by Matthew Dunn
The engine engaged. He immediately revved the throttle, lurched forward as the bike’s gears engaged, and pulled the throttle fully back. From the forest and the truck came multiple sustained bursts of gunfire.
But he was out of the cops’ line of sight, speeding over rough ground away from the valley. He gripped the machine tightly as he drove it over mounds, jumped through air, thudded to the ground, and maintained its traction on the snow.
There was no more gunfire. The police would be running back to the truck to pursue him in the vehicle. And they’d be summoning quicker patrol cars to the area to block his escape. But he wouldn’t be using the roads. For sixty minutes, he drove across farmland, along tracks and open fields, through woods and larger forests, only turning on his lights when he needed to.
He pulled into Arman’s junkyard, turned off the ignition, and lowered the bike’s stand. The trailer’s interior was illuminated. Arman emerged holding a flashlight. Will got off the bike and staggered over to the Russian, then his knees buckled.
Arman grabbed him and held him upright. “Are you injured?”
Will couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Fatigue had overwhelmed him.
The former tank commander gripped him tightly, limping as he guided Will toward his home.
Eighteen
Joanna lifted the instrument case out of the large packing box, placed it on Will’s dining table, and called out, “Be a darling and put the kettle on.”
“Right you are, my dear.” Robert was in the kitchen, washing breakfast dishes. Next to him, leaning against a cupboard, was his shotgun.
Joanna opened the case. Inside was an old German lute. She whispered, “Beautiful,” as she ran a finger along its strings. “Can’t have you hidden away.” She looked around, trying to decide where to put it, and settled on placing it on a shelf next to a framed photograph of a teenage Will playing viola in his school orchestra.
“Bloody rain’s set in for the day.” The former SAS captain poured boiling water into a teapot.
“Yes.” Joanna was not really listening to her husband. Instead she was now staring at another framed photograph that she’d just removed from wrapping paper. It was of a young boy, unmistakably Will at approximately four or five years old; standing next to him was a tall man, wearing a suit. “Must be his father,” she said to herself as she placed it on a mantelpiece. She moved to another packing case and withdrew a box. Inside it was a pristine képi blanc, the French Foreign Legion cap awarded to recruits upon completion of their arduous training. Underneath it was a worn baseball cap that would not have fit a child much older than ten years old. Joanna frowned and wondered, why did he hide one with the other?
Robert entered the living room holding two cups of tea with one hand and his Remington in the other. “How about lunchtime I leg it to the chippy and get some cod and chips?”
Joanna smiled. “That would be nice. Plenty of vinegar, but not too much salt. You know what the doctor told you.”
Robert huffed. “Load of nonsense.” Placing the mugs down, he asked, “You think you should buy Will some houseplants? All this boys’ stuff isn’t exactly going to charm the ladies.”
“Which ladies?”
“How about some artificial plants?” Robert laughed. “At least they’d give the impression that there’s life in here.”
Joanna nodded, then turned sharply as she heard a noise in the hallway. Withdrawing her handgun from her belt, she said quietly, “Post’s arrived. Usual drill.”
They moved silently into the hallway. Robert got on one knee and pointed his shotgun at the center of the front door. Joanna walked down one side of the corridor, reached the entrance, glanced at her husband, who gave the tiniest of nods, swooped up the mail, and stepped back so she was flush against the wall.
Nothing happened.
Robert stayed in position as she carefully made her way back along the hallway. She leafed through the mail—junk, a couple of utility bills, a local council voter registration card, and a letter that was handwritten and addressed to Will Cochrane.
She opened the letter, read its contents, and said urgently, “We need to call Betty, then Will.”
Dear Mr. Cochrane,
I wonder if you’ve heeded my advice to stay away from me and my business. I hope so, because matters are soon to be concluded and it would be a nuisance for me to have to deal with any interference. As it is, you’ve inconvenienced me enough to the extent that I’ve had to divert some valuable resources to the United Kingdom.
