Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (28 page)
W
ill called Roger. “They’re flying the package north tomorrow at fifteen hundred hours. I’ve conducted an independent security assessment. There’s
no way
into the base,
no way
the hostile can get to him.”
Roger was silent for five seconds. “There’s always a way.”
“I know, but we cannot identify what it could be. Trust me—I’ve never seen a more secure facility that’s run by experts as good as these people. There’s no bullshit with these guys; they’re as desperate as I am to find out how their security could be breached.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“I need you and the rest of the men here. Tell Suzy to head back to Langley to speak to Patrick about Rhodes and the F-word boys in the Agency. Patrick and Suzy mustn’t do anything yet, though. I want to deal with those bastards in person.”
“Damn right. But just make sure I’m there with you when it happens. Are the Dutch happy for us to join you?”
Will glanced along the barracks. Mikhail and Derksen were the only other people in the long barracks; they were talking to each other and out of earshot of Will’s call. “Not really. But they’ve agreed we can accompany them on the flight providing we stick to their protocols in the event of an attack—they protect the target, we engage the hostile.”
“They’ll provide hardware?”
“I’ve got that sorted. They’ve got an armory here that I think would make even your old unit blush with envy.”
“Okay. We can land this evening. How do we get to you?”
Will smiled. “Just wait at the airport. They’ll take care of everything else. But a word of warning—don’t fall for the pretty woman’s charms.”
S
arah stopped on the Isle of Wight coastal footpath and looked down the cliff toward the sea. She was wearing corduroy trousers, mountain boots, and a thick Aran sweater underneath an oilskin coat.
As she turned to Betty, a sea breeze blew her hair away from her face. “James and I have decided to move out of London. Our law firm has been very good about things. They think my illness and absence from work has been related to the stress of London life. For the last twelve months, they’ve been considering opening a branch in Edinburgh, and they’ve just asked us to be partners of the office.”
Betty thrust her hands into her tweed jacket and nodded approvingly. “It’ll do you both a world of good. Will you live in the city?”
“No. The great thing about Edinburgh is that it’s surrounded by countryside. We’ll get a place there, commute in.” She lowered her head. “A new life.”
“You’ll have to tell Will. He’ll miss you.”
“He never saw us in London,” Sarah huffed. “Alfie said my brother might die soon.”
“Sometimes my husband talks nonsense. Just ignore him.”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?”
“Your brother is one of Churchill’s rough men. People like that are hard to kill.”
Sarah frowned.
“Winston Churchill’s quote: ‘People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.’ ”
“Well, you can add my father into that category of men. A knife killed him.”
Betty wondered how to respond, because she knew that Alfie and Sarah were right. She breathed in deeply and said with a strident voice, “Come on, petal. We’d better get back to the men before they start killing each other again.”
R
oger, Mark, Laith, and Adam looked mad as hell. They’d just been brought to the base and were now standing in one of the barracks. Will and Mikhail were with them, as were some members of the DSI. Like all parts of the base, the long rectangular room had been stripped of all but the most essential of furnishings.
“Five hours to get here!” Laith shook his head, his deep southern voice booming. “I didn’t know Holland was big enough for
anywhere
to be five hours away.”
Kapitein Derksen laughed. “I think you’re mistaking Holland for Luxembourg.”
“Well, there’s no mistaking the pain behind my eyes.” The ex-Delta operative took a step toward Derksen, and for a moment it looked like he might swing a punch at the man. “Next time you’re in the States, make sure you look me up so I can stick a bag over your head and take you for a nice spin in the trunk of my old Chevy.”
“William.” Superintendent Engert was leaning over a large table covered with maps and other paperwork.
Will moved to her side.
Pointing at a map, she said in a clipped tone, “At thirteen hundred hours, the witness will be moved to this holding pen here. At thirteen thirty hours, the aircraft will land here. It will taxi to this hangar, where it will be searched thoroughly. At the same time, the whole base will be on alert. My men will be in predetermined positions.”
Will stared at the map. “What kind of plane are you using?”
“G-IV-SP.”
“Civilian carrier?”
