by Matthew Dunn
He entered his apartment and was immediately struck by the changes to the place. He limped through the hallway, past the bedrooms that now contained new lamps, Egyptian cotton bedding, framed drawings, and new paint on the wardrobes and chests of drawers. He smiled as he stared at the living room. Joanna had done an incredible job. Everything had been unpacked and carefully positioned to add contours, depth, and different dimensions to the room. His antiquities were prominent but cleverly located to match the different styles and colors within the place.
It looked like a real home.
He picked up his German lute, sat on the sofa’s arm, and rested the instrument on his injured leg. Quietly, he began playing Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 in E minor, while continuing to take in his surroundings.
His front door buzzed, meaning someone was outside the communal downstairs entrance. Probably David had suddenly realized he’d left without his keys, a usual occurrence. Will placed his instrument down, picked up the intercom handset. “Yes?”
A woman answered. Will hesitated, then buzzed her in.
One minute later, Sarah was standing before him in his living room. “What happened?”
“I got shot, doesn’t matter.”
Sarah recalled Alfie’s comment about Will’s line of work. “One day, a bullet’s going to hit you in a place where it does matter.”
“Probably.” He looked at her. “Why are you here?”
“James and I are moving to Edinburgh in two days’ time. Our law firm’s secured us a fully furnished house in the country.”
Will’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s great.” He smiled. “When can I come and visit?”
Sarah broke his gaze, looked uncomfortable. “Betty told me what you do for a living.”
“Did she, now?” Will sighed. “Perhaps she was right to do so.”
“Maybe.” Her lower lip trembled, face flushed, trying to hold back tears. “I thought about it, told myself that maybe it changed things knowing that your job required you to do something . . .” She frowned, trying to think of the right word. “Noble.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, now looked angry. “But there’s nothing noble about seeing three men burst into a house and put bullets into a woman’s head!”
“Sarah, that wasn’t my—”
“Fault?” She pointed at him. “Then whose fault was it?”
Will was silent, felt wretched.
“Whose bloody fault?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“I was right next to her when it happened. Her blood was all over . . .” She looked at the palms of her hands and rubbed them against her skirt. “You’ve made your choices, Will, just as I’ve made mine. James and I don’t want you in Scotland. We don’t want you anywhere near us!”
As Will watched her storm out of his home while crying loudly, tears rolled down his own cheeks. As he’d predicted in the Dutch hospital, Schreiber had killed his relationship with the last remaining member of his family.
Sixty-Two
Six weeks later, Will stripped out of his sweat-drenched tracksuit, turned on the shower, and walked quickly to his front door as he heard the mail drop onto the mat. He’d been checking his mail every day in the vain hope that Sarah had written to him, changing her mind about him coming to visit. In his heart, he knew that it was false hope, but the notion had kept him going during the preceding weeks of recuperation and physiotherapy. His leg was now fully healed, and a week ago he’d been able to start going for daily early-morning runs.
He leafed through the mail, then froze. An envelope that had no stamp or address on it, merely his full name written in ink.
Another letter from Kurt Schreiber?
The psychopath was still loose; no agency had been able to trace his whereabouts.
He tore open the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper.
It’s taken me some time, but I’ve found him. Are you fully fit? You’d better be, because I’m gifting you the opportunity to obtain justice. Timings must be precise. 1200 hrs GMT on the day after tomorrow. But be very careful. His place is heavily guarded. I’ll be watching over you and will help where I can. Address overleaf. Do not approach from the north side or I will not be able to see you.
Will turned the sheet over. A location and grid reference for an isolated mountain residence on the German-Austrian border, and a cell phone number. His heart beat fast as he pulled out his phone and called Alfie Mayne. “Please, can you meet me?”
After he ended the call, he stared at the letter again. He wondered if it was another of Schreiber’s tricks—to lure him to a place where he could easily be killed. No. There were easier places for Schreiber’s men to attack him, and he certainly wouldn’t give Will a date and a time for such an assault.
The man who’d written this note had meant what he said.
