Authors: Matthew Dunn
He reached the nearest person but made no attempt to get close to him. Too bad if the man was the contact; he was beyond the lamppost and out of position. But the two people ahead of him were not. He tried to establish if they were together but couldn’t be sure. The darkness hid their features.
He got closer and could now see that the two people were not side by side as he’d previously thought; one was slightly ahead of the other.
Thirty feet from the lamppost. The man in front was too close to it. But maybe he’d got his speed wrong by half a mile an hour. Soon he was beyond the lamppost and walking toward Will. They passed each other. Nothing happened. Will kept walking.
He was ten feet from the lamppost.
So was the old woman whose features were now vivid under the light’s glow.
Older people walked at a more consistent speed than the young. They were a good choice for brush contacts.
He kept to the right-hand side of the track so that he’d be passing directly alongside the lamppost. By contrast, the woman was on a route that would take her a body width away from it.
Five feet. The woman’s arms were by her sides.
Three feet.
The lamppost. They were directly alongside each other. The woman lifted her arm ever so slightly. A tiny package was in her hand.
Then it was in Will’s hand.
Will kept walking as he secreted the alias passport containing the Russian multientry visa into a pocket.
O
ne hour later, he entered Bunkr Parukářka bar. It had been difficult to find, hidden away in Prague, and as he walked down the winding metal staircase to the converted 1950s nuclear bunker, he wished he’d not worn a suit. The walls were covered with ghetto graffiti, industrial rock blared out of the windowless basement bar, and twenty-something clubbers eyed him with looks of suspicion, no doubt wondering if he was a secret policeman.
He ordered a beer and took a seat at a low table. The place was not full—it was too early in the evening—though it still felt claustrophobic and intense. After removing his tie and jacket and undoing a couple of his top shirt buttons, he stretched his legs out, took a big gulp of beer, ruffled his hair, and tried to do anything to make him look unlike an on-duty cop.
Looking around, he wondered why Kryštof had chosen this place to meet. The former Bezpečnostní Informační Služba intelligence officer, now private investigator, was in his midforties and would have as little in common with these kinds of bars as Will.
Kryštof was five minutes late. That wasn’t unusual; sometimes he could be hours late. At the far end of the cavern, a band was setting up its instruments. Judging by the look of them, whatever they were going to play later that night would be loud and angst-ridden. Will took another swig of beer and looked at the groups of people scattered around the bar. Some were long-haired Goths, others bohemian slackers; all of them looked totally comfortable in their surroundings. He’d never experienced that kind of belonging or cultural rebellion, and for a moment he felt envious of the strangely pretty people around him. But then he wondered if he did have something in common with these men and women. Perhaps they were happy here because normal places made them deeply unhappy.
Kryštof emerged at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in a worn brown suit with his tie loosened and top button open. Cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, he stopped at the bar and leaned across it to say something to the barman before walking over to Will’s table. Though the bunker’s lighting was dim, Will could see that the Czech was unshaven and had dark bags under his eyes.
Will stood, held out his hand, and said in English, “We could have met somewhere else.”
Kryštof shook his hand. “Where’s the fun in that, David?”
David Becket. An MI6 officer whose profile deliberately approximated Kryštof’s: passed over for promotion, in debt, weary, cynical, failed marriages, and adolescent children who no longer wanted to know him. The only difference between them was that David’s fictitious older daughter was prospering in high school, whereas six months ago, Kryštof’s real daughter had been brutally gang-raped and strangled to death.
They sat just as the barman came to them and thumped a bottle of Becherovka liquor and two glasses onto the table. Kryštof unscrewed the cap and poured the spirit into the glasses until they were nearly full. Stubbing out his cigarette and lifting his glass to his lips, he muttered, “Your health” and downed the drink.
“Your health.” Will took a small sip and placed the glass down.
Kryštof refilled his glass to the top and gripped it while staring at Will. “You still in?”
Will shrugged. “I’m trying to last another ten years, until I can draw on my pension.”
Becket was forty-five; youthful looks were the only thing he had going for him. Kryštof didn’t even have that. Age, stress, and depression had been less kind to his once handsome face.
