by Matthew Dunn
“Good. Get it done.”
Elizabeth Haden placed her phone down, walked into her garden and approached her beehive. The bees were quiet, the workers snuggling next to their queen and giving her warmth. Elizabeth was full of wonderment at the duty the lesser bees devoted to their mistress. They knew their place. And everything in the hive was designed this way with precision and purpose. Without the queen, the bees would be directionless. The blood of family was all that mattered.
Even if they didn’t understand the queen’s agenda.
Elizabeth stood for a while before shivering and reentering her home.
She made a cup of tea and pondered her encounter with the big man who called himself Edward Pope. That wasn’t his real name, she was sure. And there was an aura around him that deeply unsettled her, even though there was no way she was going to reveal that to anyone. He wanted to track down her husband. But there was more to his task than that, she knew.
She looked at the vast garden and yard, spotlights in the grass lighting up patches of the grounds, including the hive. What would happen, she wondered, if the queen bee ordered the worker bees to do something unexpected? They’d obey. All that mattered was what the queen wanted.
Chapter 19
“We’ve got nothing to go on!” Marsha Gage kicked a stool in the safe house in Virginia, then stood before Pete Duggan, Joe Kopański, and Thyme Painter. “Nothing!”
On the living room table between them were strewn maps, cell phones, spare handgun magazines, and enlarged photos of Cochrane as last seen in the D.C. park.
Painter hobbled up to Gage. “Maybe we should blow this wide open, get every cop on the East Coast involved, circulate Cochrane’s sighting throughout the FBI, possibly even get the media on board.”
Gage’s look was hostile. “You tried that one year ago! It ended in a hostage situation!”
“And you tried it three years ago and it ended with Cochrane putting a gun to your skull!” Painter had no desire to go head-to-head with Gage, but she was standing her ground. “Regardless, we both need to face facts. We don’t have Cochrane’s cell phone to trace. Michael Stein is our only lead, but even he doesn’t know where Cochrane is. We don’t know the specifics of why Cochrane has come out of hiding. We have no cards to play except trying to smother Cochrane with a massive police blanket.”
Gage sincerely admired Painter’s talents. But Gage was the boss. “When you were a Night Stalker chopper pilot, flying under the radar, would you have liked the cavalry riding into Afghanistan by your side?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to be noticed. My missions were top secret and covert.”
“The parallels are precisely what we’re doing to get Cochrane.”
“Or not doing!”
“We have to stay off the radar. Blowing this whole thing up into a nationwide manhunt will likely have one of two outcomes: Cochrane will vanish, or there’ll be a massacre.”
Painter conceded that Gage was right. “He put a CIA officer out of his misery because Fox was poisoned with plutonium by a person unknown. Cochrane was a former CIA-MI6 asset. The chances of Fox and Cochrane encountering each other without an overriding imperative for Cochrane to come out of hiding are nonexistent. Cochrane is on the trail of something. And he’ll stay in the open providing we give him enough rope to do so.”
“And when the time’s right, we hang him with that rope.” Sitting on the other side of the room, Kopański put down the sidearm he was cleaning. “You’re right, Agent Gage. We have no leads. But we have one advantage.”
Gage turned to the big Polish American. “Which is what?”
“Inevitability.” Kopański raised his disfigured face. “Cochrane is as good as, maybe even better than, Michael Stein at staying in the shadows. But guys like that inevitably have to step out of the shadows to do their job.”
Gage was following his train of thought. “Espionage. Assassinations. Direct action.”
“Yeah, and that’s when they’re most vulnerable.”
Hostage Rescue Team leader Pete Duggan joined the conversation. “We think there is a high probability Cochrane is pursuing a lead connected to Fox’s death. The endgame for Cochrane will be to track down the person who poisoned Fox.”
“That’s a hypothesis, Pete. Not fact.” Gage resisted the urge to chew on one of her nails. “Cochrane may have just gone to ground, doing nothing.”
Painter shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right.”
Gage asked, “Why?”
