Act of Betrayal

by Matthew Dunn

  “This is absurd!”

  “What was it?” he repeated.

  She said nothing.

  “You’re not getting out of this room unless you tell me the truth!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “I’m going to help you if you wish. You did nothing wrong apart from wanting your husband dead. Kane did all the action. Talk now or I’m your enemy!”

  She rubbed her jaw and sighed. “Kane was a pawn. I told him what to do. Kill my husband. Kill Unwin Fox. Kill you when you started interfering. I was to be Kane’s First Lady.”

  “First Lady?”

  Haden bunched her knees up under her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. “Kane was perfect. His views were . . . extreme. That’s what I wanted. And that’s what my White House friend wanted. Somebody who could take office in five or ten years’ time and bring back American values. We’ve been screwed over for so long. But Kane needed a clear way to the top. My husband was blocking that. Kane had other plans and could become a hero.”

  “American values are based on compassion and rule of law, not your principles.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” Her eyes were imploring when she said, “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “I do in times of stress.”

  “And you are stressed now?”

  She smiled but looked sad. “No, actually I’m calm. But I’d still like a smoke. How do you know I don’t smoke?”

  Will was impatient. “No smell of tobacco in the house; no stains on your fingers; your teeth; you’re not the type—I could go on.”

  “I only smoke once a month. I have a pack in my rear pocket. Can I pull it out?”

  Will whipped out his handgun and pointed it at her. “Slowly.”

  She reached behind her back. “I knew it was you when your car arrived. It gave me a few seconds to get my cigarettes.” She pulled out a handgun and held it to her head.

  “No!”

  Mrs. Haden smiled. “We make mistakes in life. Mine was the quest for power. Don’t worry—this gun means you no harm.” She looked beautiful and forlorn as she asked, “What is your real name?”

  Will answered with his true name.

  “That’s a pretty name. Are you descended from Thomas Cochrane, the famous British admiral who used a false American flag to capture a Spanish frigate twice the size of his boat?”

  “Probably.” Cochrane was breathing fast. “Don’t do anything silly. There’s a way out of this.”

  In her laconic Southern accent, Mrs. Haden replied, “No, Mr. Cochrane. Sometimes in life we meet a roadblock.”

  “Don’t!”

  Elizabeth Haden put a bullet in her brain and slumped to the floor.

  As Will was driving away from Haden’s home, he stopped Kane’s car on a deserted country lane and walked to a pay phone. He called Kay and told her what had happened. “Are you at home?”

  “Yes. Coastal residence.”

  “Stay there.”

  “Will, this is—”

  “Shit, I know. Listen to me, Kay. I have to let them get me. This has been going on too long.”

  There was twenty seconds of silence on her end of the phone.

  Kay said, “Don’t hurt them.” She sounded tearful.

  Will said with sorrow in his voice, “It’s okay. I’ll find a way to get back to you.”

  “You want that? Do you really want that?”

  “Yes.” Will ended the call. He got back into the car and drove.

  In his mind there was no way back to Kay. And even if he got there, what did she represent? Did he like her? Love her? Was it just the house that appealed to him? Was it merely a way out, Kay not being the central feature of that emotion? No. It wasn’t a muddled emotion. He wanted a future with Kay. The trouble was he was facing death or life imprisonment.

  He called Faye Glass. “This will end soon. I didn’t do what they say I did. Always remember that I wished to care for the twins. Tell them when they’re older what kind of man I was. Please.”

  He ended the call and continued driving.

  Gage shouted, “We’ve got him! Drive!”

  Gage, Kopański, Duggan, and Painter mobilized their two SUVs. They were eighty miles from Cochrane.

  Painter said, “His cell phone is still on. Why’s he not turned it off?” She was looking at the tracking device in her hand.

  “I’ve no idea.” Gage was speaking into her throat mic, her communications linked exclusively to her team.

  In the car behind her, Kopański and Painter kept pace.

  Painter touched Kopański’s hand. “Joe, if Cochrane kills us today, know that . . .” A tear ran down her cheek. “Know that . . .”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand. “The feeling’s mutual. I’ve felt like that for years. Let’s make sure we don’t die.”

  “And then we can talk about things?”

  Kopański looked at her, a smile on his face, his heart at peace for the first time he could remember. “It would be my honor.”

  Whether they died today, at last these two battle-hardened cops had spoken the unspoken truth. They were meant to be together. Not just as police partners. Way, way more than that. It was a mighty good place to be, even if it was just for a few hours.

  Will kept his cell phone on as he sat in a café in Washington, D.C.

  He sipped black coffee, marveling at the taste and wondering when he’d next have a chance for a fine beverage. The café was almost empty; he was in a booth. His hands touched the table and he felt it was the last time he’d ever experience anything like this. But he had to go through with this. Enough was enough.

  “Heap of crap!” Gage tossed her tracking device to one side. “He can’t be static and have his cell on!” She called the FBI technician who had more sophisticated technology to track Cochrane. “What?! Are you sure?!” She ended the call and spoke to Duggan. “He’s in a café. 1052 Thomas Jefferson Street Northwest. And he ain’t moving.”