Engert nodded. “They’re capable of transatlantic flights, but we need it because we want high altitude for part of the flight, plus it can carry fourteen passengers.”
“Threat during takeoff?”
The police commander checked her watch. “Some of my men are already in position.” She prodded her finger against several locations around the base runway and outside the perimeter. “Snipers, assault teams, dogs, plus we’ve got thermal imagery in all the right places, backed up by Claymores and other land mines. The teams will be there until the plane’s high enough to be out of range of a land-based attack. And before you ask, we’ve refined this type of exfiltration over a thousand drills to the point it’s impossible for anyone to get close enough to put a SAM lock on the craft.”
“I presume it’ll be the same for landing in The Hague?”
“Yes, we’re taking no chances.”
Will’s team and Mikhail were now standing around the table, listening to Engert’s briefing.
Roger asked, “Where’s the witness being held now?”
Engert didn’t look up. “In his villa.”
“Villa?”
She smiled. “It’s what we call it, though in reality it’s a fortress within a fortress within a fortress. But he hasn’t been complaining. The rooms are more luxurious than a five-star hotel.” She drummed her fingers and stood upright. “When you land in The Hague, I’ll be there to take over security of the northern base.”
Mikhail asked, “You won’t be traveling with us?”
Engert shook her head and pointed at Derksen. “We take turns escorting high-value targets, but we never travel together. If we both got wiped out in an attack, it would leave too big a hole in the team.” She grinned. “We’re a bit like a royal family in that respect.” Her smile vanished. “Understand this: if an attack is made at any point before the witness takes the stand, my men will use maximum force to fend off the attack. Their sole priority will be protecting the witness. Don’t get in our way.”
W
ill and his men had been given rooms in the base and had been told by Engert that they should get their heads down as there was nothing they could do now until morning. But as he sat on the edge of his military camp bed, Will had no thoughts of sleep. He was tense and felt that everything was out of his control. Ordinarily, he’d take a walk through the base and get some night air to try to clear his head, but the base was on lockdown and in any case Will and his team were highly restricted as to where they were allowed to go. He banged a fist against the bed, frustrated and helpless.
Roger knocked on his open door and leaned against the frame. The CIA officer looked irritated. “Laith’s driving me nuts. Guy’s pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal.”
“I know how he feels.”
“Yeah, we all do.” The American rubbed a hand over his face. “When I was looking to leave the SEALs, I got approached by the Secret Service, who said they’d be very interested in having someone with my skill set on board. I turned ’em down in a flash, said there was no way I could spend a career protecting folk and just waiting for something unexpected to happen. I opted for SOG instead because they’re the ones who go out and do stuff.”
Will completely understood. In the field, people like him were the hunters, the ones who had power and autonomy, who could define the unexpected. But now that role belonged to Kronos—Will and his team were in reactive mode. He didn’t know how Engert, Derksen, and the rest of DSI coped with the stress of this existence. “What happens if we fail?”
Roger shrugged. “We go home, grab a beer, then wait for the next mission.”
Will was silent.
The CIA officer smiled. “You can’t comprehend that, can you?”
“What?”
“Failure.”
“I can easily comprehend it; everything I’ve done so far has been a failure.”
Roger frowned, shook his head. “This all started with a single sheet of paper going missing. Most people thought you were crazy to pursue this operation, given we had no idea what was on the paper and had zero leads. Look what you’ve achieved to bring us this far.”
Will smiled. “I’ve brought us to a situation of going stir crazy in a Dutch high-security military base.”
Roger burst out laughing. “Yeah, you’ve done just that.” His laugh receded. “We’re keeping well away from Mikhail.”
“Good. Don’t speak to him without me being present.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“What do you think?”
“Yeah, dumb question.”
“I’m the one who feels dumb right now.” Will stood. “Come on. Let’s get the team together. Texas Hold’em poker. Fifteen dollars big blind. If nothing else, it means one of us will fly out of this base tomorrow with something to show for being here.”