Those resources are dedicated to watching a person you care about. They will not back down unless I tell them to do so or I instruct them to kill the person. The decision I make will be based on the choice you make. I hope for your sake it is one that prioritizes the welfare of the person you care about over your desire to gain applause from your masters.
Are you a protector of the weak, Mr. Cochrane? If so, the decision you need to make is clear.
Time will tell.
And I will be there to listen.
Yours,
William
PART III
Nineteen
Will felt tense and uneasy. He’d received a call from Joanna, who’d relayed the contents of William’s latest letter to him and said that Betty and Alfie were immediately moving to a new location in the U.K. Now he was watching Suzy as she sat motionless at the Auguststrasse dining table with a cell phone against her head. Two hours ago he’d asked her to run the names Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev, Kurt Schreiber, Gerlache, François Gilliams, Simon Rübner, and Kronos through CIA databases. She’d telephoned Langley. Five minutes ago, someone had called her back.
Mark Oates handed him a mug of black coffee. “It’s shift change in thirty minutes.”
“How’s the Russian team?”
“The same.”
“Have they had any deliveries to the hotel?”
“Can’t be certain, but we think not.”
Will nodded. “And your team?”
Mark smiled. “We’re either sitting on our arses or freezing our nuts off. Couldn’t be better.”
“That’ll change soon.” He wondered if the team’s surveillance detail was taking its toll on them. But the paramilitary officer looked alert and energized. “It’s imperative you’re able to stick to the Russians the moment they move.”
Mark took a swig of his coffee. “We know.”
“How are your daughters?”
“What?”
“They’re at university, right?”
Mark beamed. “Yeah. One’s at Exeter, the other at Newcastle. They’re loving it.”
“Expensive these days.”
“Damn right.” Mark rubbed his face. “But they’re the first in my family to do higher education. If it keeps them from having to do all-night laps of a hotel then it’s worth every penny.”
“Are you managing to find time to check they’re okay?”
“Finding time’s half the battle; getting them to answer my calls is just as hard. They want to be all grown up now, don’t want Dad pestering them. Why do you ask?”
Will hesitated. “I’m the only one in the section who doesn’t have any ties. I don’t know how the rest of you cope.”
Suzy held a finger in the air. “Peter.”
Peter Rhodes moved to the whiteboard, a marker pen in his hand.
Keeping the phone to her ear, Suzy called out, “Nikolai Dmitriev. Confirmed that he was a colonel in the KGB and subsequently was the SVR’s Head of Directorate S. Retired ten years ago and since then he’s been running a vineyard in the south of France. The French kept their eyes on him for a while before concluding he was no threat.”
Peter wrote down his name and the information Suzy had given him.
“Nothing on the Gerlache company, nothing on François Gilliams.”
That didn�
��t surprise Will. He was certain the company was a cover for an intelligence unit, the same team who’d supplied his name and home address to Alina, and that anyone allegedly working for the company would be using an alias.
“Nothing on Kronos.”
Peter asked, “You’ve checked with DIA in case it’s a weapons system?”
“I know how to do my job. I’ve told Langley to check in all the right places, including DIA. Kronos has no meaning to us.”
“Except one.” Will smiled. “In Greek mythology, Kronos was a Titan who carried a scythe that could slice open the sky. He defeated his father, the ruler of the universe, and devoured most of his sons when they were babies so that they couldn’t grow up and depose him.”
Peter asked, “How on Earth do you know that?”
Will shrugged. “Peter Paul Rubens did a painting of him eating his child, Poseidon. I’ve seen the painting and read about Kronos on the plaque underneath it.”
Peter laughed. “It must be a blast hanging around you outside of work.” He turned, looked mischievous, and wrote, Kronos—the god who devoured his offspring.
Suzy said, “Kurt Schreiber. Former Stasi colonel.”
Peter spun around, his expression now serious. “Details of what he did in the Stasi?”
