Authors: Matthew Dunn
“Forty-five minutes, give or take, until we reach Canada.” Ulana banked the Islander as a blast of wind came from a different direction, causing the plane to shudder. Dense snow and ice particles were racing past so quickly that Will wondered how Ulana managed to remain oriented. She leveled the craft. “Conditions are getting worse.”
Will gripped his seat while trying to smile. “Great to hear.”
“At least it means we stand less chance of being detected. Visibility’s bad; plus no one would expect a plane to be flying low level in this shit.”
“There’s always a silver lining.” Will stared at the sea and imagined what would happen if they crashed. Would they drown or freeze to death? Either way, it would be agonizing. Yes, a bullet into the brain would be preferable.
Superintendent Barclay, Constable Evans, and Dickie reached the first floor and stood outside the apartment. Dickie knocked and called out, “Phoebe. It’s the major. I’m here with company.
Male
company.”
After a five-second delay, Phoebe replied, “Just give me a minute.” There was rapid movement inside the home. “Fuck . . . damn . . .”
Phoebe never liked to answer the door to men unless she was looking her best.
“Shit.”
The three men stood patiently.
“Bollocks.”
Six minutes later, the door opened. Phoebe stood before them, her hand on her hip, wearing a little black dress and heels. It was her sultry look, and all the more remarkable for the fact that a few minutes ago she’d had no makeup on and had been wearing a dressing gown.
Though they had absolutely nothing in common, not for the first time Dickie thought that his Guardsmen could have learned a thing or two from Phoebe. Most of them needed at least an hour to get themselves into their number-one uniforms. Phoebe could do so in a fraction of the time.
Dickie pointed at the men by his side. “Coppers, looking for our boy Cochrane. Bloke in uniform needs motherin’; probably can’t tie his own shoelaces.”
Phoebe eyed the constable, a slight smile on her face, her eyes wide and penetrating. “Do you need mothering?”
Dickie interjected, “They want to do some snooping. Need a key to Cochrane’s place.” He glanced at the officers. “Lost the use of their legs.”
Phoebe frowned. “What has Will done wrong?”
Dickie clasped his hands behind his back. “Seems Mr. Cochrane’s been living a lie, and Plod here wants to punish him for that.”
Will opened the flask, poured himself a drink, and was surprised to see that his cup wasn’t filled with bad tea; instead it contained soup. He took a sip of the liquid. It was homemade and he could taste beef, vegetables, fennel, paprika, cream, and a hint of lemon. Ulana was right; during his service in MI6, he’d done a lot of first-class travel and had availed himself of food that was as refined as it could be at thirty-seven thousand feet. The soup tasted just as good as anything else he’d consumed in a plane; actually, better. He wondered if Ulana had prepared it especially for him. Most likely, yes.
Holding the mug in two hands, he eased back into his seat while trying to stop the soup from spilling out as the plane was buffeted. Alongside a British passport and credit card in the blown name of Robert Tombs, a dodgy American passport, eight thousand dollars, and a handgun and spare clip, the soup was all he had. It was important. Something good that was here to help him.
He thought about his home in West Square. It was now just as he wanted it: a place that was homey, safe, and contained his treasured art, antiques, and musical instruments. A year before, he’d taken his possessions out of storage so that they could be prominently displayed, partly to cheer up his new place, but more important, to barrage his senses with beautiful and interesting things. They were healthy distractions from the wholly unhealthy sense of feeling utterly alone and unwanted. He dearly hoped he’d be back home sometime soon.
As Phoebe, Dickie, and the police officers reached the top of the next flight of stairs, David opened his door and asked, “Everything okay?” He was wearing a chef’s apron and holding a large knife; Kid Ory’s “Society Blues” was in full swing within his apartment.
Barclay eyed the knife. “Best you put that thing away.”
David glanced down, looking embarrassed. “Oops. Sorry.” The flabby mortician smiled. “Don’t worry—I only use knives on dead things. What’s going on?”
Phoebe told him.
“A spy? On the run? That can’t be right.”