J
oanna surveyed Will’s London home with pride and satisfaction. All of the boxes had been unpacked and removed; the West Square apartment was perfect. She looked at the dining room table and tried to picture Will sitting there, eating a meal with a woman, laughing with her. To her surprise, the image came naturally and the event seemed possible. She imagined them retiring to the other end of the living room, Will placing one of his Segovia records on the Garrard turntable, lighting a fire, pouring her a calvados, and sitting next to her on the Edwardian sofa. What would they talk about? Perhaps music, if they had that in common. Or maybe Will would try to impress her with his past exploits in MI6 and the Legion. No, he would never share those memories with someone he liked. He could capture her interest with his knowledge of London and its secrets, knowledge gained from his many walks through the capital’s streets and alleys, though he’d need to omit telling her all the dark secrets. And he could enthrall her by describing the beauty that he’d seen during his overseas travels: Indian mists revealing glimpses of palaces and placid lakes in Rajasthan; shooting stars racing through a blue diamond-encrusted night sky above southern Chile’s archipelago; fishermen and their trained cormorants drifting in tiny boats in the azure lakes of the Jiuzhaigou Valley; and candles being lit across Myanmar’s plain of a thousand pagodas. He’d taken time to see these and a multitude of other stunning places, even though he’d been there to kill men.
Joanna rubbed her arthritic hips as she walked into the kitchen. Robert was in there, frying bacon. “Darling, the post will be here in a minute.”
Her husband was wearing a chef’s apron that Joanna had bought for Will’s return home. On it were the words
WILLY THE
KITCHEN WIZARD
. “Right you are, old girl. You want ketchup in your sandwich?”
“No. And I don’t want you putting any in yours, either.”
Robert huffed. “Bloody doctor’s orders are going to see me die early of boredom.”
They heard whistling in the stairwell outside the front door. The postman. Robert turned off the pan, grabbed his pump-action shotgun, and nodded at Joanna.
Two minutes later, Joanna’s hand was shaking as she held the letter and reread it to make sure that her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
Dear Joanna and Robert,
Have you enjoyed your stay at Will Cochrane’s house? I’m sure he’ll be very grateful that you’ve spent so much time unpacking his items and making his home look tasteful. I particularly like how you’ve combined the Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode with the set of Venetian trespoli and the pair of eighteenth-century Guangzhou imperial dress swords. Like me, Mr. Cochrane has a good eye for antiquities, though his tastes are too eclectic. I commend you for achieving the near-impossible task of arranging his collection within one home.
I’m writing to let you know that you don’t need to remain in his house any longer. This will be the last letter I send. I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Mrs. Rübner has contacted me in what can only be described as a state of hysteria. To my disgust, I learned that British and American men kidnapped her and her daughter in order to try to get to me. I had wondered if Mr. Cochrane had given up chasing me; it appears that has not been the case. There is no excuse for what he did to Mrs. Rübner and her daughter, though I’m grateful he released them unharmed. But I cannot forgive him for killing Mrs. Rübner’s husband, a man who was also a trusted and valuable employee of mine. That action was deplorable.
I’ve been left with no choice other than to address that.
Every morning, you’ve been extremely meticulous with the way you’ve collected mail delivered to Mr. Cochrane’s house. I estimate you’ll be reading these words at 0704 hours.
Exactly four minutes after Will Cochrane’s loved one was shot in the head.
Yours sincerely,
William
A
lfie snapped his cell phone shut and ran as fast as he could along the Isle of Wight’s Compton Bay beach. While Betty was preparing sausages and eggs and waiting for Sarah and James to come downstairs, the retiree had been taking an early-morning walk along the empty beach in order to rejoin the coastal road and then watch the holiday home and its surroundings from a distance. But Joanna had called him before he got to that location. It still left the sixty-five-year-old ex-SAS sergeant half a mile of coastline to reach the house.
The same words raced through his mind as he tried to force his aging legs to move faster and his lungs to give him more oxygen.
Bloody hell, no! Bloody hell, no!
He wheezed, his stiff limbs and back throbbed, and his temples ached from the exertion and the icy winter air. Why did he have to be this old, this far away from the house? He could see it now, tiny, at least eight hundred paces away. His heart was pounding. Maybe it would give out on him and he’d die here, just as his old man had done. A pointless death.
