Authors: Matthew Dunn
T
hat evening, Will’s Thomas Eden cell phone rang.
Philippe Dêlage.
He listened to the Frenchman’s precise instructions. Otto von Schiller would meet him tomorrow.
But it was crucial that he come alone.
W
ill drove around Großer Alpsee searching for his destination. The Bavarian Alpine lake was tranquil, surrounded by tree-covered hills and low mountains. Snow and icicles hung from the trees’ branches.
He felt tense. He was unarmed and had followed Dêlage’s instructions to come alone. He’d considered getting armed backup for the meeting, perhaps some of Kryštof’s contacts, but had decided that was too risky. If it looked as though he was coming to entrap Otto von Schiller his plan would fail. He’d also hoped that the meeting would have been held in a public place, but the area around him was deserted; it would be easy for men to shoot him in the head and dump his body in the lake without alerting others.
But Will had to follow this through because this meeting was his final move. He hoped that the Ukrainian SBU had sent the SVR the full transcript, that Schiller had alerted his SVR masters to the approach by Thomas Eden, and that they had tasked him to meet Eden urgently to try to ascertain the identity of the mysterious Russian colonel. But right now he couldn’t be certain of anything.
He drove for another mile, following the shore.
He saw the place.
A large house, right by the water’s edge.
Nothing else around it save forest.
He breathed slowly to try to calm his racing heart beat. He tried to imagine how Thomas Eden would be thinking right now. He had to match his thoughts and mood. Would he be scared, or would meetings like this be commonplace for a man like him? Perhaps he’d be slightly irritated that he’d had to go so far out of his way to meet Schiller. Yes, that’s how he’d feel.
He approached the house and stopped the vehicle in a spot that was easily visible to the building’s occupants. After walking casually to the front door, he knocked on it three times. There was movement inside. The door opened. Two thickset German men, dressed in suits. They were obviously bodyguards and no doubt would be armed.
Will’s expression was terse. “Thomas Eden. I have an appointment with Mr. Schiller.”
The men said nothing and stepped back a few paces, keeping their eyes fixed on him.
Will stepped into the house.
The door shut behind him.
Will was about to move forward when one of the men grabbed him and slammed his face against the corridor wall.
“Stand very still.”
Will followed the bodyguard’s order. The second man began to expertly search his overcoat, suit, undergarments, shoes, and body surface. He removed Eden’s wallet, car keys, and BlackBerry before nodding at the man who was holding Will in a viselike grip. That man kicked Will’s ankles while simultaneously thrusting down on his arm and shoulder. Within two seconds, Will was facedown on the floor, his limbs outstretched, a boot fixed firmly against his neck.
Will lay still, knowing there was nothing he could do other than let the men do their job. He heard the front door open and a moment later the sound of his car being unlocked. There was nothing in there that could compromise him, but he wondered how long it would take the guard to search the vehicle.
Approximately twenty minutes.
The front door was shut. The guard walked past him and disappeared into a room. He’d now be searching Eden’s wallet and in particular analyzing his BlackBerry—sent and received e-mails, calls, files, individuals in his contact list, and his Internet browsing history. The guard would find nothing unusual. Will had crammed the phone with data that showed only one thing—that he was a businessman who worked in military consultancy and was ultracautious about electronically communicating matters pertaining to Thomas Eden Limited. He was, after all, always conscious that he could be picked up by customs, Interpol, or other law enforcement agencies.
He estimated that it was forty minutes before the boot was lifted off his neck.
Red-faced and angry, Will got to his feet, rearranged his clothes, and looked at the two bodyguards now before him. “Was that absolutely necessary?!”
No reply. One of them handed Eden’s belongings back to him and beckoned him to come forward. He was led along the corridor and into a large room. Its windows overlooked the beautiful vista of the lake. But inside the room, nothing was beautiful. It was empty of anything save two straight-backed dining chairs in the center, facing each other. The floor was entirely covered with black plastic sheets that had been taped together.
Will had seen rooms like this before.
Sometimes they were used for interrogations.
More often for executions.
He turned and was about to say something, but the bodyguard pushed him forward and pointed at the chair facing the windows. Will sat in it and crossed his legs. He was afraid.
Because that’s what Eden would be feeling right now.
The bodyguard disappeared from view. Will checked his watch and waited. Sweat began to trickle down his back. Ten minutes passed. Everything was silent. Another ten minutes. Then footsteps on wooden flooring, followed by footsteps over plastic sheets.
He stayed still, expecting to feel a gun barrel against the back of his head just before a tiny moment of absolute pain.
The two bodyguards came into view and stood in the corners of the room, facing him. Both held pistols. Will glanced over his shoulder and saw that two more bodyguards were in the corners behind him, also armed. He looked back toward the windows.
More footsteps.
A man came into view.
Small, midfifties, suit pants and open-neck shirt, clean-shaven, gray hair that had been immaculately cut into a style favored by Germany’s officer-class soldiers.
Otto von Schiller.
He sat in the chair, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and asked, “What do you want from me?”
Will answered quickly, “I came here to discuss a business opportunity with you.” He glanced at the bodyguards. “I’m wondering why I bothered.”
Schiller smiled, though his look was cold. “Of course you are.”
Silence.
Schiller kept his blue eyes fixed on Eden.
The silence was unsettling. Will had to say something. “I’ve been to other meetings where guns have been present—mostly in Central America, Africa, and the former Soviet Union states—and can assure you they achieve nothing.”
“Now you can add Germany to that list.”
More sweat, this time down his face.
Von Schiller pointed at him. “I’ve been to meetings where guns
haven’t
been present but should have been. I’ll not make that mistake again.”
“This meeting isn’t a mistake.”
“From where you’re sitting, do you really believe that?”
