Authors: Matthew Dunn
T
he following morning, Major Dickie Mountjoy placed his handcrafted replica of the
Cutty Sark
on Kensington Palace’s Round Pond and smiled as he watched a cold breeze catch its sails and glide it across the water. It had taken him nearly a year to construct the hull, cut and stitch the sails, and create figurines that represented the real sailors who’d manned the tea clipper as it took provisions to the colonies in record-breaking times, before the advent of the Suez Canal made routes shorter and the invention of steamships made the likes of the
Sark
obsolete.
His smile faded as he saw it moving gracefully across the pond.
He’d first sailed this ship in the 1960s and had continued to do so every year thereafter, even when Mrs. Mountjoy was alive and felt he was living in the past.
But this time was different. He couldn’t help thinking that Cochrane was captaining his own
Cutty Sark
. One last voyage across oceans. A desperate swan song.
He sat on a park bench next to Phoebe and David. They were holding hands, and that was a good thing as far as Dickie was concerned. Phoebe needed David to bring her down from the exuberant excesses of London life. Plus, he embalmed bodies for a living, which meant he knew too well where excess could lead. By contrast, David needed Phoebe’s irreverence, heart, and warm thighs to make him understand that death was the end of matters rather than the beginning.
Dickie thought about his own inevitable death and wished he could perpetuate his soldierly bravado to convince himself that it didn’t matter.
Cling onto a moment that stuck two fingers up to death and captured all that was final about life.
He imagined how that might look.
Him wearing an immaculate British army officer’s uniform.
A cigarette in his mouth.
Inhaled deeply and with panache and machismo.
A wink at his terrified young soldiers who were about to follow him over the top at Passchendaele or the Somme, charge behind him through the woods at the Bulge, follow him into battle against incensed Mau Mau warriors in the jungles of Kenya, or watch him with disbelief as he singlehandedly destroyed an Argentine machine gun nest at Goose Green during the Falklands War before he was put on his ass by two nine-millimeter rounds.
The last action was a real personal memory; the ones before it belonged to other men he didn’t know.
But they all shared the same human spirit.
Now he was an old man, no longer invincible; not the chap who had endless spunk and charm and strength.
He looked at Phoebe and smiled.
She was a good girl. Admittedly, she needed to stop wearing skimpy outfits all the time. But that was just a woman thing that had no depth beyond showing that she had the interests of mankind at heart. He started coughing uncontrollably. Blood sprayed over his chin.
“Dickie!” Phoebe placed her hand around the major’s head while dabbing his face with her favorite chiffon scarf.
Dickie held a hand up while trying to control his cough and stop more flecks of blood from coming out of his mouth. “It’s okay. Okay.”
David looked shocked. “It’s not okay!”
Dickie wagged a finger, suppressing the urge to cough again, and smiled. “Rule of thumb—two pints ’o the red stuff minimum before a soldier starts feeling light-headed and needs a transfusion. Anything less is codswallop.” He gently stroked Phoebe’s face while maintaining his smile. “Girls do it every month and don’t bleat like cowardly Argies who’ve been caught out by Guardsmen on Mount Tumbledown.”
David now looked horrified. “You can’t talk about women like . . .”
“It’s a fact of life for them and it’s a fact of life for me!” Dickie watched his
Cutty Sark
hit the pond’s perimeter and stay there as if it had been roped to a wharf. “No one cares when you bleed. It’s what happens after that can sometimes make others get all sensitive and scared, and . . .”
“We care.” Phoebe squeezed Dickie’s hand while looking at him with eyes that the major reckoned were better than the Koh-i-Noor diamond he’d seen while recuperating from war by helping to guard the crown jewels in the Tower of London. “Very much.”
“I’m not letting you take me to a doctor. Cochrane will do that when he gets back. He understands death, and I need a man like that by my side if a quack tells me I’m on the way out.”
David slapped his legs with frustration. “You’re a bloody fool. Haven’t you seen the news? Pigs will learn to fly before Will escapes Washington, D.C., alive.”
Dickie stood awkwardly while grimacing, composed himself, and marched as best he could alongside the pond. His back ached as he bent down to collect his boat, though he kept his expression stoic and dignified. Upon his return, he held the
Sark
in two hands diagonally across his chest, like a rifle belonging to a soldier on guard duty, and said to David, “He’ll come back.”
At 6:20
A.M.