Dickie said, “Read the papers, Sunny Jim.”
“They’re always full of shit.”
“Not this time.” Dickie nodded toward the officers. “They want us to let them into his flat so they can search the place. We’re here to exercise our civic duty to ensure they’re not bent coppers who’re going to nick stuff. Care to join us?”
Barclay pointed at the blade. “By all means join us, but you’re coming without that thing.”
“Sure.” David placed the knife on a shelf and rubbed his hands over his food-stained apron. “How exciting. Cochrane a spy. Who’d’ve thought?” He winked at Phoebe. “I always thought he looked like one of them boxers you fancied. Makes sense though. All those trips away. Who does he work for? Communists? Terrorists? Please tell me, not the Chinese.”
Barclay ignored the questions and strode up the final flight of stairs.
Despite her heels, Phoebe kept pace and unlocked the door. After it swung open, she held her hand to her mouth and exclaimed, “Oh no!”
They all moved into Will’s apartment. The beds in the bedrooms had been overturned; drawers had been pulled out and upended, their contents spilled on the floor; and the clothes in the closets had been slashed with razors or knives. The living room was in an even worse state. It had been comprehensively torn apart to the extent that all around them was carnage. Will’s German lute had been smashed; his paintings had been ripped from their frames; foam had spewed out of his chairs and sofa where they’d been cut; everything had been damaged beyond repair.
Dickie was visibly shocked and disgusted. “Vandals? Burglars?”
Superintendent Barclay calmly moved around the room, examined the barred windows, went back to the front door and got on one knee to scrutinize the lock, reentered the living room, and methodically examined everything within the room. A few minutes later, he asked, “Does anyone else have a key to his front door?”
Phoebe shrugged. “Apart from Will, don’t think so. He told me never to lose my key copy, because he didn’t have or want any more spares.”
David pointed at the lute. “Bloody idiots. Reckon they could have sold that for a few thousand quid.”
Dickie huffed. “We’re dealing with scum here. Might be able to pick a lock but, sure as eggs are eggs, whoever turned this place over didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Wouldn’t have any idea about the real value of things. No discipline. Utter scum.”
Barclay stood in the center of the room. “That’s one possibility.”
“Possibility?”
Dickie’s face was flushed with anger. “Think you’ve spent too long in an office. Forgotten what it’s like to live among”—he swept his arm—“parasitic vermin.”
Barclay’s eyes flickered as he rotated around, staring at the damage. “I’ve been to thousands of burglaries and places of mindless vandalism. They’re either one or the other, but never a combination.” He looked at Major Dickie Mountjoy and smiled. “You know what
coppers
think of most military men?”
The old soldier held his gaze with stubborn resolve. “That we put our lives on the line to keep civvies like you safe in their warm beds?”
“I’m sure most of us think that way. I’m also sure we think that you’re hindered by a hierarchical need for order and discipline that requires you to be linear thinkers who can’t visualize anything outside of a tiny box.” Barclay looked around one last time, while deciding that he needed to get back to the Yard to make an international call. “A professional entered this property, and that person, most likely with the help of other professionals, did all the damage you can see.” He crouched down and picked up a battered French viola by its broken neck. “This isn’t vandalism or burglary. It’s a systematic search. And I think I know who authorized them to do so.”
The coastline was barely visible through the inclement weather, but it was most certainly drawing nearer and looked as rugged as the seaboard vista that Will had seen as he’d approached Greenland. But this was Canada. He’d have zero help here and would somehow need to travel west and south to reach America.
He screwed the thermos shut, opened the sandwiches, and took a bite. The bread tasted home baked, and inside was salmon that had been smoked, drizzled with lime juice, and sprinkled with cracked peppercorns. Again, not what he expected. After he swallowed a mouthful, some of it was involuntarily squeezed back up his gullet as the plane repeatedly bounced midair. He winced, desperately trying not to vomit out the food that Ulana had prepared with care and most likely a desire to ensure her passenger died with a full and contented belly. Thankfully, he managed to swallow it back down, though the bodily action had left an acrid sensation in his throat and mouth.