Suzy shook her head. “All we have is his rank. To have reached that level of seniority without his name appearing elsewhere means he must have kept his head down for most of his career.”
Peter looked at Will. “Or his identity was protected.”
Suzy frowned and said quietly to the caller, “You’re sure?” She looked at Peter. “Six months ago, Interpol sent out a flag to London, Langley, and most European agencies—if the name Kurt Schreiber emerges in the course of our work, we’re to alert Interpol immediately.”
Will said, “We need to understand Interpol’s interest in Schreiber.”
“It’s being followed up.”
Will nodded. “What else have you got, Suzy?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then she shut her cell phone, rubbed her tummy, and said, “Simon Rübner. Mossad intelligence officer. And for the last six months he’s also been a CIA agent.”
Will and Peter simultaneously exclaimed, “CIA!”
Suzy nodded.
Will’s mind raced. “Give me the details. Everything.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have the security clearance to read anything about Rübner.”
Impatience surged through Will. “Patrick can get that clearance!”
Suzy was unflustered. “It was Patrick on the end of the phone. He tried to get clearance, but was then hauled into the Director of Intelligence’s office and told to mind his own business. In fact, the director used far stronger language than that.”
“Then Patrick needs to go over his head and speak to the president!”
Peter shook his head. “Come on, Will. It’s a delicate time for us. Patrick and Alistair won’t want to risk a fight at that level. The section could lose, or worse could happen.”
Will banged a fist against the wall, recalling what Alistair had told him in London.
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 asked Suzy, “Any reference to Mikhail in the double agent files?”
“I’m still searching. Nothing yet.”
Roger entered the room, checking the workings of his handgun. “Have I missed something?”
“Not a thing. We’ve hit a fucking roadblock!” Peter walked up to Will and asked in a near whisper, “Did you get these names at Yevtushenko’s house? How are they connected?”
“I found them among other stuff in Yevtushenko’s basement. I’ve got no idea if they’re connected and, given the delicacy of our situation, we’ll never find out.” Will looked at Roger and Mark. “Our only chance now is to follow the Russian team to the target.”
He tried to understand what had happened in the valley. The surveillance team should have killed him; instead it seemed that they were trying to drive him back toward the police so that he could be arrested or killed by them. That was the only reason he got out of there alive. One thing he was certain about was that knowledge of his intended break-in of Yevtushenko’s house was limited to the section, its coheads, and a handful of other senior officers in Langley and London. One of them had betrayed him, and that person had to be the same individual who’d leaked his name and address.
He wondered if that person was in the room with him.
Twenty
Kurt Schreiber was sitting at his desk in the farmstead’s study. In front of him were ledgers containing the accounts of his multiple companies, six files that he’d drawn up for potential new business associates, a folder containing a draft business plan to derail a major oil conglomerate’s bid to establish drilling rights in the South Pacific and to then charge the conglomerate a small fortune to get the bid back on track, a list of men and women who needed to be killed, and a file that had the letter K on the front. That file had nothing in it—committing anything to paper would be far too dangerous—but he kept it in front of him to focus his mind. After all, none of his other projects were as significant as activating Kronos.
Simon Rübner entered the room and sat down opposite him. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Schreiber.”
Kurt placed the cap over the nib of Will Cochrane’s gold fountain pen and put it on top of the list of people he wanted dead. “What is the situation on our perimeter?”
“We think there’s about fifteen of them on at any one time. At least double that number in total. All are armed, they’ve got sophisticated surveillance equipment, fast vehicles, and they look professional. They don’t seem concerned that we know they’ve surrounded our place.”
The old man waived a hand dismissively. “They want us to know they’re watching us.” He removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Yevtushenko?”
Rübner ran fingers through his short beard. “We’re trying to force food and water down his throat. It’s not easy. His health’s deteriorating; he’s petrified.”
The former Stasi officer smiled. “Of course he is.” He became motionless, deep in thought. “Are matters progressing in Russia and the United Kingdom?”
