A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (19 page)

An associate justice slapped his hand on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding, right? Why should we take the blame for the actions of a madman?”

“Because we made him mad.” This came from the chief justice.

The AG added, “I’m not suggesting we take all the blame. But I do pose the question of whether we should consider absorbing
some
of the blame. My department has spent hours researching this. On the issue of state culpability for the criminal actions of a man it used to employ there is currently absolutely nothing in law that says America should take some responsibility.”

“So what are you proposing?”

“I’m suggesting that our Constitution should be amended to clearly state that if we train someone to be a killer and that person uses skills we taught him to commit murder without us doing everything in our power to care for the man and prevent his crimes, that the state should be tried alongside the perpetrator.”

“Now hold on.” The chief justice had a withering expression on her face. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

The AG held her gaze. “At this stage, I’m merely introducing a motion that we devote energies to further research my proposition.”

The justices started talking fast and over each other.

The chief justice called for quiet and returned her attention to the AG. “You’d be opening a Pandora’s box. Crime’s on the increase, ergo more cops are likely to get traumatized in the line of duty. The war on terror has become an unpredictable mess, so we’re going to have to deploy more soldiers who are likely to see and do stuff that gives them nightmares. Things are getting worse. It’s almost certain we’re going to see more men like Cochrane going crazy. By amending the Constitution in the way you’re suggesting, if we don’t stop our former officers from going on a rampage, we’d be in breach of the law. People would lose their jobs. For some of us the ramifications could be worse. And that’s before we even get onto the subject of how much money we’d have to pay out to victims.”

These were precisely the points the AG had earlier made to Fleet. Verbatim, the AG told the chief justice what Fleet had said. “The point of our Constitution is to set in stone the duty of government and the expectations our citizens should have of our government. Our first duty is to protect America and its citizens.”

“And in the context of people like Cochrane, we do that by applying the law.”

“But in doing so, we wash our hands of any guilt we may have.” The AG placed his sheet of paper in his jacket pocket. “The issue is one of prevention. If the amendment was made, imagine the lengths we’d go to in order to prevent men like Cochrane having access to firearms. We’d force him to have medical treatment. He’d get welfare support—not just when transitioning into civilian life but also for an extended period thereafter. We’d monitor him. He’d have regular psychological assessments. We wouldn’t let someone like Cochrane slip through the net, because he’d be profiled as precisely the type of man who’d one day crack, kill seven people, and kidnap a child.” For Fleet’s sake, he dearly hoped that what he was about to ask the justices to do would produce the right result. “Perhaps we could recess for thirty minutes and return so that you can take a vote on whether we should explore my proposition. My colleague and I would not participate in the vote.”

The justices left the room, leaving Fleet and the AG to remain at the table, deep in thought.

Fleet said, “Sir, I want to thank you for this.”

“I’ve laid it out, Marty. But I’ve no idea which way this’ll go.” He smiled sympathetically. “There are a lot of self-interests at stake. You realize that?”

“Yeah.”

“So, why did you want to take this on?”

Fleet sighed. “Because Philip Knox of the CIA said that Cochrane was a dog whose masters didn’t love him anymore and kicked him out of their backyard to fend for himself. If Knox thinks that way, so do others. It occurred to me that mentality is very wrong.”

The justices came back into the room earlier than expected.

The chief justice asked those in favor of the AG’s proposal to raise their hands.

Only one associate justice did so.

E
dward Carley’s luxury cruiser was gently rocking in the harbor at the Montauk Yacht Club, in an erratic wind that caused the numerous vessels berthed there to sway, their fittings clanging.

Dark skies and sleet had sent most of the boats’ owners scurrying back into the holds of their vessels or onto dry land to lunch in five-star restaurants. Carley had no desire to eat. He’d ordered his crew to leave him in peace as he sat in his boat’s office and cut out segments of the
Washington Post
.

What had happened at the Granges’ place had been front-page news; the subsequent NYPD briefing had been too late to make today’s papers, though Carley had watched it on his laptop. If Cochrane was able today to get hold of a copy of the newspaper, it would be interesting to see how he reacted. If successful, it would be the end of matters for Cochrane or would keep him on the run in a world of pain.

The former battlefield surgeon wondered how Cochrane was feeling—no doubt mentally and physically exhausted, utterly alone, and driven to help Tom. The latter was important. His yearning kept Cochrane moving. Without it, he’d hand himself in or kill himself. That could still happen, but Carley was hoping that the kidnapping would keep him on the run and in agony.

That was the objective. Prison and death would be too easy a way out. A life on the run would be a life of misery.

He called Viktor Zhukov. “The latest classified ad is now in print. We must anticipate the possibility that this will break him and he will call the police. I hope that proves not to be the case. It’s essential his voice is heard and equipment is then removed.”

He ended the call and smiled.

D
ickie Mountjoy unpacked his belongings in the apartment near Times Square. Outside, the brash and constant noises of the city would have irritated some visitors, but Dickie was a Londoner; he knew city life all too well, and the din of New York barely registered in his ears and brain.

The apartment was adequate for his needs and not dissimilar in size to his own home, though this one only contained one bedroom. He’d already examined the kitchen and decided the oven was man enough for the job of cooking his favorite beef and ale pie, a dish his wife always used to cook him on Saturday evenings.

When she had died three years ago, Dickie had no idea how to cook the dish. But his wife had a handwritten book of recipes that her mother had given her when she and Dickie tied the knot. It had taken him dozens of attempts to cook her pie before he was satisfied he’d gotten it right.

Later today, he’d take a stroll through the city to find the ingredients. He had no idea where to look. But, though Dickie was a man of rigid discipline and routine, he had no fear of the unknown. One can’t be in the army, he’d often declared, if one’s afraid of what might be over the horizon.