, Marsha entered the FBI ops room. The place was at full capacity. It didn’t surprise her that Pete Duggan, his HRT colleagues, and all Marsha’s analysts were here, but she was shocked to see that every agent who was supposed to be hitting the streets was also in the room. Most of them were huddled over maps of D.C. “What’s going on?”
One of the analysts pointed at Charles Sheridan. “You better ask him.”
Marsha made no effort to hide the hostility on her face. “Charles?”
Sheridan grinned as he looked up from a map. “Hey, Marsha Gage has decided to join the party.”
She repeated, “What’s going on?”
Sheridan’s grin widened. “I decided to demote myself while you were away, and take over your job. And you know what, turns out your job’s a walk in the park. I’ve achieved more in the last few hours than you’ve done in weeks.”
No way was Marsha going to let him speak to her like that in front of her team. “You pick up your prescription pills yet?”
“What?”
“The Bureau health center keeps calling me to remind you.”
“My prescription?”
“Your Viagra pills. Come on, Charles, you mustn’t forget to start taking them, because I know your wife’s desperate for something to finally start moving down there.” She nodded toward his crotch.
Sheridan looked furious as he walked fast toward her.
So furious that Marsha placed a hand on her sidearm.
But Pete Duggan stepped into Sheridan’s path. “You take one more step toward Agent Gage, and you’ll have other reasons for needing to visit the health center.”
Marsha came to his side. “It’s all right, Pete. I can handle this.” Everyone in the room was looking at her, and you could hear a pin drop. She raised her voice as she stared at the task force. “If anyone in this room
ever
takes orders from a CIA officer again, you’ll not only be off my team; I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your careers working as a night-duty security guard, patrolling the outside of the J. Edgar building. Now, back to work!” Her eyes locked on Sheridan. “Precisely what have you achieved in my absence?”
Sheridan composed himself. “I got me a source, and that source has told me that Cochrane’s going to be outside the Friendship Heights metro on Wisconsin Avenue at ten fifteen this morning.”
“A source?” She frowned. “How would a source be able to predict Cochrane’s exact location?”
“That’s none of your darn business.”
Marsha’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe that source is an intelligence operative. A friend of Cochrane’s. Someone who’s met him and given him important information. An individual who you’ve suspected and have put the thumbscrews on to flush him out.”
Sheridan smiled, though said nothing.
Patrick and Alistair moved to Marsha’s side, having overheard the conversation.
Patrick said between gritted teeth, “And maybe that person is a she.”
Sheridan’s eyes twinkled.
Alistair asked, “What have you done to her?”
Sheridan folded his arms. “The traitor’s been taken care of. That’s all that matters.”
Marsha darted a look at Alistair and Patrick. “You know who she is?”
They answered in unison, “Yes.”
“American citizen?”
They nodded.
Marsha pointed at Sheridan. “The CIA has no authority to act on U.S. soil. If I find out you’ve broken the law, it’ll be my pleasure to personally put cuffs on you.”
“You’re out of your depth, girlie.” Sheridan was grinning again. “Your laws don’t apply to me. Never have and never will. Anyway, my actions have been fully supported by Senator Jellicoe.”
Alistair took a step closer to Sheridan and said, “Her name’s Ellie Hallowes. What have you done to her?”
Sheridan laughed. “You think I’m going to answer that question truthfully while standing in the headquarters of the FBI?”
Marsha looked at Alistair and Patrick. “You know where Hallowes lives?”
Patrick answered, “She’s staying at the Washington Marriott Wardman Park hotel. I’ll get hotel security on the line.” He moved to his desk, browsed the Internet to get the hotel switchboard, and made the call. Everyone else in the ops room was silent. Six minutes later, he replaced the handset, walked fast across the room, and grabbed Sheridan by the throat. “You bastard!”
Marsha frowned. “What’s happened?”
Sheridan tried to break Patrick’s hold.
But Patrick held firm. “Hotel’s checked her room. Found her dead body in there. Of the four hotel staff who entered the room while I stayed on the line, two of them fainted when they saw what had been done to her.” He tightened his grip on Sheridan.
Marsha placed a hand over Patrick’s arm. “Let me take over from here. Please.”
Patrick was motionless for ten seconds, then released his grip and stepped away while keeping his venomous gaze on Sheridan. “I’ll make you pay for this, Sheridan!”
Sheridan rubbed his throat, composed himself, and smiled. “For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Liar!”
Marsha said, “We’ll do a forensic analysis of her hotel room. Your DNA . . .”
