by Matthew Dunn
“Perhaps, but every operational instinct in me says it’s vital we get involved.”
Alistair sighed. “We’d have to tell the premiers that we’re recommending this course of action purely based on your instincts.”
“Tell them what you like. Just make sure they sign off.”
“And what if we do deploy and you’re wrong, William?” His expression changed to one that looked like sympathy. “The premiers’ patience with you is already stretched to near breaking point.”
Will shrugged. “What are they going to do? Find someone to replace me? I wish them luck, because I doubt anyone else is able to complete the Program.”
“They know that!” As did Alistair. Eight elite MI6 officers had not only failed the Spartan Program before Will had gone through it to earn the code name Spartan, they’d been left psychologically and physically damaged and had needed to leave the service. “But things are changing. There are cries for transparency from the intelligence community, demands to do away with so-called shadowy task forces and the like. This is not just about you. If we get this wrong, some might grab this as an opportunity to shut us down.”
Will nodded slowly. “I see.”
“I’m so glad that you do.”
“But conversely, if we get this right we might turn some of those detractors into supporters.”
“That’s a damn big risk.”
“Worth it though, don’t you think?”
Alistair was motionless. “I concede, you have always been right about the things that matter. But there is a first time for everything. This would be an almighty gamble.”
“Please, Alistair. Say what you like to the premiers. Position it however you think is best. Just get them to sign off on this.”
Alistair lowered his head. “If you’re wrong and they shut down the section because of that, all of the section members, me included, would be given other jobs in the service or the Agency.” He lifted his head. “But you’ve been operating on your own for too long. No one would want someone with your kind of skill set. It would be over for you.”
Will smiled, patted Alistair gently on the arm, and said, “I know.”
Five
Kurt Schreiber was motionless as he heard vehicles drive close to the main farmstead building. His back to the windows, he placed his manicured hands flat on the large cowhide writing desk and remained seated in the leather chair. Every wall in his big study was covered with bookshelves containing works on philosophy, mathematics, politics, economics, and history. Positioned over carpet and Oriental rugs were a three-piece suite and coffee table; straight-backed chairs; a rare nineteenth-century Thomas Malby globe that had cost nearly one million dollars; a beautiful burr walnut occasional table covered with antique maps and charts, and maritime navigation and timekeeping equipment; and a locked steamer trunk containing files on men and women he’d had cause to hurt or kill.
The old man ignored his surroundings and focused only on the noise of the vehicles. He knew there’d be four of them, two of which were SUVs, the other two performance sedan cars. A total of sixteen men were in the convoy; fifteen of them had worked for him for years; the sixteenth was a Russian who’d only just joined his payroll, although his employment would be short lived.
Having taken possession of its prize from the deniable private contractors, the group had taken nearly thirty-six hours to drive from Gdansk, covertly cross Poland’s border with Germany, continue on to the country’s northwestern state of Lower Saxony and head to the isolated farmstead, deep within the vast Lüneburg Heath.
The vehicles stopped. Doors opened and closed. A man shouted an instruction. Fast movement. More noise, this time from within the large building. Then silence.
The retired Stasi colonel smiled, removed his rimless glasses, breathed onto the lenses, and wiped them clean with a silk handkerchief. Fixing the glasses back in place, he interlaced his fingers and stared at the oak-paneled entrance. His breathing was slow; he felt very calm.
The door opened, and Simon Rübner entered. The forty-five-year-old Israeli walked up to the desk and stood before Kurt. Blond-haired, with a short groomed beard, an athletic build, and a penchant for wearing turtleneck sweaters, Simon looked more like a German U-boat commander than a former Mossad intelligence operative, which had always amused Kurt.
Simon’s eyes twinkled, the slightest smile emerged, and he nodded. “We got it, Mr. Schreiber.” He held out a folded piece of paper.
Kurt stared at the paper but remained motionless. “Were there any complications that I should be aware of?”
“The team had to fight their way through Gdansk. They met greater resistance than—”
Kurt held up one of his frail hands. “I’m not interested in the minutiae of who did what violent act to whom.”
Simon grinned. “No complications.”
Kurt nodded. “Excellent work, Simon.” He glanced at the door. “Where is the Russian?”
“Yevtushenko’s in the basement, with a hood over his head.”
“His demeanor?”
Simon shrugged. “He’s petrified. Once we got him over the border, we put him in shackles. I think he expected a hero’s welcome.”
“That’s what I told him to expect.” He took the folded paper and placed it on his desk.
“What shall we do with him?”
Kurt waved a hand dismissively. “He’s served his purpose. You’ve searched him?”
“Of course. No tracking devices. He brought one small bag containing clothes, his passport, cash”—he reached into his pocket—“and this.”
Kurt looked at the cell phone with an expression of contempt. He hated modern communications technology because it was insecure and, in his view, made people stupid. “Is there data that’s relevant?”
Simon put the phone on the desk. “It’s the lack of data that’s relevant. There’s only one number stored, no name attached to it, and a check of his call records shows that number is the only one that’s ever been used.”
“Interesting.” Kurt was deep in thought. “Keep him alive for now. He might be useful.”
