A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  “May I come in?” Michael asked.

  Antaeus glanced over his shoulder. The sound of a piano came from inside. “My daughter is practicing for her music exams. She cannot be disturbed by the sight of a strange Israeli man entering our home.” He withdrew a World War II tobacco tin from his wader pocket and placed a cheroot in his mouth. “In any case, I have a job to do outside. Join me if you wish; go back to where you came from, if you don’t.”

  He grabbed a walking stick as tall as him, on its head a curly ram’s horn.

  Michael watched Antaeus for a moment, noticing the limp in his right leg. That too would have been Cochrane’s doing. Even though he’d united the Russian with his daughter, Michael wondered how much resentment Antaeus retained toward the former British operative.

  He caught up with Antaeus as he walked inches from the lake’s gently lapping edge.

  The Russian didn’t look at him as he said, “The last time I saw Cochrane, we walked this exact same path. Like you, he came here for my help.”

  “It must have taken courage to do that.”

  Antaeus lit his cheroot. “It did, but it didn’t diminish the desire I had to club him over the head and toss his body into the water. Possibly the only reason I didn’t was because I fly-fish in these waters and wouldn’t want to dine on a trout that had fed on his carcass.”

  “Perhaps that would have been appropriate?”

  “Not to a man of my tastes.” He stopped, staring out to his beloved lake. “You’ve come to talk to me about Mr. Cochrane’s predicament.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know why he told you to come to me if ever he was in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Factually, nor do I—he never told me—though I believe there is one strong probability.”

  Normally repulsed by the scent of tobacco, for some reason Michael was enjoying the aromatic smell emanating from the Russian’s cigar. “He respects your intellect.”

  “I’ve never been susceptible to flattery, Mr. Stein.” Awkwardly, Antaeus bent over by a large tree stump that was partially excavated. He seemed to be doing something to the stump, though Michael couldn’t see what because he had his back to him. He returned to Michael by the lakeside, uncoiling a length of wire between him and the tree stump twenty yards away. “I believe it’s more to do with trust. He trusts that I of all people would know what it feels like to be out of the secret world and alone. If he’s in trouble, that means his former masters no longer support him. Ergo he is alone, and ergo he tells you to visit me because I will, as our dear Americans say, get it.”

  “You know what happened in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “The train out of Philly?”

  “Everything, including what happened last night near Roanoke.”

  “Is he guilty of those crimes?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Antaeus dusted mud off a flat stone, then stopped and looked at Michael. “Will Cochrane is a murderer. He may not have meant to destroy my family, but he most certainly intended to end my life. And it would take me hours to recount to you the numerous other killings he’s conducted, those that I know about, in any case. I suspect you too may know he’s quite capable of pulling a trigger.”

  “I saved his life. He did the same for me.”

  “And in the course of his saving you, others died.”

  Michael nodded.

  A rainbow trout jumped nearby, prompting Antaeus to smile and wonder if he should take his boat out this afternoon and try his luck with a nymph and two wet fly droppers. Crystal adored his baked trout and bacon recipe. “Will Cochrane is a lonely man. Other people are not like him. He knows that, and to a large extent has been able to live with that reality because he adores people and finds them fascinating. In that respect, he is like a human-looking creature who has fallen to earth and been told to make sense of it all. And, crucially, to protect those who live here. That’s his purpose. For him to go on a rampage would be tantamount to him putting a gun to his own head. He’d be destroying himself.”

  “Maybe that’s the point. He wants to destroy the kinds of people he once secretly protected. This is his suicide pill.”

  Antaeus wagged a finger. “He’s not that man. And if there were any chance his mind could snap, that would have happened years ago, given what he was put through. No, no. He’d made plans to adopt twins. That would have been his focus.”

  “So what’s happening? None of this makes sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense.”

  Michael said nothing.

  “This is calculated revenge. He’s been set up. Some person or persons wish to take away the one thing he cherishes the most.”

  “His purpose to serve the West?”

  “No. He was prepared to give that up for a new kind of purpose. What’s being expertly and systematically taken away from him is his dignity. Everything he’s done, every sacrifice, act of heroism, rescue, result: none of it matters now. He’ll be remembered as the man who killed his sister, American cops, and a family, and kidnapped a boy. If he manages to stay on the run, I fear it will keep getting worse for him.”

  “How has he been set up so convincingly?”

  “I’m only armed with the same media facts as you. And there’ll be facts missing from the media reports. I don’t know for sure how this has been constructed.”

  Michael wasn’t going to accept that answer. “How would you have done this?”

  Antaeus weighed his response. “Whoever is orchestrating this revenge is extremely clever. He or she has trained experts on the payroll. But they do what they’re told. There is a master hand at play, though it’s hidden from me. In answer to your question, I probably would have been able to get Cochrane to this stage, though where I’d go from here, I’ve no idea. There are several possibilities about what happened in the New York hotel room. I think all of them are plausible and ingenious. The setup at the Granges’ was also elaborate. The mastermind predicted Cochrane would go there, though he had no way of knowing, nor did he care, that he might be there on the evening of the massacre. That was a bonus but unnecessary. The damage to Cochrane had already been done.”