Ulana shouted, “Make ready. We’re landing on a deserted track. It’s going to be a bumpy landing. You can sue me later.” She turned the plane and flew even closer to the sea.
The lower altitude meant Will could no longer see the land; instead it looked like Ulana was going to put the Islander onto water. He put on his jacket, gloves, balaclava, and ski goggles. Then a thud, followed by staccato jolts as the plane’s wheels came into contact with land. Will lurched forward as Ulana slowed the aircraft, thrust out his arms to prevent him from head-butting Ulana’s seat, and forced his upper body back as the Islander came to a halt.
Ulana turned the engine off, quickly donned her winter gear, jumped out of the plane, opened Will’s door, and shouted, “Come on. Duty Free’s open.”
Will stepped out of the plane and was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of the wind. It was even stronger than it had been in Greenland. And as he looked around, the place looked more desolate and barren. Mountains were at least twenty miles away; most of the land around him was relatively flat, windswept, and covered with snow and ice that was being whipped into a frenzy by the gale. There were no buildings here, no sign of any life.
Ulana reached into the craft, opened a compartment, and withdrew a spade. “Quickly, now.”
Will ran alongside her for 150 yards until she abruptly stopped and thrust the spade into the snow.
“X marks the spot. You’ll need to go down at least two feet and four by three feet wide.” She checked her watch. “Start digging. I’m going to inspect the aircraft for any damage.”
As she sprinted back to the plane, Will grabbed the spade and began his task. His wrists and arms jarred in pain as he slammed the spade into the frozen ground, making him wonder if he’d be able to remove much more than a few inches of snow and soil. But he continued anyway, knowing that he’d die out here if he didn’t access the cache. Ten minutes later, he’d gotten down to one foot.
Ulana reappeared, cupped a hand next to his head, and shouted, “I’m good to go.”
A fresh gust of wind pushed her back so quickly that Will had to grab her arm to stop her from crashing to the ground. “You should wait until this dies down!”
“Too dangerous. This kind of weather usually hangs around for days.” During which time, she’d freeze to death or be captured. “I’ve got to make the flight back before it gets worse.”
The wind sounded like the howl of a wolf, though many times louder.
“Please, Ulana! Come with me. We can lay low somewhere until it’s safe to come back here.”
Ulana shook her head. “Never done that before and I’m not going to start now.” Though Will couldn’t see it, underneath her balaclava she was smiling. “As tempting as it may be to lay with you for a day or so.”
Will was about to make further objections.
But Ulana held out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Cochrane. Word of advice: if it doesn’t work out, don’t do prison. Every wannabe hard man will want to test himself against you. When you’re exhausted, one of them might get lucky.”
Will could see that Ulana’s mind was made up. He shook her gloved hand. “Be safe and take a risk by going back at a higher altitude.”
“High altitude, low altitude. Different risks. Same outcome.”
Will didn’t know how to respond, then settled on “What are you going to call your boy?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Something strong.” She patted him on the arm. “Just occurred to me—there’s one good name I can think of.” She pointed north, shouted, “Nearest road’s eight miles that way,” turned, and ran back to the plane.
Will watched her while continuing the excruciating dig. The task in hand made Will admire Ulana and her team even more. Most others would have found the futile yet backbreaking and fraught task of maintaining the Canadian border a soul-destroying job. Not so these Russians.
Ulana started up the Islander’s engine, gave Will the thumbs-up just before a blast of snow momentarily obscured her and the craft, turned the plane around, and immediately accelerated away before taking off.
Will saw the plane get smaller as it commenced its journey back to Greenland. He counted each dig, rationalizing that when he got to one hundred he’d be finished.
On the fifth dig, Ulana’s plane was at least one hundred yards over the lethal sea.
On the sixth dig, the plane flipped sideways, crashed into the strait, and was tossed on the waves.
Will screamed, “No!” and sprinted as fast as he could through the driving wind until he reached the water’s edge.
Jump in there?
Die in seconds?
Didn’t matter.
He began removing anything that would slow his swim down.
