A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (7 page)

I had to make a quick decision.

As signs told me I was passing Newark, Delaware, I glanced at Pete. “Listen carefully to me. No matter what happens, I’m not going to shoot you. Nor will I hurt you. Do you understand that?”

Pete seemed like he didn’t know how to reply.

“I need to hear that you understand exactly what I’ve just said.”

Pete looked confused. “I understand.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Pete’s voice shook as he said, “Don’t make me answer that. I don’t want to know anything. It’s best if I—”

“Who am I?”

“The . . . the guy on the news. English. Man who shot a woman in the Waldorf.”

“That’s what they say I did. The truth is different. I’m not a murderer. But there’s no doubt the police will do everything they can to get me.” I sped up. “I have an idea how you and I need never see each other again. It involves you doing exactly as I say. At the end of it, you’ll be tired. But that’ll be the worst of it. Then you’ll walk away.”

I told him what I had in mind.

“B
rake lights. No cars ahead of him. What’s he doing?” Painter placed her hand on the dash as Kopa
ń
ski urgently braked to slow to Cochrane’s speed.

“Maybe he thinks he’s still being followed and is trying to clock us.”

Painter spoke on her radio to the squad cars. “He’s slowing down. Where are you?”

They told her they’d just passed a turnoff to Newark.

“Good, you’re about a mile behind. But slow to thirty.”

She watched Cochrane’s car further reduce speed.

Then it veered onto the hard shoulder and stopped.

“Shit!”

It happened so quickly.

Cochrane and the passenger jumped out of the car, Cochrane’s gun pointing at the man’s head. From behind, Cochrane wrapped one arm around the man’s chest and placed the muzzle against his temple. They stepped over the guardrail and ran backward, into a field, Cochrane keeping his body flush against the hostage’s. And they kept running, Cochrane supporting the man’s body so he didn’t trip.

Kopa
ń
ski stopped his car by the abandoned vehicle. The detectives got out, sidearms unholstered.

Painter was screaming into her mic. “Get here now! He’s on foot with the hostage!”

Cochrane and his hostage were fifty yards away.

Cochrane was looking straight at them.

Still moving as fast as possible.

Kopa
ń
ski made ready to leap over the guardrail.

But Painter said, “Wait for the squad cars.”

A hundred fifty yards. Beyond accurate pistol range.

Two hundred yards.

Cochrane released the hostage. The man was stock-still in the field, Cochrane’s gun still trained on him.

Then Cochrane turned and bolted.

Now, nothing was going to stop Kopa
ń
ski. He jumped over the guardrail and sprinted. Sirens were drawing closer, no doubt his colleagues. But for now he was on his own. Kopa
ń
ski was athletic for his age and had chased down many perps. But Cochrane was faster, dashing off the field into a suburban area.

He was at least three hundred yards ahead.

Zigzagging to make himself an even harder moving target.

Kopa
ń
ski fired a warning shot in the air, anyway, hoping it would make Cochrane stop.

He didn’t.

Cochrane turned into a side street, disappearing from view. Kopa
ń
ski ran to the spot he’d last seen him.

But now Cochrane was nowhere to be seen.

The detective stopped, gasped for air, and said, “Shit!” He got onto his radio mic. “I lost him.”

CHAPTER 6

I
n northeastern Israel, on Kibbutz Dalia, Michael Stein kicked man-high sacks of soap powder in the commune’s factory. His job was to work an assembly line for eight hours each day, bagging up powder, ensuring conveyer belts didn’t jam, and ultimately making sure the bags were full for distribution to Israelis and Arabs across the Middle East. The factory was the biggest exporter of soap in the region. Its product transcended racial and religious antipathies more than any number of political summits and any amount of back-channel diplomacy. That’s why Michael lived and worked here. It seemed to make more difference to the Levant he so loved than all his years of being a Mossad assassin.

Now retired from that world, Michael, who was in his mid-thirties, had recently turned up at the gates of the kibbutz with his beloved mongrel dog, Mr. Peres, and asked, “Do you have room for us?”

Michael and his loyal companion lived in a little house on the site. People here knew he had once been a member of Israel’s Sayeret Matkal, a special forces unit comparable to the U.S. Delta Force, but didn’t know about his subsequent work with Mossad.

They didn’t need to.

For Michael, his years in the secret world were a bad taste in the mouth compared to his prior military service. Five months ago he’d had a lifestyle volte-face, thrown in the towel of being a Mossad combatant, sold his apartment in Tel Aviv, and decided to kick bags of soap.

Strikingly handsome, and with the face of a man ten years younger, the tall, athletic Israeli had blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. His looks caught the attention of the single ladies on the kibbutz. But at this point in his life, women didn’t particularly interest him. He’d stripped his life back to simple essentials, a monklike existence.

There was one woman, though, who he allowed near to him. Her name was Joanna and she was a friend.

Knowing he was about to break for lunch, she came to him now holding a copy of the
Jerusalem Post
. She was the only person he’d told about his life in espionage. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done so, though he’d felt it was important to have a confidante, and Joanna listened very well without judgment. One of the things he’d told her about was his last mission. It had taken him to Beirut, London, and the French city of Rennes, where he’d initially tried to kill an English spy before deciding to work with him. He’d given her the name of the spy. Today, that man’s image and name were headline news in many foreign newspapers. She handed the paper to Michael as he brushed dust off his blue overalls and shook his hair to rid it of more of the stuff.

