and walked through London’s Pimlico district. Rain lashed his face as he moved along quiet residential streets, apparently unaware of the white Regency houses, expensive parked automobiles, and the occasional umbrella-carrying pedestrian.

  Turning a corner, he stopped for a moment and looked around, more out of habit than concern. He could perceive no security threat to the safe house. He saw nothing unusual, so he crossed the street and moved farther down the route before ringing a doorbell.

  An elderly lady, immaculately dressed and with a streak of blonde in her otherwise silver hair, opened the door, barely glanced at Will, and beckoned him to enter. Stamping his feet on the doormat, he removed his overcoat and chucked it onto a side table before striding along the corridor toward a large living room.

  Three men were in the room.

  One of them was Delta 1.

  One was Delta 9.

  They’d both arrived back in the United Kingdom yesterday.

  The third man was Will’s MI6 Controller, Alistair, the Cohead of the Spartan Section, a joint MI6/CIA task force that was top secret and reported directly to the British prime minister and the U.S. president.

  The tall, athletic Q operatives, dressed in jeans and sweaters, were sitting in sumptuous armchairs, their heads bowed over steaming mugs of tea. Alistair was standing with his back to Will, staring out of the window.

  “Morning, all.” Will rubbed his hands to aid circulation.

  Alistair turned to face him, withdrawing a pocket watch from the waistcoat of his Royal Navy three-piece suit. He sighed. “It’s nearer to afternoon. Did you get. . delayed?”

  Will shook his head. “I had to route via three different airports to get back. It took some time.”

  “My time.” Alistair replaced the timepiece into his pocket. The slender, blond-haired, middle-aged man looked uncharacteristically weary.

  Will slumped into a sofa and looked around. The safe house was like many others he’d been to in London-tastefully furnished, immaculate, homely yet unlived-in. The woman he’d met at the door would have been the housekeeper, on MI6’s payroll and only visiting the property to clean it, forward mail, and ensure the kitchen was stocked with food and drink for meetings like these. “I could do with a cup of tea.”

  Alistair nodded toward the teapot and mugs, and asked sarcastically, “Would you like me to make you one?”

  “No. You’ll put milk and all sorts of other nonsense in it.” Will sprung up to make it himself.

  “Tell me”-Alistair’s tone was once again sharp-“what went wrong in Poland.”

  Will removed the lid to the teapot, shaking his head as he saw that the brew had stewed. “The unexpected happened.”

  “Resulting in ten dead Q operatives.”

  Will raised a jar of fresh tea to his nose, recognized the leaves as Assam breakfast tea, and carefully placed two spoonfuls into a cup.

  “And all but one man from the AW and one man from the SVR teams killed.”

  Will poured boiling water over the leaves.

  “A bloody massacre. The Polish government wants answers.”

  “Our men were deniable. No links to HMG.” Will placed a tea strainer over another mug and slowly poured the tea into it. “Sure, they’ll be asking around-other European countries, the Americans-and we’ll all plead ignorance.”

  “Not all of your men were deniable.”

  Alistair was referring to Luke. Despite his alias documentation, it would only be a matter of time before the Polish police matched Luke’s dead body to the fully declared post of Head of Warsaw Station.

  “Your mission was an utter failure!”

  Will took a sip of the tea and momentarily closed his eyes in appreciation. Turning, he stared at Alistair. “It was a failure.” He looked at Delta 1. “I’m truly sorry for what happened to your men.”

  The Q operative stared at him and asked with a deep south London accent, “Did you know the Russians were coming?”

  “That’s none of your-”

  Will held a hand up to interrupt Alistair. “Yes, but I didn’t know about the private contractor team. That was the unexpected part.”

  Delta 1 considered this. “Then you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. If the contractors hadn’t turned up, together with the Poles we’d have held the Russians off.”

  “Aye.” Delta 9 spoke with a strong Scottish lilt. “But even so, we were underequipped.”

  “You were.” Will gave a slight shake of his head to Alistair to indicate that he wasn’t going to mention Luke’s treachery. “That was due to a breakdown in communication. We’re looking into it right now.”

  Delta 1 carefully placed his mug down before looking up at Will. “Whoever’s responsible for the breakdown in communication needs to be strung up. I’ve lost most of my team.”

  Will recalled the frozen look of terror on Luke’s face as he’d dumped his dead body in the trunk of the Head of Warsaw Station’s car. “What are your names and backgrounds?”

  Delta 1 answered first. “Mark Oates. Nine years in the Qs, two as team leader. Prior to that, twelve years in the Royal Marines, eight of which SBS.”