  “He’s deposited his cell there and is a million miles away from that place.”

  “That’s my guess, but we have to be sure.”

  Duggan said, “Kopański and I will go in. But we need a sledgehammer to back us up.”

  “Pete . . .”

  “No, Agent Gage. I’m an expert. So is Kopański. But this is Cochrane we’re dealing with.”

  They were on the outskirts of D.C.

  Reluctantly, Gage said, “Okay. Get your friends mobilized.”

  Will finished the remains of his coffee and placed cash on the table. But he stayed where he was, waiting for fifty-eight minutes.

  The Critical Incident Response Group van pulled up at the head of Thomas Jefferson Street. Inside were fourteen FBI Hostage Rescue Team operatives. All of them were under Duggan’s command. They weren’t permitted to exit just yet. Duggan had to tell them when. They were in full antiterror gear and armed to the teeth. There were some antiterror units in other parts of the world that were as good as HRT. But none was better. HRT waited, clutching their assault weapons.

  Duggan’s and Kopański’s SUVs stopped at the head of Thomas Jefferson Street. The HRT van was visible. Duggan and Kopański got out and walked down the street, Duggan holding his submachine gun, Kopański his sidearm. FBI badges hung from chains around their necks.

  They entered the café and yelled at everyone, staff included, to get out. One person remained.

  Will Cochrane.

  He was calm, his hands still on the table.

  Duggan radioed to HRT. “Now! Now! Now!”

  HRT streamed out of the vehicle, sprinting down the street, onlookers shrieking at the sight of the soldiers.

  Duggan and Kopański approached Will.

  “Gentlemen, would you like to take a seat?” Will smiled.

  The two FBI agents remained standing, their guns pointing at him.

  “You’re under arrest,” said Kopański.

  “Of course I am.” Will’s smile remained.
“Pete, Joe—take a seat. I’m unarmed.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Will’s smile vanished. “Most of my friends and former colleagues are dead. That just leaves a small number of people who I’d take a bullet for. You are two of them. And you know why.” He looked out the window. HRT wasn’t visible yet. He said to Pete, “Tell HRT to give us a moment. It would be very kind if you would.”

  Duggan and Kopański exchanged glances. Duggan got on the radio. “Hold position. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, enter and incapacitate.”

  They sat opposite Will, their guns still trained on him.

  “I’d offer you a coffee but”—he nodded toward the bar—“you’ve ushered the staff away.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Duggan.

  “Waiting to be taken to jail.” Will mopped his brow with a napkin. He sighed as he looked at them. “Either of you could be sitting where I am. Has that occurred to you?”

  Both nodded.

  “Circumstance is a bitch, isn’t it?” Will laughed. “I’m tired of circumstance.” His face was serious as he said, “Joe, I’d like you to be the arresting officer. After all, you pursued me relentlessly a year ago. You deserve the accolade of apprehending me.” He looked at Duggan. “Pete, I want you to lead me away. Back in the day, when we were in that gunfight in D.C. nearly three years ago, you did an incredibly brave thing. Probably you saved my life.” He held his arms out. “I have no tricks, no weapons, no desire to kill you.”

  The law enforcement officers stood. Kopański placed cuffs on Will, while Duggan kept his submachine gun trained on Will.

  Duggan said, “We’re going to take you outside now. There are a lot of HRT men in position. I know you could take us and them on. Don’t. There are civilians around.”

  They walked him up the center of the street, each end now barricaded by local law enforcement. Onlookers whooped and cheered, believing Will must have been a major felon. None of them knew who he really was. If they knew his history, they’d have screamed their support for him.

  He was placed in the HRT van and driven to a D.C. police precinct.

  Chapter 31

  One month later, Will was guided into a D.C. court. He was in an orange jumpsuit and had ankle and wrist shackles attached. A judge was sitting at the head of the court. Only three other civilians were in the room. They were sitting in the front left seats. Will was marshaled to the front right seats by his two guards.

  The judge addressed Will. “This is a closed court session. No cameras. No lawyers for the prosecution and defense. You have no rights. You are not under oath. Do you understand?”

  Will nodded.

  “Aside from your guards and me, who else is in this room?”

  Will looked left. “Agent Marsha Gage of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The attorney general. The other man I don’t know.” Will looked at Hessian Bell.

  Hessian Bell looked back, his expression neutral.

  The judge asked, “Are you sure you don’t know the other man?”

  Will lied. “Yes.”

  “He works for the CIA. I can’t name him. He has provided me with a confidential document. In order for me to view the document as authentic, I need to be convinced the document isn’t the result of a conspiracy between you and the gentleman standing to your left.”

  Angrily, Will said, “You presumably know my background. I had two controllers when I worked for the CIA and MI6. They were both murdered. I was top secret. Very few others knew about my existence. I don’t know this man.”