After Simon left the room, Kurt waited a few minutes before opening a small velvet-covered stationery box and withdrawing another piece of paper. He unfolded it and placed it flat on the desk. It was a copy of the paper the German assassin had handed to the Americans in 1995. In the center of the paper were ten numbers. He looked at the other paper. He hadn’t seen it for nearly two decades. During that time he’d built a business empire that was highly lucrative, invisible, and illegal. Constructed on the principals of a global intelligence organization, it spanned four continents and employed over five hundred assets, most of whom were former intelligence or security service operatives. Its expertise consistently wrong-footed its competitors, though in truth it had none that were comparable or as powerful.
He unfolded the paper.
Four letters, written by Kronos. At the top of the paper, in red Cyrillic script, were the words Top Secret, Director, First Deputy Director, Head Directorate S, SVR Only.
Handwritten under the code were the words, These letters pertain to KRONOS. Access to this document is restricted to above individuals and Generals Leon Michurin and Alexander Tatlin. 7th December 1995. Head Directorate S.
Kurt smiled and said quietly, “All that effort to get four letters.”
He slid Nikolai’s paper next to his paper. The four letters were now alongside the ten numbers. Combined, they revealed a global military grid reference that pinpointed one square meter in Germany’s vast Black Forest. Underneath soil on that spot was an empty metal box, placed there by Kronos. The dead-letter box was the only means to contact the German assassin. Now that Schreiber had the full code, he could deposit a message in the DLB instructing Kronos that he wanted to meet him.
At that meeting, he would order the assassin to kill
the traitor who wanted to betray the secret of Slingshot.
Six
Will walked up the stairs to his third-floor apartment, unlocked the door, opened it as far as he could until it hit a large packing box, squeezed through the gap, and shut the door behind him. More packing boxes lined the corridor leading to a tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living room. He switched on the light and moved between the boxes, careful not to hit them with the two bags he was carrying. He dropped one of the bags in the kitchen and entered the living room. Unlike the other rooms in the property, the living room was quite large and contained an Edwardian mahogany three-piece suite and chaise longue; antique rugs that he’d bought in Mongolia; free-standing shelf units containing vinyl LPs and rare secondhand books; a gilt-framed oil reproduction of J. M. W. Turner’s Fighting Temeraire; a side table containing a Garrard 501 turntable, a stereo amplifier, and a German chinoiserie clock; and a dining table that could seat six but had never done so since he’d bought it. The place was also cluttered with more packing boxes that he’d yet to open because he hadn’t had time to do so, despite having moved in a month ago.
Located in the London Borough of Southwark’s two-hundred-year-old West Square, his home was in a converted house that contained four apartments. It was nothing like his previous home, a Thames-facing penthouse, and that was precisely why he’d sold and moved here.
He turned on a wall lamp, removed his overcoat, and withdrew the item from the bag. It was an LP he’d bought from his favorite record store in Soho, and he smiled as he looked at the cover. Andrés Segovia’s guitar recital including Bach’s “Chaconne.” The rare vinyl had cost him £180, but he didn’t care because he’d been searching for it for years. Reverently, he placed the disc onto the turntable and turned it on. A few seconds after the stylus had settled, the Spanish maestro’s music drowned out the sound of rain lashing against the windows.
He placed kindling, coal, and a log in the fireplace, and after lighting the fuel he rubbed his cold hands close to the flames, then entered the kitchen and emptied the contents of the bag onto a tiny breakfast table. A pheasant, bacon lardons, sprigs of sage, celery, shallots, and hedgehog mushrooms, all purchased at Borough Market. He expertly deboned and panfried the meat, chopped and sautéed the vegetables, then transferred the food to a casserole pot, added cream and calvados, and put the dish into the oven.
The food was more than he needed, but that didn’t matter. What mattered to Will was that he was trying to make his life different.
Alistair was right. As an adult, Will had always been alone—during his five years as a special operator within the French Foreign Legion’s elite Groupement des Commandos Parachutistes, in which time he’d been frequently requisitioned by the DGSE for black operations; during his undergraduate degree at Cambridge University; during the brutal twelve-month MI6 Spartan Program, and during the subsequent eight years of near-constant deployment as an intelligence officer within the Spartan Section. He had no woman in his life and, for the most part, his encounters with women had always been brief because he was constantly terrified that his work would endanger them. Three women who had meant something to him had proven his fear correct, because they had been killed. One of them was his mother; two of them were women he believed he could have married. Friendships also eluded him, because he felt dislocated from the normal world and didn’t know how to act with ordinary people. Roger Koenig was the only person who came close to being a friend, but even he was more a brother-in-arms.
Will wasn’t stupid. On the contrary, he was highly intelligent and knew that his isolated existence was a result of the work that he did and the man that he’d become. A man who hated seeing innocents in danger, a man who had spent his entire adult life sacrificing himself to protect others, a man whose humanity had somehow remained completely intact yet was hidden beneath a battered, armored shell.
However, despite his fear of the potential consequences, he still fantasized about finding someone he could love and who could make him smile.
