by Matthew Dunn
Patrick shook his head, his expression somber. “And Rübner takes that name and runs, his objective complete. You think Simon Rübner is the man behind everything you’re working on?”
“Possibly, though my feeling is that I’m dealing with someone at a much higher level. And I’m wondering if it was that person who approached the SVR officer and told him that he had to do a job for him or else he would tell the SVR that he’d been working for the CIA. That man gave the Russian his name, a covert communications drill for them to be in contact, and some very specific instructions.” He was now thinking aloud. “Shortly thereafter, the SVR officer does what he’s told by stealing an extremely valuable piece of paper and escaping to Poland. But a day or two before then, he decides to find out who he’s dealing with. He trawls through SVR databases and stumbles across one report. It’s brief, and contains purely logistical detail pertaining to a meeting that happened in 1995. He prints it off, smuggles it out of SVR HQ, and hides it in his home.” He nodded. “One of the names on that report is the name of the man who approached him, the man who paid Rübner a lot of cash to leave Mossad and set himself up in New York, the individual who orchestrated everything.”
He recalled the two names referenced in the SVR document he’d found in Yevtushenko’s house.
Colonel Nikolai Dmitriev.
Kurt Schreiber.
He was now certain that one of them was the man who called himself William.
He sighed. “It’s a real pity you don’t know the identity of Rübner’s CIA case handlers.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “Even if I did, sounds like they’d have no idea where Rübner’s at right now.” He frowned. “There is one guy who’ll know their identity.”
Will leaned forward, expectant.
“He’s one of yours—MI6. Up until recently, he was based in the British embassy in Washington, acting under first-secretary cover though he was fully declared to us, operating as liaison to my side of the fence. Specifically, he was the only Brit who was allowed to handle the Rübner intelligence.”
“How do you know his identity?”
“He’s always been listed on the intelligence reports’ distribution lists, together with the instruction that any inquiries related to U.K. actions resulting from Rübner’s intel should be directed to him.”
Will’s mind raced. Such an individual would have made it his business to ensure that the Rübner intelligence was accurate, and that meant he would certainly have interacted with his CIA handlers. “What’s his name?”
Geoffrey drummed his fingers, clearly trying to remember. “Got it. Like the Greek island—Rhodes. Peter Rhodes.”
“Rhodes!” Patrick’s face flushed red with anger.
Will’s heart sank. “You’re sure?”
Geoffrey nodded. “Of course. What’s wrong?”
Will didn’t answer.
Nor did Patrick.
Both were in shock.
Rhodes had never mentioned his involvement in the Rübner case.
And such involvement could only mean one thing.
Peter Rhodes was the traitor who’d supplied the CIA unit with his name and address.
Thirty-One
Dark clouds hung over Frankfurt as Kronos walked along Töngesgasse carrying a canvas overnight bag. He entered an Internet café, ordered a coffee, and purchased thirty minutes of Web use. Choosing a terminal at the far end of the establishment, he ensured that his screen could not be seen by any of the café’s other occupants, then logged on.
Within seconds, he was staring at Holland’s AIS air traffic control website. He clicked Online Flight Plan, then filled in the user name and password—information he’d stolen from the KLM pilot he’d followed from the Frankfurt airport to the city’s Westin Grand hotel. The man had been sleeping while Kronos had sat on the other side of the room and used the pilot’s BlackBerry to load the AIS website, click on the Forgot Password button, read the subsequent AIS e-mail reminding him of his password details, and then delete the mail.
He’d been certain that the pilot would be registered with the site, a portal that was only available to Dutch nationals who were involved in Holland’s aviation industry. But if it’d turned out that the pilot wasn’t an existing member, Kronos would have used his name, passport number, and aviation ID to register. There’d been no need—the man had been a member since he’d earned his wings five years ago.
Kronos took a swig of his coffee as he was directed to a new page. After entering a date, he stared at the information before him. One entry told him exactly what he needed to know.
After logging out of the site and deleting his Internet browsing history, he exited the café. Forty minutes later, he was standing in a pay phone in Frankfurt Hauptwache train station. He called a number in Holland, gave the man who answered six letters followed by the number he was calling from, then hung up. Five seconds later the pay phone rang.
He answered and spoke to the man for two minutes before concluding, “I may have to fire a lot of rounds, so you’ll need to make large custom magazines. But it’s crucial the magazine doesn’t unbalance the weapon.”
He called another Dutch number, repeated the same security routine with six different letters, and when the man called him back he gave him precise instructions, ending with “No bigger than a lighter. And I’ll need spares to test their effect.”
Replacing the handset, he walked briskly across the concourse and boarded a train headed to Stuttgart. As the train pulled out, a couple and their two young children paused by the empty seats in front of him. The mother said to Kronos, “Everywhere back there’s full. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“I must warn you though—my kids are on a high because we took them to the zoo today. I’d understand if you’d prefer quieter companions.”