Painter placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Joe’s right about inevitability. Something’s been set in motion. Cochrane is the type of man who won’t stop until he’s stopped that motion. He’s going to have to interact with others, good or bad people. And that’s where we get lucky. Somebody somewhere is going to compromise his safety.”
“And that’s where we step in?”
“We step in when innocent civilians get frightened. Or whoever poisoned Fox creates a massive situation and we end it.”
Gage turned away from the others in the room. Quietly, she said, “I’ve known of Cochrane for three years. And I’ve been obsessing about the possibility he’s still alive for this last year. It’s a lot of time to get to know a man.” She turned to her team. “There will be no random inevitability to his capture. Now that Cochrane was caught on camera, he will suspect that I’m hunting him. He will also wonder why his face isn’t blasted all over the media. Ergo, he will assume that a small team has been assembled by me to capture him. Therein is the problem.”
“Problem?” asked Duggan.
She addressed Duggan. “What does Cochrane do best?”
Duggan laughed. “Where do I begin?”
“Fair point, but let me tell you the answer. He misdirects.” Her voice grew louder. “He’s on an operational footing now. Yes, he’s the West’s finest killer and was the very best spy, blah blah blah. That worries me considerably. But what worries me more is his mind. Unchecked, he won’t make a wrong step now. In fact, he didn’t make a wrong step in the D.C. park. He knew the risks he was taking when he put Fox out of his misery, but he took them anyway.”
“So anything that presents itself as inevitable—a chance spotting, random act, anything—will be a calculated act by Cochrane?”
“Yes. He’s holding the best poker cards one can have. We can’t trust Lady Luck.” Gage looked at each team member. They were such fine people: Painter, a war hero and one of the best detectives on the East Coast; Kopański, the other best detective, was an incredible shot with a handgun and emboldened with a soul as deep as the Grand Canyon; Duggan, a hero, second to none, who was the most terrifying sight when he stormed a hostage scene with a Heckler & Koch submachine gun.
Gage picked up a photo of Will Cochrane and brushed a finger over his face. “My husband said men like Cochrane are not to be touched. They’re too rare. And we burn if we get too close to them, because they live outside of our understanding. Like Icarus flying near the sun. Icarus got too close.” She put the photo down. “I love my husband. But I think his observation is bullshit.” She turned to Painter. “When you met Cochrane a year ago, what did you see?”
Painter glanced at Kopański, unsure whether to say what she thought.
Kopański picked up his gun and stood. “Ma’am, Cochrane doesn’t look at us, or the room he’s in, or the street he’s on. I’ve seen that look in other sociopaths. They think they’re better than us. Let’s leave it at that.”
Gage was agitated. “I wish it was that simple. No leads! I repeat, no leads!” She walked up to Duggan. “We need to do something that even Cochrane wouldn’t predict.”
It was midmorning as Michael Stein parked his car on the gravel driveway that led to the house of one of the most dangerous men from the East. The property was in Virginia, adjacent to a vast glistening lake brimming with trout, no other homes nearby, half the house on stilts over the waterline.
Stein was
here uninvited. His visit was a hazardous risk.
He lifted his dog, Mr. Peres, out of the car. The dog was wheezing and his legs were shaking. This was to be expected. Stein’s beloved hound was suffering from cancer and arthritis. Stein had resigned himself that he was going to have to say good-bye to his friend very soon. But my goodness, as he walked toward the house, cradling the dog in his arms, he could still feel his pal’s heartbeat and desire to be in his arms. More than anything, Stein could sense the dog had surrendered himself totally to Stein’s care. That tore Stein apart.
Stein pulled the cord of the doorbell. He lowered Mr. Peres and smoothed a hand over his fur.
A tall man answered the door holding a walking stick with a ram’s horn on top.
It was Antaeus—once a Russian spymaster, and the man whose wife and child had been accidentally killed by Cochrane. He was now a defector and archaeologist. The middle-aged man was slender and had a droopy eye and a disfigured face from the bomb.
