Spycatcher

by Matthew Dunn

  Will sighed with relief as he saw that the driver was Roger.

  Will glanced quickly around again before sprinting to Laith. They entered the vehicle, both sitting in the rear passenger seats.

  “How far is it to the village?” Will asked Roger.

  Roger turned to look at him. The man’s face was etched with pain. “Six kilometers. Keep your eyes peeled on the way, because if Megiddo and his captive aren’t there yet, they could be on foot, paralleling this road.”

  Roger punched the accelerator, and the car immediately reversed. He spun the car around so that it was facing the direction of Saranac Lake and drove forward at a medium speed. Laith fully lowered his passenger window and said nothing as he held his gun in two hands and examined the passing roadside. Will looked at the vehicle’s trunk and was relieved to see the bags containing some of the unused weapons that Ben and Julian had brought for the assault. He reached to them and took a silenced Heckler & Koch MK23 pistol and three spare magazines. He rolled down his own window so that he could cover their right flank.

  Snow fell fast, and Will could hear that Roger had put windshield wipers on full power to help him see through the blizzard. But Will didn’t dare look away from the tree line by his side. He slitted his lids to try to focus; he moved his eyes to try to prevent becoming disorientated by the rapid white dots of ice and snow; he scoured the gaps between the trees and the darkness of the forest beyond. He called to Roger without looking away from his task, “How much time do we have before sunset?”

  Roger answered loudly over the sound of the engine, the wipers, and the wind, “With this weather probably no more than twenty or thirty minutes.”

  Will cursed and muttered to no one in particular, “We don’t have enough time to try to find them here.”

  “I agree.” This came from Laith.

  Will looked straight at Roger. “Put your foot to the floor and get us to the village as fast as you can. I don’t think Megiddo and Lana are there yet, so we’ll overtake them now and wait for them to arrive.”

  Their car lurched forward, fishtailing wildly on the icy road before Roger expertly manhandled the vehicle to get it speeding ahead. Will and Laith rolled up their windows and sat back in their seats. “Try to clean the blood off your face,” Will told Laith. “We’re heading to a place populated with civilians, and we don’t want to stand out. You look like shit.”

  Laith smiled. “You should talk.”

  Roger leaned forward, opened the car’s glove compartment, rummaged inside, and then tossed back a small parcel. Will caught the package and smiled as he saw it was a packet of baby wet wipes. He withdrew some of the disposable cleaners, gave the packet to Laith, and started cleaning his own face, neck, and hands. His smile faded as he began shivering. He looked down at himself and realized where the new coldness was coming from: his clothes had been saturated in the lake swim and later frozen solid in his pursuit to the mountaintop; they were now defrosting due to the heat inside the vehicle. He knew that Laith must be suffering in the same way. Roger had his own severe injuries to deal with. Will decided that the best he could do for now was to ignore the cold, the pain from his wounds, and the fatigue.

  But he could not ignore the thoughts that hurtled around his earlier question to Patrick:

  What could be worse than an attack on the premiers at Camp David?

  Nor could he ignore another question he had for himself:

  When will Megiddo decide that he’s safe enough to no longer need Lana as a hostage?

  He thought about calling Patrick. He thought about telling him that his trust in Will had been misplaced. He thought about telling him that all hope of success was rapidly fading.

  He thought about what Patrick would almost certainly say: “Megiddo’s men are all dead, so it’s a manhunt now. I’m going to blow this open and get local and federal police involved. Whatever happens, he’s going to kill Lana, so all that matters now is capturing him.”

  Will looked at Laith and Roger. He wondered whether he should lie to them or withhold his thoughts. He remembered Roger’s words during their first encounter in the safe house in Zurich:

  I know that none of us—my forefathers, their brothers, or me—has fought for our organization or our country. We’ve all fought for the man by our side.

  He decided that he could never lie to the men who were sitting with him in this car. He had never worked with such professional operatives as the two CIA men here with him or the two heroic dead colleagues they were leaving behind.