Will knew exactly who he was.
Kronos.
Two hours later, Will was in Highgate Cemetery. He was very familiar with the famous nineteenth-century graveyard, having been here often, and walked confidently through the eerie place of the dead, along narrow twisting paths, between gnarled trees, past gravestones wrapped in vines and covered in moss, through the tunnel of the Egyptian Avenue and past the Circle of Lebanon and the grave of Karl Marx.
He looked at the sky and saw that dark rain clouds were beginning to take over. Spots of rain began to hit him as he continued onward, pulling up the collar of his overcoat, moving toward a section of the cemetery that held no residents of any particular interest or notoriety. The rain became heavy.
He walked onward for twenty yards and stopped in front of a small headstone. Alfie was standing next to it, dressed in the same ill-fitting suit he’d worn when he’d helped Will collect Sarah from her home, one hand clutching flowers wrapped in sodden paper. He’d shaved his face an hour ago with his favorite cutthroat razor; bits of tissue were stuck to areas he’d accidentally cut. The former soldier nodded toward the grave. “You did me proud, son, getting my missus a place in here.”
Will looked at Betty’s grave. “I don’t think I have any pride left.”
Alfie momentarily glanced at the MI6 officer. “Can’t think that way.”
Will crouched down and smoothed fingers over the inscription on the brand-new headstone.
MY BETTY. FINALLY GRABBING A BIT OF REST.
Quietly, he muttered, “Too many die because of me.”
Alfie placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Betty wasn’t one of ’em. She was doing a job. Always loved workin’, she did. Always loved . . .”
Will stood and looked at Alfie, who was fighting his emotions. “Why didn’t you have a service?”
“Letters, matey. Would’ve had to write bleedin’ letters to the family and the like. Hate writing. Plus”—he awkwardly bowed down and placed the flowers on Betty’s grave—“well, you know, I just wanted a bit of quiet with her. On my own. Just her and me, like it was when we were on honeymoon in Blackpool in the seventies.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have met you here. I’m intruding.”
Alfie gestured to the grave next to Betty’s. “You’ve as much right to be here as I do.” He smiled, though the look was bitter. “I wonder what they’d think of us, standing over them.”
Rainwater ran over Will’s face. “Maybe they’d want us to join them sometime soon.”
“You want that?”
“They’d make sure we kept on the straight and narrow.”
“And cook us a nice meal.” Alfie nodded slowly. “Yeah. Reckon we should both join ’em soon. We’ll fuck up if we stay here.”
The two men were silent for a minute.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Keep workin’. Can’t stop and think.” Alfie placed a filterless cigarette in the corner of his mouth, struck a match, and lit it. “Trouble is,
I’m retired.” He removed the cigarette, covered its embers with his hand to stop the rain from extinguishing it, and placed it alongside the flowers. “There we go, my petal. You always liked a couple of cheeky drags on my cigarettes.”
Smoke wafted up from the grave for a few seconds before the cigarette became saturated and dead.
Alfie turned away from the grave. “Betty would probably say something like, ‘Revenge will give you indigestion—get on with other stuff.’ Bet she’d be right, but trouble is I can’t think of anything else. I want the bastard who did this.”
Will stared at the old SAS warrior, now retiree. He hesitated, then sighed. “I know where he is.”
Alfie’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m going to try to kill him.”
Alfie took a step toward Will. “And I’m going to help you.”
Will lowered his head. Alfie’s predictable response had prompted overwhelming sadness within him. “It’s going to be hard.”
Between gritted teeth, Alfie spat, “You think, sunshine, these old bones ain’t up for the task?”
Will was silent. Though Alfie was a foot shorter than Will, the MI6 officer knew that the broad ex-soldier still had enough power to punch him off his feet.
“Do you reckon Betty would like me to sit around watchin’ bloody daytime TV while you’re going after the bastard? After . . . after . . .” His lips trembled. “. . . after what they did to her . . . her face . . . cookin’ and the like?” Tears rolled down his face. “Cookin’ like her lovely breakfasts. Oh, Jesus!”
