by Matthew Dunn
As he saw Sarah’s eyes flicker again, he suspected that her fierce intellect would be tempted to produce another riposte, but instead she spoke softly. “I’m doing very well in my job and will make partner in the law firm next year. I make a good living, have a lovely house, may have children soon, and am married to a man”—she glanced over at James—“who is kind and clumsy and funny and forgetful and boring and loyal.” She looked back at Will. “I am happy with my life, happy with everything, happy that I survived the worst of it all and found the strength to do normal things with normal people.” Her eyes softened and fixed directly on Will’s. “You of all people must see that and understand what I’ve just said.”
“I do.” Will understood exactly what she’d said, plus the hidden meaning within her words. “I also know you’re very lucky to have those things.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. I got them through effort and application, not luck.”
Will smiled. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you have happiness and I don’t.”
“How could I make that mistake? I don’t know you anymore.” Sarah frowned and took a step closer to him. She lowered her voice. “But I still understand how you think.”
“You always were the clever one.”
“But not as dangerously clever as you.”
Will held her gaze even though he knew that Sarah would not look away. He knew that she had far too much strength to feel intimidated by him. He had always loved her for that.
Sarah moved her umbrella so that it was now covering them both. To Will’s surprise, she placed a hand against his cheek and ran her fingers gently down his face. “You think you’re a loner, Will. Maybe you are. Maybe that’s who you want to be. Maybe”—she paused—“maybe that’s what you have to be.”
Will chuckled. “I can be whatever I want to be.”
“Not in your line of work you can’t.”
He stopped chuckling. “You don’t know what I do for a living.”
Sarah brushed her fingers down across Will’s face before resting her hand on his arm. “Not exactly, no. But I can see enough to tell me that you do unusual things, hard things. And remember, I was there when it all started for you. When you had to make that terrible decision to end your boyhood and become not just a man but a man with the blood of the dead on his hands.”
“Sarah, you know why—”
She raised a finger to Will’s lips and spoke in a near whisper. “Of course I know why. I wouldn’t be alive now if you hadn’t made that decision . . . if you hadn’t rescued me from them.”
The two of them were silent for a moment, and this time both broke the other’s gaze.
Will looked at the ground. “Regardless, we’re both here today for a reason. I couldn’t stop that from happening. We’re here because I failed in the past.”
Sarah cradled her fingers gently under Will’s chin and raised his head so that he was looking at her. “I look at you now and know that whatever it is you do with your life, you wouldn’t allow anything like that to happen again. I see the strength in you, the focus and the determination. And I also still see the things I saw in you when you were a boy. I still see your huge heart, your compassion, your love, your sorrow, your humor and intelligence. But I also see a man who has become not just a loner but very lonely.”
Will smiled, touching his sister’s fingers. The rain banged against their umbrella, but he ignored the sound and focused only on the moment. It was a moment he wanted to hold on to forever. It was a moment that he feared would be stolen from him, just like the few other good memories. He gripped her hand harder. His voice felt thick in his throat as he asked, “You will be okay, won’t you, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded and returned his grip. A tear ran down her cheek. “Of course I’ll be okay. I have finally come to believe that there are more good people in this world than bad. I no longer believe I need protection from imaginary ills. Even though”—she frowned—“even though I still sometimes wonder if that belief is right.” She glanced at James and said quietly, “I’ve told him everything about what happened. He fears you, but he’s not angry with you. He’s angry with himself.” She looked back at Will, and her voice sounded stronger. “He knows he could never do what you did. He knows that in the face of terrible danger, like what you faced and defeated all those years ago, he would cower and watch me die rather than risk his life to save me.” She smiled. “And as odd as this may sound to you, I love him for that, because it means he’s normal. That normality separates you and me now.”
She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, held him for a while, turned, and walked toward her husband. Will watched them both move away into the wilderness of the cemetery. He watched his sister until she was out of sight, then kept watching in case she returned. He desperately hoped she would. He knew she would not.
Then he looked down at the grave beside his feet. He knelt, placed the flowers on the grave, leaned forward, and kissed the headstone. He stayed still for a while and spoke quiet words of love and reverence. When he rose, he regarded his mother’s grave for what he knew would be the last time.
For all her insight into Will, Sarah had been wrong about one thing. As he approached the terraced house in London’s Paddington district, he knew that his final meeting in this city today would be with the living. Even though it was about the dead.
He knocked on the door. When it opened, a girl stood before him. Will knew she was ten years old. Will looked over her shoulder, then back at the girl. “Is your mother in?”
The girl stared at him for a moment. Her black hair hung in two braids, black ribbons woven into them. She wore a black blouse and a black skirt. She had black circles under her eyes, circles that Will knew came from crying.
The girl nodded and disappeared into the house. Will stood still and allowed the rain to hammer at his bare head.
The mother walked toward him and stopped by the open door. Like her daughter, she was dressed completely in black. Like her daughter’s, her face looked exhausted and drained by emotion. She frowned at Will.
