A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (24 page)

“Correct, but do you know much about what he did?”

“Actually, no.”

“You know nothing about the time he prevented three thousand child musicians and the wives of premiers from the States, Europe, and the Middle East from being blown up at a New York concert?”

Painter shook her head.

“How he averted war between Russia and America? Stopped the U.S. from unwittingly conducting a biological attack on China and killing millions of civilians? Prevented the assassination of the Russian foreign minister that would have been blamed on your president? And solved a mystery that enabled the United Nations Security Council to persuade Israel not to invade Lebanon to obliterate Hamas? You know none of that?”

“I don’t.” The detective wasn’t writing any of this down, but she was listening attentively. “How do you know this?”

“Rest assured he didn’t come to me and brag about it all. He’s not that type. Quiet man. Private. Modest. No, I know about it because three years ago his reputation was wrongly challenged because an operation he was involved in went wrong. Mind you, that was nothing compared to the shit he’s in now. In a closed court, I had to provide a character testimonial of him. Beforehand, they made me sign all sorts of documents saying I wouldn’t reveal anything I heard about him in court. The missions I just mentioned were revealed by senior members of MI6. Suppose I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I got to thinking I had nothing to lose.”

Painter felt sorry for the old man as she said, “Mr. Mountjoy—none of this changes anything. Actually, it reinforces in my mind that Will Cochrane was pushed to the breaking point. We think trauma has driven him over the edge. From what you’ve just told me, I’m amazed he didn’t snap a long time ago.”

“But . . . but he always does the right thing.”

“Not anymore, and you must accept that, sir.”

“We both hold the rank of major. It’s inappropriate for you to call me ‘sir.’” Dickie was trying to use humor to offset the rising emotion inside him.

“Cochrane served the West with distinction. But none of that exonerates him for what he’s done. Nor does it cast any doubt on his guilt.”

“That’s not why I came here.” Dickie’s eyes were getting watery.

“Then why?” asked Painter in a sympathetic tone.

“Because . . . because.” Dickie’s thoughts were a mess. He tried to hold himself together. “He’s a right decent gentleman. I know him. He’s got his hard side; men like us always do. But he always does the right stuff. Helps me out. Helps Phoebe and David out.”

“Who . . . ?”

But Dickie was blurting and unstoppable. “Makes me dinner when my club’s shut. Plays chess with me just to keep me company. Sorted out some DIY in my home that my old bones weren’t up to. Got me a VIP ticket to watch the Trooping of the Color. Every Christmas buys me a bottle of Bailey’s because”—he laughed, though tears were evident—“he knows I hate the stuff and it annoys the bejesus out of me. And”—he bowed his head—“he takes me for walks in Green Park and talks to me just to keep me distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“I miss my wife.”

“Oh.”

There were times when Painter truly loathed aspects of her work. The worst was when she had to present hard facts to people suffering grief. Now was one of those moments. “Major Mountjoy—the character of the man you’ve described belongs to a loyal friend. Hold on to that thought. That is the Will Cochrane you know. He should always be that person to you. The Will Cochrane I’m after is not that man. Separate the two.”

“It can’t be like that, though. He wouldn’t do these things. Just wouldn’t.”

“Mr. Mountjoy . . .”

The major placed a hand over Painter’s. The lack of formality surprised her, and under other circumstances she would have removed his hand. Now, she let it rest over hers.

He said, “I know him. That’s what I wanted you to hear. My statement on his character. He’s a good man. I wanted to look you in the eye and hear this from me. And I’ve no reason to lie to you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“And it’s the last thing I can do to say thank you to him for everything he’s done for me, Phoebe, and David. You see”—he patted her hand gently—“I’ve got a heart condition. Too old for a bypass operation. I suppose I shouldn’t have flown, but had to take the risk. I’m dying, Detective Painter. Don’t exactly know when it will happen, but I’ve been warned it’ll be any day. So what I’ve just given you is a dying man’s statement.”

CHAPTER 23

T
hough he had a backlog of work that had piled up while he’d been conducting his research for the Supreme Court meeting, Marty Fleet wasn’t in the mood to stay a moment longer in his office.

His fast-track career had had significant successes, but, like everyone else in the AG’s office, he’d also had his share of failures. They came with the territory, and he’d always had the ability to shrug them off and move on to the next project. But the outcome of the Supreme Court meeting hit him hard. Unable to shake the disappointment, he decided that he’d take tonight and tomorrow off and spend a little quality time with his sister.

He entered his luxury apartment in Chevy Chase and saw that his health aide was spoon-feeding Penny.

“I’ll take over. You take the rest of the evening off,” he said to the aide. When she was gone, he kissed Penny on the cheek and gave her more pureed food. “Not my best day at work. The chief justice and her justices didn’t buy my constitutional angle.”

Penny murmured something.

“I know. What makes it so damn hard is that these operatives’ minds are being broken all the time; and when we’re done with them, they’re just left in the gutter. I feel I’ve let them down.”

Penny murmured something else that Marty partially understood.

He brushed his hand against her cheek. “That’s kind of you, sis. Yeah, at least I never let you down. I got that right.”

T
he knock on the door of the Dupont Circle hotel room came at precisely the time Michael Stein had been expecting two visitors. He opened the door and ushered in the investigative journalists from the
Washington Post
. One of them was the interviewer, the other a photographer. With the door closed and locked, Michael pointed to an area of the room containing two armchairs and a straight-backed office chair.

Michael sat in the latter and said, “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“You calling me and saying Will Cochrane was a spy got me interested.” The interviewer smiled. “The fact that you said you’d worked with him and would go on record got me sniffing a scoop.”

