by Matthew Dunn
Ulana started up the Islander’s engine, gave Will the thumbs-up just before a blast of snow momentarily obscured her and the craft, turned the plane around, and immediately accelerated away before taking off.
Will saw the plane get smaller as it commenced its journey back to Greenland. He counted each dig, rationalizing that when he got to one hundred he’d be finished.
On the fifth dig, Ulana’s plane was at least one hundred yards over the lethal sea.
On the sixth dig, the plane flipped sideways, crashed into the strait, and was tossed on the waves.
Will screamed, “No!” and sprinted as fast as he could through the driving wind until he reached the water’s edge.
Jump in there?
Die in seconds?
Didn’t matter.
He began removing anything that would slow his swim down.
The plane began to sink into the freezing depths.
In a state of panic, he tore off his jacket.
He stopped.
He couldn’t hear the sound of the gunshot. But he could see its result. Blood splattered over the inside of the aircraft’s windows.
Ulana had taken her own life.
SIXTEEN
It was 6 A.M. as Marsha Gage strode along a Bureau corridor toward her office. Her cell phone rang. London number. What time was it there? About five hours ahead, she reckoned. “Marsha Gage.”
“Agent Gage, this is Detective Superintendent Barclay.”
“Hi, Terry. How did you manage at the apartment?”
“Not well.”
“Damn it, was hoping we’d get at least one lead there.”
“We didn’t get any leads, but Cochrane’s place was trashed. Expertly torn apart.” He told her everything.
Marsha snapped her cell shut and walked faster.
Bo Haupman smiled as he saw Marsha walking toward him, was about to greet her, then saw something in her expression and body language that warned him he should give her a very wide berth. As she strode past him without uttering a word or giving him a glance, her face looked thunderous.
She entered the FBI ops room and slammed the door shut. “Alistair! I need a word. Right now.”
She didn’t give the MI6 controller a chance to respond, instead walked fast into an adjacent small room, leaned against the desk, and folded her arms.
Alistair entered, looking completely unperturbed by her evident anger. “What is it, my dear?”
“Don’t you my dear me.”
“Breathe, Mrs. Gage. It’ll do you a world of good.”
“So would slapping someone right now.”
“And who would be top of your list?”
“You!”
“Of course I would.”
“You know what this is about?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Milk and one sugar, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Alistair held up one finger, stuck his head back into the ops room, and called out in his well-spoken voice, “Charles, be a darling and bring us two teas. Both with milk and sugar.”
“Fuck off.”
Alistair clicked his tongue and smiled at Marsha as he closed the door. “Seems Mr. Sheridan’s not predisposed to making us a nice cuppa.” His expression changed. “What’s wrong?”
Marsha pointed a finger at him. “Someone got to Cochrane’s home before the Metropolitan Police. Systematically ripped it apart.”
“I see. And you think I commissioned a team of MI6 operatives to do the job?”
“Damn right. Superintendent Barclay thinks the same.”
“And why would you believe I’d do such a thing?”
“Your patch. Your boy. If you can find out where he is, you can warn him off.”
“Quite so. But I had no reason to search Will’s home.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s the opposite. There’d have been no point, because I’d never have found anything remotely interesting there. Will’s not the kind of chap who leaves clues about his life lying around. He stores everything important inside his head.” He frowned. “How badly damaged was the place?”
“Bull in a china shop bad.”
“His antiques and other stuff?”
“Ruined.”
“That’s awful.” Alistair moved to the window and stared out at nothing. “He loved his things.”
“I’m sure that’s the least of his worries right now.”
“I know, but when this is over he’ll—”
“When this is over he’ll be in prison or dead.” Marsha frowned. “You still think he might have some kind of future?”
Alistair smiled, though his expression remained unsettled. “For the last nine years he’s been working for me, I never once thought it was certain he’d have a future.”
“At least then he had somewhere to retreat to. That’s all changed.”
“It has.” Alistair turned to her. “Being Will’s controller has required me to do more than issue orders. I’ve had to wear many hats—psychologist, defense lawyer, confidant, motivator, provocateur, and guardian. I know him better than anyone, though there are still parts of his mind and character that I’ve yet to fathom. He keeps me on my toes, always going in directions I least expect. But there’s one thing I know for sure: his home and possessions were about putting down roots and trying to connect with humanity. I’d never have issued orders for his things to be touched, and now that it’s happened I’ve got no idea what it will do to him if he ever gets the chance to find out.”
Marsha kept her eyes on the controller while deep in thought. “This one of them Jedi mind tricks Bo warned me about?”
“Quite apart from the fact that I’ve got no idea what Jedi means, a mind trick would serve no purpose given the fundamental principle that Will would never have left anything compromising at his home.”
Marsha nodded. “Guess that makes sense.”
“And yet somebody did think they’d find something at Will’s home. Any further thoughts as to who?”
“Yeah, one.”
“No doubt the same one, I suspect.” Alistair was once again all charm. “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, my dear? Unlike Sheridan, I don’t think any task is beneath me, plus it would be a pleasure.”
