Dark Spies (16 page)

Sheridan.

Parker.

They were talking in hushed tones, but immediately fell silent when she stepped into the elevator.

She turned her back to the men.

“Ma’am, you want the ground floor?” The voice belonged to Parker.

Ellie nodded, and replied with an accent that wasn’t hers, “Yes please, sir.”

She hoped she was conveying the feeling of unease that many low-ranking officers have when they inadvertently find themselves in the presence of senior management.

“Heading home already?”

God, why did Director Parker have to be so darn sociable? “Yes sir. I was on the night shift.”

Parker laughed. “Glad those days are long behind me. But we appreciate your work. What’s your name, lady?”

She glanced back, just for a split second and only showing a fraction of her face, knowing the risk in doing so but also knowing that just staring ahead would be odd. “Paula Jones.”

“Not seen you around here before.”

“It’s my first week. I’m in archives.”

“Didn’t know archives pulled night shifts.”

“We’re doing a major refiling exercise. It’s a round-the-clock job.”

“Don’t envy you.”

“It’s a job, sir. I’m grateful.” The doors opened at the ground floor. Ellie stepped out and walked toward the security gates in the lobby. At every moment as she crossed the large marble foyer, she expected Parker to shout out something like, “Ellie Hallowes—that’s far enough!” But she heard no such thing as she swiped Helen’s ID through the turnstile gate’s security panel and exited the CIA headquarters.

Outside it was bitterly cold, with bright sunshine causing her to squint and her eyes to hurt. She kept walking toward a lot where her rental was parked, desperate to get as far away from here as possible.

And desperate to tell Will Cochrane that Ferryman was a high-ranking Russian SVR officer named Gregori Shonin who’d been recruited by the CIA in Prague in 2005.

Shonin worked for Antaeus and had direct access to the spymaster’s secrets. Antaeus’s biggest secret of all was that he was ahead of the West in tracking Cobalt and had ascertained that the terrorist financier was going to be in Afghanistan in two weeks’ time. Soon, Ferryman would learn from Antaeus the exact time and location of Cobalt’s meeting, at which point he would relay this intel to the CIA so that it could blow Cobalt into pieces.

Ferryman was of incalculable value because of his access to Antaeus.

And Antaeus had to be kept alive because without him the Agency couldn’t get to Cobalt.

At face value, there was now no doubt in Ellie’s mind that Project Ferryman was infinitely more important than her life, and that Will Cochrane had been wholly wrong to break Ferryman protocols in Norway.

But something wasn’t right.

Herald had told her that there was a Russian mole right at the top of the Agency. Even if that mole wasn’t privy to the identity of Ferryman, he’d certainly know of Ferryman and that he had a direct line to Antaeus, whose insight was vital to killing Cobalt.

The mole would have told Antaeus that the Agency had access to his secrets.

And somebody as clever and ruthless as Antaeus would have identified Ferryman and killed him by now.

But Ferryman was still alive and working alongside Antaeus.

And that meant one thing: that Antaeus had his own agenda.

The spymaster was a puppeteer with his hand hovering over the Agency, holding strings tied to Langley so strong that he could make it move like a deaf, dumb, and blind doll.

Simply put, he had the United States’ national security apparatus by the balls.

TWENTY-THREE

R
etired major Dickie Mountjoy tried not to wince as he got out of his armchair in his small apartment in West Square. Damn limbs were getting old, but that didn’t mean he had to gripe about it or show others that he was no longer the army officer who could march for hours in front of Her Majesty and the tourists in Horse Guards Parade. He opened the door and found his neighbors Phoebe and David there. Phoebe was dressed to kill, meaning no doubt she was going out for the evening to watch a middleweight boxing match or attend one of her art gallery’s boozy functions. David, on the other hand, was wearing a food-stained T-shirt over his flabby torso, and jeans that had baking flour all over them. For the life of him, Dickie never understood why the mortician spent so much time cooking, considering that he was recently divorced and had no one else in his life.

“What d’ya want?”

