by Matthew Dunn
Alfie shouted, “What’s happened?”
James was in shock. “Sarah’s okay. We’re not . . . not hurt. Kitchen . . . kitchen . . .”
Alfie’s heart pumped fast as he walked past the couple, his gun still held high, eyes narrow, sweat pouring over his entire body. Pausing to one side of the kitchen entrance, he ducked low and swung into the room. Bacon and sausages were burning in a frying pan.
So was something else.
Betty’s head.
Bullets had torn chunks out of it and had forced her dead body to collapse over the stove.
“Betty!” Alfie looked around urgently. No one else here. The fucking bastards had long since gone. His arms involuntarily swung down, and he dropped his gun and staggered toward his beloved wife. Tears running down his face, he started shaking. “Not my Betty. My dear, dear Betty.”
Kurt Schreiber lifted the ornate telephone handset and held it against his face.
“It’s done, Mr. Schreiber.”
“As I instructed?”
“Exactly. We did it in front of the sister.”
“Excellent. You and your men are to return back here.”
“You don’t want us to keep watching the others?” The man laughed. “Or give them a bit more of a shock?”
“No. Maximum damage has been done. The others are of no use to me now.”
Schreiber replaced the handset and interlinked his fingers, deep in thought. By killing Betty Mayne, he’d sent a powerful warning to Will Cochrane. In similar situations, most men would back down from pursuing him. He wondered if Cochrane was such a man.
Fifty-Five
The young Dutch police officer looked nervous as he entered Will’s hospital room in Eindhoven’s Catharina Ziekenhuis hospital. He extended his arm. In his hand was a cell phone. “Sir, you have a call. Urgent.”
Will grimaced in pain as he sat up in bed. In rooms close to him were Roger, Laith, Adam, Mark, and Mikhail. No one else was allowed into the ward except nurses, doctors, and armed Dutch cops. “Who is it?”
“I’m not permitted to know. My commanding officer ordered me to bring the phone to you.”
Will nodded. “I need some privacy.”
The cop hesitated, seemed unsure what to do, then left the room.
Will held the phone to his face. “Yes?”
He listened to Alistair speak for ten minutes, though it felt like only ten seconds. When the call ended, his head was spinning, images racing through his mind. He felt disbelief, nausea, anger, and overwhelming grief.
Unable to get hold of Will, Alfie had called his Controller to relay devastating news.
Betty was dead.
Will stared at the hospital equipment by his bed, though nothing registered. He was motionless, felt as if he’d been stunned by an almighty sucker punch.
A punch that had been delivered with brilliant precision by Colonel Kurt Schreiber.
Schreiber had known how Will had reacted to the perceived threat to his sister. The former Stasi officer had watched him eschew bringing in hired guns to protect Sarah, in favor of entrusting her safety to people who were considerably older and had wisdom and a wealth of experience, meaning they meant something to him. Schreiber had ascertained their identities and had singled out Betty as the perfect target, knowing that her death would cause Will to be debilitated with overwhelming guilt. He’d also ensured that she was murdered in front of his sister, whom Schreiber could easily have killed but instead kept alive so that she could understand that Will’s line of work caused those around him to be sacrificed.
Schreiber had killed Betty, and no doubt he had also killed Will’s relationship with his last remaining family.
Kurt Schreiber had completely outsmarted Will Cochrane.
Fifty-Six
You both need to get back to the military hospital as soon as this is done.” Though his tone was stern, Patrick’s expression held concern and compassion as he looked at Will and Roger. They’d been flown to the States on a medical flight. The rest of the team was still recuperating in Holland.
Roger was in a wheelchair. The doctors had advised him that it would be weeks before he could get out of it, and even then he’d need several months of further treatment. Will’s injury had done less damage, though he was on crutches and would subsequently need a walking stick for a month or two. But nothing was going to stop them from being here.
