by Matthew Dunn
But Sarah was different. Since she’d been in Betty and Alfie’s care, she’d gone deeper and deeper into her shell—barely speaking, getting out of bed only at her husband’s insistence, struggling to eat, her appearance deteriorating. She wasn’t pretending, Betty was sure of that. Instead it seemed that she was in some kind of trauma that was the result of something far bigger than her current circumstances.
They’d arrived in the Scottish Highlands three days ago, having left their previous location in the West Country’s Dartmoor within thirty minutes of receiving a call from Joanna. Located on the shores of Loch Damph in the Northwest Highlands, the large four-bedroom hunting lodge would ordinarily have made a stunning holiday retreat. It was surrounded by mountains, had a stream that ran through a copse at the back of the property, was located at the end of a mile-long track beyond which it took twenty minutes to drive to the nearest residence, and had recently been renovated and extended to include a big dining room and conservatory, a gun room, and a double garage containing a walk-in freezer for hanging deer.
Betty had chosen it not only because it was isolated, provided an excellent view of anyone driving toward the house, and was very difficult to access on foot from other directions, but also because she thought the location would change Sarah’s mood. It hadn’t. If anything she’d grown even more withdrawn.
From the kitchen fridge, Betty withdrew bacon, venison sausages, eggs, mushrooms, and roasted potatoes left over from last night’s meal. She doubted Sarah would eat much, but that wouldn’t stop her cooking for everyone. At 1:00 P.M. exactly, they would all sit down around the kitchen table with food in front of them. And at 7:00 P.M. they would sit at the conservatory dining table to eat their dinner. When not on the move, routine was essential. It helped to normalize each day.
She walked out the kitchen door to fetch the men. Alfie was walking toward her, down one of the mountain slopes. The former SAS sergeant looked much more at home in the wilds of Scotland than he had when they’d collected Sarah and James from their elegant London home. Dressed in hiking gear, he was striding and leaping over the uneven and frozen ground with the vigor of a man half his age. He’d been checking his traps—primitive alarm systems made out of wire and empty coke cans that if walked into would trigger sufficient noise to be heard from within the house. They knew the alarms were effective. It was the off-season of the tightly regulated deer-hunting calendar; at this time of the year, deer would often come down from the mountains to seek shelter in the valley and to eat food that was left for them by the estates’ gillies. Last night, Alfie had jumped out of bed three times because of the noise of cans rattling against each other, only to discover that each time his traps had been triggered by large red deer.
James was visible between trees in the copse. Standing beside the mountain brook, he was cursing loudly because his fishing line had got caught in the trees. It was the third time today it had happened, much to Alfie’s amusement, though the ex–Special Forces man was the one who’d had to clamber up trees and untangle the line. Betty had disliked James on first meeting him—though no doubt highly intelligent, he was also pedantic, fussy, weak, and foolish—but the more time she spent in his company the more he’d endeared himself to her. He always got up at 6:00 A.M., called in to his law firm and lied to them that his wife was still ill and he needed to stay home to care for her, played cards with Alfie until the early hours, and washed dishes. And now he was hopelessly trying to catch their supper.
Betty looked around. Right now, the loch and its surrounding mountains had four climates. In the north, it was raining; east, snow was falling; west, the sky was clear and blue; and in the south, dark clouds obscured mountain peaks. She lowered her gaze and looked at the track. At the top of it was a stationary blue car.
Alfie reached her and said, “Second sighting I’ve had. What about you, petal?”
“The same.” She kept her gaze fixed on the vehicle.
“Do we move locations on the third or fourth sighting?”
“Third sighting.”
Alfie put one hand into his jacket pocket and placed a filterless cigarette into the corner of his mouth with the other. “I think you’re right. Reckon they’re just tourists who’re back for a photo shoot.” He lit his cigarette. “But third sighting means they’re a bunch of bad ’uns.”
Betty squeezed her husband’s hand and said quietly, “I can’t let Sarah see anything messy, angel. She’s in a bad enough way as it is.” She sat down on the frozen heath. “If anyone comes for us, we should try to minimize fuss.”
Alfie passed his half-smoked cigarette to Betty, who took a drag on it and gave it back to him. “Where is she?”
“On the sofa, doing nothing.”
“It’s to do with her brother, isn’t it?”
Betty nodded. “I think so.”
Alfie flicked ash off the cigarette. “Can never get my head around the deep and meaningful stuff.”
Betty kept her attention on the blue vehicle as it drove off. “That’s one of the reasons why I love you. You’re straightforward.”
Alfie grinned. “Either that, or it’s ’cos I ain’t got the brain cells to know how to answer you back.” An idea came to him. “After lunch how about I drive her to Lochcarron, make her useful, tell her she’s got to buy some stuff for dinner, and by the way she’s cooking?”
“It’s worth a try.” Betty held her hand out, and Alfie gripped it and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll get lunch on. Be a love and help James with his tangled line. But don’t call him a stupid plonker this time.”