But he doubted that could happen. Not anymore. So he’d made a decision to change what he did have some control over. A new home filled with things that he’d collected over the years but had never displayed, cooking a good meal, listening to music he loved, doing anything to take his mind off the one thing he hated.
The loneliness.
He ran a bath, stripped out of his clothes, poured the remainder of the calvados into a tumbler, and eased his muscular and scarred body into the hot water. Taking a sip of the liquor, he closed his eyes.
Segovia’s music was easily audible in the bathroom, but it no longer registered with Will.
What did register was that brave men had died in Gdansk because he had failed.
Seven
All of the Spartan Section was present in the large, damp basement of a residential house in Vienna’s old town. The Austrian safe house was officially the property of MI6, though there were no records of it in any of the service’s files. Its rent was paid for in cash out of Alistair’s budget and only the section knew of its existence.
During the daytime, the area around the property would draw tourists wishing to walk along the narrow cobbled streets and through the hidden courtyards to see the Gothic architecture of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the imposing Hofburg Palace, and the stables for the renowned Lipizzaner stallions; to buy confectionery, watches, perfumes, and tobacco in the Kohlmarkt; to watch pleasure cruisers and cargo boats sail along the Danube, and to stand in Heroes Square and be told by guides that this is where Adolf Hitler announced that Austria would be annexed to Nazi Germany.
But there were no tourists around the safe house now. It was 2:00 A.M., minus eight degrees Celsius, the ground thick with snow, with more of it pouring out of the sky.
The poorly lit basement gained extra light from a couple of oil lamps and a camping stove that was busy brewing a pot of coffee. Will Cochrane was leaning against the rear corner of the room, his arms folded. Beside him was the section, listening to Alistair and Patrick. The coheads were talking fast. Will was not listening to them. He was studying the team.
Roger Koenig. The CIA SOG team leader of the section’s paramilitary unit. He’d worked with Will on two missions and had proven to be an excellent operator and leader. The former DEVGRU SEAL’s tall and sinewy frame was motionless, his face totally focused, his professionalism evident in his posture. Roger’s forefathers had all been warriors: a grandfather who’d earned the Iron Cross as a paratrooper in Germany’s elite First Fallschirmjäger Division during World War II, and a father and uncles who’d served in Vietnam with the Australian SAS and the top-secret U.S. MACV-SOG. Roger had killed hundreds of men and had done none of it for God or country. He believed in duty to the man by your side. But he was also an occasional languages teacher at his children’s school, liked to think of himself as a gardener even though he was lousy at it, was devoted to his wife, a silly and fabulous father, and had a mischievous streak. Will could see that the family man’s eyes were twinkling and he wondered what Roger was secretly thinking as he listened to the senior CIA and MI6 officers give their briefing.
Laith Dia. The other CIA SOG officer. The black man sat on the floor, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, and looked totally disinterested, though Will knew that he would be digesting every word spoken and would be thinking very fast. Laith was the size of a high school quarterback, though Will preferred to think of him as the ideal lead for Shakespeare’s Othello. Which was not wholly inappropriate, because Laith had never played football and instead had excelled in school plays. He had been alongside Roger and Will during their last two missions and had suffered agonizing injuries during both. The jet-haired former Delta Force operative was divorced and had two children whom he adored, was one of the fittest men Will had ever met despite smoking two packs a day, was fearless, smart, irreverent, gentle, and a very effective killer.
Mark O
ates and Adam Tark were here. The men were no longer part of the Qs, having signed the papers and been officially transferred to the section.
Mark was sitting with one leg resting on the other, flexing his fingers. No doubt he’d been to hundreds of briefings given by senior intelligence and Special Forces commanders, though Will wondered if he’d ever been briefed in a place like this. Will had read his file. Mark had served all over the world with the SBS, typically deep behind enemy lines, in most covert and overt theaters of war that had involved the West during his service in Special Forces. His time in the Qs had given him enhanced training in espionage tradecraft, including surveillance and business cover deployments, and he had achieved several notable citations for the complex and highly risky operations he’d led and supported. He was a widower, his wife having died of pneumonia a year ago, and saved every spare penny from his government salary to send his two daughters through university.
Adam was leaning forward, one hand gripping his mug of black coffee, the other rubbing his disfigured face. Will had read in the files that Adam had received the injury in Afghanistan while protecting a village from a Taliban attack. The village’s men were all away, helping a U.S. Marine unit do a reconnaissance in the mountains, and the only people left to protect the women, children, and elders in the settlement were five inexperienced young marines. Adam and three other SAS men were four miles away when the attack on the village commenced. The SAS patrol was itself engaged in a fierce firefight with another Taliban group, but when they received news of the attack on the village, Adam broke away, ran on foot to the village, took command of the marines, told the women to fetch them any remaining rifles, lined the weapons up along a waist-high wall on the roof of the biggest building in the village, and told the marines that they had to make the Taliban think they were facing one hundred men. For two hours, Adam sprinted back and forth along the wall, picking up rifles and firing them before moving to a new position and repeating the same drill. He carried on doing this even after a mortar shell exploded near him and ripped half his face off. It was only after the Taliban were defeated that he collapsed and had to receive emergency treatment from the marines.