The plane began to sink into the freezing depths.
In a state of panic, he tore off his jacket.
He stopped.
He couldn’t hear the sound of the gunshot. But he could see its result. Blood splattered over the inside of the aircraft’s windows.
Ulana had taken her own life.
I
t was 6
A.M.
as Marsha Gage strode along a Bureau corridor toward her office. Her cell phone rang. London number. What time was it there? About five hours ahead, she reckoned. “Marsha Gage.”
“Agent Gage, this is Detective Superintendent Barclay.”
“Hi, Terry. How did you manage at the apartment?”
“Not well.”
“Damn it, was hoping we’d get at least one lead there.”
“We didn’t get any leads, but Cochrane’s place was trashed.
Expertly
torn apart.” He told her everything.
Marsha snapped her cell shut and walked faster.
Bo Haupman smiled as he saw Marsha walking toward him, was about to greet her, then saw something in her expression and body language that warned him he should give her a very wide berth. As she strode past him without uttering a word or giving him a glance, her face looked thunderous.
She entered the FBI ops room and slammed the door shut. “Alistair! I need a word. Right now.”
She didn’t give the MI6 controller a chance to respond, instead walked fast into an adjacent small room, leaned against the desk, and folded her arms.
Alistair entered, looking completely unperturbed by her evident anger. “What is it, my dear?”
“Don’t you
my dear
me.”
“Breathe, Mrs. Gage. It’ll do you a world of good.”
“So would slapping someone right now.”
“And who would be top of your list?”
“You!”
“Of course I would.”
“You know what this is about?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Milk and one sugar, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Alistair held up one finger, stuck his head back into the ops room, and called out in his well-spoken voice, “Charles, be a darling and bring us two teas. Both with milk and sugar.”
“Fuck off.”
Alistair clicked his tongue and smiled at Marsha as he closed the door. “Seems Mr. Sheridan’s not predisposed to making us a nice cuppa.” His expression changed. “What’s wrong?”
Marsha pointed a finger at him. “Someone got to Cochrane’s home before the Metropolitan Police. Systematically ripped it apart.”
“I see. And you think I commissioned a team of MI6 operatives to do the job?”
“Damn right. Superintendent Barclay thinks the same.”
“And why would you believe I’d do such a thing?”
“Your patch. Your boy. If you can find out where he is, you can warn him off.”
“Quite so. But I had no reason to search Will’s home.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s the opposite. There’d have been no point, because I’d never have found anything remotely interesting there. Will’s not the kind of chap who leaves clues about his life lying around. He stores everything important inside his head.” He frowned. “How badly damaged was the place?”
“Bull in a china shop bad.”
“His antiques and other stuff?”
“Ruined.”
“That’s awful.” Alistair moved to the window and stared out at nothing. “He loved his things.”
“I’m sure that’s the least of his worries right now.”
“I know, but when this is over he’ll—”
“When this is over he’ll be in prison or dead.” Marsha frowned. “You still think he might have some kind of future?”
Alistair smiled, though his expression remained unsettled. “For the last nine years he’s been working for me, I never once thought it was certain he’d have a future.”
“At least then he had somewhere to retreat to. That’s all changed.”
“It has.” Alistair turned to her. “Being Will’s controller has required me to do more than issue orders. I’ve had to wear many hats—psychologist, defense lawyer, confidant, motivator, provocateur, and guardian. I know him better than anyone, though there are still parts of his mind and character that I’ve yet to fathom. He keeps me on my toes, always going in directions I least expect. But there’s one thing I know for sure: his home and possessions were about putting down roots and trying to connect with humanity. I’d
never
have issued orders for his things to be touched, and now that it’s happened I’ve got no idea what it will do to him if he ever gets the chance to find out.”
Marsha kept her eyes on the controller while deep in thought. “This one of them Jedi mind tricks Bo warned me about?”
“Quite apart from the fact that I’ve got no idea what Jedi means, a mind trick would serve no purpose given the fundamental principle that Will would never have left anything compromising at his home.”