  He spoke. “Roger. Laith. I’m still convinced we need to do this our way and without others. I think that if other men are brought in, Lana will be killed. I think that if Megiddo feels that capture is inevitable, he may have emergency protocols in place to carry out his attack anyway. I think we still have to allow him to believe he has a chance to escape and conduct his assault.” He paused. “But I could be wrong. I could be very wrong, and I’m certain my handler in MI6 would think that and I’m certain your master in the CIA would draw that conclusion.” He looked at them both. “Patrick would not want us to go it alone at this stage, and if either or both of you agree with him, then I need to tell him what’s happening right now.”

  Laith regarded him with a look of steel. “Fuck that.”

  “Yeah, fuck that.” Roger gunned the car harder, and it sped faster toward the now-visible but still distant village of Saranac Lake.

  Almost at that same instant, bullets rang out from ahead of them and tore through the vehicle’s engine, through the windshield, and through Roger.

  The car swerved left, and Will lunged forward, wrapped one arm around Roger and his seat, and grabbed the steering wheel with the other.

  Laith shouted, “Keep us on the road!” He punched an elbow through the glass in his window several times, gripped the headrest in front of him, and leaned out the window with his gun. “I’ll deal with the shooter!”

  Will yanked the wheel left and right and left to try to compensate for the movement of the out-of-control vehicle, but they were going too fast and had no grip on the icy road. He shouted, “Too late! Brace for impact!”

  The car spun 360 degrees, lifted into the air, rotated, crashed onto its side, and slid along the road before shuddering to a halt. Will breathed hard for a moment. He tentatively moved his arms and legs and knew he was uninjured. When he heard a banging noise, he looked over and saw Laith kicking at his passenger door. He heard the CIA man curse and felt him clamber over to haul himself through the window. Will was still holding Roger. He could hear the injured driver wheezing, but otherwise he was motionless and quiet.

  Laith was now outside the vehicle, and Will could see that he was holding his handgun in front of him, looking for the man who had destroyed their car with an assault rifle, looking for the man who was definitely Megiddo. Will knew that Laith was an easy target for Megiddo if the man was still close to them. And he knew that if he himself stayed in the vehicle a moment longer, he could die.

  He gently eased Roger’s head against the bare road that had smashed through the man’s side window and pulled himself through the sky-facing window that Laith had punched a hole through. He jumped down onto the asphalt and pulled out his gun. He looked up and down the road, at the roadsides, and into the forest, but he could see nothing. He glanced at the sky. Darkness was rapidly descending.

  Laith had moved ten paces ahead of the vehicle and was crouched down in the middle of the road, pointing his gun directly ahead and in the direction where the bullets had come from. He remained very still, and Will knew that he had positioned himself so that he presented a human barrier against any bullets intended for Will.

  Will climbed back onto the vehicle and tried to open the front passenger door. It seemed jammed, but after four attempts he managed to yank the door open. He looked into the car and at Roger. The injured man’s eyes were screwed shut, tellin
g Will that he was in severe pain but also, more important, that he was conscious. “Roger, can you speak?”

  The man wheezed but said nothing.

  “Roger, I want to get you out of there. But if I move you and you have a broken neck or back, I’m likely to kill you. Do you understand?”

  Snow fell hard over Will, through the window, and onto Roger. At first there was no response. Then Will could see the man move his hands and his feet slightly. He could see that Roger was trying to determine if he had any broken bones.

  Finally he spoke. “Bullet in my left arm.” His voice sounded weak and thready. “At least one bullet in my shoulder . . . think I can be moved, though.”