Phoebe and David exchanged bemused glances.

“Your notes under our doors. You said you wanted to see us. This evening.” Phoebe wagged a finger. “You’re not getting all senile on us, are you, darling?”

“No, and do I look like a
darling
to you?”

Phoebe looked mischievous and replied in a sultry voice, “I think deep down you’re an
utter
darling.”

Dickie huffed. “That means you know the square root of bugger-all about me. All right, come in.”

“Oooh. Nice Christmas tree.” Phoebe sat in Dickie’s favorite armchair, which annoyed the bejesus out of him, and crossed her legs. “Got any bubbly?”

“Scotch, port, or ale. I’ve no reason to keep lady drinks in here.”

“Oh well. Scotch it is.”

Dickie poured three drinks, without bothering to ask David if he wanted one. The retiree thrust the Scotch at the mortician. “Here. Might cut through some of that waistline, and get yer ticker pumping. You think age is on your side, but carry on eating for a regiment and you’ll end up on one of your mortuary slabs.”

David was unsure what to say, and perched his large frame on the end of the sofa. This also annoyed Dickie because it meant he had to sit next to him, there being no other empty seat.

“You workin’ at a brothel tonight? You look and smell like a tart.”

Phoebe was unflustered by the comment. “Have you been to many brothels, Dickie?”

“Before I met Mrs. Mountjoy, army took me all over the world. Ain’t much I haven’t been to, young lady.”

“And after Mrs. Mountjoy . . .” Phoebe cut herself short. Dickie’s wife had died two years before. “Sorry, I . . .”

“
Sorry’s
for quitters and mess-ups. You don’t strike me as either.” Dickie took a gulp of his liquor, coughed violently, held a handkerchief to his mouth, examined it, and cleared his throat. “No time to be sorry.”

Phoebe frowned. “Is everything okay, Major?”

“Tickadeeboo. But it’s not all good for our Will Cochrane, and that’s why I wanted to see you both.”

“Of course it’s not good for Will. The police made that clear when they came here.”

Dickie eyed her with a stern expression. “You make a move on that young constable? Go to his station at Southwark and give them some cock and bull about losing your purse just so that constable plod might pop over to your flat and take down details?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes at David. “No.”

“That surprises me.”

Phoebe asked, “What’s bothering you, Dickie?”

The major waved his hand dismissively before allowing it to slowly descend to his knee, where he tapped his fingers. “I’ve been too hard on Mr. Cochrane in the past.”

“You thought he was in life insurance, part of an industry that didn’t pay out on your wife’s medical bills. You’ve nothing to feel bad about. Plus, you had no idea he was an MI6 officer.”

“It’s not MI6 that’s changed things.” Dickie felt uncharacteristically emotional. “Well, not that much. Just, I misjudged his character.”

Phoebe nodded and mimicked Dickie’s clipped army officer tone. “He has a
right proper backbone
.”

Dickie didn’t find that amusing. “Yes, missy.”

Phoebe wondered whether David could sense something was wrong with Dickie. “We can’t help him now.”

“We can.”

“The world’s hunting him! You’re not young enough to do . . .” David tried to think of a military analogy that might resonate with Dickie. “. . . to do a Charge of the Light Brigade or whatever to save him.”

Phoebe frowned. “Charge of the Light Brigade? What’s that?”

Dickie eyed her with disdain. “What do they teach at schools these days? Crimean War, 1853 to 1856. Great Britain, France, and the Ottoman Empire versus the Russians. Charge of the Light Brigade was the war’s biggest suicidal disaster. A fool’s errand given to men who deserved better.” Dickie pointed at a copy of the Yellow Pages on the side table next to him. “I got an errand that ain’t foolish. I was thinking we can help Mr. Cochrane by giving him his home back. Replace the stuff inside that’s broke. Trouble is, my eyes aren’t so good and I can’t find bloody lute sellers and violin makers and upholsterers and the like.”