The CIA Director of Intelligence moved around the boardroom within CIA headquarters, picked up a phone, and glanced at Patrick. “You guys ready?”
Patrick smiled as he looked at his men. “You bet we are.”
The director pressed numbers, held the handset to his mouth, and muttered, “Grab the bastards from their offices. Do it fast. Make sure we have a minimum of eight guards outside the boardroom to take them away after it’s done.” He replaced the handset. “They’re on their way.”
Five minutes later, Tibor, Damien, Lawrence, and Marcus were escorted into the room by burly security men. The Flintlock officers’ expensive suits were ruffled, their faces flushed. Tibor looked angrily at the director. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Sit down and shut up!”
The men were forced into seats, facing Will and Roger across the table. The director and Patrick sat next to the Spartan Section operatives.
Like Roger, Will was wearing an expensive suit. It had been agonizing to get into it, but he wanted to look the part. He lifted one of his crutches and slammed it down on the table with sufficient force to make the Flintlock officers flinch. “My name is Will Cochrane. It doesn’t bother me to share that information with you, because where you’re going you’re not going to have a soul to talk to for the rest of your lives. What does bother me is that your actions killed a loved one, and that you tried to have me killed in order to cover up the fact that you sold out Yevtushenko’s work for the CIA to Rübner just so you could keep getting his intelligence.”
Tibor interjected, “Now, wait a minute . . .”
“Keep your fucking mouth shut, you little shit!” Will stared at each man. “Your treachery has given you life imprisonment with zero chance for parole. Every second you have in the facility will be hell. And it’s going to be made worse by something I’m about to tell you that you don’t know. Rübner was deliberately planted in New York so that people like you could approach him. But he was no longer working for Mossad. Instead he was working for a private individual who desperately wanted to identify a serving SVR who was on the payroll of the CIA. You played right into his hands.”
The director pointed at them. “We can forgive you for being taken for fools by Rübner and his boss, but handing over Yevtushenko’s identity without SSCI approval is automatic big jail time.” He glanced at Will before returning his stare to the Flintlock officers. “And jeopardizing the life and the family of our best intelligence officer means you’re going to die in there.”
The Flintlock officers looked ashen, petrified, and confused. Tibor said, “We . . . we can make amends. Make a public apology . . . Just let us go quietly.”
Will lifted the crutch off the table and placed the end of it against Tibor’s chest. “Your best hope is that one of the prison guards takes pity on you and slips you a length of rope.”
Fifty-Seven
Mikhail’s face screwed up in pain as he put his feet onto the floor, grabbed his crutches, and forced his body out of the hospital bed. Though they would be distraught that he was injured, he hoped his wife, Diana, and their two girls, Tatyana and Yana, would laugh if they could see him now—wearing pajamas and slippers, his hair ruffled. He put some coins into a pocket and hobbled out of his room. A sweat broke out over his body as he tried to ignore the pain that was searing up his leg into the base of his spine.
He moved along the corridor, past rooms containing Mark, Laith, and Adam. Aside from medical staff and armed Du
tch police officers, no one else was allowed in the hospital wing. The injured DSI operatives had been taken to another facility, where they were not only receiving treatment but also being questioned as to what had happened during the flight.
A nurse approached him, her expression quizzical and angry. In English, she said, “You shouldn’t be walking. What are you doing?”
Mikhail stopped. “I need to call my family.”
“You know what the police told you. No calls to . . .”
“The police,” Mikhail said softly, his breathing labored, “are uncertain what to make of this situation and have put in place procedures that make no sense.” He patted a hand against his leg. “We’re hardly a threat to anyone.”
“It’s for your own protection.”
Mikhail sighed, felt weary. “Please. I need to speak to my daughters.”
The nurse looked unsure.
“I just want to tell them I’m okay.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the pay phone. The nearest cops were in the adjacent wing, out of sight of the phone. “Just your family?”
“Yes. I’ll be quick.”