“Mrs. Abtahi, I am a representative of the British government. I knew Soroush. He was my friend.”
He saw Soroush’s wife open her eyes wide. He saw tears wet her cheeks. He felt sick. He felt giddy with his own emotion.
He cleared his throat, glanced up at the FOR SALE sign on the house’s exterior, and looked back at the woman. “I am here to tell you that your husband helped us on certain matters. I am here to tell you that we are indebted to him. I am here to tell you that nothing we can do can in any way compensate you for your loss. But I am also here to tell you that we have taken the liberty of making arrangements to help you with your future.” He felt a surge of increased sickness rise within him, and he breathed deeply to try to calm his voice. “You do not need to sell your property. We have contacted your bank and paid off your mortgage in full. We know that this will do nothing to ease your grief. But I hope that it will unburden you of any current financial worries.”
Will looked down. The rain struck him with increased force. He wondered if he should say anything else. But then he turned and walked away.
He walked until he was out of sight of the house. When his legs became weak, he stopped and leaned against a wall. He felt as if he was going to vomit. He swallowed hard.
He knew that his decision to transfer his life savings to Mrs. Abtahi’s bank was the correct thing to do, savings that had been carefully accrued over seventeen years and amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds. He knew that he had made the transfer with no care or desire to ease his conscience. He knew that he wished he had more money to give to Soroush’s family.
He pushed himself away from the wall, cursing the way events had unfolded in New York. He cursed the things he had to do in his job. But more than anything else, he cursed himself.
Seven
“I’m s
urprised that our paths have never crossed before.” The MI6 Head of Sarajevo Station lit himself a cigarette and was clearly studying Will. “Which controllerate are you working in?”
The two men were seated at a corner table of the Inat Kuća restaurant on Veliki Alifakovac in Sarajevo. It was early evening, and there were only a handful of other diners in the place.
“For the time being, the Middle East and Africa Controllerate.” Will glanced at a menu. “But that’s only temporary. They’ve got me hopping between different desks at the moment. Apparently I’m to be posted overseas somewhere soon, so I’m currently just filling in time doing whatever’s asked of me.” He sighed and looked up.
The station chief continued to analyze Will. The man was in his late forties and had the air of leadership but also looked as though he had become tired over time.
Will put down his menu. “What about you, Ewan?”
The man inhaled smoke from his cigarette. “I’m only three grades below the chief, but this is as far as I go. I’m now in the stratum where politics and patronage matter more than experience and insight.” He took a sip of beer. “During my career I’ve worked in three controllerates, seven operational teams, and four overseas stations. Also, I’ve undertaken secondments to MI5, GCHQ, and the cabinet office. You may think all of that would have set me up nicely for a position on our Service’s board of directors. But”—he chuckled softly—“our Service generally remembers only the last thing one did, and in my case that was to dare to suggest that we should be devoting more energies to Bosnian and Herzegovinian issues. Not my wisest move, given that an MI6 senior-management reshuffle has now produced a pro-Serb European Controllerate.” Ewan shrugged. “It means that the only war going on out here now is between me, the Head of Belgrade Station, and the Head of Zagreb Station. I’m going to lose. My colleague in Belgrade will soon make Europe Controller, my colleague in Zagreb will get Central Europe Team Head, and I will be retired.”
Will adjusted his position in his chair. “Tell me about your man.”
Ewan nodded slowly. “He’s a bit of a mongrel in every sense. His ethnicity is difficult to define, although we know that he’s part Albanian and part Norwegian. He’s had schooling in Winchester College and as a result has impeccable English.” Ewan looked serious. “We recruited him during the wars and siege out here in the early 1990s and gave him the code name Lace and an alias identity. At that time he was working as what the locals called a fixer, getting armaments primarily to the Bosnian Muslim paramilitary units but ultimately delivering arms to whoever would pay him the most.”
“How on earth did he pass our scrutiny to be recruited as an agent?”
Ewan spoke slowly. “You have to remember that at that time all around us was chaotic conflict. We knew that Lace had no real allegiances and therefore no ideological motivation to help our Service. But he did have two facets we thought were interesting. First, while motivated solely by money, he did take great risks to access parts of the country and groups of people who in turn gave him excellent intelligence that would have been otherwise out of our reach. Also, he was and continues to be conceited, and we believed that his vanity alone would warm him to working with our Service. Both factors would not be sufficient for his recruitment in peacetime, but they were enough during those desperate times.”
“He produced, then?”