“Right you are.” As Betty walked off to the lodge, Alfie placed his concealed handgun’s safety catch on, withdrew his hand from his jacket, watched the stationary blue car, and muttered under his breath, “Best you don’t come back.”
One of Kurt Schreiber’s men watched Alfie through his sniper rifle’s telescopic sight. “He’s looking in our direction, but there’s no chance he can see into our car from this distance.”
His colleague turned on the ignition. “Let him watch. The others are all in position to take over surveillance.”
Four three-man teams, all secreted in the mountains around the lodge.
“Glad they’re the ones who have to freeze their balls off today. And I’ll be gladder still when Schreiber gives us the order to gun her down.”
“Don’t worry. Any day now.” Keeping Alfie’s head in the crosshairs of his rifle, the sniper mimicked the sound of firing a silenced bullet.
Twenty-Two
Got it!” Suzy beamed as she stared at her laptop screen. “Mikhail Salkov.”
“You’re certain?” Will placed a hand on the Auguststrasse dining table and leaned over her shoulder, looking at the computer.
The CIA analyst nodded. “It’s taken me days to be certain. I’m damn sure he’s the one.”
“How did you get him?”
“Postings. I focused on the double agent files where we’d recruited agents being run by Russian officers posted overseas.”
Wherein those Russian intelligence officers would be posted as diplomats and their real names declared to the host country.
“Had to trawl through over a thousand files to narrow it down to these four.” She moved the cursor until the screen contained four scanned CIA contact reports. Pointing at the screen, she said, “These two Russian CIA agents were run out of the Russian embassy in Paris four years ago. Look.” She tapped a finger. “Agent Folex informs his CIA handler that his SVR handler Trofim Vygotsky is leaving France in one week and is being replaced by Mikhail Salkov; that Salkov will be his new handler. And here,” she moved her finger, “Agent Estler tells a different CIA handler the same thing. The second report is one day older than the first.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Hold on.” Suzy closed the reports, leaving two on her screen. “One year ago, two Russi
an CIA double agents are being run out of the Russian embassy in Oslo. Agent Adras and agent Shorm tell their CIA handlers that their SVR handler, a diplomat called Georgii Bordyuzha, is returning to a job in head office. He’s being replaced by Salkov and a handover meeting’s being arranged.”
“Still doesn’t mean that the SVR officer who’s chasing the same paper as us is Mikhail Salkov.” Will frowned as a thought came to him. “How long was Salkov posted to Paris and Oslo?”
Suzy smiled. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face. There are two reasons why Salkov’s name jumps out at me, and your question relates to one of them.”
“He was only posted to Paris and Oslo for brief periods?”
“Exactly. Paris: two months; Oslo: six weeks.”
“Parachuted in to troubleshoot.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“And the second reason?”
Suzy closed her laptop and turned to Will. “Salkov meets Folex and Estler. One week later their bodies wash up on the shores of the river Seine, their necks broken. Salkov meets Adras and Shorm. Next day, Adras is hit by a speeding car; Shorm is robbed and stabbed to death in the backstreets of Oslo.”
“SVR thinks they’ve got leaky agents in France and Norway, so it sends in a man to plug the holes.” Will moved away from Suzy and stood next to Peter, who was staring at the whiteboard containing questions and possible answers.
Peter nodded. “You were right, Will.” On the board, he wrote Mikhail Salkov: Spycatcher.
Suzy stretched her back. “I haven’t analyzed MI6 double agent files because they won’t release an encrypted stick for me to read their files out here. But I’m sure Mikhail’s name will turn up alongside the deaths of some of their agents as well.”
“So do I.” Peter smiled, walked quickly to Suzy and to her surprise gave the American analyst a hug. “Excellent work, Suzy Sue!”
Suzy smiled, looked happy. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Huggin’s good.” Laith yawned as he entered the room holding the book Will had bought Suzy. “Chapter Four says that embraces cause the release of endorphins that produce a feeling of contentment between mother and baby; it explains that you can get that release at work just as easily as at home or in a gym.” He put an electronic cigarette in his mouth.
Adam Tark emerged from the kitchen and handed Suzy a mug. “German chamomile. I bought it this evening after my shift at the hotel. It’s a calmative and digestive aid, perfectly safe once you’re in the second trimester.”
Suzy took the drink from the former SAS soldier. “Do you guys spend all your time in the Grand Hyatt thinking about what I should and shouldn’t be doing while pregnant?”
Adam grinned, though his disfigured face made the expression look more like a grimace. “Most of the time, yeah.” The Scotsman zipped up his fleece jacket. “Anyway, we’ve got vested interests. Me and Roger have bet two hundred dollars each that it’s going to be a girl; Mark, Peter, and Laith have bet that it’s going to be a boy.” He glanced at Will. “Boss, you want in on the bet?”
