At what cost, Coftey asked himself, following the man's gaze out to the water. Reflecting on the events of the last seven months, everything that had happened since he'd helped take down the Hancock administration. Spoiling for a fight, indeed. . .
“I nearly lost myself, Ben,” he said finally, turning to face his old friend. “I let it all get to me, just like I swore I'd never do—and nearly lost everything I truly valued in the process.”
A nod, as if the man knew all too well what he was saying. Had predicted it, had seen it, long before he himself had.
“But you're right,” Coftey said, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezing it firmly as he moved past, picking up the hammer once again. “I'm back.”
6:54 P.M. British Summer Time
Regent’s Park
London
Be at Regent’s, her text message had read. The concert tonight.
And so here he was, Julian Marsh thought, leaning awkwardly back into his rented deckchair, trying to relax—sunglasses shielding his eyes as he stared ahead at the bandstand, where the uniformed members of the Scots’ Guards jazz ensemble were arranging themselves in their positions.
The last time he’d been to a concert in the park like this. . .it had been years. With Janet, most likely—his second wife.
His dress shirt had been discarded at last for a short-sleeved polo, but the sharp crease of his khakis gave him away in a moment.
He wasn’t a man given to relaxation. Never had been.
“Julian!” he heard a woman’s voice call out suddenly, startling him as he glanced up to see Maggie Forster standing there just a few feet away, paused artlessly as if she had just caught sight of him, a pair of sunglasses in her hand. “Fancy seeing you here tonight.”
Indeed. Chance had never been a part of their lives. Not then, and not now.
“Julian,” she went on, calling his attention in that moment to the middle-aged, heavyset man at her side, “I’d like you to meet my husband Richard. Richard, this is Julian Marsh—an old colleague of mine.”
My husband. He accepted the proffered hand, finding himself searching the man’s eyes for any sign of the disease which had begun to so slowly steal him away from her.
“Julian Marsh,” the man repeated with the utmost of clarity, his bluff, honest face breaking into a warm smile, “why you’d be the former head of Five, wouldn’t you?”
Nothing wrong with the man’s memory.
“One and the same,” Marsh replied uncomfortably, wondering instinctively if they could be overheard. He needn’t have worried—their fellow concert-goers were, as ever, absorbed in their own lives, the first notes of a saxophone being tuned up on-stage drifting out over the park.
“Quite right,” her husband smiled, as if rather pleased with himself for the recollection. “I’ve seen a lot of you recently on the telly.”
That was something of an understatement. The former director-general glanced helplessly at Maggie—salvation appearing just then in the form of a younger copy of her husband, a little girl in the young man's arms as he approached them. Her husband turning, distracted by the new arrival, the little girl holding out her arms for him with a high-pitched shriek of joy.
“My son and granddaughter,” Maggie said softly, moving away from her family toward Julian as they began talking.
“My stepson,” she added, seeing his look, opening the large purse around her neck to withdraw a slender folder. “Richard had children before we met.”
A ready-made family, imagine that. It was difficult not to envy her, hard though her life must have been. But there had been something. . .normal, about it all. Something he'd never known—or ever would know.
“Is this it, Maggie?” he asked, forcing his attention back to the present, the reason for them all being here. Opening the folder just far enough to glimpse an official dossier photo nestled within, stapled to the cover sheet—blue eyes staring back at him from a face lined and weathered by the decades. The face of a man somewhere near his own age, not even the passage of time serving to soften his sharply-chiseled Slavic features—thinning silver hair swept back from his brow in a manner that almost struck one as rakish. Defiant.
“It is,” she nodded, something of a shadow passing across her face as the jazz ensemble struck up behind them, the music of Duke Ellington washing out across the park. “Be careful, Julian. Be very careful. My contacts are limited, now more than ever, but they were able to give me a name. The name of the man in that folder.”
“And?”
“He’s a former KGB officer, a man they say has been involved in spear-heading the Directorate's active measures against the West in recent years. It's said that as of last year he was posted to the rezidentura in Los Angeles. After that, everyone seems to have lost track of him—but my source was confident that if anything of the kind you describe was going on, you would find him somewhere near the bottom of it.”
Former KGB. Marsh rolled the folder small in his hand. But that was an oxymoron, and they both knew it. There was no such thing as a “former” member of the siloviki, the old adversaries against whom they'd once played the great—the eternal—game across the streets of a divided Berlin.
“Come on, my dear,” her husband said, his voice breaking in upon them once more. “The concert is beginning.”
“Be careful,” she repeated urgently, even as her husband flashed a genial smile at Julian, reaching forward to grip his hand once more, something that almost seemed like confusion flickering across his face for the space of a second.
“A pleasure meeting you. . .Henry.”
1:26 P.M. Mountain Time
Bell Cow Lake
Chandler, Oklahoma
“You're working too hard,” Coftey heard a worried voice say behind him, looking back over his shoulder to see Melody standing there, having traded in her customary Beltway office attire for shorts and a tank top.
