by Matthew Dunn
“As long as it penetrates cloth and bone, that’s all I need.”
They spoke for a while—Will recounting his joy of salmon fishing in the Scottish Highlands; Ash recounting how she’d waitressed to pay tuition fees for her degree at Harvard. She told him she’d never experienced true love. She didn’t know why she revealed this information.
Nor did Will. The black-haired, svelte woman before him was a stunner, yet her eyes were drawn and her midthirties skin had lines. Stress had taken its toll. For too many years, she’d been sent into the heart of darkness.
“Would you shave me now?”
“You want to be like an Islamist or Judaist, purging his soul before martyrdom?”
“I just need a shave.”
In the upstairs bathroom, she averted her eyes as he stripped off his shirt. She moistened and lathered his face and moved right up behind his massive frame, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His huge back was lacerated, yet healed. Holding the razor, she expertly etched it over his stubble. “Is this a test of trust?”
“It’s a shave.”
The job complete, she ran a bath. “There should be enough hot water until morning. The boiler’s temperamental. Don’t blame me if it cuts out and cold water comes through.”
“That’s okay. I’ve spent a lot of time in cold water. The North Atlantic in winter, for example.” He picked up the cutthroat razor, his hand not moving a millimeter. “Forgive me. It wasn’t a test about trust. It’s just I wanted the pleasure of knowing how it would feel to have you care about me.” He smiled at her. “I’m going to take my pants off now. Best you leave.”
Ash did so and went to her bedroom. She didn’t know how she felt. Shaving Cochrane was like grooming a massive stallion. She hated thinking of it that way. It was demeaning to her sensibilities. She’d strived her entire life to get where she was. No man was her superior. And yet she’d enjoyed dabbing the towel against his jaw after his face was free of stubble. Yes, that was what Cochrane had done. He’d made her an ally. Possibly he’d done a lot more than that.
The sorrowful man had brought her into his inner circle. Ultimately, he wanted her feminine touch.
In two SUVs, Gage and her team were hurtling eastward on Interstate 64 toward the last place they’d pinpointed Cochrane’s location. They suspected he was long gone from the location. He was—182 miles away. But they had to try their luck and hope he activated his phone soon.
In Kopański and Painter’s SUV, Painter said, “I still think this is a fool’s quest. We have no idea where Cochrane will pop up next. And when he does, what chance do we have of getting to him?”
Kopański was driving. “Agent Gage is waiting for Cochrane to make a mistake.”
“He doesn’t make mistakes.”
“She knows that. But there will be one or two mistakes he can’t avoid, due to his circumstances. I agree with her on that.”
Painter looked at Kopański. “Could you shoot him if it came to it?”
Kopański hesitated. “I’ve thought about that a lot. We’re in the employment of the FBI now. We do what we have to do.”
“Could you shoot him?” Painter repeated.
Kopański sighed. “I guess I’d have to. I wouldn’t want you or the others in danger.”
“And yet, we both think he didn’t commit the murders a year ago.”
“That’s not the point, is it?”
Both SUVs pulled up next to a motel, two hundred yards from where Cochrane last inserted his cell phone battery.
Gage and Duggan entered the motel and showed the receptionist their IDs. Gage revealed a photo of Cochrane. “Is this man staying here?”
The receptionist shook her head. “Never seen him before.”
“What guests do you have right now?”
The receptionist told her only three rooms were occupied. “It’s a slow time of year.” She leafed through her booking ledger. “Young couple in room nineteen. Trucker in twelve. Traveling salesman in room two.”
Gage said, “We need to check their rooms.”
“They’re occupied. They’re probably sleeping. Plus, do you have a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant to search commercial premises. Give me your universal swipe card or keys to access the rooms.”
Duggan and Gage searched each room. In room nineteen they found a terrified young couple, startled as their lovemaking was interrupted by two Feds pointing guns at them. In room twelve they were hurled abuse by a thickset trucker who sat up bleary-eyed in bed at the sight of the Bureau operatives. And in room two, the salesman shook when Duggan ran to the bed and pointed his gun at the guest’s head. None of the men looked anything like Cochrane.