  Will looked at Delta 9.

  “Adam Tark. Five years in the Qs. Before that seven years in the SAS.”

  Will frowned. “I once knew a Scot called Ross Tark who was also SAS.”

  “Aye, he was my younger brother.” Adam smiled. “Always followed me around.” His
smile vanished. “Were you there when he died?”

  Will answered, “No,” as he recalled gathering up Ross’s entrails and inserting them back into his stomach. The SAS soldier had been gutted by a Russian Spetsnaz commander during Will’s last mission. That operation was so sensitive that everyone involved in it was instructed to never speak to anyone else about what happened, anyone including security-cleared relatives of those who’d died in the mission.

  “And who are you?” Mark flexed his muscular hands.

  “That”-Alistair held up a hand toward Will-“really is none of your business.”

  Will studied the Q men. Adam looked nothing like his deceased brother. Though probably in his early thirties, he was prematurely balding with graying hair, and clearly had undergone emergency reconstructive surgery on what would have once been a handsome face. Mark was older, probably early forties, with cropped brown hair. His face was weathered, tanned, and partially covered with stubble. Aside from their physique, both men shared one trait. Their eyes looked dead.

  Will asked Mark, “What’s your brief right now?”

  “Fuck knows. Vauxhall Cross”-MI6 HQ-“wants us to report in tomorrow. I suspect we’re going to be put before the Inquisition. Seen it happen to other Qs before. Our bollocks will be squeezed until we’re without a job and a hair’s breadth away from prison.”

  “But you’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “On paper, I did nothing right.”

  Will looked at Alistair. “We can’t let that happen. We owe these men, plus they performed impeccably.”

  Alistair frowned. “And what would you have me do?”

  “We’re light by two men on the paramilitary front. Make them part of the section. If you do that, you’ll save them from the bureaucrats.”

  Alistair looked affronted. “Selection to the unit is rigorous. .”

  “It is. And Mark and Adam passed the test in Gdansk.”

  Alistair darted a look at the Q men. “Gentlemen, would you be kind enough to leave the room for a moment?”

  “Let them stay. After what they’ve been through, I believe we can talk openly in front of them.” Will nodded at Mark. “My name’s Will. There are real sensitivities around what I do, but don’t take it as a slight against you that we can’t go into what they are.”

  Mark shrugged. “Fine by us.”

  Alistair moved up to Will and whispered, “What would Roger and Laith think?”

  Roger Koenig and Laith Dia. The two CIA SOG paramilitary officers who were permanently seconded to the Spartan Section.

  “They’ll want to know they’re working alongside professionals of equal caliber. Once they’ve ascertained that’s the case, their respect for you will grow exponentially. They’ll have seen that you’ve put your powerful wings around two men just like them, and that will make you stand out from the pencil pushers.”

  “I don’t need faux flattery.”

  “I know. But you need a team.”

  Alistair seemed unsure. “If I requisition them, I’ll upset quite a few people.”

  “Since when do you care about pissing off senior management? In any case, if you requisition them for the section, nobody can do anything about it.”

  Alistair nodded slowly, deep in thought. “It would, I concede, complete the team.” He turned toward the Q men and studied them for a moment before speaking in a commanding voice. “Gentlemen, in days gone by, condemned men were sometimes given a choice between the rope or a lifetime of serving on the very worst battlefronts. I’m giving you a similar choice.”

  Mark smiled. “Nobody’s going to put me in a rope.”

  Adam nodded. “My sentiments, exactly. But what is this section?”

  Alistair wagged a finger. “You’ll need to sign some nondisclosure documents before I get into that.” He glanced at Will. “Then, things will become clearer.”

  Will looked at Mark and Adam. “Once you’ve signed the papers, you’ll be outside of all other chains of command. Trust Alistair, trust me, trust everyone else in the section, but no one else.” He guided Alistair away from the Q men and asked quietly, “Patrick?”

  The CIA cohead of the section.

  Alistair frowned. “What about him?”

  “He needs to be here, together with Roger and Laith. When are they flying over?”

  “For what?”

  Will felt exasperated. “You know what the AW operative told us. We can’t allow that piece of paper to remain in the wrong hands. The mission is clear. .”

  “It’s not! We don’t know anything about the paper.”

  “We know its value. What happened in Gdansk proved that.”

  Alistair spoke with deliberation. “You can’t expect me to deploy the section on something so intangible. And I’m certainly not going to do so just to allow you to make up for the fiasco in Poland.”

