He glanced at Joanna and Robert’s car, then back at Betty and Alfie. The old operatives were well past their prime, but they had something that a younger and more agile team couldn’t have: wisdom, and a been-there and seen-it-all wealth of experience. As well as all of that, they were incredible shots. One year ago, Will had watched them assemble at one end of the shooting range at one of MI6’s training facilities. They’d looked like a group of retirees who’d taken a bus trip out of London’s suburbs to catch a bit of fresh country air. The bemused range instructor had given them training on how to hold a Browning 9 mm at eye level and the stance required to compensate for the powerful handgun’s recoil. Betty had been up first. With a grin on her face, she’d ignored the instructor’s advice and, to Will’s amusement, had held the gun with two hands close to her tummy and fired ten shots in eight seconds across the twenty-meter range and had placed all bullets within a three-centimeter spread of the bull’s-eye. The instructor’s jaw had dropped, and he’d said, “You look like me granny. How on Earth did you do that?”
Will knew his sister couldn’t be in better hands.
He walked across the street, strode up to the entrance, hesitated for a moment, then rang the doorbell. As he waited, his stomach was in knots.
James answered the door. The diminutive lawyer had removed his tie and was holding a glass of red wine. As soon as he recognized Will, his expression was hostile and surprised. “What the hell do you want?”
Will looked over the man’s shoulder, down the hallway. “I need to speak to Sarah.”
James’ face turned red. “You’ve got no right to be here.”
From somewhere in the house, Sarah called out, “Who is it, darling?”
James ignored her, lowered his voice, but kept it full of anger. “Leave right now.”
Will shook his head. “I can’t do that, James. Please. It’s vital I speak to her.”
James took a step toward Will. “She doesn’t need you in her life. Not since you got blood on your hands.”
Will recalled Betty imploring him to be civil to his sister and James. He wondered what to say, but before he could stop himself, he blurted, “God, you’ve always been a self-righteous ass.” He pushed past James, spilling the man’s drink over his white shirt, and walked quickly into the house. “Sarah, it’s Will. Don’t be angry with me. I’m here for a reason.”
He walked in the kitchen. Sarah was facing him, leaning against a work surface, her expression neutral. She was tall, pretty, with straight blonde hair.
She said nothing for a while, just stared at him, then, “I didn’t reply to your letters for a reason. I’d have thought that lack of response was a clear message that I wanted nothing to do with you.”
Will stood in the center of the kitchen, trying to hold back nausea. “I don’t understand. I’ve never done anything wrong to you or James.”
In the hallway, James was cursing. No doubt the shirt he was wearing was very expensive.
A trace of a smile emerged on Sarah’s face. Her eyes flickered between the hallway and her brother. “Well, you have now.”
Will waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve both got to come with me. Pack a bag, but we’ve got to be out of here in five minutes.”
Sarah looked incredulous. “
You’ve
got to be joking!”
Will shook his head. “You’re in danger. There are people waiting outside who can take you somewhere safe, just for a few days while I sort things out.”
The incredulity turned to anger. “And who brought this danger onto me?”
Will was silent.
Sarah banged a fist against a cupboard. “You bastard!”
“Sarah, please . . .”
“Shut up.” She looked confused. “Isn’t it about time you told me what you did for a living?”
Will lowered his head. “I wish . . . I . . .”
“Yeah, you bloody wish.” Her expression strengthened. “What happens if we don’t leave?”
Sweet talk her, Will.
“You’ll be killed.”
Shock covered her face. Shaking her head wildly, tears now rolling down her cheeks, she shouted, “This is
why
I don’t want you in our lives. You’re trouble.”
James stormed into the kitchen, anger vivid on his face.
But he turned and fled after both Sarah and Will barked at him in unison, “Get out!”
They returned their attention to each other.
Will’s voice trembled as he said, “You don’t know me, Sarah.”
She hissed, “I
know
you. I saw how you changed on the day the men killed our mother and you killed them. The Will I knew had been
snapped
in half.”
Will moved to her and placed his hands on her arms.
She shrugged them away, her voice now tearful, quieter, but still forceful. “Don’t, just don’t . . .”
But Will embraced her again, pulling her close to him as a tear ran down his face. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
She held her arms in midair, hesitated, then placed her hands on his back.
They stayed like this for one minute, silently holding each other.
Sarah asked in a near whisper, “The danger you’ve brought onto us—is it because you’re doing something important?”
Will recalled Alistair’s comment.
We don’t know anything about the paper.
He felt wretched, lost for words, and now made no attempt to hold back the tears. “The danger is very real.”
Sarah squeezed him tight, rested her face on his shoulder, and placed a hand delicately on his cheek. “Where have you gone, my little brother?” She gave one last squeeze, then said, “We’ll do what you say on one condition.”