“We have not seen each other for a year, Mr. Stein.” Antaeus’s English was perfect, almost no accent. “You’re here because dead Cochrane did something in the past that has come back to haunt us. More likely, you’re here because you think Cochrane is alive.”
Stein nodded. “May I come in? If you permit dogs to enter?”
Antaeus looked at the mutt. “He is old and ill. The weather is inclement. He cannot stay outside.” Antaeus gestured for them to enter.
“Is Crystal at school?”
As Antaeus led them along a corridor, he said, “She’s on a school field trip to England. She won’t be home for thirteen days.”
They entered a huge living room strewn with antiquities, ancient charts, handcrafted tables containing flints and other archaeological artifacts, burning oil lamps, Oriental rugs, a library of academic books, paintings, a grand piano, and several sofas and chairs. It would have ordinarily been a place of refinement and indicative of a man of history, though that image was offset by numerous drawings that Crystal had done and stuck to the walls, plus photos of her and Antaeus smiling on fishing trips on the lake. Seemingly, Antaeus wasn’t bothered that his precise assembly of furnishings and objects, all reflecting his interests and vast intellect, were made off-kilter by a child’s whimsy. He was a very good father.
Antaeus winced as he crouched and grabbed one of his rugs, purchased in Mongolia for $3,000, the cost due to the rarity of the silk. He dragged it next to a woodstove that was ablaze. “Your dog can rest here while we speak. What is his name?”
“Mr. Peres.”
“Why did you name him that?”
“Out of affection. My dog has always been peaceful.”
“May I?” Antaeus held out his hand for the dog’s lead.
Stein gave it to him.
Antaeus gently guided Mr. Peres to the rug, patted it, and smiled as the dog rested his weary limbs in front of the fire. He looked at Stein and held a finger to his lips, before walking out of the room to the exterior wooden balcony on stilts over the lake. A small canopy was above three wooden benches, the decking and lake beyond being hit hard by rain.
Antaeus sat on one of the benches. Stein joined him. Ahead of them, two fly-fishing rods were leaning against the wooden fence that encapsulated the jetty.
Antaeus said, “The American Secret Service still check up on me now and again, but less frequently than before. I don’t believe they are bugging my house. Why would they? It would require motivation to do so and objectives in place. Plus, the resources required for twenty-four/seven intercept would be massive. But I worry about the Russians.”
Stein laughed. “You’re being paranoid, old man. They know you’ve given America everything you know.”
Antaeus gripped his stick as he kept his eyes on the lake. “Mother Russia knows I’ve betrayed it in absolute terms for the sake of”—he gestured toward the house—“a daughter. That’s not what concerns me. One day, maybe here, maybe somewhere else, the Russians will come for me and end matters. I just pray that doesn’t happen until Crystal is in college. Meanwhile, I pay close attention to the possibility that anything that comes out of my mouth inside my home may be relayed to Moscow.”
Stein frowned. “The Secret Service could sweep your house for bugs. Plus there’s technical equipment—dog whistles, we used to call them in Mossad—that can interfere with bugs even if you can’t find them.”
Antaeus smiled, his disfigured face making the expression look like that of a gargoyle. “Whether there are Russian bugs in my house or not, long ago I took the view that sometimes it’s better for Moscow to hear I’m no threat. I’m buying a few years until Crystal flies the nest. After that, nothing matters.” He pointed to the canopy. “I control Moscow by giving them what they don’t want to hear: mundanity, everyday life. But out here there are, as you call them, dog whistles. They are waterproof and concealed. In the old days the only way to avoid audio interception was speaking to someone via a horn that went from one person’s mouth to the other’s ear. After that, it was speaking in a bathroom with taps on full. That was less successful. Then it was running a vacuum cleaner amid conversation. Alas, technology caught up and those techniques became obsolete. Now it’s dog whistles. Let’s see how long that lasts. But for now, on my porch, we’re safe.”
“If your house is bugged.”
Antaeus sighed. “Ifs and buts.”