“Yes, he produced very good intelligence for us.” Ewan extinguished his cigarette and leaned forward a little. “So good that our Service saved his neck from appearing before the Hague as a suspected war criminal.” The man smiled. “In February 1994 he and thirty soldiers took five trucks containing guns and ammunition to a Bosnian Serb village. He was supposed to receive payment upon delivery from the head of the village, a man who was also the leader of a Serb paramilitary unit, but for whatever reason a dispute over costs broke out and the Serb refused to honor the deal. A standoff resulted between Lace’s soldiers and the Serb’s men. Lace knew that he was not going to get his money, and he also knew that the situation was in danger of going out of control, so he ordered his men to cover his back while he exited the place. He told them that when he was safely away they were to carefully retreat from the village. To the Serb he said that business was more important than bloodshed and that he would call him in a day or two to see if terms could be peacefully agreed upon.” Ewan sighed. “Unfortunately, when Lace was safely away from the village, his men took matters into their own hands. They gunned down the Serb’s men, kept their leader alive so that he could tell others what had happened, picked out six women and six children from their homes, and forced them onto their knees. They then cut their heads off with long knives.” Ewan turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. “When Lace found out what happened, he was appalled. But Lace is first and foremost a businessman, and he quickly realized that he could use the atrocity to his advantage. He allowed rumors to spread that he had ordered the massacre so that fear and respect would surround him.”
Will shook his head slowly. “And as a result he would receive prompt and uncontested payments for every arms deal thereafter.”
“Correct. Trouble was, word got to the UN as well. Our Service had to blow smoke all over the village affair and say he was elsewhere at the time. And as insurance, we changed his identity again, giving him the alias name Harry Solberg. That’s the name we still call him, although I suspect he’s got other identities we don’t know about.” Ewan leaned back and rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “They were different times then. Mind you, ever since Al Qaeda’s attack on the States we seem to be back in the business of turning a blind eye to some of our agents’ predispositions in order to further the greater good.” He sighed again. “But I know Lace well enough to know that underneath his charm and sometimes ruthless business persona, he still unfairly blames himself for what happened in that village. It still haunts him.”
“Why has he reapproached you after all these years?”
Ewan looked away and then back toward Will. “He’s getting old, and age begets vanity. It happens to many of us. We want at least one last chance to prove our capabilities to others. Lace thinks he has a swan song in him.”
Will was about to speak, but before he could do so, Ewan looked over his shoulder.
“And here he is now.”
Lace was small, maybe in his early sixties, and was dressed in cream slacks and a blue sport jacket, with wiry but well-lacquered hair. He looked like a wealthy man who cared about his appearance. Ewan introduced Will to Lace as Charles Reed and in turn introduced Lace to Will as Harry. A waiter came to their table.
“Get me a Red Label,” said Harry, shaking Will’s hand. To assimilate, Ewan and Will ordered the same drink and then sat. “So you’ve come to meet me, Charles. Have you been to Bosnia before?” Harry produced a gleaming white smile and brushed something from one of his shoes.
“This is the first time for Charles.” Ewan lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to his agent. He then took out a small notepad and pencil.
Harry put away his smile and appeared to be studying Will for several seconds. He bared his teeth again. “Let’s eat fish and get three more of these.” He tapped his whiskey glass.
“Do you live permanently in the city?” Will asked, and then he took a sip of his Red Label. He wondered if the drink would have an adverse effect on his body, given all the medication in his system.
Harry looked at Ewan, who nodded at him and signaled to their waiter. He looked back at Will. “I’ve got a house on the outskirts of town, but I’m on the road a lot. My business interests require me to spend more time in hotels than at home.”
Ewan laughed. “I think we all know how that feels.”
Will did not laugh or even smile. “Do you like it here?”
Harry blew smoke across the table and seemed to consider the question. “It suits me as a base. And I like the fact that it’s a quiet city t
hese days.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “Not too quiet, I hope. Otherwise I’ve just made a wasted trip.”
Ewan looked quickly between the two men. “Not a wasted trip at all, eh, Harry?” He placed both his hands flat on the table. “We think there are some things about this city that might interest you a lot.”
The three of them were silent for a moment, and then Harry flashed his white teeth again. “You’re not a man for small talk, are you, Charles?”
Will pointed a finger at the Head of Sarajevo Station while looking at Lace. “He is your case officer. That means he has to go through the pain of idle chat with you, of making sure you’re okay, laughing at your jokes or whatever.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ewan frowning slightly. “I, on the other hand, am simply here to see if you have anything worthwhile for me to take back to London.”
Harry smiled wider. “So you are a messenger boy, then?” He turned to Ewan. “I would have thought your head office would have sent me someone better than that.”
Ewan raised a hand. “It’s irrelevant who they send, Harry. You work for me and me alone. Whatever comes out of this arrangement, it will be business as usual as far as you and I are concerned. Nobody meets you without my permission and without me being present. That is how it works.”
Will leaned back in his chair and watched Harry. “I understand that you may be able to help us identify and recruit a senior Iranian military intelligence officer. But have you been told that we’re looking for somebody quite specific?”
Harry tilted his face toward Ewan. “Yes, I’ve been told about the type of man you seek.” Then he looked up again. “And to reach such a person will be a layered and complex task.”
Will sighed audibly. “Do you know him?”
Harry shook his head. “As I said, a layered task. I do not know this person, but I can be useful to you because of my knowledge and connections in this region. And”—he examined one of his manicured fingernails—“such knowledge and connections can bring you a significant step closer to finding this man.”
