A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (32 page)

In the parking lot outside CIA headquarters in Langley, Knox started his car. He had at least a one-hour drive north to the three-thousand-acre Liberty Reservoir in the countryside northwest of Baltimore. It was a venue much adored by anglers due to the size of the water’s carp and other species. Tap had given Knox an eight-digit grid reference to pinpoint the exact location of a fishing bench on the side of the reservoir where they’d meet. Grid references. Military guys like Tap seemed to live by them. Under the circumstances, that was wise. For Knox and Tap to meet in D.C. would now be too dangerous.

I
n the police safe house in Roanoke, Billy and Tom were hugging each other, speechless inside a twin bedroom that was as functional and drab as the most basic of motel rooms. Joined by love and grief, their biggest fear was what might happen next. Yet another new school? Would they ever see their friends Johnny and Paul again? Why had nearly everyone they knew abandoned them?

In the adjacent living room were the detectives who’d reunited the twins—the sad-looking woman who walked funny and the big man who looked like he’d put half his face against a stove. They were talking in hushed tones. Normally, the twins would have eavesdropped on the conversation, as it was almost certainly about them. But they were too numb for that now. Everything was taking place around them; they had no voice, no say in matters, and they were wholly resigned to that plight.

Too much had happened to them. In their eyes, the grown-ups had either failed to protect them or died trying.

But Aunt Faye was different now. She didn’t cry anymore, seemed busy like normal grown-ups, said strong words, told them off when they were naughty, and gave them hugs right after.

She came to them now and sat on Tom’s bed. “Tom, the police detectives next door are going to need to talk to you some more about what happened to you. But I told them that has to wait until morning. They agree. I also told them something else. Both of you—do you mind if they come in here and speak to you? It’s your room, so they wanted me to ask first.”

“It’s not our room! It’s a horrible—”

“I know, and it has everything to do with that.” Faye glanced at Painter and Kopa
ń
ski, both watching her through the doorway. “Boys—I’d like them to come in.”

The boys nodded, thinking that whatever was coming next would be yet one more blow to the stability they so cherished.

Kopa
ń
ski stood before them. “I’ve got a daughter. She’s twenty-seven. A bad thing happened to her when she was eighteen. Not going to say what it was.” He looked at Painter. She looked back at him, wishing to go up to the proud man and hug him. “But you guys know all about bad things. They hit the innocent, the people who’ve done nothing wrong. Other innocent folks get hurt in the process. So we have to rebuild.”

Painter looked at the boys. “Aunt Faye wants to take you back to her home.” In Roanoke, close to their school. “We agree. Your uncle Will is no danger to you. We know that from what he told us and from the expression in his eyes. But we need to know you’re fine with that.”

Billy and Tom exchanged glances. Their young minds raced on many superficial levels—considering the chance to play with their Nintendo games, meet their friends, eat Aunt Faye’s delicious desserts, sleep in comfy beds, so many other things—though those superficial thoughts were grounded in something far deeper.

The need to feel safe and loved.

They smiled. Living with Aunt Faye was exactly what they needed.

“You don’t need to sleep here anymore,” said Kopa
ń
ski. “You can go to Aunt Faye’s house this evening. That’s your new home, and it will stay that way for as long as you like.”

Tom said, “Uncle Will isn’t crazy and he’d never have done what you think he did. Not what I said. Not . . .” It was a new thought, and blurted without prior cognitive process. What he said surprised him, though he wholeheartedly believed he was right.

Billy added, “We know he can kill people. But the right people. You’re saying he killed the wrong people. And you’re wrong about that.”

The declaration gripped the seasoned cops.

Painter said, “The problem we have is that we have to deal with evidence. But I sort of agree with you. I didn’t see a bad man earlier today. That’s why you’re going home.”

Ten minutes later, as Faye and the twins prepared to depart, Kopa
ń
ski and Painter stood outside the safe house. It was dark now, and a fine rain was spattering Roanoke. The helicopter that had brought them and Tom Koenig here was a few blocks away, ready to take the cops back to Washington. There, they’d relinquish all equipment loaned to them by the D.C. PD and return to Manhattan.

Cochrane had done as he’d pledged and vanished.

There was no point in their staying away from New York any longer.

A
sickle moon cast meager light into the night sky over the reservoir. Fishermen, Philip Knox imagined, would revel in the peace and solitude of this spot. Some time away from the stresses of marriage, child care, jobs, all adult responsibilities, as they opened flasks of coffee, tucked one leg under the other, and breathed the night air.

But they weren’t here tonight. At least, if they were, they were not to be seen by the portly CIA officer whose shoes and suit trousers were sodden from tramping through the wet grass to get to this isolated place and sit on the lakeside bench. It was like Tap to choose such a rugged venue to meet. He had no fondness for cities.

Knox checked his watch. Tap would be watching him now, as he always did, ensuring that it was safe to proceed. That didn’t bother Knox. If anything, it reassured him. Knox had a career to protect. Mixing with someone like Tap would sully his professional reputation.

Water lapped close to his brogues. Over the reservoir a heron glided to its nest. Toads and frogs were croaking. Insects were emitting sounds like rusty bedsprings. And bats were darting close to the waterline.

The CIA officer looked at his cell phone. Nothing from Tap. That was usual. He always went dark before meetings.

He wondered what Tap’s new plan was to kill Cochrane. It needed to be good. All that mattered was getting Cochrane off the planet.

T
hree hundred yards away, on the other side of the reservoir, I watched Knox through the scope of the sniper rifle I’d taken from Tap’s car. I was wearing gloves; the only prints on the weapon were Simon Tap’s.