Marsha smiled. This guy talked like he was in a black-and-white movie, but it was kind of refreshing and made her feel nice. “No thanks.”
Alistair hesitated on his way out. “You’re doing an excellent job.”
“Bo Haupman should have told you I don’t like praise.”
“He did.”
“So why ignore his advice?”
“Because I know he’s wrong.”
“Yeah? How!”
“Because of seven things you don’t realize you do that betray the fact that you secretly enjoy praise.”
“What are they?”
“I’m not telling, Mrs. Gage.”
“Now that is a damned mind trick.”
“No. The mind flip is that I now know something about you that you don’t. You’ll wonder if others can see the same. And that leaves you with two choices—continue to perpetuate a lie, or be honest with yourself and others.” His smile was warm and his eyes held compassion. “That is the Jedi mind trick.”
Marsha laughed. “Tell you what—bring me that cup of tea when I’m done. Think I need one.”
“Of course. By the way, don’t stand for any nonsense, but do keep your powder dry.”
Sheridan entered the room two minutes after Alistair had left.
“Yeah?”
Now this was someone Marsha really wanted to slap hard, just for being Charles Sheridan. She told him about Superintendent Barclay’s call and what he’d discovered at Cochrane’s apartment. “You know anything about that?”
“None of your business.”
“Meaning you do.”
“Meaning my business is my business. It’s called logic.”
“It’s called being uncooperative.”
“Never said I was here to help.”
“Bit boring and predictable though, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Bureaucratic, interagency infighting.”
“I ain’t bored with it. Anyway, Patrick isn’t a fed, and he’s helping you.”
“Yes, but Patrick’s as much in the dark as I am. You’re not.”
“Yeah, life sucks for all but the rich and powerful.”
Marsha tried to stop her voice from becoming audibly angry. “Discreet call to our U.K. embassy? Get our London station to deploy an Agency team to Cochrane’s place before the cops went there? Endgame: find something that might locate Cochrane so you and your crony spooks could get to him before the Bureau did? That sound about right?”
Sheridan walked right up to her and held a finger close to her chest. “Keep your nose out!”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Why not?” Sheridan’s face was inches from hers, his expression utterly threatening and hostile. “You want equality in the workplace, you got it!”
Marsha held his gaze, even though he was at least a foot taller than her. “Equality? You touch lots of men in the workplace, do you, Charlie boy?”
“Fuck you.” Sheridan stepped back. “Senator Jellicoe’s authorized me to cover all bases, and if that means checking out Cochrane’s pad before the Brits get there then so be it.”
“You had no right . . .”
“I had every damn right, Gage! You help us or you don’t. Doesn’t matter. But nothing’s going to get in the way of us finding Cochrane.”
“I’ll make an official complaint.”
“To who? Haupman?” He laughed. “Maybe you’d like to have a little whine to the president. Want me to get him on the phone? ’Cause I can.”
“Has the president really bought into you, Jellicoe, and Parker?”
“Not us, you fool. What we can deliver.”
“Something called Ferryman?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Alistair. Want to go threatening him as well? Good luck. Maybe he’ll make a few phone calls. I’ve heard the Brits are world class at getting rid of people they don’t like.”
Sheridan pointed at her. “Alistair knows shit about Ferryman, meaning the same is true for you.”
“You—”
“Shut up! I ain’t threatening you, so don’t go getting your panties in a twist. You just ain’t worth the hassle. But I am telling you this: you think I’m some spineless dick who’s going to let himself be talked down, then think again.”
Marsha forgot about slapping Sheridan. Instead, she wanted to pull out her sidearm and shoot him. But she remembered what Alistair had said to her, and instead breathed deeply and kept her powder dry.
SEVENTEEN
Ellie Hallowes introduced herself to the security guards in the foyer of CIA headquarters in Langley and scrutinized her surroundings, because her deep-cover role made her feel exposed within the prominent high temple of espionage. “You should have me down for a pass. Director Parker’s expecting me.”
The guard made a phone call, got her to sign paperwork, and gave her an electronic swipe card that had the inscription TEMPORARY. “Wait here. Someone’s coming to get you.”
That someone arrived five minutes later, all smiles and handshakes. Ellie had no idea who he was, and didn’t care.
“Come with me. Been a while since you were here, right?”
“A while. Yes.”
“Nothing’s changed.” The man’s smile broadened. “Coffee’s still lousy.”
Just like the lame jokes. She followed him through the security gates, keeping her gaze low while desperately hoping she didn’t bump into someone who might shout out something like, “Ellie Hallowes, as I live and breathe!”
But no one took any notice of her as she rode an elevator and was guided along corridors that contained rooms with initials and number codes designating which teams they belonged to. She wondered if hostile intelligence agencies knew what these codes meant, because everyone in Langley did, and that meant there’d be a good chance someone had leaked their meaning. Langley was anything but deep cover—too many people, only one set of loose lips needed to damage the place. That said, there was a part of Langley that was a steel-plated fortress of secrecy.