  Will wasted no time, lunging headfirst so that his upper body was facing downward in the vehicle, thrusting his hands under Roger’s armpits and hauling him up. Roger screamed, but Will kept pulling, focusing all his strength on slowly dragging up the large CIA man’s deadweight. Will’s biceps and back muscles tightened in agony, and as he moved Roger inch by inch, he wondered whether his body was strong enough to do this. His breathing increased rapidly. He squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on nothing else but lifting his colleague upward little by little. He spread his legs wide against the vehicle’s exterior to give himself extra leverage and stability. For a moment he had to stop pulling and just lay there panting with the strain of the effort. Then he sucked in a lungful of air, held his breath, banged his legs hard against the car, and heaved with every muscle he had. He pulled until his whole body was racked with pain. He pulled until he felt Roger’s head brush against his chin. He held still momentarily, knowing that he would have to adjust his grip and in doing so support the injured man’s entire weight with one hand. He exhaled and inhaled again, braced his right arm, released his left hand’s grip, and immediately felt his right biceps tighten to the point where he thought it would burst. He quickly thrust his left arm around Roger’s chest and breathed again. He yanked with both arms and guided the man through the window. Then he slowly moved onto his feet and used his leg muscles to aid him in pulling the man the rest of the way out of the car.

  He called to Laith, “You’d be dead by now if the shooter’s still here. I need your help.”

  Laith came to the vehicle and helped Will to gently lower Roger down to the road and onto his back. Will stood on top of the car for a moment, breathing heavily and trying to relax his muscles after their supreme effort. Eventually he jumped down and crouched next to Roger. Laith joined him.

  Will saw three bullet holes in Roger. “I’m not going to leave him here. He’ll die.”

  Laith nodded. “Damn right. But what are we going to do?”

  Will looked up the road in the direction of Saranac Lake. It was nearly night, and the distant village was illuminated with artificial light. “Megiddo’s got his own burden in Lana,” he told Laith. He looked at Roger. “Now we have our own burden. But nothing changes.”

  Laith nodded. “I’d say we’re about two kilometers away from the village. Switch over every five hundred meters?”

  Will agreed. “Roger, you know this is going to hurt a lot, but you also know how this works.”

  “Do it,” the CIA team leader muttered between clenched teeth.

  Will grabbed one of the man’s arms, swept his other arm under Roger’s back, lifted him to a seated position before hauling him onto his shoulder. He stood looking at Laith. “You take point. Let’s go.”

  Laith jogged ahead with his handgun at waist level, pointing directly at the route they were taking. Will ran a few meters behind and tried to keep his feet flat on the snow- and ice-covered ground in order not to bounce and cause Roger any further discomfort beyond what he was already suffering. They ran down the middle of the road toward Saranac. They ran using only moonlight and the faraway glow of the village to guide them. They ran knowing that a man with an assault rifle or a machine gun could cut them in half before they could do anything about it.

  Will silently counted every step, and he knew that Laith would be doing the same. He kept his grip tight on Roger and focused on moving. Just as Roger would have done when he carried Will on his shoulder to get him away from Harry’s house. Just as the man they were now hunting would have done when he carried Will on his shoulder out of the inferno within Lace’s residence.

  Will counted to five hundred and shouted, “Switch!”

  He placed Roger carefully on the ground, pulled out his handgun, and moved ahead of Laith.

  He heard Laith moving Roger to hoist him up onto his own shoulder. He heard Laith say, “I’m ready! Go!”

  They ran on. Will held his gun ahead of him, his elbows crooked and squeezed together. The forest on both sides of them was now in total darkness, and he made no effort to search for hidden dangers within its blackness. He just looked down the road ahead, looked for oncoming cars, looked for anything that could be a man with a rifle pointed at them.

  After a few minutes, they switched over again, and Will ran with his head low and with the deadweight of Roger on his shoulder. He heard him wheeze, occasionally rasp in pain, but he heard no complaints from him.

  Soon Laith called “Switch!” and he took possession of Roger. They were now only one kilometer from Saranac Lake.

  Snow fell fast through the night air and caked on Will’s face as he took point and ran forward with his handgun. He felt light-headed, exhausted, but single-minded. He cared about nothing other than keeping Roger alive, finding Megiddo, rescuing Lana, punching Megiddo to the ground, pointing his gun at the man, finding out what could be worse than attacking Camp David, and then shooting him in the head. He ran over thicker snow, and his legs felt weak—but he kept running. His feet sometimes slipped and stumbled—but he kept running.