  “Do you think Cochrane will come to you in person for help?”

  “For three reasons, no. First, he knows that police and Secret Service occasionally check up on me to make sure my former Russian peers aren’t trying to serve me a cup of polonium in return for my betrayal. Second, he won’t want to inadvertently draw cops to my home, risk a shootout, and potentially compromise the safety of Crystal. Third, he knows that if he comes here, part of me will be amused at the sight of his wretched condition. He wouldn’t like that.”

  “I doubt his self-respect and ego are at the top of his agenda right now.”

  Antaeus shook his head. “It would be out of respect for me that he wouldn’t want me to see him like that.”

  There was so much to Antaeus that remained hidden from Michael. He gave off an impression of shrewd intelligence and insight. Michael had worked with some of the sharpest minds in Mossad, but had never encountered anyone like this. “Is there anything that can be done to help him? That’s why I’m here—to seek your guidance.”

  “And why would I help him?”

  “Why not?”

  “I expected a better response from you.” Antaeus attached a small device to the end of the wire. “The correct answer is that I’ll help him because if I don’t, I fail myself. I could easily have been Will Cochrane.” He gestured toward the tree stump. “That damn thing has been bothering me for months. I can’t dig it out because the roots are too big. Thankfully, I have a license to purchase and safely utilize equipment that may help.” He pulled Michael a couple of yards farther away from the tree stump. “You can be in Washington, D.C., in three hours. I need you there no later than that. You have a busy evening ahead of you. The chances of my idea working are approximately three percent. Even then, it w
on’t help Cochrane stay alive much more than a few more days.” He detonated the device, and an explosion wrenched the tree trunk out of the ground.

  Antaeus examined the damage. “The problem has been uprooted.” He turned to Stein. “That’s what’s happened to Cochrane.”

  Because of the late hour, all the offices in the attorney general’s department were empty save Marty Fleet’s.

  He regretted having to work so late, though at least he had the reassurance that his sister’s day-care nurse was willing to wait at his home for however long it would take. And he had no choice but to work for at least another couple of hours. His meeting with the attorney general and the country’s top judges was set for 3 p.m. tomorrow. Before then he had to complete his research into U.S. constitutional law, state laws, medical codes of practice, mental health acts, and other regulations.

  He took a gulp of his black coffee and continued reading the legal journals piled on his desk.

  He doubted what he was doing would make one bit of difference to Cochrane. But he felt he had to do this to help others like him. Brave American heroes. Soldiers. Men who’d served their country with distinction. People who should have been decorated, but instead were hung out to dry by the government.

  Men like Cochrane deserved so much better from the people who sent them to their deaths.

  Chapter 20

  Tom Koenig had been awake for a long time, though he had no way of knowing whether it was night or day.

  Some time ago, he’d awoken in the room and screamed, unable to see anything because a black hood was over his head, and unable to remove it because his hands were tied behind his back. He remembered last night being put in a police car, transferred to another car at the bottom of his granduncle and -aunt’s lane, and being driven off. Then the woman in the backseat next to him injected his arm.

  He didn’t remember anything after that.

  There were voices around him in the room. One of them belonged to the bad man who’d grabbed him from under the bed. His accent was weird, a bit like the pastry chef in the Roanoke bakery. And he could tell the woman was here. He’d never forget what she said to him last night in the car, before jabbing him with her syringe.

  “Keep still, you little shit.”

  And there was a third person in here. A man. The sound of his voice made Tom rock back and forth while blubbing his young heart out.

  In the chambers of the Supreme Court of the United States, Marty Fleet and the attorney general were sitting at a boardroom table facing the chief justice of the United States and eight associate justices.

  The AG had told Fleet that he’d done a superb job and that he was to stay silent in today’s meeting. Fleet’s day would come when he could take the lead in such senior-level assemblies. But the judges—five women, including the chief justice, and four men—were extremely powerful individuals. The AG was nearing the end of his career. It didn’t matter if he pissed off anyone. But he wasn’t prepared to risk Fleet doing so while his career was still developing. So, Fleet was to keep his mouth shut and observe.

  The AG commenced proceedings. “Your Honors, the purpose of this meeting is to ascertain whether legal resources should be devoted to exploring the possibility that we should petition for an amendment to our Constitution.”

  The judges were silent.

  “The issue has been raised in my department”—the AG made no reference to Fleet—“based on the atrocities committed by wanted murderer Will Cochrane.”

  The chief justice interjected, “This isn’t another attempt to interfere with states’ decisions on whether to have the death penalty or not, is it? Or gun control? You know we’ve fought and lost those battles in the past.”

  “No. If Cochrane is caught, I’m certain he’ll receive capital punishment. We can’t and shouldn’t interfere with the judicial process of the state he’s tried in. But his case is a curious one, though not unprecedented.”

  “Damn right it’s not unprecedented.” The chief justice had too much respect for the AG to get impatient, though she was wondering where this was leading. “There’ve been plenty of other murders on our watch.”