Gage and Duggan returned to reception.
Gage asked the clerk, “Do you have twin rooms? Single beds? We need to stay here.”
“For how long?”
“We don’t know. Maybe just tonight. Maybe longer.”
“You might not need a warrant to search my property, but you will need cash to stay here!”
Gage handed the receptionist her credit card. “One room for two women. One for two men.”
The booking transacted, Gage walked to Kopański and Painter’s vehicle. “I’ve decided to give you beds tonight. Kopański, you’re with Duggan. Painter, you’re with me. Us girls have got the tougher night because we’ll have the intercept equipment for Cochrane’s phone. We take four-hour shifts. One on. One off. And if Cochrane activates his cell, we all mobilize immediately.”
Chapter 24
It was early morning as Will walked along the sea adjacent to Ash’s property. Now seeing it in daylight, he could appreciate what a magnificent and rugged home it was. Once, he imagined, it would have belonged to a tobacco tycoon. But now it needed a lot of work. Exterior stone walls required surgery. The slate roof had tiles missing. And inside there was much to be done. As Ash had predicted, the boiler had cut out at some point last night and his bath ran cold. He didn’t mind that. But he didn’t like the idea that in the future Ash might immerse herself in something so tepid. The sea front, he decided, needed a solid fence. He could make one. The house’s walls he could repair. The boiler was beyond his expertise, but he could get a plumber who’d understand what to do. And the flickering ceiling lights in the house were simply a result of bulbs oscillating in their units. Will could repair that too.
Funny how he was imagining fixing up the place. A childish fantasy. Or a desire to live someplace like this. For so long he’d been without roots. He’d had his pad in London—a two-bedroom apartment in Southwark’s Edwardian West Square—and had tried to make it a cavern of delights. He’d crammed it with baroque art, antique musical instruments, oil paintings that he’d completed, beautiful furniture, a Garrard record player and vinyl of Segovia and other Spanish greats, and books, so many books. But it was a lonely place. His only solace was his love for his three neighbors on the three floors below him. Dickie Mountjoy was a punctilious former major in the Coldstream Guards. He died of a heart attack just after traveling to New York to give Thyme Painter his assessment that Cochrane wasn’t capable of murder. Phoebe was a champagne-swilling art dealer with a heart of gold. All tits and ass, was how retiree Dickie described her. But Dickie loved her, second to none. So did Will. She was like a sister. And David the mortician—flabby, unkempt, always thinking about death and Dixieland jazz and cooking. Together, Will and his neighbors were the most unlikely bunch.
Things had changed. Dickie was gone. David and Phoebe had become an item and moved into a new place in north London. Will’s apartment had been seized and investigated by Metropolitan Police officers when he was on the run. West Square was no longer home.
He stopped at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the mangled array of rocks and sand. It must have been so tough for Kay to see her brother down there, his body smashed and bloody, water ebbing and flowing over his carcass as if it were taunting and baiting him.
But this could be a good place, Will
decided. Repairs. Construction of a safe perimeter. Sell everything in the house and totally refurbish the interior to be nothing like it was now. And there was a very good school nearby, according to Google.
A fantasy.
He walked into the house. Ash was brewing coffee and frying eggs. She said, “I saw you out there and guessed you’d want something when you returned.”
Will stood next to her. He couldn’t remember a moment similar to this. Being next to a woman. Her cooking. Her caring.
He said in a quiet voice, “There are twin boys I need you to be aware of. Their names are Billy and Tom Koenig. Their father was Roger Koenig. He was a Navy SEAL before serving alongside me in intelligence. He was my brother. Not in bloodline. Certainly in soul. A braver man I’ve never met. He’s dead. I wanted to look after the twins. Still do. The twins are living in a Virginia safe house with their aunt, Faye Glass, and two Virginia PD detectives. Faye is a good woman. But she has PTSD. She and I know the twins’ future doesn’t reside with her.” He touched Ash’s arm.