Phoebe leaned forward, all thoughts about her evening ahead now out of her mind. “You want us to buy him stuff? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Nor do I.” David took a sip of his Scotch, and went bug-eyed as the spirit coursed down his throat.

Dickie smoothed his hand over the phone directory. “Not asking for your money. Just your eyes and”—he nodded toward Phoebe—“legs. I got a guard officer’s pension that’s sitting in my post office account waiting for me to pop my clogs so that the tax man or some other greedy bastard can get his hands on my cash. Thought I might beat them to it. Spend the money while I still can.”

“Are you . . . ill?” Phoebe looked at the little Christmas tree, its lights and handmade parcels with ribbons bound around them, and wondered why Dickie had made the effort to dress the tree.

Dickie shrugged. “Coughing up blood.”

David asked, “What has your doctor said?”

“Never been to one before and not going to start now.”

“But you have to get an expert opinion!”

“When you get to my age you don’t
have
to do anything.”

“Oh, Dickie.” Phoebe tried not to shed a tear, because she knew Dickie would hate it, but she couldn’t help herself. “Dickie . . .”

“It’s all right, my love. Just gettin’ old and crumbly. Stuff happens.”

She smoothed a hand against her face and in doing so rubbed mascara across her cheeks. “Not to you it doesn’t.” She tried to smile. “Girls love men who’ve been around the block and who fight to the end. You’re a fighter, Dickie, but this time you need help. Medical help.”

Dickie leaned forward and took her hand. “Guys like me spend half our lives prancin’ around like peacocks and the other half wishing we still had our plumage. But we always know we’re going to die. Death nearly happened to me lots of times in the Falklands and Northern Ireland and other places. I was lucky. Some of my pals weren’t. We have to get on with death, just like we have to get on with life.”

David asked Phoebe, “You okay, Phoebes?”

Phoebe nodded while trying to compose herself. “I’m okay, thanks.”

“Phoebes?” Dickie released Phoebe’s hand and leaned back. “And I suppose you call him Dave. You two gettin’ familiar?”

“No!”

David blushed. “No.”

Dickie chuckled, coughed, and turned serious. “No chance of finding exact replicas, but you can both help me source stuff that makes Will want to come home. I don’t care if the world’s looking for him. Let it find him here, happy.”

Phoebe glanced at David. “We’ll do it, as long as you let us take you to a doctor.”

“No.”

“We—”

“The answer’s no!”

Phoebe said, “You said you’d been too hard on Will. I’ve got an idea how you can make amends. You can put your trust in him. When he gets home, let him take you to a doctor.”

Dickie was hesitant. “I . . .”

Phoebe held up a finger and adopted an expression of a strict schoolmistress or dominatrix. “The answer’s yes.”

The retired major was silent for a moment before saying, “You’re right that I’ve been around the block. It’s taught me a lot. Man like me doesn’t keep all his loot in one place. I’ve got other savings stashed in places where the sun don’t shine and the tax man’s too scared to stick his fingers. I’ll be all right.” He folded his arms and stared at David. “Who you cookin’ for tonight?”

“Just me.”

Dickie turned his attention on Phoebe. “You havin’ much luck finding Mr. Right by going out dressed in not much more than your undies?”

“I . . .” Phoebe didn’t know how to answer.

“Bring you happiness?”

Phoebe took a deep breath. “Girl’s got to do whatever it takes.”

Dickie pointed at David. “Why don’t you let him cook for you tonight? Get him to scrub up first so he looks halfway respectable. Might be a better alternative to what you both have planned for this evening.”

Phoebe and David exchanged coy glances.

“And if you give it a whirl, then I’ll let Mr. Cochrane take me to the doctor.”

David half smiled. “You’re blackmailing us into a date?”

“No. I’m telling you to see common sense. You two are made for each other. I know it.”

David and Phoebe exchanged looks, both feeling embarrassed, and both thinking that maybe Dickie’s idea was a good one. They said, “Okay,” in unison.

“Good. That’s squared away. Now—after you’ve done your romance thing, tomorrow I need you to start helping me out with Cochrane’s home.”