Knox had wanted me dead. I was certain his colleagues had no idea that he’d instructed Tap to kill me. Last time I’d encountered him when I was working for the Agency, Knox was a powerful man with a large budget under his control. Much of that budget was unaccountable. Almost certainly he’d used CIA cash to pay Tap. That was unforgiveable. And I had enough problems as it was without having to look over my shoulder in case Knox deployed another assassin.

Among many good qualities, I could honestly say that I was a man of dignity and humility, a fine lute player and a lover of baroque and flamenco music, an accomplished chef, and a person whose instinct was always to help others.

But I couldn’t, hand on heart, say I wasn’t a cold-blooded killer.

And if anyone had it coming, it was Knox.

I pulled the trigger and watched as my bullet entered Philip Knox’s head.

CHAPTER 30

A
week later, Dickie Mountjoy returned to London in a coffin.

The American authorities had been superb, having conducted a prompt postmortem and established he’d died of a massive heart attack. David had coordinated with them to repatriate his body to England. His connections as a mortician had enabled him to pull strings and expedite the process. He and Phoebe wanted the old man home as quickly as possible so they could bury him next to his wife.

Now he was in an open casket in a funeral parlor next to David’s place of work. David checked on him and went into the reception area, where Phoebe was waiting. She hadn’t seen Dickie yet.

“He looks peaceful,” said David. He hugged his girlfriend. “You don’t have to do this if it’s going to be too emotional.”

Phoebe had a handkerchief by her eyes. “I want to say good-bye.”

He led her into the parlor. As they stood over the old man, Phoebe’s grief poured out, her boyfriend holding her and kissing her forehead.

“Why did he have to fly? He should never have gone to the States.”

David knew it was the grief talking. He said, “The doctors said it wasn’t the trip that killed him. His heart was a ticking time bomb.”

Phoebe touched Dickie’s hand. “But why did it have to happen there?”

David stared at the major’s face. He seemed contented. “I believe it was meant to be. He’s always been a soldier. Did his duty, no matter what the risks. And he did his final duty by telling American cops what sort of man Cochrane was.” He placed his hand over Phoebe’s. “After that was done, he could let go.”

Phoebe nodded. “He
was
always a soldier. And he died a soldier.”

A
t the Montauk Yacht Club, some of the plutocrats whose vessels were berthed in the harbor were reveling on deck, taking advantage of an unseasonably balmy evening. Wine flowing, laughter bouncing off calm waters, canapés passed from one beautiful person to another, candles giving the playground a religious ambiance, all illuminated by the dock’s all-seeing lighthouse.

Edward Carley dined alone on his luxury cruiser. His crew were ashore, downing their last beers for several weeks. Tomorrow he was leaving America, so tonight he’d decided to take advantage of the East Coast’s finest cuisine—a lobster from Cape Cod, cockles farmed in Barnstable, asparagus and truffles brought to him by boat from New Haven, melted New York Adelegger cheese infused with lime and cracked pepper dripped over the crustacean, and a thirteen-hundred-dollar bottle of saturated ruby Harlan Estate 2000—a California wine, but purchased from Manhattan’s Le Dû’s Wines.

The tall and slender former army surgeon paid deference to the cuisine by ensuring he was immaculately dressed. It seemed to him to be sloppy to dress in anything other than a shirt and tie whipped into a schoolboy knot, and a suit that had been handcrafted in Savile Row. The sixty-three-year-old’s green eyes and silver hair complemented the color of his attire. Behind him was a window overlooking the illuminated black harbor. The music system was playing J. S. Bach’s “Come, Sweet Death.”

He ate carefully, each morsel inserted into his mouth with precision and pleasure. His yacht bobbed a little, the gentle swell a remnant of a fierce mid-Atlantic undulation that had now abated enough for experienced seafarers to cross the ocean safely. His passage to the port of Sines, Portugal, would be smooth; and he would travel onward to Jakarta when conditions allowed.

He knew from news reports that Tom Koenig had been freed, Will Cochrane had escaped, and Zhukov and his team had been murdered. None of that mattered.

Cochrane was still on the run and in hell.

I
walked along the thin wooden jetty toward the large yacht, my future desperate and without direction. Everything had been taken away from me except one thing: revenge. But that alone was enough to make me focused and resolute. Any hostile who tried to stop me on the jetty would have died. A policeman trying to arrest me would have been knocked unconscious. A concerned citizen who tried to apprehend me would have turned and fled if they saw my face.

But no one knew I was here.

And no one prevented me from walking up the gangplank onto Edward Carley’s yacht.

I’d been watching it for three hours, confident that only Carley was here.

Dining alone.

As I entered the vessel, I didn’t feel anger about what had been done to me. Instead, I was here because of Sarah, James, Celia, Robert, and Tom. They deserved retribution. It didn’t matter if it went bad for me. My life was irrelevant. Theirs weren’t.

When Carley saw me, he smiled.

This surprised me.

Carley placed a bite of lobster into his mouth and wiped his hands with his napkin. “Mr. Cochrane. You’ve come to kill me.”

“I have.” I walked to his dining table, my right hand pointing my SIG Sauer at his head, my left hand gripping the table. I knew what I had to do. Antaeus had given me the means to do it.

“You stole that weapon from one of the detectives protecting the Granges, no doubt.” Carley placed his hands next to his plate.

“No doubt.”

“So, you’re now a thief, among so many other things.”

“Yes.”

Carley shrugged. “In the eyes of the law, there aren’t many crimes you haven’t committed.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Yes, thanks to me.” Carley laughed. “It must grate on you that I dragged you to this level.”

“Now we’re both at that level.”

Carley’s expression turned cold. “Tell me what you suspect has happened to you.”

I told him that I guessed it took Carley months to financially cripple my sister and her husband, though I didn’t know the details. But I explained everything else I thought had happened.