  “Very few others? Yes.” The judge picked up two other documents. “I have letters. They were sent to me via the attorney general and are dated yesterday. One is from the prime minister of Great Britain. The other is from the previous president of the United States of America. They both say pretty much the same thing: you are a killer, not a murderer. Personally, and from a legal standpoint, I struggle to differentiate between the two definitions.”

  “I did what my governments told me to do.”

  “And yet you did more than that.”

  Will was silent.

  “The letters go on to say that no man on this planet has sacrificed as much as you to protect us. Would you concur?”

  “How would I know? I don’t know everyone on our planet.”

  “No flippancy, Mr. Cochrane!” The judge put on reading glasses and surveyed Hessian Bell’s document. “This intelligence report is sourced to a dead Russian. He claimed to the CIA man to your left that he was party to the killings in Virginia a year ago. He gives a very detailed account of what happened. You were framed for the murder of your sister in New York. Your boot prints were copied so their prints could be planted at the scene in Roanoke where police officers and the Granges were murdered. And the police and media were manipulated into believing you were responsible for gunning down two police officers in Lynchburg. It is quite a story.” He removed his glasses and stared at Will.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Yet I’m led to believe you have something to confess.”

  “Yes. A year ago I killed a Russian man called Viktor Zhukov and his team. They did the murders and they kidnapped a boy called Tom Koenig.”

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Elated and in tatters. I rescued a boy; I’d lost a sister.”

  The judge picked up Bell’s report and tossed it to one side. “The timing of this is curious. Too curious. Allegedly, it’s a dead man’s confession. But I wonder.”

  The courtroom was silent.

  The judge peered over his glasses. “Agent Gage has also produced some evidence that casts doubt about your purported crimes. Two of the most powerful people in the West have endorsed you. The CIA has explained exactly why you are innocent of your alleged crimes. But it is for me to look you in the eye and decide who you really are.”

  Will said nothing.

  Agent Gage held her breath.

  Hessian Bell was motionless.

  “Take off his shackles”—the judge removed his spectacles—“and allow Mr. Cochrane to approach the bench.”

  Will stood before him.

  In a loud voice, the judge said, “Mr. Cochrane, it is beholden to me to advise you that a charge of arrest can be overturned by the law courts if the charge is deemed to be incorrect. Do you understand?”

  Will nodded.

  “All charges against you are overturned.”

  The attorney general blurted out, “But what about the other killings?! Zhukov and his team? Probably others we don’t know about?”

  “They were sponsored by the American and British states.” The judge held up the letters from the two leaders. “That’s what they’re saying. I have no power to overrule that. Nor do you, Attorney General.” He looked at Will. “You are a free man. You will be given an American passport. You have no criminal record.”

  “Like a gladiator made a free man of Rome?”

  The judge smiled. “There is a lot more about you that I haven’t raised in this court but was privy to thanks to the CIA. You do not deserve to be in chains. Your record of achievements is beyond remarkable.” The judge stood and held out his hand.

  Will shook it. “I’ll remember this. I always remember people who help me. Call me if you ever need my help.”

  “Court closed. Good day all.” The judge turned and left.

  Along with Will, only Gage and Bell were left in the room. He went to them and shook their hands.

  “Did you get to the truth?” asked Bell.

  Will didn’t respond, acutely aware that the judge may have been lying and that cameras were on him.

  Bell understood. He adjusted his question. “Are all matters now closed?”

  “Not all.”

  Bell held out his hand. “Bon chance, Mr. Cochrane.”

  Will pulled him close and whispered in his ear. “Kane was groomed by someone in the White House. That person wanted Kane to be president. I don’t know who the White House person is.
Endgame: get Kane in power. I can’t identify and get to that person. But maybe you can weave your magic and in time identify who it is. Meanwhile, there is something more immediate you can do for me.” He explained what he needed, stepped back, and then turned and shook hands with Gage. “I didn’t give you a gunfight.” He smiled.

  “I didn’t want one with you. None of us did.” She was relieved that things had turned out this way, but she still worried about Will. “You’ve done your time.”

  Will looked around the courtroom. “Trouble will always come for me. Take care, Mrs. Gage.”

  He left.

  It was three months before Will had the opportunity to track down Kay Ash. In the interim, she’d been away on a CIA assignment. He’d been busy getting his life back together. Now he was Will Cochrane again. The Justice Department had given him a passport in his name. He’d been to see lawyers. He’d visited Faye Glass. And thanks to Hessian Bell he’d resecured the teaching assistant post at Billy and Tom’s school. He’d live in Virginia, his adoption of the boys legalized. They and Faye were over the moon with delight. Faye had helped him decorate the three-bedroom house near the boys’ school. The boys had separate bedrooms, and Will had converted the attic to have an en suite bathroom for them, accessed by spiral staircases from their rooms. And the master bedroom contained a bed and nothing else. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the constant smile on the boys’ faces. They had a father again, one as good as their dead father. They’d see their pals again. No more detectives and safe houses. A proper home.

  Faye lived only five miles away, on the outskirts of Roanoke. She came over often and helped Will. He thought of her like she was his sister. Once, he told her that. She liked that idea. Parenting was not for her. Family was.