“I’m not going to give you my real name.” Stein glanced at the photographer. “And my face will have to be blacked out or in shadow. After this is done, I need to get out of America without being stopped at the airport.” And the airport he departed from and his route to Israel would be unusual, in case American authorities decided to stop any Israeli man heading home from a major airport who might look like a former Mossad combatant.

The interviewer weighed up options. “I’ve got no problem hiding your face. If anything, it’ll add to the intrigue.” Before he started the interview, there was one key thing the journalist had to ascertain. “Credibility of sources is paramount in our business. How can we be sure you’re ex-Mossad and not some Walter Mitty character?”

Michael knew that was the first question he’d be asked. “Intelligence officers don’t carry badges or licenses to kill or any other documentation saying who we are. And even if we did, I’d have been forced to hand those documents back when leaving the service.”

“We get that. Look—I’ve interviewed guys from the CIA, NSA, and others. I’ve hung around with enough of them to know if they’re the real deal. Maybe start by telling us a bit more about yourself.”

Michael spoke for fifteen minutes about his time in Israeli special forces and Mossad, sanitizing sensitive details, but supplying sufficient information and using vocabulary that only a real spy would know.

He asked, “Satisfied?”

The interviewer grinned. “Absolutely. Okay, we’re going to get the tape rolling. While you and I are talking, Brian will be moving around you, taking shots. Don’t worry—he’ll be editing the photos. If he accidentally captures your face, that shot will be deleted.”

“It had better be.” The way Michael said that momentarily unsettled the journalists. “When will you be going to print?”

“This’ll be in tomorrow’s edition, and I’m hoping it gets front-page mention as well as a two-page spread.” He activated his recorder. “Ready?”

Michael nodded.

“Okay. Let’s start with you giving us an introduction about your background—exactly the way you gave it earlier. Then we’ll go into the meat of the interview about your work with Cochrane a year ago.”

Two hours later the interview was complete.

The interviewer said, “That’s everything I need, unless you’ve got anything to add.”

Michael did, and it was the entire reason why he’d requested the interview. But first, he asked, “I suppose you might have to cut out bits of what I’ve said.”

The interviewer replied, “I’m hoping not too much, but there will be a word count limit in the feature. Rest assured, all the good stuff will stay in.”

“And you guarantee this will be in tomorrow’s edition?”

The journalist beamed. “You kidding? This is gold dust. My editor’s going to grab this by the balls.”

This was superb. Michael said, “There’s one more thing I’d like to say, but I have to be certain you will assure me it will make the print article.”

The interviewer frowned. “I can’t guarantee . . .”

“You have to assure me!”

The interviewer felt clammy as he looked at the tall assassin. “If it’s brief, I guarantee you it will make the final edit.”

Michael spoke for thirty seconds, clasped his hands and said, “And that’s everything I have to say.”

T
hough he was tired, when Dickie returned to his apartment near Times Square, he was determined to make his wife’s steak and ale pie. It would mean he wouldn’t be eating the dish for a couple of hours, but that didn’t matter. What did was that he imagined his dear Edna here with him, both of them chuckling at the absurdity of such old-fashioned English types being ensconced in the neon glow of Manhattan. She was a carefully spoken and prim lady, but Dickie knew that if she were here with him she’d have become entranced with the dynamism of the city. Edna would have broken out of her proper ways and become like a giggling girl who’d been told she could buy what she wanted in the world’s greatest toy store. He would have loved to have seen that transformation.

In the kitchenette, he sweated finely chopped onion, added herbs, and braised cubes of beef and kidneys. He added a pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon to the mix, then poured in a can of stout and a tin of tomatoes. After it had simmered for an hour, he prepared pastry in the way he’d seen his wife make it so many times, poured the meat and sauce into a casserole dish, and fitted the pastry on top as a lid.

Thirty to forty-five minutes in the oven would be long enough. When ready, he’d open a window so he could hear the sounds of New York City. He’d sit at the table while still wearing his suit, and imagine his wife eating with him.

He cracked open a second can of stout and poured it into a glass. “To us, my love. Our last adventure.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a swig. “Getting a few more aches and pains these days. Bloody old age.”

He sat in a chair and smiled. For some reason, he liked being here. Maybe it had gotten him out of his comfort zone. It was his last trip overseas, for sure, and Manhattan had unwittingly put a smile on the face of the grumpy bastard. For that, he was thankful.

Edna couldn’t have children. It didn’t diminish the love he had for her. And in recent years, Will Cochrane had become a sort of adult son he’d never had. It was nice for Dickie. Though nearly three decades older than Cochrane, they had a bond. And they got each other’s way of thinking.

It broke his heart to think of Cochrane now, so alone and in such awful circumstances. He wished he were younger and could have done more to help—maybe try to find Cochrane, tell him to lay low while he bullshitted the cops, anything. It was now all a fantasy, but he’d have done that back in the day.

The smell of his cooking wafted through the apartment and gave him the greatest pleasure.

Tomorrow he’d be flying back to London. He was looking forward to seeing Phoebe and David. He hated the idea of being alone in his London apartment.

Twenty more minutes until the pie was ready.

“Sod it, me dear. I’m putting me slippers on,” he declared with a smile on his face. He walked across the open-plan apartment to the bedroom area, and that’s when his heart gave out. He knew what was happening as he collapsed to the floor and crawled with all his might toward the bed. The pain was excruciating and increasing by the second. His breath was short. His mind was dizzy from lack of oxygen. But he kept his eyes on the photo of Edna by his bed. She was looking back at him, a gentle smile on her face.

He pulled himself onto the bed, a gargantuan effort and one he’d never be able to repeat. He couldn’t get to the phone. Even if he could call 911, he doubted it would make a difference.