Looking good as ever. “So how are the good people of Chandler?” he asked, deliberately ignoring her observation. She reminded him of Jessie in moments like these—attempting to mother him, despite the gulf in their ages. What he loved about her.
She shook her head, glancing back to where a flurry of people were hustling around near another stage, setting up microphones and speakers for an amateur singing competition. “Have yet to hear anyone who can carry a tune.”
“Well that much hasn't changed.”
She looked at him, only too aware he was trying to lead her astray. “Sweetheart, I'm serious. This heat. . .at your age, it's not—”
He wrapped his arm around her back, drawing her in close to him and silencing her protest with a kiss. He grinned, enjoying the moment—the feel of her body against him. “You've never had cause to worry about my age before.”
“I know,” she said, pulling away from him, “but this is different. This—”
He started to answer her, but just then he felt his phone vibrate in his front pants pocket. The burner, he thought, turning away from her as he pulled out the cheap disposable phone, flipping it open—a single line of text displayed across the screen.
Flying into Tulsa tonight, will see you in the morning. We need to talk, away from the circus. Away from the eyes.
“Roy, what is it?” he heard Melody ask behind him—the noonday sun still beating down hot on his forehead, but it felt as though the sweat had frozen to his back. A cold chill creeping down his spine.
“It would appear,” he began, forcing a smile as he turned back to face her, “that we're going to have company.”
7:41 P.M.
The Richmond Footbridge
Central London
“You can let me out right here,” Julian Marsh said, reaching forward to tap his Pakistani cab driver on the shoulder—the black London cab pulling over to the side of the city street. The turgid waters of the Thames not fifty feet away, rolling on toward the sea. As they had for eternity.
He pressed a handful of pound notes into t
he man's palm, retrieving his light jacket before stepping out onto the cobblestones, his eyes flickering toward the footbridge just down the street, its arches spanning the river as they had over a century.
It seemed as though just yesterday that he had stood there himself, meeting with Arthur Colville on a chill spring morning—in the aftermath of a terrorist attack.
Attempting to pull them all back from a brink over which, as it turned out, one of them had been all too ready—no, eager—to plunge.
The bridge had been deserted then, just the two of them—standing there together in the early morning mist, but now it was choked with foot traffic, a flood of tourists passing across it in the growing twilight.
And in the center of the span, a solitary figure somehow apart from the crowd—standing there looking out over the Thames like a gargoyle perched in the eaves of some ancient cathedral.
Greer.
It was a mark of his faith in Maggie's abilities that he'd set up the meet with the counter-intel spook before making contact with her at the park. Secure in the assurance that, if she were reaching out, it could only mean she had something for him.
And so she had.
“So what do you have for me, Julian?” Greer asked softly as Marsh joined him in the center of the span, his hands shoved into the pockets of his windbreaker.
“A name,” Marsh replied, not looking at his former colleague. He'd made the decision on the way over not to give Greer the folder itself—anything that could compromise Maggie as his source. Digging up information was what people like Greer did best. . .let them dig. “Alexei Vasiliev.”
He saw Greer flinch out of the corner of his eye, the intensity of the response taking him off-guard.
“Who did you say?” the counter-intel spook demanded, his hand on the balustrade as he turned toward Marsh—his dark eyes flashing.
“Alexei Mikhailovich Vasiliev,” Marsh responded. “He's a former KGB officer, was part of—”
“I know who he is,” Greer interrupted, a sharp edge in his voice as he looked back out over the Thames. “He's here, Julian. In London. As of two days ago.”
The former director-general shook his head, scarce able to believe his ears. “My God, Phillip. . .you're serious.”
“Deadly so. Came into Heathrow on an Air France flight from Trieste the other night.”
“Where is he now?”
“God knows.” Greer saw Marsh’s look and shook his head bitterly. “Don’t give me that, Julian. The Service’s budget goes to monitoring AQ and Islamic State affiliates here in the UK, you know that as well as I do. I no longer have the money or the manpower in my branch to go chasing after stray Russians.”
He was right, that was the worst of it, Marsh thought. This wasn’t the Cold War, even if it was looking more reminiscent of it by the day. The powers that be. . .had moved on.
“Your source’s intelligence,” Greer went on after a long moment, “how good is it?”
“Very good,” Marsh replied without hesitation, watching as Greer’s face grew pale in the twilight. He let out a deep breath finally, shaking his head as if in resignation.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
8:51 P.M. Central European Summer Time
The flat
Sint-Jans-Molenbeek, Belgium
A week. That’s all that remained, Harry told himself, lifting his face into the stream from the shower head as steaming hot water cascaded down his naked body, puddling endlessly around his feet.
A week, and this would all be over—this, this ghastly charade he’d found himself swept up in. Yassin and Reza, on a plane to Dubai—flying straight into the arms of the Emirati authorities.
Himself, disappearing into the night.
He would take what money he still had remaining from what he’d managed to withdraw from the Korsakov accounts—take it and run, as he had before.