Will sighed. “What?”
She took a step back, glanced at the hallway, then back at her brother. “He’s weak, and is petrified of you. But when you’re not around, he makes me laugh and takes care of me. I need that and he needs that.” She held Will at arm’s length. “We’ll go with your people, so long as you promise me that you’ll never contact me again.”
Will dropped his gaze to the ground, felt dizzy and nauseous.
Nothing seemed real.
Except the hate he felt for himself as he quietly replied, “I promise.”
A
s the vehicles drove off, one of Kurt Schreiber’s men lowered his thermal night-vision binoculars, moved away from the window overlooking the street and Sarah Goldsmith’s house, pressed numbers on his cell phone, and held the phone to his head. “They’re on the move, sir. Cochrane’s got two women and two men with him. All of them well past their prime, in their sixties, I’d say. They’ve taken both husband and wife. Our vehicles are moving into position.”
“Don’t let me down. They must remain under observation at all times.”
The man smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Schreiber. I’ve put some of our best on this. Wherever they go, we’ll be on them day and night. Right up to the point you give us the order to kill her.”
I
t was close to 3:00
A.M.
as Will walked into the Auguststrasse apartment. The place was larger than he’d expected, sumptuous and airy, with light-colored art deco furniture, a modern kitchen visible through one of the archways, and a long hallway beyond another archway that led to bedrooms containing en suite bathrooms as well as a guest washroom.
Also unexpected was the fact that Suzy and Peter were still up. The CIA analyst was sitting at a twelve-seat dining table, taping keys on her laptop. She looked tired, but focused. Peter Rhodes was staring at a whiteboard containing handwritten words, arrows, and numerous question marks.
He was wearing a pink-striped shirt, no tie, slacks, and brown brogues. Spinning around as Will walked into the room, he grinned, clapped his hands, and said loudly in his upper-class accent, “The wanderer returns. Guess what? Since you’ve been away, I’ve managed to achieve the sum total of fuck-all.”
Will dumped his travel bag onto the floor, kept hold of his duty-free shopping bag, and muttered, “I know how that feels.”
Peter smiled even wider. “Glad you do! I’m cross with myself and am starting to get a little bit annoying to be around.” He darted a look at Suzy. “Right, Suzy Sue?”
Suzy kept her eyes on her screen. “Damn right.”
Peter jabbed a finger against the whiteboard. “Questions keep me going.” The officer seemed totally energized despite the hour. “But I become a grumpy sod when I don’t have answers.”
Will walked up to Suzy, withdrew from the shopping bag a book he’d bought at the airport entitled
Work & Pregnancy: Have a Life, Have a Kid,
hesitated for a moment, held it out to her, and saw her frown as she took it from him. He asked Peter, “The questions?”
“Ones you’ve already asked yourself.”
Will looked at the whiteboard.
Why did Yevtushenko steal the paper?
Where’s “Mikhail”?
Why is his SVR team waiting in Berlin?
Why is the paper so important?
Why can’t it be copied and its value therefore diluted?
Who is Number 1?
Will darted a look at Suzy. “Anything on the name ‘Mikhail’?”
Keeping her eyes fixed on her screen, she replied, “Lots. Too much.”
“Even by narrowing the parameters?”
She nodded. “I’ve gone through trace requests, our databases, NSA, Cheltenham Sigint”—she sighed as she slammed shut the laptop—“and even open source material. Thousands of Mikhails . . .”
“Mikhail is a popular name within the Russian mummy fraternity.” Peter sat on the edge of the table. “You think he might pay Miss Petrova another visit? If so, might be worth briefing her so that she can try to get a surname.”
Will shook his head. “He won’t go back to her because he knows that she’d clam up. His agenda is to retrieve the paper and take Yevtushenko back to Russia. He made that clear to her.”
“Bit silly of him. Should have kept his powder dry and lied to her.”
Will disagreed. “She’s smart, and I think Mikhail knows that. No matter what he said to her, she’d have worked out that the Russians were going to punish her lover.”
“So why did he visit her?”
“That question invites another.”
Peter frowned, then jumped down from the table, strode up to the whiteboard, and wrote:
Why did he tell Alina that his name was Mikhail?
Will smiled. “Exactly.”
Peter’s mind was racing. Speaking more to himself, he said, “To put her at ease? Hope not, because that means the name’s been plucked out of thin air. Maybe because the name could mean something to Yevtushenko? Possible, but that’s only of value if Alina was privy to that information.”
Suzy added, “We can’t rule that last possibility out. If there’s a connection between Yevtushenko and Mikhail, then Mikhail might have been hoping to use that connection to get her to work with the Russians.”