Marsha nodded. “Guess that makes sense.”
“And yet somebody did think they’d find something at Will’s home. Any further thoughts as to who?”
“Yeah, one.”
“No doubt the same one, I suspect.” Alistair was once again all charm. “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, my dear? Unlike Sheridan, I don’t think any task is beneath me, plus it would be a pleasure.”
Marsha smiled. This guy talked like he was in a black-and-white movie, but it was kind of refreshing and made her feel nice. “No thanks.”
Alistair hesitated on his way out. “You’re doing an excellent job.”
“Bo Haupman should have told you I don’t like praise.”
“He did.”
“So why ignore his advice?”
“Because I know he’s wrong.”
“Yeah? How!”
“Because of seven things you don’t realize you do that betray the fact that you secretly enjoy praise.”
“What are they?”
“I’m not telling, Mrs. Gage.”
“Now that
is
a damned mind trick.”
“No. The mind flip is that I now know something about you that you don’t. You’ll wonder if others can see the same. And that leaves you with two choices—continue to perpetuate a lie, or be honest with yourself and others.” His smile was warm and his eyes held compassion. “
That
is the Jedi mind trick.”
Marsha laughed. “Tell you what—bring me that cup of tea when I’m done. Think I need one.”
“Of course. By the way, don’t stand for any nonsense, but do keep your powder dry.”
Sheridan entered the room two minutes after Alistair had left.
“Yeah?”
Now this was someone Marsha really wanted to slap hard, just for being Charles Sheridan. She told him about Superintendent Barclay’s call and what he’d discovered at Cochrane’s apartment. “You know anything about that?”
“None of your business.”
“Meaning you do.”
“Meaning my business is my business. It’s called logic.”
“It’s called being uncooperative.”
“Never said I was here to help.”
“Bit boring and predictable though, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Bureaucratic, interagency infighting.”
“I ain’t bored with it. Anyway, Patrick isn’t a fed, and he’s helping you.”
“Yes, but Patrick’s as much in the dark as I am. You’re not.”
“Yeah, life sucks for all but the rich and powerful.”
Marsha tried to stop her voice from becoming audibly angry. “Discreet call to our U.K. embassy? Get our London station to deploy an Agency team to Cochrane’s place before the cops went there? Endgame: find something that might locate Cochrane so you and your crony spooks could get to him before the Bureau did? That sound about right?”
Sheridan walked right up to her and held a finger close to her chest. “Keep your nose out!”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Why not?” Sheridan’s face was inches from hers, his expression utterly threatening and hostile. “You want equality in the workplace, you got it!”
Marsha held his gaze, even though he was at least a foot taller than her. “Equality? You touch lots of men in the workplace, do you, Charlie boy?”
“Fuck you.” Sheridan stepped back. “Senator Jellicoe’s authorized me to cover all bases, and if that means checking out Cochrane’s pad before the Brits get there then so be it.”
“You had no right . . .”
“I had every damn right, Gage! You help us or you don’t. Doesn’t matter. But nothing’s going to get in the way of us finding Cochrane.”
“I’ll make an official complaint.”
“To who? Haupman?” He laughed. “Maybe you’d like to have a little whine to the president. Want me to get him on the phone? ’Cause I can.”
“Has the president
really
bought into you, Jellicoe, and Parker?”
“Not us, you fool. What we can deliver.”
“Something called Ferryman?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Alistair. Want to go threatening him as well? Good luck. Maybe
he’ll
make a few phone calls. I’ve heard the Brits are world class at getting rid of people they don’t like.”
Sheridan pointed at her. “Alistair knows shit about Ferryman, meaning the same is true for you.”
“You—”
“Shut up! I ain’t
threatening
you, so don’t go getting your panties in a twist. You just ain’t worth the hassle. But I am telling you this: you think I’m some spineless dick who’s going to let himself be talked down, then think again.”
Marsha forgot about slapping Sheridan. Instead, she wanted to pull out her sidearm and shoot him. But she remembered what Alistair had said to her, and instead breathed deeply and kept her powder dry.