It wasn’t enough to disappear, not completely, but he could stay off the radar. Keep moving among the refugee population, keep his head down. With his wounds healing, slowly but surely, he’d soon be able to drop the foreign fighter pose he had been forced to adopt here in Molenbeek.
Minimize his risk of falling in with more radicals.
Make it to Eastern Europe, if he could, fading farther and farther away from the prying eyes of Western intelligence. Go dark.
He reached up and shut the water off, sinking slowly back into the side of the shower stall as he stared out through the steam, catching a ghostly glimpse of himself in the mirror across the small bathroom.
Hollow eyes staring back at him through the mist, something of reproach in their depths. Loathing.
This needed to be over.
7:58 P.M. British Summer Time
Bai Wei Restaurant
Chinatown, London
The night was off to a promising start, Simon Norris thought, wiping the last traces of sauce from his lips as he returned his fork to its place beside the demolished plate of pork slivers—checking his phone quickly to make sure there was nothing from the office.
Nothing. The analyst shook his head, the mild heat of the savory Chinese food still lingering in his mouth. It would be just like Thames House to disrupt his evening, a date with a young London accounts manager he’d met on the Internet.
A date that was going rather well, in his opinion. He was only waiting for her to return from the restroom before proposing their next move. Off to a local club for after-dinner drinks, music—then, hopefully, back to his flat. With luck—
“Have you ever been to China, Mr. Norris?” a faintly accented voice asked, interrupting his thoughts as a man slid into the booth across from him—an older man, his silver hair glinting in the lights of the restaurant, ice-blue eyes transfixing Norris as he favored him with an assured smile.
“Who are you?” he demanded, finding his voice then. Every alarm bell in his head screaming a warning. Something was wrong.
“I was in China once,” his visitor went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “For six months, back in the 1980s. Beijing, where spies go die—or so the saying goes.”
Another smile touched his thin, almost bloodless lips. “But I didn’t die.”
“I’m going to ask you to leave,” Norris said, struggling to keep his voice even as he stared into the man’s eyes. “Now.”
The smile never faded, his mind finally registering the accent as the man began to speak once more. Russian.
“Are you sure you aren’t making a mistake here, Simon?” the stranger asked quietly, his eyes cold and hard—a long, thin index finger tapping gently against the tabletop as he continued. “I was certain you’d want to hear me out, to hear what I had to say. We know, you see.”
No. He felt a wave of panic break over him, his throat seeming to constrict to the point where he could hardly breathe. All thoughts of his date, of the evening he’d planned, forgotten in that moment.
“What? Who are you? What do you know?”
“I thought you would come to see reason,” the man said, leaning back into the booth as he regarded Norris calmly. “Who I am, doesn’t really matter. You can call me 'Alexei.' As for what we know. . .why, I think that should be obvious. Your relationship to the late Arthur Colville, Simon. We know everything.”
9:57 P.M. Central European Summer Time
Neukölln, Berlin
Germany
“You’re sure we can trust him,” Anas Bukhari asked his older friend once again as they walked briskly across the darkened Berlin street.
Two years out from Syria—his parents killed in a regime bombing raid, his older brother seized and forced to fight by one of the rebel militias—it seemed impossible for the Syrian teenager to imagine that you could trust anyone. Least of all someone here in the West.
Two years, and he’d watched as the government in Damascus continued to slaughter his people by the hundreds of thousands. Bombing them, gassing them—executing them in cold blood.
All while Western governments just
stood by and did nothing—no, even nothing would have been preferable to what they’d done, as they turned the might of their militaries against the brave mujahideen of the Islamic State. The only ones who, in their pursuit of the true path, had accomplished anything genuine against the regime.
The West spoke out against the Assad government, they called for an end to the violence against the innocent, but their actions. . .their actions put the lie to their words.
And now it was time for them to be called to account for their sins.
His friend turned back on him, pausing a foot from the sidewalk. “Of course we can,” Yusuf said impatiently, his eyes hidden in shadow. “Come on, we've been over this before, bro—a hundred times. He came recommended to me by the brothers. He's not a plant.”
“Insh'allah,” he responded softly, shaking his head as they both moved down the sidewalk, toward the small Lebanese-owned café on the street corner.
It was well-nigh deserted, the bell jangling loudly as Yusuf led the way in—Anas following behind him. His eyes falling upon a single man sitting in the back of the café, clean-shaven, built like an athlete—perhaps in his mid-thirties, no older. A small laptop open on the table before him.
“Salaam alaikum,” he greeted them, closing the laptop as they approached and gesturing for them to take a seat.
“You're not a believer,” Anas responded, his eyes full of suspicion as they scanned the man's face, searching for any sign of treachery.
“No, I am not,” the man replied calmly, seeming unruffled by the teenager's tone. “But I show respect. Please, sit.”
“Wa’ alaikum as-salaam,” Yusuf added hastily as they took their seats across from him. “Do you have a location?”
The man nodded, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it to reveal a printed-out map.
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