“Quite.” Peter studied the whiteboard. “But if that was the case, why didn’t Mikhail hammer that connection home to her?”
Laith emerged from the hallway, wearing only a towel around his waist, his hair wet. The ex–Delta Force operative’s expression looked thunderous, and as he walked to the kitchen while rubbing his face, he muttered, “Coffee.”
Adam entered the room, fully dressed and yawning. “We’re on in fifty minutes.” The former SAS soldier also made for the kitchen, and said under his breath, “If it’s another day of just sitting on our arses, I’m going to shoot someone just to liven things up.”
Peter moved right up to the whiteboard and jabbed a finger against the latest question. “Why, why, why?”
Laith reentered the room holding a steaming mug, thought about sitting, decided it was too risky a movement with the towel he was wearing, and withdrew a thin white tube from his waistline. He puffed on it, and the tube emitted a tiny bit of odorless smoke.
Will frowned. “What on Earth is that?”
Laith gestured toward Suzy. “We got a child on the way. I only found out yesterday. In here, I stick to electronic cigarettes.” As Adam joined him, Laith asked his colleague, “Lobby, or circuits of the exterior?”
Adam said irritably, “You can do the lobby today. I don’t care how cold or wet it is outside. I need the exercise.”
Laith shrugged. “Okay, I’ll bring a good book.”
“Here.” Suzy tossed the CIA officer Will’s purchase. In a sarcastic tone, she said, “Find out if ‘having a life’ means trawling databases for some guy called Mikhail.”
Laith seemed unfazed as he turned the book over. “Sure. Anything else?”
“Yes. See if it says anything about why I’m so darn tired.” She shook her head and said to herself, “I hate this feeling. I’m not normally like this.”
As Laith and Adam left to go to their respective rooms and make final preparations for their shift at the Grand Hyatt, Will called to them, “I’m coming with you. I need to speak to Roger and Mark.”
“Fine.”
“You’ll be the highlight of their night.”
Will asked Suzy, “How long have you been up?”
Peter answered on her behalf. “Since this time yesterday. You’re a tough girl, aren’t you, Suzy. And bloody stubborn.”
Will said quietly, “We’re hitting a dead end on the name. Get some rest.”
Suzy seemed unsure.
“Please.”
She sighed. “Just a few hours’ sleep, then I’ll do some more searching. There’re other leads to pursue, though I’m not hopeful.” She stood, arched her back while rubbing her tummy, and began walking toward the bedrooms.
Will looked at the whiteboard. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Suzy, what parameters are you using for the search?”
She stopped midway across the room. “Approximate age, obvious intelligence activities that we know about and reference someone called Mikhail, diplomatic listings of Mikhails who’ve been in posts that are known SVR covers, and I’ve managed to get some—not nearly enough, mind you—of the flight rosters of carriers that entered Germany during the forty-eight hours after the Gdansk operation. I’ve checked the handful of Mikhails that we know entered German airspace during that time. All are wrong.”
Will remained motionless. Speaking quietly, he said, “I want you to narrow it down much more than that. When you wake up, you need to focus solely on our databases, and within that focus only on our Russian double agent files. In particular, I want you to see if a Mikhail crops up in any cases during the last five years where one of our agents has been compromised and captured or killed by the Russians.”
Suzy grinned, turned, and started to walk back to the table. “
Now
you got me all revved up. Sleep can wait.”
“No it can’t, Suzy!” Will faced her and said in a more sympathetic tone, “This is so vital that the agent files can wait a few hours until my best analyst is fully reenergized.”
Suzy looked unsure, then beamed. “You shouldn’t be trying to charm a pregnant, married woman, Mr. Cochrane.”
Will laughed softly. “Off to bed with you.
Both
of you.” He frowned. “Boy or girl?”
“Too early to tell.”
“Have you thought of names?”
“Not yet.” Suzy paused, then smiled. “If it’s a boy, I could call him Mikhail. Seems it’s a good choice.”
After she left the room, Peter moved close to him and asked quietly, “Why the double agent files?”
Will pointed at the whiteboard. “Let’s assume that the SVR officer did give Alina the name ‘Mikhail’ for a specific reason. Perhaps there’s a connection between the two Russians. Alina doesn’t know what that connection is, but that doesn’t matter.”
Peter seemed to be following Will’s train of thought. “Because Mikhail suspects she’s in contact with Yevtushenko and will pass him the name?”
Will nodded.
“Doesn’t get us anywhere nearer to understanding what the connection is, though.”
Will considered this. “Yevtushenko’s a conduit to, as you call him, Number 1.”
William.
“SVR officer gives Alina the name ‘Mikhail’; Alina passes the name to her lover; and lover boy passes it to Number 1. Exactly as the SVR officer hoped.”