Kryštof drank some more and lit another cigarette. “I meant to thank you.”
“What for?”
“The flowers and the card.” He glanced away, his expression one of sadness and irritation. “Her mother wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.”
“I thought that might happen. That’s why I sent them to your house.”
Kryštof looked back at him. “She said that no doubt I was now happy that I had one less child to pay alimony for.” He emptied the contents of his glass and topped it up.
Will sympathized with Kryštof’s plight, though he worried that the man was losing his sanity. He twisted his glass on the table. “I have some work for you if you’d like it.”
Kryštof blew out smoke. “They’re still giving you tasks?”
“A few.”
Kryštof nodded. “It’s not a question of
like,
rather
need
.” He poured more drink down his throat. “What do you want?”
“Names.”
“Price?”
Will sighed. “The service wanted me to get you on the cheap.”
“Bastards.”
“Bastards indeed.” Will smiled. “It’s okay. I held my ground and got them to agree to normal rates.”
Kryštof would know what that meant: £5,000 up front, and a further £5,000 upon successful delivery.
Extinguishing his cigarette and lighting another, Kryštof asked, “Tell me.”
“Otto von Schiller. Heard of him?”
The former Czech intelligence officer rubbed his facial stubble. “Sounds familiar.” He narrowed his eyes. “Arms dealer?”
“Yes, lives in Berlin.”
Kryštof drained the contents of his glass and poured more Becherovka into it. “I remember, few years ago”—his words were beginning to slur—“when I was still in BIS . . . we tried unsuccessfully to disrupt one of his Czech deals.”
Will yawned in an attempt to make David look bored. “The service wants to find out about von Schiller’s associates. Particularly if any of them are British or American.”
Kryštof reached for the bottle, clearly forgetting that he’d already topped up his glass. “Sure. I’ll make some inquiries.”
Will handed the Czech a brown envelope containing the retainer and said, “Spend it on some food and new clothes”—he glanced at the bottle—“nothing else.”
The Czech investigator looked around the bunker. “She used to come here.” He smiled, but the look was bitter. “You’d have been shocked if you saw her. Pierced ears, nose . . . pierced everything. But I didn’t mind; she was always my girl.” Staring at the ceiling, he said through gritted teeth, “The men got her when she was walking home from here.” He looked at Will, his eyes moist. “I couldn’t come here on my own, but everyone I know stays away from me. When you asked to meet, I finally had the opportunity to come here to say my farewell to her.” He pushed the bottle away. “Was that wrong?”
Will stared at him with no thoughts of being David anymore. Even though he couldn’t tell Kryštof so, he knew exactly how he felt. And that was the curse of running agents like Kryštof. No matter how many layers of deceit there were, none of them could eradicate the real emotion in moments like this. Swallowing hard to control his voice, he placed his scarred hand over the Czech’s and replied, “It was the right thing to do.”
Kryštof looked at the table; a tear fell into his glass. “The name you need—is it going to make a difference to anything?”
Will leaned forward and said quietly, “Look after yourself, my friend. What you’re doing for me is vital. The name is crucial to my plan. If you get it, you’ll have helped stopped the potential slaughter of millions.”
S
entinel weighed his cell phone in one hand and stared at it. His face looked fatigued. “Borzaya’s got something for me. But this time I can’t afford to take the risk of meeting him without you present.”
Borzaya was the code name of the FSB officer Sentinel had met in Hungary three days before. He was one of the MI6 officer’s tier-1 agents.
Will nodded. Now that he was back in Odessa, there was nothing he could do until Kryštof reported back. “Sure. I’m free for the next day or so.”
“How very gracious of you.”
Will frowned. “The chances of Razin being there are extremely remote. God knows what the odds are that he’ll make an attempt on his life during your meeting with him.”
Sentinel looked at Will and repeated, “I can’t afford to take
any
risks.”
“I understand.”
“I’m delighted that you do!” Sentinel strode quickly across the room, pulled open the fridge, grabbed a fruit juice carton, and tore it open. After taking a swig of the drink, his expression softened. Speaking quietly he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not used to working with other MI6 officers. Ignore my tone.”