Alone, Will drove west across Virginia for his rendezvous at Elizabeth Haden’s house. His sidearm and spare magazines were by his side. He suspected his journey might be a death run. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about Unwin Fox’s request to meet him or death. Fox was CIA. That meant he played both sides of the table. It was about Colonel Haden. And ultimately it was about Will’s desire to get to the truth about what happened in Berlin.
Will thought he knew what might have happened. Other men would have shrugged it off and laid low, ignoring the need to get closure. Will wasn’t cast from that mold. His life now was about making amends, peacefully closing doors behind past escapades, and bringing bastards to the gallows.
His life back in Berlin and beyond was wholly different. Maybe he should just leave Haden alone. Will’s life had been a hellish roller coaster—the loneliness, isolation, and constant death. And yet he’d had joy when Kay shaved him. It was a simple thing, maybe. But to him, it meant the world after so long in purgatory. He was human, he knew, and yearned after the same things everyone else yearned after. Specifically, he wanted companionship and fatherhood. A woman, maybe someone like Kay, and the twins. Nothing more complicated than that. And a new life. Liberation from the false accusations. A place to settle down. Somewhere like a renovated Dower House.
But it was a crass fantasy. Today he was driving to a gunfight. In all probability he’d die.
Elizabeth Haden poured herself a glass of lemonade and looked out the kitchen window. Somewhere on the grounds, her gardener Bartlett was hiding with a shotgun. Their code to each other was simple. If the man who called himself Edward Pope posed a threat, she would turn on as many lights as possible. At that point, Bartlett would storm the house and gun down Pope. But first, Bartlett would fire off a couple of rounds in the meadow. He was there, he’d tell police, shooting vermin. Forensics would confirm he was away from the house, just doing his duties on the grounds. He heard screaming, he’d tell the cops. That’s when he entered the house and confronted a man assaulting his employer.
No court in Virginia would dispute the veracity of his actions. Mrs. Haden and Jedd Bartlett would walk away without a blemish on their characters.
But it might not come to such drastic action, Mrs. Haden warned Bartlett. They had to see how it played out.
Jason Flail assembled his team one mile away from Haden’s house. They were on a farm road, their vehicles parked, each man checking his sidearm, all of them in jeans, hiking boots, and windbreakers. The men wore ski masks that were rolled up to look like innocuous woolen hats. They’d be pulled down when Cochrane showed.
Flail said to his colleagues, “I repeat, the mission: kill Cochrane; kill anyone else who gets in our way; do not lay a hand on Mrs. Haden; get back here; leave.”
One of the men asked, “Why do we kill Cochrane and why is Mrs. Haden so damn important?”
Flail answered, “Cochrane is blocking our way to Colonel Haden. Mrs. Haden is our bait. As long as she’s alive, there’s a chance Colonel Haden might make contact with her.”
“And Colonel Haden? Can we kill such a highly decorated officer?”
“He’s a thief. Corrupt. Mr. Kane wants him in court to stand trial. I don’t know any other details.”
“You trust Kane?”
Flail laughed. “I don’t trust anyone. But yeah, on this occasion no doubt he’s got it right. Haden’s a psychopath. Haden and what he did in his last mission are too classified for law enforcement involvement. Kane has no choice—unconventional warfare.” He smiled. “And, boys, that’s what us Green Berets do best.”
The men nodded, clear about their objectives and why they were imperative. They set off on foot. It was eleven a.m.
Will watched Haden’s property from the far base of the surrounding meadow. His vehicle was hidden nearby, off-road and with bracken covering most of it. Using binoculars, he scanned his surroundings. It was one hour until his scheduled meeting with Elizabeth Haden. But he had to be patient. Mrs. Haden was too clever to trust him to turn up by prior appointment and not cause danger. She’d have taken precautions. Will, on the other hand, was in no doubt her phone was being monitored. That’s why he’d called her.
But where were the precautions?
He kept scanning the grounds and the windows of the house. Moving positions several times, he repeated the drill. He was wearing waterproof pants, boots, and a mountaineering jacket. His head, however, was exposed.