The nurse smiled and nodded toward his crutches. “Not with those, you won’t.” Her smile vanished, was replaced by a look of authority. “Okay. But if anyone asks me, I’ll deny we ever had this conversation.”
She walked away, heading to the other men’s rooms to check up on them.
Mikhail stood in front of the phone, tried to catch his breath. Glancing left and right, he saw the corridor was empty and inserted some coins into the unit. A man answered. Mikhail spoke a few words to him in Russian and waited. Diana came onto the line; his wife spoke to him for two minutes, her comments and tone ranging from anger, to fear, to delight. She passed the phone to Tatyana, who was cross and combative—it didn’t bother Mikhail because these days the teenager was frequently like that. He told her he loved and missed her and that she was to help her mother as much as she could. The phone was handed to Yana.
His youngest daughter shouted, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” and gushed her adoration for him. Then she adopted a stern voice and concluded, “It’s wrong that you’re not here.”
After saying good-bye, he ended the call and stared at the keypad. Though his family were used to the fact that he was frequently away from them while conducting overseas missions, under these circumstances it was wrong that he wasn’t there to look after them. His thoughts turned to Lenka Yevtushenko. Three days ago, he’d ordered his men to vacate the Saxony farmstead and move the Russian defector to another location in Germany. He recalled Will’s comment.
Let him go. He’s got a woman and child to look after.
And his riposte.
I’ll take him back to Russia to face not only the charge of stealing secret intelligence. He’ll also stand trial for being a CIA agent.
He placed more coins into the machine, and his finger hovered over the keypad. What was he thinking? At first he wasn’t sure. A gut instinct? If he was about to break SVR rules, he had to do so with something more concrete than a hunch. He thought for a moment, nodded, and began pressing numbers.
Why?
Because if he punished Yevtushenko, he’d also be punishing his family. Cochrane had known from the outset that even if everything else in the mission was a failure, reuniting a foolish but decent man with his partner and daughter would be a good outcome. Mikhail now understood that.
He spoke to one of his assets, heard the man try to argue with him, told him to shut up, and gave him very precise instructions to transport Yevtushenko to Belarus within the next few days. “Keep him in hiding, away from Minsk for a month or two. I’m going to tell my superiors that we found him dead at the farmstead, but they may still check his lover’s address during the next few weeks. But they’ll soon get bored and move on to other matters.”
His last call would be to Will Cochrane.
Fifty-Eight
Stefan looked at the food his wife had laid out on the kitchen table and beamed. Kartoffelsuppe, kalbsrouladen, spargel, and kartoffel—one of his favorite meals. He poured his wife a glass of spätburgunder red wine and looked at Wendell and Mathias. “Tuck in, boys, before Daddy eats it all.”
The twins piled food onto their plates and began eating with smiles on their faces.
His wife gently squeezed Stefan’s hand and began serving him. “How was the conference, my dear?”
Stefan laughed. “It was as riveting as watching paint dry.” He swallowed soup and exclaimed, “Ooh, that’s good!”
Wendell asked, “What story are you going to tell us today?”
Stefan ate more food and thought for a moment. “You remember I told you about the giant earthworm that lives in the Black Forest?”
“Yes! Lumbricus badensis.”
Stefan nodded. “It’s cruel and smart. But it has a weakness.”
“What is it?”
“The worm has no honor.”
“But that doesn’t matter, Daddy, because it’s the most dangerous creature in the forest.”
Stefan sliced into his veal. “Honor matters enormously. There is one creature in the forest that’s much more dangerous than the worm and has honor. Would you like me to tell you the story of when the worm met this creature?”
His boys nodded eagerly while filling their mouths with more delicious food.