“My DNA ain’t anywhere near that room, so go ahead and do what you have to.” Sheridan took a step closer to Marsha. “Do what you want.”
Marsha was in no doubt that Sheridan had covered his back by getting someone else to kill Ellie. She recalled Alistair once advising her that she should keep her powder dry for a time when it could best be used against the CIA officer. Now was that time. She smiled. “Great work, Charles. Thanks to you, sounds like we’re going to have this manhunt wrapped up this morning. Of course, we’ll need all the manpower we can get.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Manpower that includes the agents I put on your protection detail. You don’t need them anymore because in a few hours Cochrane’s going to be behind bars or dead.” She pretended to look quizzical. “Thing is though—Cochrane paid my home a visit last night. My husband positively identified him. I wonder how he got the location of my house.” She shrugged. “Guess it must have come from the source you tortured. I suppose Hallowes also gave Cochrane your address and the addresses of anyone else involved in the mysterious Project Ferryman. And since she took such risks to help Cochrane, I’m betting he’s seriously loyal to her and would be severely pissed with anyone who’s hurt her.”
As she rang Sheridan’s Bureau protectors, her smile broadened. “There’s a lot riding on this morning. But if it doesn’t come off, best you put a gun to your head before Cochrane gets to you.”
Sheridan’s face paled.
M
ost of the spaces in the parking lot at 1403 Wisconsin Avenue NW were taken, but only one of them contained a nondescript sedan occupied by assassins.
Oates and Shackleton were munching on sandwiches, killing time.
Speaking with his mouth full, Oates said, “I think you should be the one to dig Amundsen’s grave.”
“It’s quicker if we all do it.”
The Londoner said, “Yeah, but you shot him. Me and Scott reckon you might be in danger of getting post-traumatic stress disorder or something, that giving Norwegie a decent burial might help stop the trauma. And no one wants an Irishman with trauma; you have enough crazy shit going on in your brains already.”
“I don’t have PTSD!”
“That’s the trouble with trauma. Doesn’t always show itself for a while. Festers inside you like a parasite feeding off your organs. You only know it’s there when it grows bigger.”
Shackleton was annoyed. “After this morning, we drive to a forest, remove Amundsen from the trunk, and dig a hole for him together.”
Oates took another bite of his food. “You thought about words?”
“Words?”
“Got to pay your respects at the graveside. Say something nice about him. Maybe throw in a tiny bit of humor, or an anecdote, just to make him sound human and put a brief smile on the mourners’ faces.”
“There’s only going to be three of us there, and we’re hardly mourners.”
“Maybe you should sing a hymn.”
“Now you’re really starting to fuck me off!”
Oates laughed to himself as Scott opened the rear door and got into the backseat.
Scott leaned forward. “You save me any of the sarnies?”
Oates replied, “Sorry. Shackleton ate them all. He needs a lot of comfort food ’cause he’s feeling a bit down.”
“No I’m cocking not.”
Scott slumped back into the seat. “Well, you’re both a bunch of cunts.” He beamed and held out a BLT baguette. “I spotted a nice little deli up the road. Just as well I didn’t get you greedy bastards anything while I was there.”
Oates asked, “Anything else you spot of interest?”
Scott ripped a chunk of the baguette off with his teeth. “They got uniform foot patrols on the ground, but nothing out of the ordinary that’ll spook Cochrane. Plus, there’s a shitload of interceptor squad cars and uniform cops hidden up in four of the parking lots at the bottom of Wisconsin. But they’re backup. The juicy stuff’s already in situ. Three SWAT sniper units on rooftops overlooking the avenue, eight guys milling around the metro—plainclothes, and I reckon they’re HRT.”
“Means they probably got body armor under their jackets.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. All of them are carrying small packsacks.”
“Submachine guns inside.”
“Yeah, also plastic cuffs, and maybe some flash bangs.” Scott examined his baguette and frowned. “Why do Americans put mayonnaise in everything? Statistically, there must be some of them who don’t like this cum shit.”
The comment made Shackleton’s good humor return. “Me and Oates won’t tell a soul that you’re putting it down your throat.” He turned serious. “Gage? Bureau agents?”
Scott answered, “She’s in a van, parked up on the avenue about one hundred yards south of the metro. Three other agents are with her—two males, one female. But she ain’t of interest to me, because we don’t need her anymore.”
Parker had told Antaeus that Cochrane would be at the Friendly Heights metro this morning, so there was no need for Scott’s team to continue following Gage.