He was looking for the unusual and the normal. The unusual would include an amateur bodyguard walking inside the house, past a window. The normal would include a professional using an established feature in the house or grounds to remain hidden. But it wasn’t an exact science. People were unpredictable, amateurs and professionals alike.
What would Elizabeth Haden do? he thought. No doubt she was suspicious of his persona Edward Pope. She’d directly accused Will of being a killer, based on his demeanor and scars. He’d given her no credentials to back up his story about knowing her husband. And his call to her would have triggered panic.
His call was deliberate.
But she didn’t know that.
Worker bees, Will recalled, surrounded the queen. The queen was Elizabeth Haden. The workers? Only two that he was aware of: the maid and the gardener. The maid was too young to be a threat. But the gardener was older and had a tattoo on his forearm that was a telltale giveaway that he was once in the 101st Airborne. During Will’s last visit, he had seen him for only one second. It had been enough to get the measure of the man: short, like most paratroopers; midforties, so too old to have seen recent active service; not making a wealthy living on the private contractor circuit, almost certainly because of subsequent personal problems (drugs, booze; destitution probable); and Mrs. Haden had saved him—sixteen dollars an hour working the grounds was preferable to him compared to the stress of revisits to the shitholes on earth.
Yes. He was the worker bee. And a highly trained one at that. He’d know how to work an observation post, concealment, weapons. And he’d have been clean of toxins for some time. Mrs. Haden would have insisted on that.
But he wouldn’t be in the house with a gun. That would look to cops like premeditated expectation of assault. So clever Mrs. Haden would have stage-managed her worker so it looked like he was coming to rescue a damsel in distress. He’d have a gun, but he needed an alibi as to why it was in his hand in a split second when rescuing his employer. Shooting rats, mice, or rabbits on the grounds would be the logical alibi. Rifles and handguns are no good for that, only shotguns. And that meant the gardener was currently ensconced in the grounds with a scattergun. Haden would have a sign to indicate whether she was in jeopardy when Will arrived. Calling a cell phone would take too long in times of duress. It would have to be something lightning fast, a signal that might be possible if Will was trying to garrote Mrs. Haden. A panic alarm was a possibility, but Haden would have to reach it. No, something more ordinary an
d accessible. Midday, room lights wouldn’t be on. But she stood every chance of reaching one if in flight for her life. That’s what the gardener was waiting for.
A light to be turned on after Cochrane arrived, if he caused trouble.
Where was the gardener?
Certainly not far from the house. A sprint for a middle-aged man over fifty yards would take at least five seconds. Then there was house entry, room clearance, getting up close and personal to Will.
There was only one outhouse in that proximity, next to the beehive. Will put away his binoculars, pulled out his handgun, and moved.
Flail and his men walked across open land, avoiding the nearby road. Many times, they’d gone like this to villages in Afghanistan to win hearts and minds, immunize children, speak to the elders about Taliban movements in the area, supply food, arm able-bodied men, and ultimately show the scared village folk that there were people watching their backs. It was what made the Green Berets such a great thinking man’s unit. But they were no strangers to use of maximum force. In their time in the unit, Flail and his colleagues had lost count of the number of night- and daytime assaults they’d conducted against scum. Often, it was in small units but with a hellfire of armaments at their disposal. When in service, they used to joke that the Green Berets were like a married couple—there was the tenderness stuff, and there was the total aggression stuff. “Carrot and stick” was how some in special forces wryly adapted the “hearts and minds” mantra.
Today was stick. Flail’s team was a hunter-killer force, about to neutralize and mop up shit.
Will ran across Haden’s meadow, dodging between trees and avoiding, as much as he could, lines of sight from the house. Speed was of the essence. And surprise. But so much depended on whether his deductions were correct.
Jedd Bartlett aimed his shotgun at the house. He’d done what Mrs. Haden had asked of him and had cleaned her gun and made it ready for use. But this was the first time he’d held a weapon since being in Iraq in the early nineties. Seeing his pals get obliterated in friendly fire by an American fighter plane made him decide warfare was no longer for him. The deaths of encroaching Saddam Hussein loyalists was deemed more important by U.S. military high command than the lives of Bartlett’s sixteen-man unit.