Stein looked at the beautiful lake and pictured Antaeus and Crystal on a boat, using the rods to fetch their supper. How times had changed. Years ago, Antaeus answered to no one. He was the most feared spymaster, second to none. “Cochrane is alive.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
Antaeus’s eyes were glistening. “I haven’t seen him since the incident on the Brooklyn Bridge. I have no proof of life. But I know Cochrane. He’s alive.”
Stein clasped his hands and bowed his head. “I’ve been in the States for a year, trying to find him. I wanted to help, give him resources, that kind of thing. The FBI had me under surveillance. Bunch of amateurs. I could lose them without even thinking. But two nights ago I was grabbed by a small Bureau team. Their leader is a woman called Marsha Gage. She’s anything but an amateur. The three others with her were also pros, I’m certain. No doubt this has to do with Cochrane.”
“And you’ve come to me because . . . ?”
Stein looked at Antaeus. The young Israeli wondered how the middle-aged Russian coped with being a single father while at the same time having the possibility of death hanging over his head. “Who are the most brilliant minds in the secret world?”
Antaeus laughed. “I suspect a fanciful analogy will soon come out of your mouth.”
Stein remained serious. “Answer.”
Antaeus turned to him. “You are one of them. But you are limited by purpose. Fifty percent of your brain has to deal with combat. It quashes your full potential. Still, you are one of four of the finest operatives.”
“And the other three?”
“Me.”
“I totally concur. Who else?”
“There is a man in the CIA. His name is Hessian Bell. He is very dangerous, but a good man. Never underestimate him. He hates the CIA, yet serves the Agency. He has his own agenda. That agenda is to make the Agency better.”
“And the last?” Stein knew the answer.
“Of course, Will Cochrane.” Antaeus placed a mottled hand on Stein’s shoulder. “We are the four. But only Bell remains employed.”
“By an organization he detests.”
Antaeus nodded.
“There will be others in the CIA, MI6, DGSE, Mossad, et cetera, who we don’t know about and are rising stars,” Stein said.
“But we don’t know them, so they are of no use.”
“What are you thinking?”
“The same thought as you.” Antaeus rubbed his leg that got injured in the bomb blast. It always ached when the weather turned cold. “Cochrane needs our help.”
“He killed
your family.”
“By mistake. And three years ago I tried to kill him by design. You of all people know things have changed since then.”
He was referring to the help Antaeus and Stein gave Cochrane a year ago when Cochrane was in a desperate state. The help was supplied by the most unlikely of allies because Antaeus and Stein recognized themselves in Cochrane. They were all once lone operators who never really sacrificed their lives for the organizations they served or their countries. They did what they did because they were mavericks who excelled in their work.
Antaeus tapped his staff on the decking. “We became obsolete in the secret world yet daily struggle to have a footprint in the normal world. I try to be an archaeologist but worry about assassination. You load bags of soap in a kibbutz factory, yet remain on many countries’ blacklists because of your Mossad days as a hit man. Cochrane is the enigma, because we don’t know where he is. But he is the big game prize. So many people want his head above their mantelpiece.”
“I’d hoped you might know Cochrane’s whereabouts.”
“So you can disrupt Gage’s hunt?”
“Yes.”
“There may be a role for both of us in that strategy. But not until we know where Cochrane is.” Antaeus stood and walked to the fence overlooking the lake. “If, as I believe, Cochrane is alive, he will call for help when it’s needed. Like me, Hessian Bell, and you, he’s a chess player. But he always moves ahead.”
“We’re not his pawns! We’re better than that!”
“We are. But we’re not competing with him. We’re helping him. Thus, we become the power chess pieces.” He turned. “I was put in checkmate by Cochrane three years ago. It’s why I’m here. It was on the back of me being in Russia trying to outplay him. I won battles; he won battles. But he won the war. Why has this current situation arisen? Why has Cochrane been spotted?”
“It will be for a reason. He’s working on something that has forced him out of hiding.”
“Exactly.”
Stein moved to Antaeus’s side. “Gage and her team have a huge disadvantage.”