Stefan smiled. “Once upon a time, there were three bad woodsmen who gathered in the Black Forest to discuss their desire to gain wealth and power. They decided the best way to achieve this was to cut down all of the forest’s most ancient and valuable trees and sell the wood. All of them agreed that it had to be done in secret; that they would be severely punished if anyone found out what they were doing. But a songbird overheard them and flew away to tell good woodsmen about the plot. The bad woodsmen tried to shoot the bird, but they missed. Determined not to let the bird ruin their plans, they went deeper into the forest, lit torches, and entered one of the vast tunnels that led to the giant earthworm’s lair. They were terrified of the worm but knew that it was the only creature that could help them. Upon entering the lair, they saw the worm feasting on dead cattle. Its red eyes were staring at the woodsmen. The eldest woodsman stepped forward and told the worm that they would give it ten dead cows if it could kill the songbird before he spoke to the other woodsmen. The worm laughed, slithered close to them, and bared its enormous bloodstained fangs. The smell of its rancid breath filled the cavern as it told the men that it could only kill things on land. At first, the men didn’t know what to do. Then one of them had an idea and told the worm that they would pay it twenty dead cows if it could find a creature that could kill the bird. The worm considered this. The dead cows would make its body even bigger and stronger. It agreed and told the men to leave before it changed its mind and bit off their heads.”
Mathias popped the end of a piece of asparagus into his mouth, bit it in half, held the stem out, and grinned. “Like this.”
“Use your knife and fork please, Mathias.” Stefan took a sip of his wine. “Now, the worm knew that it would have to find a very special creature to hunt down and kill the songbird. Only one such creature lived in the forest. Do you know what it was?”
The boys shook their heads, wide eyed.
“Most of the forest’s inhabitants thought the creature didn’t exist, that he was a myth. But the worm knew different. That night, it used its tunnels to slither to the base of the Feldberg, which as you know is the Black Forest’s highest mountain. It broke through the soil and took all night to reach the mountain summit. Standing there, watching the entire forest, was the eagle king.”
“You’ve never told us about the eagle king, Daddy!”
“That’s because he’s a secret. And both of you must swear to me that you’ll never tell anyone about his existence.”
The boys nodded quickly, d
esperate to hear more of the story.
Stefan pretended to look serious. “Very well. The eagle king was the most deadly creature in not only the Black Forest, but also all the lands around it. He loathed the giant earthworm and wondered if he should rip its body in half. The worm could see that the eagle had anger in his eyes, so spoke quickly, telling the king that it would pay him ten cows if he could kill the songbird. The eagle placed one of his huge talons close to the worm’s eyes, and told it that he would do the job only if he was given five cows in advance. The worm agreed and slithered away quickly, knowing that the eagle was the only creature that had the power to kill him.”
Stefan stuck his fork through a potato. “After the cows were delivered to him, the eagle flew down from the mountain summit and scoured the vast forest. It took him three days to spot the songbird flying north toward the edge of the forest. But to his surprise, as he approached it he was attacked by a younger eagle. It turned out that the good woodsmen had received news that the songbird was coming to them with important information and had sent out their best eagle to protect the songbird. They fought, but the younger eagle was no match for the king. He fell to the ground, injured, and the eagle king swooped on the songbird, gripping his neck between his razor-sharp claws. The songbird thought he was going to kill him, but instead the eagle asked him why the worm wanted him dead. The songbird told him about the bad woodsmen’s intention to cut down a large part of the forest and that he was trying to warn others about it.” Stefan paused, looking at each son. “You see, the eagle king was cleverer than the worm. He knew it was evil and would have bad reasons for wanting the songbird dead. That’s why he’d demanded that he be given five cows in advance. And unlike the worm, the eagle king was wise and honorable and only killed other creatures if it was absolutely necessary to do so. He could never kill a creature who was trying to protect his beloved forest. So he released the songbird and told him to fly fast to the good woodsmen. The songbird reached them and told them what he’d overheard. Hundreds of men picked up their axes and entered the forest to kill the bad woodsmen.” Stefan smiled as he finished his meal. “And that is the end of our story.”