He read the front page carefully, betraying no signs of emotion. Joanna liked that about him. He seemed collected, thoughtful, and poised, though in what direction she couldn’t tell. But she worried that the paper would take him to a place that wouldn’t be good for him.

Michael handed her the newspaper back and said, “I need to leave for a while.”

Joanna placed her hand on his arm. “To do what?”

He pointed at the picture of the man in the paper. “Will Cochrane saved my life. He’s a good man. Something’s not right about this. I need to try to help him.”

T
he subterranean White House Situation Room was at capacity. The president was at the head of the rectangular wooden table. His chief of staff was by his side. Facing them were the secretary of state and other officials from the State Department. Philip Knox of the CIA was the only nonpolitician in the room.

The senior CIA officer felt smug being in the seat of power. It was where he felt he belonged.

The chief of staff said to Knox, “You called this meeting because of Will Cochrane. We want a damage assessment.”

Knox raised his pen. “If there’s one employee we don’t want going rogue, it’s Will Cochrane. He’s cracked. So here’s the problem.” Knox smiled. “We made him this way.”

The president asked, “A killer?”

“Too highly trained.”

The chief of staff added, “And with too many secrets in his head?”

“Yes.” Ink from Knox’s pen dripped out on the sheet of paper in front of him. “The Brits trained him. We used him. And boy, did we use him.”

The chief of staff said, “So what that he was a former special operative? All that means is that he’s going to be harder to take down.”

“Take down?” Knox looked at the politician over his half-rim glasses. “And how do you expect police to take him down?”

“If he’s compliant—shot in the leg; cuffs behind his back. If he wants trouble—shot in the head.”

Knox nodded. “It won’t be that easy.”

The chief of staff looked exasperated. “Police officers are trained for this.”

“Not as well as Cochrane.”

“He’s not bulletproof.”

“No, he’s not.” Knox grinned. “He can be killed. But it’s a question of where and when.”

The president interjected. “Now hold on a minute. Are you suggesting a shoot-to-kill policy? I can’t authorize that.”

Knox lied. “I’m not suggesting that.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

The CIA officer chose his words carefully. “I’m suggesting his capture be dealt with as delicately as possible. Excuse my language, Mr. President, but I don’t want the son of a bitch opening his mouth and telling people what we made him do. He could bring us all down. We used him. He did what we wanted him to do—no matter how tough or unpalatable. That has to be kept secret.”

The chief of staff said, “Cochrane doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll open his mouth if he’s arrested.”

Knox agreed, but said, “We can’t take that risk. Maybe Cochrane won’t say anything. But in a court of law, a defense lawyer will explain his background as a means to partially mitigate Cochrane’s actions.”

“It will be a closed court hearing.”

“But if even just five percent of his background is leaked, the press will be all over it.”

The president asked, “So what are you suggesting?”

No way was Knox going to share his solution. “There is nothing that can be done other than letting the NYPD do its job. But we have a serious vested interest in this case. Cochrane is a hero. The American public will think we let him down. They’d be right. We wring guys like him dry and toss them aside. What the public doesn’t understand is that our heroes are pawns. The executive is all that matters, right?”

The president nodded. “I wouldn’t go on the record with that, but yes, damn right.”

“The thing is, though, American citizens will argue that Cochrane signed up to protect ordinary folks, not just those at the top table. They’d say that a man of his incredible achievements should have been highly decorated, not thrown onto the scrap heap and left to go crazy. They’ll start pointing at other American heroes who we’ve treated badly. If we’re not careful, Cochrane’s case will be held up as a prime example of how we crap on our military, even Special Forces.”

The president was deep in thought. To Knox, he said, “You have my authority to keep a very close eye on Cochrane’s case. What’s the best outcome?”

Knox didn’t hesitate. “The best outcome for everyone in this room is that the police kill Cochrane. And all the world ever knows about him was that he was a cold-blooded murderer.”

CHAPTER 7

P
hoebe and David were cross with Dickie Mountjoy. The old man was having one of his obstinate moods. They were in his apartment in London, having come downstairs after hearing him bashing, crashing, and cursing at the top of his voice. Though once a seasoned traveler, Dickie hadn’t ventured out of London for years and his out-of-date experience showed as he tried to remember what to pack in his suitcase.

“Where are you going?” David asked for the sixth time in as many minutes.

“I need more shirts.” The retiree went into his bedroom and returned with the garments, rolling them into tight tubes, which he then inserted into the case on the living room floor, alongside other rolled garments.

“They’ll crease like that,” said Phoebe.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dickie had his hands behind his back as he surveyed the contents of his bag. “I’ll iron them when I get there.”

“You shouldn’t be traveling at your . . .” David glanced at Phoebe, nerves taking hold of him. “Your doctor said—”

“My doctor isn’t my commanding officer. He’s an interfering busybody who needs a bit of life under his belt.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Phoebe placed an arm around Dickie’s back. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You don’t break routine, remember? This isn’t like you.”

Dickie walked away from her and picked up his passport. “Routine’s for the barracks. But that’s not where soldiering begins and ends. Now and again, we have to go out and fight.”

David was exasperated. “For you that was decades ago. Now . . . now you’re an . . .”

“Old man?” Dickie tucked the passport into the inner pocket of his overcoat. “Maybe, but I’m not one of your corpses on a mortuary slab just yet. Still got blood pumping in me.”

“Where are you going, Dickie?” Phoebe’s tone was now forthright.

He looked at his neighbors, and for the briefest of moments his bottom lip trembled, before he coughed, straightened his back, and replied, “I’m going to help our boy Cochrane. And to do that I need to go the United States of America.”