The apology surprised Will. “For that matter, I normally work alone, too.”
Sentinel asked, “How’s it been for you—the nine years?”
Exhausting, dangerous, exhilarating, frustrating, and heartbreaking. But that wasn’t the answer Sentinel was looking for.
Instead, Will said, “You
know
the worst of it.”
The constant worry that one day he’d accept his isolated existence.
Sentinel understood. When he spoke, his voice held compassion. “That won’t happen.”
“It happened to you.”
Sentinel frowned. “It . . . it may seem like that to you, but I can assure you that the reverse is true. When they finally pull me out of the field . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, I guess I dream about having the same things that all normal people want.” Sadness was now on his face. He nodded and seemed to speak to himself. “Yes, I want those things. Maybe more than most.”
“You can leave.”
Sentinel stared at him, shaking his head. “I volunteered to come back here after my imprisonment. I have to see this through.”
Will felt a moment of anger. “The service knows that’s how you think. It’s exploiting your sense of duty.”
“Of course.” He smiled, then his expression turned serious. “There’s a 1605 hours Malév flight to Budapest today, and we’re going to be on it.”
T
he Gresham Palace royal suite was one of the most luxurious in Budapest and overlooked the Danube, the Chain Bridge, the Royal Castle, and the Buda Hills. The suite’s Art Deco lounge area contained two large sofas facing each other. Will and Sentinel were sitting on one, Borzaya was on the other. Between them was a glass coffee table, with mugs and a flask on it.
Will’s presence in the hotel room clearly unsettled the FSB officer.
The chubby operative was sitting with his legs crossed. Immaculately groomed, he wore a charcoal gray suit, double-cuff shirt, and a silk tie bound in a Windsor knot. His hair was slicked back, and, judging by the scent emanating from him, he’d obviously applied a generous quantity of expensive eau de toilette to his smooth face.
He seemed reluctant to speak as he stared at Will. Then, “You know my language?”
Will answered in Russian, “Yes.”
Borzaya glanced sharply at Sentinel. “One hundred percent sure that he’s trustworthy?”
Sentinel leaned forward. “He wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”
Borzaya’s expression remained hostile. Looking back at Will, he asked, “Name?”
“Richard Bancroft.”
“Real name?”
“No.”
“The name you used to travel into Hungary?”
“No.”
Borzaya nodded. “Good.” He withdrew a slim silver cigarette case, flicked it open with one hand, withdrew a cigarette, and lit it with a gold lighter. “But you’ve still not explained why you’re here.”
Sentinel interjected. “Richard’s from headquarters. Whatever you’ve found out, he can take back to London.”
“London?” Borzaya clicked his tongue. “That would be a very bad mistake.”
Will was about to speak, but Sentinel motioned for him to stay quiet.
Borzaya puffed on his cigarette for a while, his eyes flicking between the two MI6 officers. “I’m not cleared to know the whereabouts of Taras Khmelnytsky. I tried, but all I could find out was that he was on a top secret training exercise.”
Sentinel slapped his hands on his legs. “Damn it!”
“The restriction on knowledge about his whereabouts is only temporary while the training exercise lasts. Once it’s over, I’ll be able to track him for you.” Borzaya paused. “Unless . . . that’s too late.”
Sentinel shook his head. “Much too late.”
The FSB officer carefully extinguished his cigarette and seemed deep in thought. Fixing his gaze directly on Sentinel, he said, “Not all is lost.”
“You found something in the archives?”
Borzaya nodded. “Something very bad.” He looked at Will. “If you intend to take what I say back to London, you need to leave this room right now.”
Will shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until Khmelnytsky’s stopped.”
“Stopped from doing what?” Borzaya glanced at Sentinel. “I know you want to find him, but you’ve not told me why.”
Sentinel responded, “For your own safety.”
Borzaya laughed, clearly not buying Sentinel’s explanation as to why he was seeking Razin.
“What did you find in the archives?”
Borzaya darted a look at Will. “Leave or stay?”