Kronos laughed. “I’ve got twins. I can sleep through anything. Please, take the seats.”
He closed his eyes. Soon he’d be back in the Black Forest and home with his children. And no doubt they’d be on a high when they saw him. After he cuddled his sons, he’d pretend to be stern with them and say that they needed to finish their homework before their bath time. If they were good, his reward would be the two nineteenth-century German wooden soldier toys he’d bought them.
He imagined their faces lighting up as they unwrapped the brown paper packaging and looked at the Prussian guards.
The soldiers’ faces were stoic, noble, with integrity. They looked like they had a job to do.
Just as he did.
He thought about some of the most challenging assassinations he’d conducted. None of them had been as complex as the one he was now planning.
But that didn’t matter, because he knew exactly what he was doing and was in no doubt that he’d be able to get close enough to his target to smell the man’s fear.
Thirty-Two
Will walked slowly along the banks of the river Spree, adjacent to several hundred yards of the remains of the Berlin Wall. A fine rain started to descend, and he pulled up the collar of his overcoat and put his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t moving toward any destination, just needed time to think—aside from traveling back to Germany, he’d done little else since his conversation with Geoffrey Pepper.
Part of him felt anger. He was certain that Peter Rhodes had given Rübner’s CIA case officer Will’s identity and home address, had wittingly or unwittingly set in motion a sequence of events that had led to his sister needing to go into hiding, and had betrayed knowledge of Will’s intention to break into Yevtushenko’s house.
But he also felt confused and sad. Peter was naturally likable, smart, irreverent, yet thoroughly professional. And he was courageous. Despite immense danger to himself, his service as a NOC had required him to play the part of an advisor to a murderous businessman with a nerveless performance. He was a natural actor, and
Will now wondered if he used that skill to hide a less pleasant aspect of his personality. He decided that wasn’t the case. Peter could be a chameleon when in the field, but when he was surrounded by MI6 officers he was himself.
He leaned against the remains of the Berlin Wall, trying to decide what to do. If he involved Alistair, the Controller would send men to grab Peter, take him back to the United Kingdom, and put him on secret trial. That would almost certainly result in the officer being given life imprisonment. Will could put two bullets in his head. When the truth came out, nobody would question his action. But even though Peter deserved both, neither decision seemed right.
He stayed still for fifteen minutes, allowing rainwater to wash over his face as he stared at the river. Most of the time he rigorously protected his independence and ability to make decisions on his own. But occasionally there were moments when he wished he could walk away and let others go through the anguish of trying to decide the solutions to situations like these. Now was one of those moments.
But he had to make a decision.
He reached for his cell phone, hesitated, then called Roger.
Laith grabbed an empty mug and headed toward the safe-house kitchen. “I’ve just had a call from Roger. Will’s on his way back.”
Peter asked, “Did he get access to the Rübner files?”
Laith shrugged. “Didn’t say.” He called out, “Oh, and Peter. Will wants to meet you in one hour in the lobby of the Steigenberger Hotel. Alone.”
Laith called Will. “He’s on the move, on foot at the moment but looks like he might be trying to hail a taxi. Adam’s mobile. If he does get a cab, we’ll stick to him.”
Sixty minutes later, Will was in the departures section of Berlin Brandenburg Airport. The newly constructed international airport was bustling with travelers. Standing in the center of the concourse was Peter Rhodes, oblivious to the presence of Will, Adam, and Laith. He was motionless, staring at the flight departures board.
Will looked at his paramilitary colleagues. They were apart, fifty yards beyond Peter. He nodded at Laith, sighed, and navigated his way through the crowds. “Hello, Peter.”
The MI6 officer turned quickly, shock on his face. But then he smiled. “So many destinations to choose from.”
“I don’t envy you.”
Peter returned his gaze to the board. “I’ve got a passport, a credit card, and have no idea what I’m doing. But I did know that I didn’t fancy meeting you at the Steigenberger Hotel.”
Will was silent.
Peter muttered, “I suppose the choice of destination will be made for me. Saves me a lot of hassle.”
Will moved in front of him. “Why did you do it?”
Peter’s eyes flickered mischievously. “Because I’m a bastard.”
“No, you’re not.”
Peter lowered his head, seemed to be considering Will’s response. “I got a lot of brownie points for distributing the Rübner intelligence. It got me promoted, an increase in salary.” He looked up. “I’m getting married in a few months. My fiancée and I need every penny we can get.”
“So you decided that you couldn’t let anyone know that Rübner had tricked us and that your career had been accelerated on the basis of a lie?”
“That pretty much sums it all up.”
Will shook his head. “Peter, you could have just been honest. You’ve had a great career. You’d have been promoted anyway.”
“Maybe.” Peter’s smile faded. “Trouble is, one little lie follows another little lie and soon you suddenly realize you’ve created one big lie and there’s no way back. I should have distanced myself from them. But they were insistent. We gave Rübner the identity of Yevtushenko and the means to contact him, hoping that Yevtushenko would disappear and no one would be the wiser. We should have done so with SSCI approval, but we knew the Senate would never have given it to us. So my CIA friends made their own decision. I’d love to tell you that they did so without my knowledge, but that would be untrue.”