“Other agents are stretched out along the entire route, in cars and on foot. They’re kitted out like proper civvies—no black suits and Ray-Bans and all that crap. I counted twenty-three of them, but reckon there’s a lot more.” He finished his baguette and rubbed his hands. “Either of you two need to study the map or data again?”
“Nah.”
“Nope.”
All three assassins had memorized everything they needed to know. Wisconsin Avenue traveled directly north from Georgetown and the Potomac River, and was one of the main shopping streets in D.C. It was several miles long, in the heart of the city, typically had slow-moving traffic due to having only two travel lanes, was usually busy with shoppers and commuters during daylight hours, and had enough entrances and exits to make a tart blush. Ordinarily, it was a nightmare environment for a surveillance team or assassination squad to operate. But that didn’t matter today, because there was a ring of steel around the place, within which Scott’s unit would be prowling with lethal intent.
Scott looked at his watch. “One hour until showtime. Best we get on foot and in our positions.”
Shackleton asked, “If cops or agents get in our way?”
Scott smiled as he checked the workings of his sound-suppressed handgun. “Slot ’em. All that matters is that we kill Will Cochrane.”
The Metropolitan Police Department beat cop was relieved that the rain had stopped pouring over Wisconsin Avenue.
He’d spent three hours patrolling the avenue, being a friend rather than an enemy to citizens around him, wanting to help the good people he served. He was like many other beat cops, men and women who’d joined the police because they wanted to make people safe, not because they were closet bullies who hid behind their uniforms and badges so that they could bang heads together.
He wondered if some of the numerous cops and plainclothes agents who’d been drafted into the area this morning were thugs. Sure, they were here to catch the British Intelligence officer, but all beat cops feel resentful when other law enforcement officers are drafted at short notice to serve on their patch. They simply didn’t understand the nuances of the neighborhood or know its people, and were driven by the desire to arrest or shoot anyone they thought was a criminal.
Then there were the SWAT sniper teams that were on his rooftops, and the plainclothes HRT men who were strategically and discretely mingling within shoppers and commuters near the metro. They’d be very tough men—people who should have stayed in the army, rather than briefly putting on a cop uniform for police training before taking it off after graduation and replacing it with Kevlar. They weren’t cops; they were shooters who had no understanding of community policing.
And finally there were the FBI agents who were running the show: college-educated know-it-alls who conducted law enforcement as if it was a white-collar corporate business. They didn’t know what it was really like on the streets and rarely got their hands dirty. Still, the local police had been told there’d be plenty of Bureau agents on Wisconsin Avenue today, so maybe the FBI would experience what real cop work was like.
The officer sighed as he continued his leisurely patrol. The sun started to break through clouds, and he tilted his cap to shield his eyes. The weather was turning for the better, but that was no compensation for the probability that this morning his patch was going to turn to shit.
Pete Duggan was tense and alert as he exited the Friendship Heights metro to take up position farther up the avenue. Every five minutes, he and his seven HRT colleagues rotated locations to avoid arousing suspicion, not that they stood out—the metro and the street were bustling with civilians, many of whom were dressed like them and were carrying bags. Above him, out of sight on the rooftop of the Microsoft Corporation building, was a SWAT sniper and spotter who had a clear sightline to the Metro entrance. Two other sniper teams were farther north and south on the avenue. He could hear them communicating with each other in his earpiece—brief, calm updates about the movement of vehicles and people in the vicinity.
Helos with additional SWAT snipers were hovering low over the city, but not too close to the avenue. They couldn’t be visible or audible to Cochrane when he came here, but they could reach Wisconsin in one minute if needed.
Traffic was crawling along the route, and that was a good and bad thing: good that Cochrane couldn’t attempt to do a speedy drive-by of the metro to see if Hallowes was standing outside; bad that all mobile law enforcement units would be severely hindered by the traffic.
The fact that there were hundreds of plainclothes and uniformed officers in the vicinity gave Duggan little comfort, because he kept hold of the thought that he was hunting a man who could expertly take down four fit and alert cops, whereas he’d only managed to train his gun on two of the injured officers before the remaining two had gotten the drop on him. During his time in SEAL Team 6, he’d been graded as an outstanding operator, and within HRT he was considered the agent who was the best with a pistol and submachine gun. And he was up against someone who was better than him.
Of course, Cochrane stood no chance of survival this morning. But collateral damage worried Duggan. There were so many civilians in and around the avenue; so many opportunities for them to get caught in crossfire.
