by Matthew Dunn
I’ve been left with no choice other than to address that.
Every morning, you’ve been extremely meticulous with the way you’ve collected mail delivered to Mr. Cochrane’s house. I estimate you’ll be reading these words at 0704 hours.
Exactly four minutes after Will Cochrane’s loved one was shot in the head.
Yours sincerely,
William
Fifty-Two
Alfie snapped his cell phone shut and ran as fast as he could along the Isle of Wight’s Compton Bay beach. While Betty was preparing sausages and eggs and waiting for Sarah and James to come downstairs, the retiree had been taking an early-morning walk along the empty beach in order to rejoin the coastal road and then watch the holiday home and its surroundings from a distance. But Joanna had called him before he got to that location. It still left the sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS sergeant half a mile of coastline to reach the house.
The same words raced through his mind as he tried to force his aging legs to move faster and his lungs to give him more oxygen.
Bloody hell, no! Bloody hell, no!
He wheezed, his stiff limbs and back throbbed, and his temples ached from the exertion and the icy winter air. Why did he have to be this old, this far away from the house? He could see it now, tiny, at least eight hundred paces away. His heart was pounding. Maybe it would give out on him and he’d die here, just as his old man had done. A pointless death.
Each footfall made his boots sink inches into the wet sand. Bleedin’ sand—loved it as a kid; hated it in the army. All those runs along it carrying a rifle and webbing. But at least he’d been in his twenties then. What was he thinking about sand for? Because he didn’t want to think about anything else, that’s why.
Taste of blood in his mouth. That was normal. Get that regardless of age. Spat out more blood in his time than he could remember. Got plenty more of it inside. Just need to remember that yer body can do five times more than yer mind wants it to do. That’s what got him through the freezing sleet and wind in the final stage of SAS selection: a hellish mountain trek with sixty pounds of gear on his back, while carrying a rifle with no sling. Shit, that was tough, and had come on the back of four weeks of endless marches and runs, most of ’em on your own, just a basic compass for navigation, back breaking from the weight, up and down mountains, shivering all the time, every inch of yer feet pissing gunk from blisters. Long time ago. Since then, he’d gotten old. Running along this small bit of beach was every bit as tough as final selection.
As his legs slowed, he felt his handgun rub against his hip. Probably had taken the skin off by now. Didn’t matter, skin would grow back. Soon he’d take the gun out. Not yet. Had to be close. Must remember the house entry drills. Watch the angles; speed crucial; chest shots first. Christ! Speed? What a joke.
He reached the base of a set of wooden steps leading up the cliff to the road. His breathing was shallow, legs like lead, head gettin’ dizzy. Control that. Get yer mind in shape. Might have shooting to do.
Who you kidding? You’re not in the Regiment’s Special Projects Team now. Just a knackered ol’ codger. Yeah, but you can still shoot, remember? The years ain’t touched that. Bless ’em.
Using one hand on a rail to aid him, he hauled his body up the steps, used the back of his other arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Can’t have that shit in your eyes. He reached the top. House one seven three yards away. Cross the road, follow edge of the open heathland, keep low, gun out when within pistol kill range. Fuck what the passengers of any passing cars thought. Nothing on the road, though—two miles visibility along it to the southeast, one mile northwest.
He walked across the road, wincing as his whole body felt like it was being torn apart. Wish Cochrane was here. Get a grip. He ain’t here, dickhead; you are.
Okay. Small-arms kill range now. Gun out. Two hands. Drop low.
Sixty yards from house. Top windows, east wall—one, two, three, four: all clear. Bottom windows: no sightings. Still leaves four rooms unaccounted for. Front or back entrance? Neither has element of surprise if a professional team’s in there. Reckon front’s best. Gives better angles, plus sight of two more rooms on approach.
Priority: kill bastards, secure target zone.
No bastards?
Hunt bastards down. Kill bastards.
Got to remove emotion. Done it before, remember? Yer pal Geordie’s team in Borneo; knew they were all cut up before you went in to get the bodies and give a bit of payback to their killers. Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands. More dead mates. Couldn’t think about them while doin’ yer job. Thinking and stuff comes after.
Different now though, ain’t it? You’ve let Cochrane down. Sarah’s dead.
And all you can do now is rescue Betty and James.
Betty. Standing next to her all those years ago. Poky south London church. Him in his cheap but neatly pressed suit and shiny shoes. Confetti in his Brylcreemed hair. Her in the dress her mum and sisters had made for the day. Goodness, his missus looked lovely. Proud day that. Best day. She sorted him right out, she did. Made him grow up and get values. Made him more of a man than all them marches.
Biggest test of yer manhood coming up. Need to be able to step over Sarah’s body, keep your gun high, angles, body shots, room clearance, don’t think, don’t feel. Yet.
He reached the edge of the house.
Movement behind one of the windows.
Then nothing.
Shit!
Looks like we’re in for a firefight.
Body’s feeling a bit better. Hands? Arms? They ain’t shaking. Eyes? Brain? Good enough.
Right, lads.
Who dares wins.
Get it done.
He crawled alongside the front of the house, rose to a crouch beside the front door, held his gun with one hand, used the other to grip the door handle, and eased the door open a few inches.