Peter frowned. “A message?”
“It could be.”
“But the connection . . . ?”
“What if there is no connection beyond the fact that while Mikhail may not be known to Yevtushenko, the defector will certainly know
of
him.”
“Mikhail’s the big SVR officer’s real name?”
“It’s conjecture at present. But Suzy can help on that.”
“But why would he want Yevtushenko to have his real name?”
“To unsettle him.” He walked up to the board, and grabbed a marker pen. “Here’s a thought: the crown jewel is stolen, Russians are going to do everything they can to get it back, so they send the one man who can achieve that objective.” He momentarily glanced back at Peter. “A man who has identified and grabbed Russian double agents in the past.” He looked at the board. “I think Mikhail knows who Number 1 is and needs Number 1 to understand who he’s dealing with.”
Peter stood next to him, his eyes also staring at the board. “Could be a pincer movement.”
“Mikhail on the one side, his four-man team on the other?”
“It would explain why the team’s remained static. Mikhail wants Number 1 to know that if keeps hold of the crown jewel, he’ll hunt him down and put a bullet in his head.”
Will considered this. “You’re thinking that he’s trying to force a sale? And the team is there to pay and take delivery?”
“Yes. Aggressive leverage. The team isn’t a benign bunch of business-cover spooks.” Peter folded his arms. “They’re hard bastards, men who are waiting for Mikhail to drive Number 1 toward them so they can confront him with a bag of cash to buy back the paper, or failing that put a shitload of bullets into Number 1’s body.”
Will nodded. “It’s a good theory, but wrong.”
Peter frowned. “You’re sure?”
Will said, “I think the team
are
shooters, but there’s no pincer movement to be had.”
“Look, we
are
conjecturing, but this has to make sense because . . .”
“No!” Will put a finger against one of Peter’s questions.
Why can’t it be copied and its value therefore diluted?
“Damn.”
“Yes, damn.” Will removed his finger. “There can’t be a sale.”
“Because a buyer would need to know that he or she’s in possession of something unique.”
“And anything on a piece of paper
can
be copied.”
“None of this makes sense.” Peter sounded exasperated. “How can this paper retain any value?”
“Its value is to the man who orchestrated its theft. He’s not looking to sell it, and the Russians have no intention of trying to buy it back.” He repeated, “There’s no pincer movement.”
“Then what?”
Will said quietly, “What if the Russians have sent a spycatcher? Their best. Mikhail is warning Number 1 that Mikhail’s that man. And the team is there to support him while he does what he excels in.”
“But if that’s the case, why’s the team still holed up in the hotel?”
“Perhaps because Number 1’s hiding in a location that’s known to Mikhail. No doubt it’s an armed camp, too heavily defended for Mikhail and his men to go in there, but the moment Number 1 steps out then Mikhail will activate his team and go for him.”
“A standoff?”
“It’s possible.”
“It would also suggest that Mikhail’s got other assets in situ who are helping him watch Number 1’s place.”
Will agreed. Recalling what the injured Polish AW operative had said to him in Gdansk, he frowned. “Mikhail actively encouraged the Poles to stop Number 1’s men leaving Poland, and by implication he wasn’t concerned if the Poles took possession of the paper. Now we have a standoff between Number 1 and Mikhail, and that would suggest that the paper and Number 1 himself are no threat while they’re locked down in their current location.” He rubbed his face. “I suspect the Russians know that the paper’s useless to anyone except Number 1; and that it’s useless to Number 1 unless he has freedom of movement.”
“But how does Mikhail know the location of Number 1?”
Will shrugged. “Someone close to Number 1 tipped him off, or maybe he’s had him under observation for several weeks.”
“Neither makes sense. An insider would have also tipped him off that the paper was about to be stolen. The Russians would have shot Yevtushenko the moment he tried to get near it.”
“Maybe the insider wasn’t privy to that information.” Will shook his head. “No, you’re right. An insider would have tipped off Mikhail about Number 1’s location because that location had a precise value to the SVR. The value being that a highly valuable SVR paper was about to transit from Moscow to the location.”
Peter nodded. “The same logic would apply to the need to have Number 1 under SVR observation prior to the theft.”
“I agree.” Will was deep in thought. Speaking to himself, he muttered, “Come on. Think, think.”
Peter was silent.
Will frowned. Speaking slowly and deliberately, he said, “I think Mikhail already knew the location of Number 1, maybe had known for years, but had no specific concerns about him. But when the paper was stolen, Mikhail knew the only place it was headed was Number 1’s hands. The Russian tried to stop that happening in Gdansk, but failed. So he then raced to Number 1’s location and has been close to the place ever since.”