Will looked around. Despite his circumstances, he had to achieve some degree of control over the situation.
He looked directly at von Schiller. “I want”—he paused, then spoke in a more confident voice—“I
want
you to listen to me so that you can understand that I’ve gone out of my way to bring you a highly unusual business proposition.”
“You could be here to entrap me.”
Will looked exasperated. “I rather think it looks the other way around.”
Von Schiller glanced away. “Are there men out there, waiting for the right moment to come for me?”
“If there were, they’d be here too late to stop your men from putting a bullet in my skull.” Will shook his head. “I came here in good faith. On. My. Own.”
Schiller unclasped his hands and leaned back, drumming his fingers on his leg. Clearly, he was deep in thought.
Will muttered between clenched teeth, “We both hate the same organizations.”
Schiller stopped drumming. “Dêlage told me that you have access to blueprints. What are they?”
Will glanced again at the bodyguards. “I’m not going to talk to you while under duress.”
“And I’m not going to remove my men!” Schiller was motionless. “
If
you are genuinely here to discuss a business transaction that is of mutual interest, then I give you my word that you’ll walk out of here unharmed.”
“Your
word
?”
“Yes, my word. I’ve spent thirty years in this business. I can tell you with certainty that I wouldn’t have survived that long unless my word meant something.”
Will shook his head. “Other men have said the same thing to me. I was proven right not to trust them.”
Schiller looked shocked. “I don’t have to earn your trust.”
When Will spoke, all traces of fear were now absent from his voice. “Yes, you do. Last year my company made eight million dollars profit. All of it came from business associates whom I trust. In the same year, I lost five million dollars to people who turned out to be completely untrustworthy. Trust equals money. It’s as damn simple as that.”
Schiller smiled again, but this time the look was less cold.
Will rubbed a hand over his face and flicked sweat from it onto the plastic floor. “All right. Blueprints of prototype suitcase nuclear bombs.”
Schiller narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen similar in the past.”
“No, you haven’t. These are different. The bombs’ range far exceed anything developed before. They weigh less, and so far trials with them have been one hundred percent successful. They’re perfect for special forces, commandos, or paramilitary units.”
“But the bombs can only be manufactured by people who have access to weapons-grade uranium.”
Will nodded. “That’s my problem, because I lack the contacts in that world. Most of my business is in conventional military matters. I tried the Iranians but got knocked back, and it quickly became clear to me that I needed another route in to potential buyers. I’ve heard that you have access to such people.”
“And where did you hear that?”
“From someone I not only
trust
but to whom I also gave my
word
that I would never reveal his identity.”
The German stared at him. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “If your specialty is in conventional matters, how’ve you come by these blueprints?”
“By chance.”
“Who’s the supplier?”
Will shook his head. “I can’t give you that information.”
“Then I can’t give you a buyer.”
The room was silent.
Will knew that he couldn’t be the first one to speak.
More silence.
Finally Schiller said, “I can’t approach a potential buyer unless I can persuade him that the blueprints are authentic. To do that, I must be able to say where they come from.”
Will looked frustrated. “I have to protect my supplier, including his identity.”
“And I have to protect my clients and my reputation.”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse.”
“I agree.”
Will thought through the problem. “How likely is it that you can get an interested buyer?”
“Providing the blueprints are authentic and accurate, it’s certain.”
Will was silent.
Schiller said, “If you could satisfy
me
that the supplier is authentic, that will be enough. I can tell my client that the source’s identity must remain a secret but that I can vouch for his credentials.”
Will looked unsure.
Schiller looked at one of the bodyguards and nodded. The guards left the room. He faced Will. “We’re going to have to exchange something. You need my client and money; I need a name and the blueprints.”
Will was hesitant. “I have your word?”
“I can give you that if you can give me your trust.”
Will lowered his head and stared at the floor. Finally he nodded and said, “Okay.”
He fixed his attention on the SVR agent. “He’s a Russian colonel named Taras Khmelnytsky.”
R
azin looked at the twenty-four men who were busy making preparations in the disused warehouse. They were his Spetsnaz Alpha troops, all handpicked by him for the training exercise. Tonight, their task was to infiltrate the base of the 104th Parachute Regiment in the ancient northwestern city of Pskov. It would be tough, though he wasn’t concerned, as he knew they’d succeed. What did concern him was that time was running out, because the exercise could be terminated at any time. If that happened before everything was in place, his plan would have failed.
He moved away from the men, their vehicles, and the equipment and sat on a wooden crate. Withdrawing his custom-made military knife, he looked at the long blade for several seconds before carefully sharpening it with a stone.
All of the MI6 officer’s agents had to die, but it was taking too long. That was why he needed to change tactics. The traitor had given him the names and the time and location of the next meeting, but this time he’d not only kill his target, he’d also capture his former agent handler—the man he’d recently found out carried the code name Sentinel. That would speed things up. Sentinel would be forced to summon all of his remaining agents to one location. Razin would slaughter them.
Everything depended on timing. The agents had to be dead before the three American cruise missile–bearing submarines sailed toward Russia. And the training exercise had to still be live when that happened so that he could plant the bomb.
He smiled as he looked at his faithful colleagues. They had no idea what they were really doing for him. It didn’t matter, because if they survived the war, he’d honor them for their role in preventing Russia from being crippled. But he’d never tell them the truth about the bomb. Instead he’d say that he’d removed its beacon and detonated it at sea or in one of Russia’s vast wastelands to prevent it from falling into American hands. By then no one would be asking questions. They’d be focused on far more pressing matters.
He thought about the big MI6 man he’d confronted outside the Saint Petersburg safe house. He could be a problem, for he was unlike anyone Razin had confronted before. No doubt he’d be with Sentinel at the meeting with General Barkov.