Will placed two hands on Alfie’s arms.
Alfie shook his head wildly, more tears running down the tough man’s face. “Get yer hands off me, you poofter.”
But Will held him firm. “It’s okay, Alfie. Okay.”
Alfie shrugged his arms away, his voice quavering as he said, “No, it ain’t okay, son. It’s bleedin’ nothing like okay.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
Alfie exhaled slowly and reengaged eye contact with Will. “You want me to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you told me?”
“Yes.”
“Testing me? Just like selection?”
“Of course. A test to see how you reacted. Just like your old SAS selection interrogation exercises.” Will had no idea if what he was saying was the right thing, he was taking his lead from Alfie, though he knew in his heart one absolute truth: Alfie deserved to be there when he had Schreiber in his sights.
“Did I pass?”
Will smiled, felt utter compassion for his comrade-in-arms. “I know your bones still have what it takes. But there’s no going back. We’ll be walking into an armed fortress.”
Alfie asked, “You bringing other men?”
Will shook his head. “If I tell Alistair and Patrick what I know, they’ll instruct me to bring the bastard in for a trial, though privately both section heads would prefer me to put a bullet in his head. But this has escalated; the premiers of America, the U.K., and Russia want this dealt with through a judicial process. A show trial. Alistair and Patrick will lose their jobs if I tell them I’m on a kill job. I can’t put them in that position.”
“You must have men you trust who’ll keep their mouths shut.”
Will thought about Roger, Laith, Mark, and Adam. “Yes, but they were badly injured by Kronos. Worse than me. They’re still recuperating. There’s no one else, apart from you, Joanna, and Robert, but I can’t involve those two because . . .”
“Yeah. They definitely ain’t got the bones for it.” Alfie’s voice strengthened. “This chap, Kronos—you going to try to take him on too?”
“No. I doubt I’d win. Plus, he’s the one who’s helping us.”
Alfie glanced at Betty’s grave and the grave next to it. “Then we keep this . . . private. In any case, don’t need help from other blokes. Never have.” He smiled. “Sorry, ladies, and please excuse my language: we’re about to fuck up again.”
Will looked at the grave next to Betty’s.
His mother’s grave.
What would she think if she could see him now? Would she be angry, sad, proud, all of those things? He didn’t know. She’d died at a time when he was still a carefree boy who’d never given her any cause to worry about him—he’d excelled at school, had been a committed member of its orchestra, was in those days always smiling, was sometimes awkward in adult company but no more than most teenagers, liked to cook for her, and was never spiteful to his sister. His mother hadn’t been given the chance to know how she’d fare with a more troublesome Will Cochrane.
“In forty-eight hours we need to be in Germany. I’ll get the weapons. At midday, we need to make the assault. After that,” Will said, nodding, “maybe Mum and Betty will cook us that nice meal.”
Sixty-Three
Two days later, Kronos clambered up the ever-steepening mountainside. Deep snow covered the Bavarian mountain and the rest of the Alps; the sky was clear and blue, making the surroundings visually stunning. But the German assassin had no care for the mountain range’s beauty; instead he was totally focused on reaching the place where he could observe from a distance Kurt Schreiber’s mountaintop residence.
Strapped to his back was a case containing a Barrett M82 .50-caliber antimateriel sniper rifle. As a highly proficient mountaineer, Kronos could have taken a shorter route by ascending one of the range’s more severe mountain faces, but he couldn’t take the risk of making such an ascent and potentially damaging the weapon in the process. He’d therefore selected a path that for the most part enabled him to walk rather than climb. But that meant his journey was much longer. So far he’d covered twelve miles on foot. He had another mile to go.
He thought about his regular walks up one of the Black Forest’s mountains with his twin sons. They loved their outings with their father, though they frequently complained of fatigue as they neared the summit. Now that the DLB had been used, he’d choose another mountain in the forest for them to climb each week. Maybe a higher one. His boys were ready for a new challenge, and though he would never push them too hard, he would continue to ensure that they received regular, healthy exercise—even if they whined about it. He wondered what they’d be saying to him if they were by his side right now. Smiling, he pictured having to carry them in his arms until they could find a nice spot to have one of their mother’s delicious picnics.