  Will snapped furiously, “It’s got nothing to do with that. The Russians deployed a whole SVR team to retrieve the paper.”

  “Then let them find it.”

  “What happens if they can’t? There’s only one of them left.”

  “They’ll send him more bodies.” Alistair shook his head. “You can’t expect Patrick and me to take this to our premiers to get them to sign off on the section’s deployment.”

  “I can.”

  “This is wrong.”

  “Have I ever been wrong in the past?”

  “Yes, lots of bloody times.”

  “I mean in terms of the results of the operations I’ve conducted?”

  Alistair hesitated before saying, “You’ve got nothing more than a hunch that this is worth pursuing.”

  “Perhaps, but every operational instinct in me says it’s vital we get involved.”

  Alistair sighed. “We’d have to tell the premiers that we’re recommending this course of action purely based on your instincts.”

  “Tell them what you like. Just make sure they sign off.”

  “And what if we do deploy and you’re wrong, William?” His expression changed to one that looked like sympathy. “The premiers’ patience with you is already stretched to near breaking point.”

  Will shrugged. “What are they going to do? Find someone to replace me? I wish them luck, because I doubt anyone else is able to complete the Program.”

  “They know that!” As did Alistair. Eight elite MI6 officers had not only failed the Spartan Program before Will had gone through it to earn the code name Spartan, they’d been left psychologically and physically damaged and had needed to leave the service. “But things are changing. There are cries for transparency from the intelligence community, demands to do away with so-called shadowy task forces and the like. This is not just about you. If we get this wrong, some might grab this as an opportunity to shut us down.”

  Will nodded slowly. “I see.”

  “I’m so glad that you do.”

  “But conversely, if we get this right we might turn some of those detractors into supporters.”

  “That’s a damn big risk.”

  “Worth it though, don’t you think?”

  Alistair was motionless. “I concede, you have always been right about the things that matter. But there is a first time for everything. This would be an almighty gamble.”

  “Please, Alistair. Say what you like to the premiers. Position it however you think is best. Just get them to sign off on this.”

  Alistair lowered his head. “If you’re wrong and they shut down the section because of that, all of the section members, me included, would be given other jobs in the service or the Agency.” He lifted his head. “But you’ve been operating on your own for too long. No one would want someone with your kind of skill set. It would be over for you.”

  Will smiled, patted Alistair gently on the arm, and said, “I know.”

  Five

  Kurt Schreiber was motionless as he heard vehicles drive close to the main farmstead building. His back to the windows, he placed his manicured hands flat on the large
cowhide writing desk and remained seated in the leather chair. Every wall in his big study was covered with bookshelves containing works on philosophy, mathematics, politics, economics, and history. Positioned over carpet and Oriental rugs were a three-piece suite and coffee table; straight-backed chairs; a rare nineteenth-century Thomas Malby globe that had cost nearly one million dollars; a beautiful burr walnut occasional table covered with antique maps and charts, and maritime navigation and timekeeping equipment; and a locked steamer trunk containing files on men and women he’d had cause to hurt or kill.

  The old man ignored his surroundings and focused only on the noise of the vehicles. He knew there’d be four of them, two of which were SUVs, the other two performance sedan cars. A total of sixteen men were in the convoy; fifteen of them had worked for him for years; the sixteenth was a Russian who’d only just joined his payroll, although his employment would be short lived.

  Having taken possession of its prize from the deniable private contractors, the group had taken nearly thirty-six hours to drive from Gdansk, covertly cross Poland’s border with Germany, continue on to the country’s northwestern state of Lower Saxony and head to the isolated farmstead, deep within the vast Luneburg Heath.

  The vehicles stopped. Doors opened and closed. A man shouted an instruction. Fast movement. More noise, this time from within the large building. Then silence.

  The retired Stasi colonel smiled, removed his rimless glasses, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them clean with a silk handkerchief. Fixing the glasses back in place, he interlaced his fingers and stared at the oak-paneled entrance. His breathing was slow; he felt very calm.

  The door opened, and Simon Rubner entered. The forty-five-year-old Israeli walked up to the desk and stood before Kurt. Blond-haired, with a short groomed beard, an athletic build, and a penchant for wearing turtleneck sweaters, Simon looked more like a German U-boat commander than a former Mossad intelligence operative, which had always amused Kurt.

  Simon’s eyes twinkled, the slightest smile emerged, and he nodded. “We got it, Mr. Schreiber.” He held out a folded piece of paper.

  Kurt stared at the paper but remained motionless. “Were there any complications that I should be aware of?”