Authors: Matthew Dunn
Sentinel (15 page)
Until yesterday, that had been true.
But now that he’d come up against someone who was his equal, he wondered if the hell he’d gone through for twelve months and the subsequent eight years of constant deployment had been worth it. For the first time in his life, he doubted not only himself but also those who had put their faith in him.
He thought about one of the Program’s tests. He’d had to do a HALO parachute insertion from 70,000 feet into Washington’s Olympic Mountains, carrying a communications and survival kit weighing eighty pounds. After landing, he’d trekked across harsh terrain for fifty miles in freezing conditions until he reached the isolated house where he’d been told to rendezvous with an instructor who would be role-playing an agent. Will had covertly watched the house for six hours and had seen no one. He hadn’t expected to. But as he carefully made his way toward the house he knew that the real test was about to begin. When he entered, men with guns grabbed him, put him in shackles, and covered his head with a hood. He was placed in a truck and driven two hours away before being dragged into a building, stripped naked, repeatedly punched, and forced into agonizing stress positions for hours at a time, throughout which white noise blared from speakers.
He estimated it was twelve hours before the noise stopped, his hood was removed, and he was kicked to the floor. An instructor crouched down next to him, patted him on the head, and said, “So far, so good. But that was just the warm-up. Now we’re going to put drugs into you to make you tell us the name of the man you were coming to meet. After one day, every thought and instinct in your body will be crying out to release the information. If you manage to hold out until day two, you’ll think you’ve lost your mind. By day three, you’ll want to kill yourself. But you’re going to need to last five days to stay in the Program.”
Will wondered why this particular memory had come into his mind. It wasn’t the worst test he’d had to endure.
Of course. It was what had come after that five-day ordeal that mattered.
When the drugs were out of his system, he’d been allowed to wash, shave, and change into clean clothes. But sleep was not yet permitted. Instead, he was guided into a classroom where an elderly gentleman was standing by a large blackboard. Will was told to sit at a desk and was left alone with the man.
He’d never seen this instructor before; he looked over retirement age. The man was dressed in a tweed suit and bow tie, was tall and thin, and was holding a piece of chalk. He drew two small circles on the board, one in the top left-hand corner, the other on the bottom right. Turning to face Will, he said in a well-spoken English accent, “I know from my experience in the field in the fifties that all of the physical stuff is nothing compared to what you can do with a brain.” He jabbed the chalk on the lower circle. “This is you.” Then he did the same on the higher circle. “And this is the man you want to capture.” He smiled. “Using intellect alone, we’re going to see which one can get to the other first.”
For the next four hours, the theoretical exercise was played out, with the instructor throwing obstacle after obstacle, new information, and unexpected events at Will, who was trying to formulate an ongoing plan to get to the other circle. Finally, the instructor put a cross through the highest circle and said, “Impressive. You got him.” He nodded. “I hope you’ve learnt more about yourself in the last few hours than you have in the last week.”
The Lufthansa flight came to a halt. People around Will started to stand up and extract their bags from the overhead lockers.
Will was motionless. He knew why the memory had come to him. Razin
had
matched him blow for blow. But he had
not
yet proven that he was Will’s intellectual equal.
But if he did, Will’s future in the Spartan Section was in doubt.
W
ill sat at a table and waited. The restaurant provided stunning views of Ljubljana and the snow-covered Slovenian mountains beyond the city. It was breakfast time, but the restaurant was nearly empty.
Kryštof arrived and sat opposite him. The former Czech intelligence officer looked even worse than when Will had last seen him, and he stank of cigarettes and stale alcohol. He shook Will’s hand. “Hello, David.”
Will smiled. “You look well.”
“No, I don’t.” Kryštof pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Let’s get a drink.”
“I’ve already ordered us some coffee.”
“Coffee? Okay.” He glanced out of the windows at the view. “Thanks for meeting me here. It saved me having to reroute my flights.” He looked back at Will. “I’ve got a name.”
“Excellent.”
Kryštof smiled. “I’m not completely off the rails.”
“I never thought you were.”
“Liar.” Kryštof tapped his cigarette over an ashtray. “Richard Baines. British. Operates out of the Cayman Islands.”