He checked his watch.
Five minutes past ten.
Marsha Gage was in a van with three of her agents. Like them, she was wearing jeans, a bulletproof vest underneath her Windbreaker jacket, and tactical boots. She said to her colleagues, “Time for you to get on foot. Keep your distance from the metro, and don’t stand in one place for too long.” After they’d left, Marsha returned her gaze to the Friendship Heights metro. She was south of the station, and in between were hundreds of people; a few of them were her colleagues, most were not.
How much easier her task would’ve been had she been able to evacuate the avenue of all but personnel carrying guns. But if she’d done that, Cochrane wouldn’t have come near the place. She had to make him feel at ease, keep things normal, make him think that he was an anonymous pinhead in a sea of dots.
It seemed like she’d been tracking him forever, and she couldn’t help but feel deep professional admiration that he’d evaded capture—and not by fleeing, but by coming toward her. Part of her felt it was unfair that she was now using a sledgehammer approach to finally bring him to justice. Still, she had a job to do, and the bottom line was that Cochrane needed to be taken off the streets.
She spoke into her throat mic. “Five minutes until zero hour. Everyone: stand by.”
Scott, Oates, and Shackleton looked every bit like politicians stepping out of their offices to grab some breakfast or coffee—dark woolen overcoats, sharp suits, white shirts, silk ties, brogues, and hair that was just the right length to make female voters respect their professional appearance but also make them a bit wobbly at the knees. Not that any self-respecting woman would vote for men like this if she knew how they really spoke and thought when not pretending to be wealthy businessmen or politicos.
As they walked along Wisconsin Avenue, their smiles showed off their immaculate white teeth, and they were talking in American accents they’d borrowed from the multitude of Hollywood movies they’d watched while waiting for the right time to kill people.
They felt exhilarated. None of them had any fear, despite being fully cognizant of the dangers around them. In part, this was because their entire adult lives had been suffused with the threat of death; after a while, worrying about it got boring. But more important, they were fatalists who knew they’d die by the bullet; it would happen today, tomorrow, or some other time, but it would happen. It was a liberating feeling because it gave them certainty. That was crucial, because men like this needed to be in control at all times.
They were two hundred yards from the metro and knew full well that they were walking toward eight undercover HRT operatives, Marsha Gage’s vehicle, other FBI agents, and a SWAT sniper post.
None of them cared.
What mattered to them was that Will Cochrane was due here in less than two minutes.
The D.C. beat cop walked from north to south down the avenue while wondering if he should join in if there was any action to be had. Nobody had told him one way or the other what to do, and he was sure that other cops like him were in the same ignorant position.
Treated like mushrooms.
Constantly in the dark and fed shit.
As he drew nearer to the Friendship Heights metro station, he tried to spot undercover law enforcement agents lurking near the two lanes of nose-to-tail traffic that was now barely moving, or on the crowded sidewalks. But a cop like him didn’t have the skills or experience to clock such agents.
Even though he was wearing shades to protect his eyes from the glaring sunlight, he had to squint as he glanced at the rooftops. He couldn’t see a police sniper anywhere, but guessed the whole point was that they weren’t to be spotted.
Police sniper.
It was a sad reflection of the times that it could be considered policing to shoot a man in the head from five hundred yards away, rather than walking up to him and talking him out of doing something bad.
He supposed his style of policing was on the wane. Soon all cops would be kitted out like Judge Dredd; enacting justice with the dispassionate and unwavering logic of a robot.
He nodded and smiled at passersby, walked past the metro and parked vehicles—empty sedans and a van with a woman behind the wheel—and continued walking through the crowd toward three men who looked like young politicians or investment bankers.
It surprised him that he felt unwanted and invisible, on a patch that belonged to him.
That was a sad thought.
He checked his watch.
Ten fifteen
A.M.
The men who looked like politicians passed him and kept walking toward the station.
He sighed again, because it was time to go off duty and leave this beat to visiting tourists, Republicans and Democrats who were out grabbing a cappuccino, and cops who didn’t know these streets.
They were the thoughts of an honest beat cop who’d devoted his life to ensuring that a square mile of land was kept safe.
Not that Will Cochrane would truly know how that felt.
He was just playing the part.
Will spun around, pulled out his sidearm, shot the Irish assassin in the leg, turned back, and ran south while shouting, “Three armed men! Get to cover! Run!”
Chaos erupted.