“Sure, put me down for a girl.” Will pulled on his jacket. “Providing that’s okay with you, Suzy?”
“Why not?” The CIA analyst slapped both hands onto the dining room table and pushed herself up off the chair. “I’ll decide who I want to win the bet, then pop a kid out who’s got the right gender. Maybe the winners can cut me in for fifty percent of the takings.”
Will smiled. “Any progress on Interpol’s request for information on Kurt Schreiber?”
“Alistair and Patrick are still looking into it.”
“Keep me posted.” Will’s cell phone rang. Roger was calling. He listened to the CIA officer speak for three seconds before snapping the phone shut and calling out, “Russians are on the move! Roger and Mark are in a vehicle, pursuing them. Adam, Laith: get the guns. We need to go now!”
Four minutes later, Will, Laith, and Adam were in an SUV. Adam was driving very fast, navigating his way through the city’s midevening traffic. Laith was next to him, holding his military communications mic close to his throat. “We’re mobile. Where we headed?”
In his earpiece, Will heard Mark’s voice. “They’re moving west. Two SUVs. Get your arses onto Unter Den Linden.”
Will slammed a magazine into his SIG Sauer P226 handgun. “What’s their speed?”
“Normal.”
“Do you think they know you’re on them?”
“No. Traffic’s heavy. But if they’re moving out of the city, we’ve got to hope they stay on a major highway.”
Will unzipped a large canvas bag and withdrew three M4A1 assault rifles with grenade launcher attachments. He placed a rifle and an ammunition pouch containing spare magazines and grenades next to each of his colleagues, and kept the third for himself. “These mustn’t be used unless absolutely necessary. And no dead Russians.”
“No dead Russians?” Laith shook his head, patted his rifle, and smiled. “What has the world come to?”
Adam drove the vehicle onto a larger road. “We’re on Unter Den Linden, heading toward Tiergarten district.”
Roger responded, “You’ve got some catching up to do. Targets are moving through Westend, about five miles ahead of you.”
Adam put his foot to the floor, expertly moving the SUV around slower vehicles. Will and Laith scrutinized the road ahead and occasionally looked behind, searching for signs of police cars. The last thing they needed was for a cop to attempt to pull them over for speeding.
“Target’s moving through Pichelsdorf; has slowed to forty MPH.”
Adam said, “Could be intending to turn off north, heading to Spandau. Or south on the Potsdamer Chaussee.”
Silence for ten seconds.
Mark said, “They’re taking the Potsdamer route. Still don’t seem to be in any rush.”
Will frowned. “Roger, what was their demeanor like when they checked out of the hotel?”
“They did it quickly, but didn’t look like they were panicked.”
Will nodded. “I think this road trip was planned in advance, and they’re driving at speeds that will avoid the attention of the cops but still get them to their destination on time.”
“Looks like it.”
They drove onward for ten minutes before Adam said, “Okay, I’ve got a visual of you.” They were exiting the city and entering countryside. “We’re taking over point.”
Mark answered, “Got it.”
Roger and Mark’s vehicle slowed, switched lanes, and moved behind another vehicle.
Adam drove past them and kept his SUV behind two other vehicles. Beyond them were the Russian cars. “Suggest we switch over every ten minutes. Nothing else we can do now except follow them.”
Suzy saw that she’d received a message from Patrick telling her to call Alistair. Retrieving another cell phone, one of ten in her possession, she pressed the keyboard. Alistair answered on the fourth ring.
“You’ve got something for me?”
The senior MI6 officer answered, “Kurt Schreiber’s name has been flagged by Interpol because any information relating to the man needs to be forwarded to the chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court.”
Located in The Hague, the court’s remit was to investigate and prosecute individuals for genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes.
“What did Interpol say?”
“They’ve got no idea why the prosecutor’s interested in Schreiber, though they did say that it’s directly connected to a high-value witness.”
“Who’s the witness?”
“Interpol doesn’t have a name, but does know the witness approached the court six months ago and ever since has been held in protective custody in Holland.”
“He must be intending to give evidence on something Schreiber’s done.”
“That’s my take
.”
“Have you spoken to the court?”
“I tried to speak to the chief prosecutor to find out what his interest was in Kurt Schreiber. He told me that I was to only liaise on this matter with Interpol, that if I tried to call him again, he’d complain to the president of the court and the UN Secretary-General that British Intelligence was attempting to pervert the course of justice.”
Suzy huffed. “That was a bit strong.”
“Clearly, he doesn’t want our kind sniffing around him. Have you managed to get anything on Schreiber?”
“Nothing beyond his former status in the Stasi. Since then, the guy’s vanished.”
Two hours later, Will and his team were twenty miles outside of Hanover, driving in darkness on the main E30 highway.
Roger said, “Targets are pulling off the road, into a gas station.”
Urgently, Will asked, “Any chance they’ve got either of our number plates?”