His smile faded.
Forget what they would say to him.
What would they think if they could see him now, moving purposefully toward a place where he intended to kill many men?
To them, he was a strict but loving and fun father who did nothing more exciting than teaching history at their local school. And that was all they wanted from him. His mundane life made them feel secure and loved, and his dinnertime stories were more than enough adventure for their little minds. They wouldn’t want him to be going out and actually enacting dangerous situations similar to those presented in his tales.
They’d be horrified if they could see him now, and rightly so.
That thought made him feel terribly guilty.
For the sake of his family, he made a pledge that today would be his last adventure.
Will drove the car off the deserted track and into a forest clearing, stopped the vehicle at the base of one of the Bavarian Alps, and looked at Alfie. “This is as far as we can drive before we’re spotted on the mountain road.”
Alfie withdrew a map from the glove compartment, opened it, and studied it for the fifth time that day. “Five miles up the single-track road, route snakes like crazy so we’re gonna get a bit of cover, but elevation moves from zero to two thousand yards, so there’s gonna be a lot of times we’re exposed.”
Will pulled out a single sheet from his jacket and handed it to Alfie. “Hardly tells us anything, but for wha
t it’s worth, that’s an aerial shot of the place.”
Alfie unfolded the paper and stared at the photo of Schreiber’s residence. “Big property, only one road in and out, fuck-off big drop on three sides of the property, so Schreiber’s got nowhere to run. You get this from NSA or GCHQ?”
Will shook his head. “Google Earth.”
“What the bleedin’ ’ell is that?”
“Never mind.” He exited the vehicle, strode to the trunk, and opened it. Alfie joined him. Both men were dressed in white ski jackets, trousers, and hiking boots—clothes that would give them some degree of concealment as well as protection from the subzero temperature. He unzipped a bag and withdrew two Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, two USP .45 Tactical pistols and thigh holsters, and body harnesses containing spare magazines.
“Flash bangs?”
Will shook his head. “I couldn’t get any stun grenades at such short notice.”
“Shit! We ain’t gonna get anywhere near Schreiber without ’em.”
Will looked away toward the mountains. “Kronos knows that his best use to us is as a long-range sniper. He’ll be out there somewhere. With him, we stand a chance of getting close.”
“Maybe, but you’re forgetting one thing, son.”
“What?”
Alfie pointed at the aerial shot of Schreiber’s residence. “To get through the walls and still stand a chance of taking off a target’s head, he’ll be using high-velocity rounds—I reckon fifty caliber. We’ll be on our arses if one of those things even scratches us.”
“Kronos is an expert shot. He won’t miss his targets and accidentally hit us.”
Alfie strapped the holster to his thigh, inserted the pistol, donned the magazine harness over his jacket, and gripped his submachine gun. “When we’re in the building, and it all goes to rat shit, there’s every chance he’ll mistake us for two of Schreiber’s men. It’s the fact that he’s an expert shot that worries me.”
Kronos walked fast over the plateau at the mountain summit, ducked low as he neared the top of the valley, unstrapped his rifle case, went prone, and crawled forward over the snow. He rolled onto one side, opened the case, and assembled the working parts of the devastatingly powerful rifle. Extending the barrel’s bipod, he positioned the weapon so that it was facing the valley, stuck five spare ten-round magazines in the snow next to the gun, rolled back onto his stomach, gripped the rifle, and looked though its X26-XLR long-range thermal scope. Eighteen hundred yards away from him, on the other side of the two-thousand-yard-deep valley, was Schreiber’s residence. Built at the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Romanesque-style house had two towers positioned over a white asymmetrical building containing gables, numerous windows, a slate roof, and mock archery slots. The place resembled a small castle, though it had only ever been a private residence for wealthy businessmen, politicians, and artists.