She was ushered into a spacious room containing a large desk, computer, conference table and chairs, walls containing framed photos of Presidents Obama, Bush junior, Clinton, and Bush senior, and windows overlooking part of Langley’s manicured grounds. Ed Parker stood from behind his desk, walked to her, and shook her hand. “Great to see you in one piece, Ellie. That was a shitty deal in Norway.”
Senator Jellicoe didn’t get up, smile, or offer any greeting. He just stared at her from his seat at the conference table.
Parker pulled out a chair at the table and gestured toward it. “Can we get you anything?”
“No.” Ellie sat, wishing she could be a few feet farther away from Jellicoe—actually, wishing she weren’t in the same room as him.
Jellicoe kept his eyes on her. The scent of his pungent cologne was mixed with sweat.
Parker sat next to her so that they were both opposite Jellicoe. Ellie knew it was Parker’s way of saying that he was on her side. It was bullshit.
Parker asked, “Did Welfare visit you at your hotel?”
Ellie nodded.
“Much use?”
“I hadn’t realized the Agency’s Welfare Department had gone all amateur psychologist. Seems they want everyone to have PTSD so that they can sit down, have a chat, and share the horrors. All that kind of stuff. Not much use when life’s a little more complicated than that. I preferred it when they came over with a bag of groceries and a bottle of Scotch.”
Parker laughed. “Me too. Sorry. I just wanted them to check you were okay during your week off. Before you came here.”
“Make sure I wasn’t losing my mind? Put me on suicide watch?”
“Just check you were okay.”
“I’m fine, and I’m here. Reporting for duty. Sir.”
Jellicoe took out a pink silk handkerchief and began twining it around his flabby fingers. “You being sarcastic, girl?”
She glanced at Parker. “Is the senator cleared to speak to me?”
Parker nodded.
“About specifics? Norway?”
“He is.”
Jellicoe wrapped the handkerchief tight around a finger. “What do you think happened in Norway?”
“Russians killed my asset and tried to kill me.”
“How do you know they were Russians?”
“They spoke Russian, looked Russian, and after all, we had advance intel that Herald was under threat from the Russians. You telling me I got it wrong?”
“No. Just wanted to hear what you thought happened.”
“Well, that’s it in a nutshell.”
“Not quite.”
Ellie was silent.
“More to it than that.”
Ellie held Jellicoe’s gaze.
“You did the right thing telling Sheridan what Cochrane had done.” Jellicoe yanked hard on the scarf as if he was attempting to strangle his finger. “But I want to know what Cochrane then told you.”
She shrugged. “He said that a senior Russian spy had ordered the hit; that Cochrane had disobeyed Agency orders by killing his men; and that he wasn’t going to comply with Sheridan’s instruction to give himself up to the U.S. or U.K. embassies in Oslo. Then he left.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
Ellie darted a look of incredulity at Parker before returning her attention to Jellicoe. “Should I have fought him? Not that easy, given I’m just”—she smiled—“a girl.” Her smile vanished. “But I did tell him to comply with Sheridan’s orders. And just so you know that I’m giving you a balanced account, I also thanked him for saving my life.”
Parker responded, “That’s understandable.”
Jellicoe removed the handke
rchief from his fingers and patted his jowls. “You curious as to why we had orders in place for Cochrane not to open fire on the Russian spy and his team?”
“Of course I’m damn curious! Those orders would have had me dead! Are you going to tell me what they’re about?”
“Nope.”
“Thought not.”
“Cochrane give the Russian spy or our orders a name?”
Antaeus. Ferryman.
“No,” Ellie lied.
“Say where he was going?”
Ellie had predicted this question, and days ago had decided on an answer that she thought the Agency might swallow. “He seemed confused. I asked him what he’d do, and he’d told me that he had to go someplace safe. My guess is he’s laying low for the time being, trying to decide what to do. Probably Europe or Middle East. But I could be wrong. Maybe he’s trying to get as far away from Norway and the States as he can. Don’t blame him.”
“You feel compassion toward Cochrane?”
“A bit. Yes.”
“Damsel in distress rescued by knight in shining armor?”
Regardless of the events in Norway, Ellie hated the idea of being viewed as a damsel in distress. Then again, Will Cochrane was the first man to have saved her life. She recalled the way he gave her Herald’s coat. The memory made her feel wanted, even though the sensation seemed strange. She feigned annoyance. “I told him to give himself up and that in return I’d put in a good word for him.”
“You’d take a polygraph test so that we can check your version of events?”
“Sure.” Ellie meant what she’d said. Polygraph tests were wholly unreliable and she’d proven in the past that she could easily manipulate them. “I can do it today if you like.”
“We’ll let you know.”
Ellie drummed her fingers. This was the moment she’d been leading up to. “No denying, at first I was major league pissed that you were willing to sacrifice me for something I’m not cleared to know about. But I’ve had a week to get my thinking straight. I get it. Doesn’t mean I like it, but hey, it’s a game I’ve played as well. What bothers me now is why Herald was killed and why a senior Russian spy turned up in person to oversee it being done.”