Each footfall made his boots sink inches into the wet sand. Bleedin’ sand—loved it as a kid; hated it in the army. All those runs along it carrying a rifle and webbing. But at least he’d been in his twenties then. What was he thinking about sand for? Because he didn’t want to think about anything else, that’s why.
Taste of blood in his mouth. That was normal. Get that regardless of age. Spat out more blood in his time than he could remember. Got plenty more of it inside. Just need to remember that yer body can do five times more than yer mind wants it to do. That’s what got him through the freezing sleet and wind in the final stage of SAS selection: a hellish mountain trek with sixty pounds of gear on his back, while carrying a rifle with no sling. Shit, that was tough, and had come on the back of four weeks of endless marches and runs, most of ’em on your own, just a basic compass for navigation, back breaking from the weight, up and down mountains, shivering all the time, every inch of yer feet pissing gunk from blisters. Long time ago. Since then, he’d gotten old. Running along this small bit of beach was every bit as tough as final selection.
As his legs slowed, he felt his handgun rub against his hip. Probably had taken the skin off by now. Didn’t matter, skin would grow back. Soon he’d take the gun out. Not yet. Had to be close. Must remember the house entry drills. Watch the angles; speed crucial; chest shots first. Christ! Speed? What a joke.
He reached the base of a set of wooden steps leading up the cliff to the road. His breathing was shallow, legs like lead, head gettin’ dizzy. Control that. Get yer mind in shape. Might have shooting to do.
Who you kidding? You’re not in the Regiment’s Special Projects Team now. Just a knackered ol’ codger. Yeah, but you can still shoot, remember? The years ain’t touched that. Bless ’em.
Using one hand on a rail to aid him, he hauled his body up the steps, used the back of his other arm to wipe sweat from his brow. Can’t have that shit in your eyes. He reached the top. House one seven three yards away. Cross the road, follow edge of the open heathland, keep low, gun out when within pistol kill range. Fuck what the passengers of any passing cars thought. Nothing on the road, though—two miles visibility along it to the southeast, one mile northwest.
He walked across the road, wincing as his whole body felt like it was being torn apart. Wish Cochrane was here. Get a grip. He ain’t here, dickhead; you are.
Okay. Small-arms kill range now. Gun out. Two hands. Drop low.
Sixty yards from house. Top windows, east wall—one, two, three, four: all clear. Bottom windows: no sightings. Still leaves four rooms unaccounted for. Front or back entrance? Neither has element of surprise if a professional team’s in there. Reckon front’s best. Gives better angles, plus sight of two more rooms on approach.
Priority: kill bastards, secure target zone.
No bastards?
Hunt bastards down. Kill bastards.
Got to remove emotion. Done it before, remember? Yer pal Geordie’s team in Borneo; knew they were all cut up before you went in to get the bodies and give a bit of payback to their killers. Aden, Northern Ireland, Falklands. More dead mates. Couldn’t think about them while doin’ yer job. Thinking and stuff comes after.
Different now though, ain’t it? You’ve let Cochrane down. Sarah’s dead.
And all you can do now is rescue Betty and James.
Betty. Standing next to her all those years ago. Poky south London church. Him in his cheap but neatly pressed suit and shiny shoes. Confetti in his Brylcreemed hair. Her in the dress her mum and sisters had made for the day. Goodness, his missus looked lovely. Proud day that. Best day. She sorted him right out, she did. Made him grow up and get values. Made him more of a man than all them marches.
Biggest test of yer manhood coming up. Need to be able to step over Sarah’s body, keep your gun high, angles, body shots, room clearance, don’t think, don’t feel. Yet.
He reached the edge of the house.
Movement behind one of the windows.
Then nothing.
Shit!
Looks like we’re in for a firefight.
Body’s feeling a bit better. Hands? Arms? They ain’t shaking. Eyes? Brain? Good enough.
Right, lads.
Who dares wins.
Get it done.
He crawled alongside the front of the house, rose to a crouch beside the front door, held his gun with one hand, used the other to grip the door handle, and eased the door open a few inches.
Silence.
Now.
He stood, kicked the door fully open, and rushed forward with his gun held high.
He froze.
Sarah was slumped on the floor.
Covered in blood.