Silence.
Now.
He stood, kicked the door fully open, and rushed forward with his gun held high.
He froze.
Sarah was slumped on the floor.
Covered in blood.
Fifty-Three
The military base was a hive of activity, with DSI and other Dutch law enforcement personnel moving quickly on foot and in vehicles to other parts of the establishment, some of them standing guard around the runway and adjacent hangars, and a small cadre of DSI professionals checking weapons and communications equipment in the long, rectangular barracks where Will and his team were. The six Dutchmen were the protection unit who’d be escorting the witness north to The Hague. Kapitein Derksen was one of them. Like his men, he was wearing a blue jacket, jeans, combat belt, canvas boots, balaclava, and bulletproof vest with the word POLITIE on the front and back.
After stripping down his FN P90 submachine gun and his Glock 17 pistol, Derksen walked over to Will and Mikhail. “The witness has been moved to the holding facility; the plane landed an hour ago and has been searched; we’ll be green light in thirty minutes. Do it as I told you—very fast.” Within the small area of balaclava that exposed his eyes, there were no signs of any emotion. “You have everything you need?”
Mikhail patted his overcoat. Underneath it was a holster containing a Glock handgun. “We could have done with clothes like yours and”—he nodded toward the officer’s P90—“more firepower.”
“You have to be distinguishable from my men, so we know who’re the professionals and who’re the amateurs,” Derksen snapped. “Fifteen minutes before takeoff.” He turned and walked back to his men.
The MI6 and SVR officers approached Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. Like Will and Mikhail, they were all dressed as if they were about to attend a winter business conference in a five-star hotel.
Will said, “When we get to The Hague, I’m going to try to keep us in play. We’ll have ten more days of sitting on our asses in anot
her secure facility before the hearing.” He glanced at Laith. “Gives the rest of us a chance to win back our cash.”
Laith smiled. “You’ll lose again if you think poker’s a game of chance.”
Okay.” Kapitein Derksen’s voice filled the barracks. “Let’s go!”
The DSI unit and Will’s team jogged out of the building, then sprinted past other barracks and into a large aircraft hangar. In the center was the G-IV-SP aircraft. Its engines were running, and the pilots were visible in the cockpit, clearly making their preparations. Machine-gun-carrying police officers were standing around the craft; others were kneeling by the open hangar doors, pointing their weapons toward the runway.
In Dutch, Derksen barked into his throat mic, “Sierra 1. We’re in position at Zulu.”
Four of his men rushed into the plane as Derksen and another knelt by the plane’s steps and raised their guns. Looking at Will, Derksen snapped, “Get in.”
Will, Roger, Laith, Mark, Adam, and Mikhail entered the plane. It was quite small but luxurious. Two uniformed officers were at the head of the passenger area. One of them had a sniffer dog on a leash; the other, holding a clipboard, approached a DSI officer. The two spoke for a few seconds before the DSI operative took the clipboard, carefully examined the papers on it, and signed at the bottom. The paperwork showed that every space within the plane’s interior had been searched three times on the secure base by three separate police units. The two police officers left the plane, and the dog’s tail wagged quickly as the animal moved past the men.
Sumptuous leather seats lined each side of the plane, facing each other and separated halfway along by a bar and cupboards containing food. No doubt, ordinarily this type of carrier would be used for VIP businessmen and perhaps senior politicians. Will and the rest of the team moved to the front seats, sat, and waited. Five seconds later, Derksen and his colleague entered the craft.
Between them was an old man.
The witness.
The plane started taxiing as the old man was shown to a seat between two large DSI operatives. The remaining four Dutchmen took up positions close to him. One of the officers started talking quickly on his mic, relaying instructions and updates.
The silver-haired witness was wearing a gray suit, a necktie, and a somber overcoat. His etched, serious expression suggested that he had no appreciation for the craft’s luxurious interior.
The plane’s engine noise grew louder.
Will darted a look at Kapitein Derksen as the plane began increasing in speed. “Who is he?”
Derksen remained silent, motionless, gripping his submachine gun, just like the rest of his men.
“Who is he?”
The plane accelerated and took off.
“Kapitein Derksen . . . !”
Derksen answered, “Now that we’re airborne, I’m permitted to give you his identity. His name is Nikolai Dmitriev, former colonel with the KGB and SVR.”
Dmitriev. The name Will had seen in the papers he’d discovered in Yevtushenko’s house.
The officer who’d attended the secret meeting in Berlin in 1995.
The man who’d approached The Hague six months ago in order to give evidence about a secret pact.
Will stared at Dmitriev, then glanced out of the window, bracing himself in case the plane was hit by a missile.
Nothing happened.
“Now that you know my identity”—Dmitriev pointed a frail finger toward Will—“it would be appropriate to know who you are.”
Will answered in Russian, “We’re part of the protection detail.”
“Really?” Dmitriev stared at each man before returning his attention to Will and stating in English, “None of you look like Dutch cops.”
Derksen leaned toward the Russian while fastening his seat belt. “They’re along for the ride because they’ve got information which will enable us to further keep you safe. Other than that, nothing’s changed. I’m in charge on the flight; you do exactly as I say.”