  They changed over one last time, and Roger’s weight on Will’s shoulder felt almost unbearable. But Saranac was now very close and easily visible. Will focused on Laith’s back and ran behind him, concentrating on every footfall and ensuring that he just kept up. Every second seemed to last a minute, every lungful of air seemed to be a lungful of ice, every footfall seemed to be a naked step onto a bed of nails.

  It seemed an eternity before Laith finally slowed, ran off the road into the edge of the forest, and stopped. Will stood looking at his back for a while before allowing his legs to buckle and send him down to his knees. He gasped for air as he rested Roger on the ground. He rubbed his hand over the man’s face to brush away ice and snow. He asked, “Are you still alive?” and saw Roger give the tiniest of nods. He arched his back to try to ease the searing muscular pain. Laith came over and crouched down next to Will. Both men looked through the trees at the village of Saranac Lake. They were right beside it but remained hidden in the forest’s darkness. They saw a few cars, a few distant pedestrians, and a few buildings and streetlamps, and they heard a few noises of normal human existence.

  Laith placed two fingers against Roger’s throat artery and stayed still for a while. He nodded. “He’s not in shock. This freezing weather has probably helped keep him alive and stable. The cold will have slowed the body right down.” He looked at Will. “But it will also ultimately kill him. He’ll be dead in less than two hours unless we can get him some medical care.”

  A hand gripped Laith’s fingers. The hand belonged to Roger, who spoke with a strained but firm voice. “I’ll die when I want to, not when you say I will.” He coughed and smiled a little. “Remember, I’m a Navy SEAL. Among other things, we’re used to cold and pain.” He looked serious. “Leave me here. You go into town and find him. Then and only then come back for me.”

  Will shook his head. “We’ll take you with us and find medical help. We can leave you there.”

  “I have gunshot wounds,” Roger reminded him. “They’ll call the police to have you arrested. You’ll have to run, and then you’ll have no chance of finding Megiddo.”

  Will looked at Laith’s expression of u
ncertainty. Will’s own thoughts were uncertain, too.

  Roger released his grip on Laith, grabbed Will’s jacket, and pulled Will’s face close to his own. “Leave me here. The priority is getting Megiddo.”

  Will shook his head once more. “For all your strength, you will die, and I can’t let that happen.” Then an idea came to him. “Whatever happens, your role in this mission is now over. If we get you medical help, you’ll be properly cared for, although the police will be notified and you’ll be held in custody while they work out what the hell happened to you. But that doesn’t matter, because in due course you’ll be sprung from custody by Patrick.” He looked at Laith. “How many cops do you think they have in Saranac Lake?”

  Laith shrugged. “I can’t be sure, but I’d say three or four at most, and they probably only have two on duty at any one time, outside of emergencies.”

  Will nodded. “I’m going to call the Saranac Lake Police Depart-

  ment. I’m going to say that I saw a vehicle on its side on this road about a mile outside the village. Then I’ll hang up.” He looked at Roger. “That should draw most if not all of Saranac’s tiny police contingent out of the village. We’ll use that time to get you into the village, find medical help, leave you there, and go for Megiddo.” He glanced at Laith. “We should have twenty or thirty minutes to scour the town before the cops return to hear about the man with gunshot wounds who’s been dumped at the hospital.” He looked back at Roger. “Say nothing to the doctors or the cops.” He smiled. “It shouldn’t be hard to do, but act like you’re dying.”

  Roger nodded slowly, held him close for a while before saying quietly, “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Will.”

  Will squeezed his hand. “I’m sure this won’t be the last time we work together. I certainly hope not.”

  He patted Roger’s pockets, found the man’s cell phone, and smiled as he said, “It doesn’t matter now if they trace a call from this phone.” He opened the phone, called 911, said that he wished to be redirected to the Saranac Lake Police Department, spoke for a few seconds before saying that he had very bad phone reception and then hung up midsentence. He closed the phone, pulled out the SIM card, snapped it into pieces, and threw the pieces and the handset into the forest. Then he walked closer to the tree line adjacent to the village and waited. In two minutes he heard a police siren. In three minutes he saw a police four-wheel-drive cruise steadily past him along the road where they had crashed.