“He knows Otto von Schiller?”
“No doubt he’ll know
of
him. But they don’t do business together. Not directly, anyway.”
“But he’s acquainted with someone who
does
work with Schiller?”
“Correct.”
“Name?”
“A Frenchman named Philippe Dêlage. He lives in Paris but spends a lot of time in Berlin, because that’s where Schiller’s based.”
They were silent as a waiter brought a jug of coffee to the table and poured their drinks. After he left, Will said, “The Cayman Islands are a bit out of my way right now.”
Kryštof lifted his cup and saucer; his hand shook as he did so. “You don’t need to go there. Baines is meeting Dêlage in Munich tomorrow. He’s flying into Germany today and is staying at the Mandarin Oriental.”
“Today?”
Kryštof took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve already checked for you. There are spaces available on the 12:40
P.M.
Adria flight. It’s direct, and you can be in Munich around the same time he arrives.”
Will laughed quietly. “You’ve thought of everything.” He withdrew an envelope containing the remaining £5,000 owed to the Czech. “Very good work.”
Kryštof secreted the cash. “Anything else you need me to do?”
“No, that’s all.”
Kryštof inhaled deeply on his cigarette and again looked out of the window. “I thought you’d say that.”
Will snapped out of being David. Something was wrong. “What are you going to do now?”
In a near whisper, Kryštof replied, “Something I’ve been planning to do since . . . since she’s been gone.”
Will reached across the table and grabbed Kryštof’s forearm. “No. You have a future. You’re still useful to people like me. I’ll get you more work—anything to keep your mind occupied.”
Kryštof smiled with a look of sad resignation. “You won’t be able to do that for long. Your star’s long since waned in the service. I’m surprised they even asked you to do this job.” He broke free from Will’s grip and looked at him. “You’ve always been very kind to me. But you need to understand that my mind’s made up. It’s what I want.”
Will was lost for words.
Kryštof’s smile faded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, and given what I’ve just told you, perhaps you might agree to answer it.”
Will waited.
“Is David Becket your real name?”
Oh, dear God. Will’s stomach churned. He was facing a man who had known Becket for years, who liked the MI6 officer, and who wanted to know the truth before he killed himself due to the grief he felt about his daughter’s tragic death. Every ounce of humanity within him screamed out that Kryštof had to know the truth.
Will stood; Kryštof followed suit.
Will moved to him, hugged him, said, “Be at peace, my dear friend.” Then he stepped back and nodded. “You’ve always deserved to know the truth. David Becket’s my real name.”
T
he taxi took Will away from Munich International Airport and toward the city. Snow carpeted the roads and surrounding countryside, though for now no more was falling.
Will was on his cell phone, talking to Alistair. “Only three?”
“That’s all I could get for you at this short notice. They’re due to arrive in Russia in three days’ time and will wait for you there.”
“Equipment?”
“I’ve told them that handguns won’t be enough. Everything’s going through in diplomatic bags. The team leader has your John Lawrence number and will make contact when he’s in situ.”
“Do I know him?”
“I believe you had a drink with him in Washington before leaving.”
Roger Koenig.
“Excellent. And what have you got on my man?”
Will listened for ten minutes as Alistair briefed him on everything MI6 knew about Richard Baines. It wasn’t a lot, but there was enough on the British arms dealer to give Will the leverage he needed.
“Room number?”
“Cheltenham’s tracked his credit card number, and it doesn’t show which room he’s in.”
Cheltenham—GCHQ.
“But I’ve managed to speak to a contact at BfV.”
The German Security Service.
“No mention made of you. They checked with the hotel and got the room. He’s in the Mandarin suite.”
“All right, but you should have spoken to me first before alerting the locals.”
“I’m so sorry. Sometimes I forget that I’m only your boss.”
The sarcastic comment made Will smile.
“How’s your associate holding up?”
Will thought about Sentinel. “Events are taking their toll on him. But he’s a tough bastard.”
“Is his judgment sound?”
Will responded, “Even though I disagree with what he wants to do, I can’t fault the logic of his plan.”