“You thought that if I got to Yevtushenko, he’d tell me that he’d been set up by the CIA team running Rübner, and that I’d quickly then link that person to you?”
Peter did not reply.
Will took a step closer. “Your treachery has put my sister’s life at risk.”
“What?”
“You gave the CIA team my name and home address. They gave that to the man who’s now in possession of the paper. He’s threatened to kill Sarah unless I back down.”
Peter looked confused. “They weren’t supposed to do that! They were just supposed to send you a message to your home, telling you to mind your own business.”
“Well, they decided to do much worse. And after you told them I was going to break into Yevtushenko’s house, they put a team in place to stop me escaping and to get me shot by the Russian cops.”
Peter shook his head. “No, no. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I told them in case there was stuff in there that you shouldn’t see—to give them the chance to get there first and sanitize the place.”
Will said between gritted teeth, “You played right into their hands. Who are they?”
Peter huffed. “I might have been played for a fool, but my mouth’s shut on that. You’re going to put me in a cell and throw away the key.” He looked around, his eyes locking on Adam, then Laith. Nodding, he looked back at Will. “It appears that you might do worse. I’ve no reason to speak to you.”
Will pointed at the flight departures board. “You can get on one of those flights . . .”
Peter frowned.
“. . . if you tell me who was running Rübner, the identity of the people you were working with to stop me getting closer to Yevtushenko.”
“You’d just let me walk away? I doubt that.”
“Where’s your fiancée?”
“England.” Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Today she’s getting measured for her wedding dress.”
“You can never see her again.”
Peter lowered his hand. His face was now pale.
“You’ll be arrested if you try to set foot in the U.K.; you’ll be arrested if anyone spots you in Europe; the States aren’t an option; nor are any of the Commonwealth countries.” Will raised his voice to be heard over the din coming from the crowds around them. “It won’t be a case of just walking away. You’ll be on the run, by all accounts with very limited funds. What I’m offering you is a life of looking over your shoulder, of poverty, of living in some hellhole, petrified that at any moment your front door is going to be kicked in. But maybe that’s a better option than solitary confinement in a maximum security prison, or”—he glanced toward Laith and Adam—“a more absolute solution.”
Peter looked confused. “Why would you do that for me?”
“That question’s been plaguing me for the last twenty-four hours.” He pictured Luke’s head ripping open when he shot him in Gdansk. “Maybe I’m just sick of doing the dirty work.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.
“You need to make a decision!”
The crowds were getting thicker, and though travelers brushed against the two MI6 officers, they stayed still.
“Decision, Peter.”
Beads of sweat ran down Peter’s face, and he screwed his eyes up as if he were in pain.
“Time is running out!”
“Okay!” Peter’s breathing was fast. More quietly, he repeated, “Okay.”
“Who was running Rübner?”
Peter stared directly at Will, his expression imploring. “Somehow, can you get a message to my fiancée? Tell her I’m truly sorry.”
Will nodded.
“Thank you.” Peter looked at the flight schedules. “Can’t go anywhere West, nowhere first world, nowhere with a U.K. extradition treaty in place.” He smiled bitterly. “You’re right; i
t has to be a hellhole.” His breathing slowed. “Look after the section. They need you.”
“That’s not your concern anymore. You keep your mouth shut about everything you know. And if you warn off Rübner’s CIA handlers, I’ll personally come after you.”
Peter nodded. With resignation, he said, “I’ve no reason to speak to them now. After all, keeping their secret has got me to this place. There’s four of them. All are very senior Agency case officers, with a lot of power and autonomy.” He held out his hand.
Will hesitated, then shook it. “If ever you see me again, run.” He lowered his voice and said with genuine concern, “Look after yourself.”
Peter smiled. “I’ll try my best.” Glancing around, he laughed. “I don’t think the arrivals section of the country I’m headed to is going to look anything like this.” He looked at Will one last time. “Rübner’s CIA handlers have the code name Flintlock.”
PART IV
Thirty-Three
Kurt Schreiber walked along the corridor toward the door, which was flanked by two armed bodyguards. He entered a vast, sumptuous room containing leather sofas and armchairs, original paintings by Leopold Bode, Hans Dürer, and Matthias Grünewald, a large log-burning fire that had been prepared by one of the twelve-bedroom property’s housekeepers, and walls clad in oak panels that had been taken from a nineteenth-century Prussian man-of-war. Extending down one side of the room was a forty-yard balcony where, during the summer months, he would frequently spend time eating or drinking with his numerous shady business associates while admiring southeast Germany’s Bavarian Alps and overlooking the valley two thousand yards beneath them. But today, the sliding glass doors were shut to prevent the icy mountain air and snow from entering the warm residence.