He pulled out the gilt-framed photograph of his wife, taken in the year of her death, and placed it on the bedside table. Whoever had prepared the apartment before he’d arrived had placed fresh chrysanthemums in a vase on the mantelpiece. He took two of the red flowers out of the vase and put one next to the photo and the other on the opposite bedside table.

Smiling, he said to the photo, “My Edna—me in New York City, eh? Who’d have thought, petal?”

He felt his bottom lip tremble as he recalled holding his wife’s hand in hospital as she died from cancer.

Enough of that now, he told himself. You’ve been there already, and you got it out of your system. Edna doesn’t want you getting all poncey again. She’d give you a right slap round the chops and tell you to pull yourself together. And she’d be damn right.

The suitcase on the bed was still half full and Dickie decided to move it closer to the closet so he could hang the remainder of his clothes. Lifting the case, the old man suddenly felt giddy, his knees buckled, and he and the case crashed to the floor. He shook his head, his teeth gritted. Four minutes later, his head cleared and he managed to get back to his feet while muttering, “Trying to do this at your age. Stupid.”

More cautiously, he continued unpacking, before taking a bath and dressing in his suit and overcoat. Standing at attention, he picked up the telephone—available for local calls only, its adjacent sign declared—and called the New York Police Department. “My name is Major Dickie Mountjoy, retired. I have traveled to the United States of America to meet the officer in charge of capturing William Cochrane. I’m assuming that officer is based in New York City. I’m here as well. I need you to tell me which police station I need to visit. I have some urgent information about Mr. Cochrane that I must impart to the officer.”

P
ainter’s cell phone rang and its screen declared it was a call from her NYPD precinct. “Detective Painter.”

The precinct captain told her that an old Englishman was in the station waiting area and was refusing to leave until he’d spoken to the detective in charge of capturing Cochrane. “He says he knows Cochrane very well and has information pertinent to the case.”

“Is he credible?”

“No idea. He says he wants to tell you something you don’t know. Something that might change your mind about the man you’re hunting. But he’ll only talk to the detective in charge in person. No one else. So that’ll be Kopa
ń
ski or you. I can’t tell you what to do, but it’s a hell of a call to come back and hear what some old guy has to say.”

While still on the call, Painter relayed this to Kopa
ń
ski.

Back on the call, she said, “Okay. I’ll get a flight back from Virginia. But, jeez, it’s going to take me hours to get to NYC. Tell him to come back to the station at”—she glanced at her watch—“seven
P.M
.” She hung up and said to Kopa
ń
ski, “It’s a risk, but I need to hear what this guy has to say.”

“No problems. I’ll hold the fort down here.”

I
t was midafternoon as I entered the city of Lynchburg, Virginia, fifty-six miles northeast of Roanoke.

I’d walked twenty-nine miles all night, my intention to be anywhere but Roanoke or its surroundings. Crossing countryside and staying away from roads, I’d used stars to navigate my way to the city. Lynchburg had no particular meaning to me beyond that it had a population of seventy-five thousand and would be a place where I could work out what the fuck I was going to do.

My legs were in agony, as were my shoulders, despite only supporting my small backpack. My stomach felt like it was eating itself because I was so hungry. I had to get food inside me, rest, and get a copy of today’s
Washington Post
. The chances of me getting caught in the process were significant. Nothing I’d ever done in the past had required such a monumental effort as what I’d had to do to get this far. But I couldn’t go on like this.

I knew I was at a breaking point.

My state of mind was dreamlike, and my body felt like it was walking into a force 10 hurricane, when in truth it was consuming the precious reserves left in my torso. Marathon runners call it hitting the wall. I’d hit that wall long ago.

What kept me moving was my overwhelming concern for Tom. That, and the fact I had his kidnapper’s voice on tape and the license plate numbers of the cars I’d seen in the valley.

I purchased a copy of the
Washington Post
from a store, rubbing my face as I did so. Nearby was a diner. I could smell fried onions, burgers, and bacon. My stomach wrenched, imploring me to go in there and eat. Under normal circumstances, I’d never have taken that risk. But these weren’t normal circumstances. I was slowly dying. All clarity of thought and honed expertise were evaporating fast in favor of one final instinct—to sit down, clasp a mug of hot black coffee, and gorge myself from the menu. That would leave me penniless. Right now, I didn’t care.

I entered the diner and took a seat at the rear table.

“What can I get you?” asked the waitress.

I placed my order, using my fake Virginian accent. “I might also ask for seconds. Been working part of the night and all morning. Timber plantations. Builds up quite the appetite. Keep the coffee coming.”

“Sure thing.” The waitress frowned. “Think I’ve seen you in here before. You look kinda familiar.”

I smiled. “Last time I was in here was about a month ago. I’ve been out west on another detail. Am back now. Always love eating here.”

Three mugs of coffee and two plates of bacon, eggs, hash browns, beans, fries, and steaks inside me, I was indeed now penniless but fully satiated. A condemned man’s last supper, I thought. But it felt simply awesome to sit in the warmth and feel energy returning to my limbs.

I opened the newspaper to the classifieds and saw another coded message. Using the old encyclopedia, it took me ten minutes to crack the code.

MY LAST MESSAGE TO YOU. IT’S BEEN FUN. I’M SURE WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT HURTS YOU. AND WHY DID THE EVENT HAPPEN? TO KEEP YOU FREE AND ON THE MOVE. I WANT YOU TO HAVE HOPE THAT YOU CAN RETRIEVE THE PACKAGE. SO, I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU A BIT OF HELP. THE PACKAGE IS IN WASHINGTON D.C. PROVIDING YOU STAY ON THE STREETS ALIVE, THE PACKAGE WILL REMAIN INTACT. DOES THAT MAKE SENSE? DO WE HAVE A DEAL?