Rübner nodded. “Cochrane’s sister and her two guardians have moved location. We’re watching them.”
“The guardians?”
“A husband-and-wife team: Alfie and Betty Mayne.”
“Their backgrounds?”
“Both ex-army, though they’ve been out for a very long time. God knows, Cochrane could have chosen better foot soldiers.”
“They’re not foot soldiers and that is precisely why he chose them. He trusts them more than anyone else to protect his sister. And that means they are very valuable to him.”
“Do you want us to kill the target?”
Kurt thought for a moment. “Not yet. We don’t know if Cochrane’s still after us, so his loved one can still be used as leverage.” His expression turned cold. “What about the SVR officer?”
Simon Rübner spoke quickly. “Mikhail Salkov’s wife and children have been located and approached. We’ve explained to the wife the seriousness of her family’s predicament. That happened twenty hours ago. Almost certainly she’s communicated the approach to her husband.”
“Of course she has.” Kurt Schreiber glanced toward his study’s window. “He’s still out there?”
“On and off. But he always keeps men on the perimeter.” Rübner walked to the window, looked out of it, and folded his arms. “The wife and children have moved locations. We’ve kept them under observation. What do you want us to d
o?”
“The tactic against Mikhail didn’t work. Kill his family.”
“Yes sir.”
Kurt asked, “Is everyone ready?”
“Your men here and beyond the perimeter are primed. Mikhail’s men will be taken completely by surprise.”
“What time?”
“Three A.M.”
“No survivors.”
“Yes, Mr. Schreiber. I estimate that the convoy will be leaving here a few minutes later.”
Kurt picked up the two sheets of paper containing the codes. “Good. Don’t let me down, Simon.”
Kurt placed the sheets alongside each other.
“What do you want us to do with Yevtushenko?”
“You’re still keeping him in shackles?”
“He’s chained up in the basement. But even if he wasn’t, I think he’d be too weak to escape.”
Kurt looked around. “This place has served us well, but after tonight it will be compromised. We’ll change our base of operations to one of the other German locations.” He smiled. “You’ll kill our unwanted guards; we’ll depart in convoy; Mikhail’s reinforcements will arrive sometime thereafter, but by then we’ll be long gone; they’ll search the farmstead and they’ll find Yevtushenko.”
“Alive or dead?”
“Alive. But I wonder what the Russians will do to him, given that his theft of the paper has ultimately led to the massacre of their colleagues?”
Rübner felt a moment of unease. Though he was no stranger to death and violent acts, he took no pleasure in them. Kurt was very different. The former Stasi officer reveled in seeing others suffer. “They’ll tear him apart.”
“Precisely.” Kurt looked sharply at the former Mossad officer. “All that matters is that you get me safely to the Black Forest tomorrow. In forty-eight hours, Kronos will be let loose. Then everything will be different.”
Twenty-One
Betty Mayne tried to imagine how Sarah Cochrane felt. During her service as an operative in Fourteenth Intelligence Company and her subsequent deployment by Will and others in MI6, she’d done a lot of protection work. It had taught her that the emotions felt by those in her care varied enormously depending on the circumstances of the threat against them, what types of person they were, how much freedom of movement they were given, what age they were, their gender, and, crucially, how long they’d been kept under protection. But over time, there were common patterns of behavior. If the duration of protection was longer than a week, the sequence was often absolute fear and confusion, open hostility toward the guardians, resignation to the situation, rebellion toward the protection detail, reckless behavior, confrontation, then resentment. The sequence was very different from patterns of behavior displayed by hostages. But sometimes the people Betty had protected had tried to hide their emotions by acting as if they were fine or resigned to their situation. Then they might try running away in the dead of night. Fortunately, she’d been wise to their playacting and had stopped them from making an idiotic mistake. She’d quickly learned that for the sake of their safety, it was vital that she never trust the people she protected.