  “And some of them have been conducted by men trained by our government.” The AG produced his single sheet of notes, summarizing the vast amount of research Fleet had conducted. “Soldiers who run amok after they return home, cops who crack after visiting one crime scene too many—these are men and women we trained to shoot to kill. And we sent them into situations that would be psychologically intolerable for the average citizen.”

  “That’s their job.”

  “It is, but the issue is what happens when that job is done? How can we ensure they don’t put a gun to their head; or worse, point it at American people?”

  “We can’t guarantee they won’t, and you know that.”

  The AG shook his head. “A traumatized officer, whether military or law enforcement, is currently subject to three forms of intervention. The first is the welfare from his or her unit. If they spot cracks beginning to appear, they can help rehabilitate the officer and keep an eye on him while he adjusts back into society. Sometimes that works. Other times warning signs are missed. Often, there simply isn’t any welfare. The second is for the officer to voluntarily submit himself to the provisions under our mental health laws, or for those provisions to be forced onto him. That’s essential, but again, mistakes can be made, or sometimes action is taken too late. The third is the law. If we suspect a former operative is about to go crazy and go on a mass shooting, or we catch the guy after the event, we apply the law.”

  The chief justice said, “I can’t see how any of this relates to the Constitution.”

  “The fact that it doesn’t currently relate to our Constitution is why we’re in this room today.” The AG knew that Fleet’s heart would be in his mouth. He’d worked so hard on this. If it paid off, the AG would ensure Fleet received all praise. If it didn’t, no one would know that this was Fleet’s idea. “Will Cochrane is a former intelligence officer.”

  “A British Intelligence officer. Wherever you’re heading with this, he can’t be used as an example to change U.S. law.”

  “Actually, he’s half British and half American. His father served in the CIA. And Cochrane served our country just as much as he served Britain. In any case, he’s one of many examples of former American operatives falling foul of the law after they’ve been discharged.” The AG eyed the judges. “The issue is culpability. In Cochrane’s case, who is to blame for his actions?”

  One of the associate justices replied, “Cochrane, of course.”

  “Yes, Cochrane must be held to account for his crimes and pay the ultimate price. But who else is culpable?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “His former employers MI6 and CIA? The people who trained him to kill? The controllers who ordered him to go on missions? The ones who knew that the intolerable pressures they were placing him under would one day break even the strongest man? And ultimately we should ask ourselves”—this was the moment the AG had been leading up to—“whether the United States of America should be held to account if it doesn’t prevent massacres such as those conducted by Cochrane.”

  An associate justice slapped his hand on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding, right? Why should we take the blame for the actions of a madman?”

  “Because we made him mad.” This came from the chief justice.

  The AG added, “I’m not suggesting we take all the blame. But I do pose the question of whether we should consider absorbing some of the blame. My department has spent hours researching this. On the issue of state culpability for the criminal actions of a man it used to employ there is currently absolutely nothing in law that says America should take some responsibility.”

  “So what are you proposing?”

  “I’m suggesting that our Constitution should be amended to clearly state that if we train someone to be a killer and that person uses skills we taught him to commit murder
without us doing everything in our power to care for the man and prevent his crimes, that the state should be tried alongside the perpetrator.”

  “Now hold on.” The chief justice had a withering expression on her face. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

  The AG held her gaze. “At this stage, I’m merely introducing a motion that we devote energies to further research my proposition.”

  The justices started talking fast and over each other.

  The chief justice called for quiet and returned her attention to the AG. “You’d be opening a Pandora’s box. Crime’s on the increase, ergo more cops are likely to get traumatized in the line of duty. The war on terror has become an unpredictable mess, so we’re going to have to deploy more soldiers who are likely to see and do stuff that gives them nightmares. Things are getting worse. It’s almost certain we’re going to see more men like Cochrane going crazy. By amending the Constitution in the way you’re suggesting, if we don’t stop our former officers from going on a rampage, we’d be in breach of the law. People would lose their jobs. For some of us the ramifications could be worse. And that’s before we even get onto the subject of how much money we’d have to pay out to victims.”

  These were precisely the points the AG had earlier made to Fleet. Verbatim, the AG told the chief justice what Fleet had said. “The point of our Constitution is to set in stone the duty of government and the expectations our citizens should have of our government. Our first duty is to protect America and its citizens.”

  “And in the context of people like Cochrane, we do that by applying the law.”

  “But in doing so, we wash our hands of any guilt we may have.” The AG placed his sheet of paper in his jacket pocket. “The issue is one of prevention. If the amendment was made, imagine the lengths we’d go to in order to prevent men like Cochrane having access to firearms. We’d force him to have medical treatment. He’d get welfare support—not just when transitioning into civilian life but also for an extended period thereafter. We’d monitor him. He’d have regular psychological assessments. We wouldn’t let someone like Cochrane slip through the net, because he’d be profiled as precisely the type of man who’d one day crack, kill seven people, and kidnap a child.” For Fleet’s sake, he dearly hoped that what he was about to ask the justices to do would produce the right result. “Perhaps we could recess for thirty minutes and return so that you can take a vote on whether we should explore my proposition. My colleague and I would not participate in the vote.”