“Information?” Dmitriev kept his gaze fixed on Will. “What information?”
Derksen motioned to Will to stay silent.
But Will answered, “We’re intelligence officers, multi-agency, though all of us have been working together to neutralize a specific threat to you.”
The old man briefly closed his eyes. “A threat that has a code name beginning with the letter K?”
At first, Will didn’t know if he should answer. If a person was going to kill him, he’d often wondered if he’d want to know that person’s identity just before it happened. It made no difference to the outcome, though perhaps it could give it some kind of meaning. “Yes. You know exactly who he is.”
Dmitriev opened his eyes and stared at nothing. “Then everything has gone according to plan.”
Will frowned. “What plan?”
Dmitriev said nothing.
Adam rubbed his disfigured face, wincing slightly.
Mikhail asked, “Does it hurt?”
The Scotsman looked at the spycatcher with an expression of suspicion, then smiled. “Aye. Cabin pressure during takeoffs and landings. Keeps me sharp.”
Mark leaned forward and gently punched Adam’s knee. “Just as well there ain’t any air hostesses on the flight, matey. Your ugly boat race would send ’em packing.”
“Nah. I’d play the wounded war hero sympathy card. Works every time. It’s almost made it worthwhile having ma face blown off.”
The plane was ascending fast. Engert had told Will that the pilots had been carefully selected due to their prior military experience and ability to get planes up and down quicker than most commercial pilots.
Will eased back into his seat while keeping his attention fixed on Dmitriev. So much had been done to try to kill the Russian; in equal measure, a vast effort and number of resources had been deployed to protect him. All because of what was in his head. What was the secret, and why were things going according to plan? They’d find out when Dmitriev took the stand. But as Will looked at the retired intelligence officer’s haunted expression, he wondered if that would happen.
Derksen moved along the aisle and entered the cockpit. Twenty seconds later, he reemerged and said, “We’re high enough now. Next thirty minutes should be fine. Pilot will let us know when he starts his descent.”
Everyone removed his seat belt. Laith stretched out his legs. “Time for some shut-eye. Hey, Derksen—you got one of them hoods you like putting on people? Might actually be useful this time round, help me get some sleep.”
The DSI officer ignored the comment. Instead he patted a hand on Dmitriev’s forearm and retook his seat. “We’re safe for the time being.”
They all heard the sound of two near-simultaneous dull thuds. One second later, the plane started violently shuddering.
“Damn turbulence.”
The shuddering got worse; men were lifted a few inches out of their seats; there was a moment of weightlessness, more shuddering; the plane seemed to be descending, rolled left; all of the men on one side of the plane were hurled into the aisle.
“What the fuck’s happening!”
Will tried to get to his feet, was thrown forward into Roger and Mark, gripped the overhead lockers to get himself upright, then lurched into the opposite seats as the plane banked right, his shoulder banging into more luggage compartments. Wincing in pain, he pulled his body along the floor toward the cockpit. Behind him men were shouting, their bodies crashing into each other and the sides of the plane.
The copilot was sending out urgent distress calls, sweat pouring down his face, his body shaking but held in place by his belt. Next to him, the pilot was gripping the wheel, desperately trying to retain control of the craft.
Will got to one knee, using both arms to grip the back of the copilot’s seat. “What’s happened?”
Between gritted teeth, th
e pilot answered, “Both engines taken out. Immediate failure.”
“Explosions, fire, electrical fault?”
“I don’t know! Just stopped working.”
“What can we do?”
“You can’t do anything. Get back in there. We’re going to have to see if we can glide the bird down.” The pilot glanced at his colleague. “Any coordinates yet?”
The copilot nodded. “Just got them. Only one strip in the area, but it’s long enough. Tiny commercial airport. I’m speaking to its traffic controller.”
“Okay.” The pilot’s whole body was shaking. “Tell him to get emergency services to the airport.”
Will crawled back into the passenger compartment. Inside was chaos. Some men were still being tossed around; others had managed to get their seat belts on and were grimacing as the straps bit into their stomachs with every movement of the plane. “Engine failure! Crash landing!”
Derksen grabbed Dmitriev, pulled him down next to him, and quickly fixed the seat belt onto the old man. “An attack?”
“We don’t know.” Will rose to his feet and was immediately thrown backward as the plane went into another dive. After tumbling down the aisle, he slammed into the cockpit door. Two cupboards at the end of the aisle opened, and china plates and cups smashed their way down the plane toward him. A Dutch operative’s head smacked against the door, inches from his own, and the man immediately lost consciousness. Another flew across the aisle with sufficient force to knock out not only himself, but also the DSI operative he hit.
The plane was now shaking so badly that everything in Will’s vision was a blur of constant movement.
The pilot’s strained voice came over the speakers. “Brace for impact!”
Held in place by the angle of descent and an unconscious operative, Will looked out of a window. Land was visible, getting nearer, rushing past them. He glanced at his team. All of them had managed to get their belts on and were holding onto anything to try to keep themselves still.
Derksen shouted at Will, “Has to have been a bomb. Must have been a malfunction; only part of it went off.”