“You have the authority to overrule him.”
“I know, but this is happening to his people. If I were in his position, I’d probably do the same thing he’s doing.”
W
ill stood outside the Mandarin suite, straightened his tie, pressed the hotel room’s buzzer, and said in a loud German-accented voice, “Hotel Management.”
He heard a man call out something. He waited patiently.
Thirty seconds later, a man opened the door. He was dressed in a bathrobe, had wet hair, and smelled of soap.
“Mr. Baines?”
The man replied in a south London accent. “Of course.”
Will stepped forward, punched his hand under Baines’s jaw, lifted him off the ground, carried him back into the room, and threw him onto the floor.
“What the fuck—?”
Will stamped a foot on Baines’s flabby belly, causing the arms dealer to retch. He knelt down beside his writhing body and grabbed his jaw again, holding it firm so that they were looking directly at each other.
“Listen very carefully to me.” Will leaned closer. “I work for British Intelligence. We know about your deals in Africa, your shipment that’s sailing through the Persian Gulf, and the missiles you’re about to purchase from the Chinese. You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands, and we’ve got enough evidence to put you in prison for the rest of your life. But I’m not here for that. Tomorrow you’re meeting Philippe Dêlage. I’m going to be at that meeting with you, and you’re going to say that I’m someone you trust and have done business with for years.”
Baines tried to break free from Will’s grip. “You’ve got to be crazy.”
Will held him firm. “You
are
going to do this for me. And afterward, you’re never going to mention this little chat. Fail at either, and I promise that I’ll come back for you.”
T
he three men were sitting around a large oak table in the Mandarin Oriental’s business-suite boardroom. Dressed in a Camps de Luca suit, a silk shirt, and a tie that he’d bound into a schoolboy knot, Philippe Dêlage looked at home in the five-star surroundings. He was probably around fifty years old, but wealth, a charmed life, an attractive wife half his age, a personal trainer, or all of those things had made him look ten years younger. By contrast, Richard Baines looked like a 1980s barrow boy banker—pin-striped suit, suspenders over a striped shirt, slicked-back hair, and overapplied eau de cologne. The third man, Will Cochrane posing as Thomas Eden, was dressed as if he were about to have a glass of port in the Household Cavalry’s officers’ mess—dark Huntsman bespoke Savile Row sports jacket, pink shirt with cutaway collar, regimental tie, cords, and brogues.
Dêlage studied Eden’s business card and said in a barely accented voice, “I’ve never heard of Thomas Eden before.” He looked at Baines. “Why is that?”
Baines shrugged. “Fucked if I know, pal.”
Dêlage shook his head. “You say you’ve done business together for years. Strange, given that you and I have known each other for the same length of time and you’ve never mentioned him before.”
Baines pointed a finger at the Frenchman. “Don’t be a shit, Philippe. I bet you’ve got a dozen contacts tucked away who I don’t know about.”
Dêlage smiled. “Maybe that’s true. But why are you revealing Thomas Eden to me now?”
Baines was about to speak, but Will raised a hand to silence him. “Because I’m paying him an introductory fee that equates to ten percent of anything I get out of the relationship.”
“Introductory fee to meet me?”
Will laughed. “No. Someone you know.”
Dêlage seemed unflustered. “So what’s in it for me?”
“Not my problem. I suggest you arrange terms with the man I want to meet.”
“And who is that?”
Will smiled. “Otto von Schiller.”
Dêlage did not smile as he began rapidly turning over Eden’s business card in his hands. “Who gave you that name?”
“I have
my
contacts.”
Dêlage held the card still. “What’s your interest in him?”
Will looked serious. “Soon I’m going to have my hands on some very interesting blueprints. I’m looking for a buyer, and I think von Schiller might be that person.”
“Blueprints of what?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
The Frenchman looked sharply at Baines. “This has been a waste of my time.”
Will interjected. “Give him my business card. That’s all you need to do. The blueprints I’m talking about—I reckon they’ve got a market value of around fifty million dollars. If I were you, I’d start thinking about what percentage you want from the deal for”—he nodded toward the business card—“merely handing over a tiny bit of cardboard.”