Phoebe felt herself getting teary again. “Dickie—your health, savings . . . Maybe Will won’t ever get back here.”

Dickie thought for a moment. “When the horse-mounted dragoons, lancers, and hussars of the Light Brigade made ready to charge down the mile-long valley in Balaclava, they must have known that most of them would die. But they went anyway, and were attacked from the sides and far end of the valley by Russian artillery and infantry. A large number of the British cavalry and their horses were slaughtered. It was a suicide run, and the majority of ’em didn’t make it home.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “But some of them did.”

The FBI clerk ran along the labyrinth of corridors in the Bureau’s Washington, D.C., headquarters and entered the large ops room. Breathless, he scoured the room. It was bathed in electric blue light from spot lamps in the ceiling that sent laserlike beams to the floor and looked like they could cut a man in half if he walked through them. Two men were sitting at desks in the center of the room, playing chess; a woman was by the wall to their left, working at her station.

She had to be who he was looking for.

The clerk jogged while calling out, “Agent Gage?”

Marsha looked up. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The clerk walked up to her and thrust a computer memory stick onto her desk. “Maine State Police have just e-mailed our liaison department a CCTV file and told us that they need your opinion ASAP. We copied the file.”

Marsha picked up the stick while frowning. “CCTV? Of what?”

“Eight security cameras at the International Avenue border crossing between New Brunswick and Maine. A guy took on four cops and escaped into the U.S. Maine needs to know if he’s the man you’re looking for.”

Though her heart was pounding, Marsha responded to the clerk in a calm and authoritative tone. “Thanks. Leave the room. I’ll take it from here.”

After he’d left, she slotted the stick into her computer and summoned Alistair and Patrick. When she clicked on the file, her computer showed eight symmetrical squares, within which were black-and-white images of the buildings, roads, and traffic at the International Avenue crossing.

For six seconds, everything seemed like a normal day at the border control.

Then, everything wasn’t normal.

Two minutes later, Marsha replayed most of the images before pausing the file. One of the squares showed a close-up image of the gunman who’d engaged with the cops before escaping into the United States. The man had a short beard; his face was otherwise clearly visible. She turned to Alistair and Patrick.

Both were frowning.

Patrick spoke. “That’s him.”

Alistair said with resignation, “My boy, Will Cochrane.”

Marsha got out of her chair and leaned right up to the screen. “What on earth are you doing, Cochrane?”

Alistair didn’t understand Marsha’s question. “It’s as we suspected—he’s coming to the States to get answers.”

Marsha turned to face them and leaned against her desk. “Maine police and the Canadian Mounties both told me the same thing: it’s easy for a man to cross the border between New Brunswick and Maine without being detected because it’s got big spaces of deserted countryside between each security control. All he needs to do is get wet in the St. Croix River. Why take the risk of crossing at International Avenue? Seems a stupid thing to do.”

Alistair and Patrick looked at each other. Each knew what the other was thinking, but neither of them voiced their thoughts.

Patrick moved back to his desk while calling out, “Don’t feel like doing it, but I gotta notify the Agency that Cochrane’s on U.S. soil, and that means calling that ass Sheridan.”

Alistair asked Marsha, “What next?”

Marsha sprung to her feet. “I’ll alert the media that Cochrane’s on U.S. soil. And starting tonight, I need to fill this room with extra Bureau bodies—detectives, analysts, surveillance specialists.” She reached for her phone. “Then we need our best shooters.”

The MD 530 Little Bird helicopter banked left and flew fast toward the building on the Quantico Marine Corps base, Virginia. Two operatives sat on foldout external benches on either side of the bird—team leader Pete Duggan and one of his men. The other six members of Duggan’s unit were now visible on the ground. All eight specialists were members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, America’s premier law enforcement special operations unit that was trained to the standard of Special Forces; indeed, most members of HRT were ex-SF, and Duggan was no exception. He’d spent twelve years in SEAL Team 6 before his wife had successfully convinced him to swap a globetrotting covert life for one that kept him home a bit more.