by Matthew Dunn
Alistair asked Marsha, “What next?”
Marsha sprung to her feet. “I’ll alert the media that Cochrane’s on U.S. soil. And starting tonight, I need to fill this room with extra Bureau bodies—detectives, analysts, surveillance specialists.” She reached for her phone. “Then we need our best shooters.”
The MD 530 Little Bird helicopter banked left and flew fast toward the building on the Quantico Marine Corps base, Virginia. Two operatives sat on foldout external benches on either side of the bird—team leader Pete Duggan and one of his men. The other six members of Duggan’s unit were now visible on the ground. All eight specialists were members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, America’s premier law enforcement special operations unit that was trained to the standard of Special Forces; indeed, most members of HRT were ex-SF, and Duggan was no exception. He’d spent twelve years in SEAL Team 6 before his wife had successfully convinced him to swap a globetrotting covert life for one that kept him home a bit more.
Like six of his men, he had a .45 pistol and stun grenades strapped to his body and was carrying an MP5/10A3 submachine gun; the seventh man was equipped with a Remington 870 shotgun, and the man speaking on the radio was lying prone four hundred yards from the building while looking through the sight of an M40A1 sniper rifle. All of them were wearing OD green Nomex assault suits, combat boots, gloves, and Kevlar helmets with radio mics hardwired into them.
Inside the building were life-sized wooden cutouts of men holding guns, some of them static, others on electric-powered pulleys that could make them move. And in one of the rooms, sitting at a desk, was a real person—Jack O’Connor, head of the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group, to whom all members of the HRT reported. It was the fifteenth time this week that the HRT had practiced the assault. Today it was O’Connor’s turn to play hostage and hopefully not be killed as the team attempted to rescue him while using live ammunition. Aside from not accidentally shooting his boss, Duggan’s objective was to shave ten seconds off previous assault times.
These drills kept him and his men sharp.
And staved off boredom.
But God, Duggan was hoping for some real action soon, because it had been three months since he’d fired a weapon at genuine bad guys.
The Little Bird hovered over the flat roof. It was the signal to assault, and Duggan and his colleague wasted no time, both tossing ropes down so that they were hanging over the building’s flat roof.
Five members of the team entered the house at ground level.
Duggan and his number two fast-roped down.
Boots on the roof.
Sectors clear.
Heel through the window skylight.
Flash bang dropped through there.
Abseil gear secure on extractor vents.
Both men flew down the side of the building, rope in one hand, MP5 in the other.
Sound of more flash bangs and machine gun fire inside the building.
Doorframe charges blew open a reinforced fire exit.
Boom.
Enter.
Duggan first. Number two second.
Inside the room.
Two hostiles.
Down. Down.
Move on.
To the corridor.
Target running away.
Short burst in his back; stand over his body; another three rounds in the back of his head.
Second room.
Empty.
Last room on second floor.
Four targets, one live hostage.
Take two on the left.
Fire.
Shit! Weapon malfunction.
Drop to knee, .45 out, fire. Fire.
Wingman takes other two out.
Targets dead.
Hostage alive.
Second floor clear.
Radio mic says first floor also clear.
House is secure.
Jack O’Connor checked his watch. “That’s your fastest by seventeen seconds. Excellent work, considering you had a gun malfunction.”
Duggan removed his helmet and one glove, smoothed fingers through his matted blond hair, and walked through smoke to examine the targets. All shots had been precise. “Next time I want us to do a fast rope while the Little Bird’s still moving. We’ll run it again this afternoon.”
O’Connor shook his head. “No you won’t. While you were in the air, I had a call from HQ. I want you and your team in D.C. in three hours.”
“Another training exercise?”
O’Connor smiled. “Not this time.”
Antaeus was deep in thought as he walked beside the lake on his large, wooded and heath-covered grounds, fifty miles outside of Moscow. Two things were on the spymaster’s mind: Project Ferryman and Will Cochrane. It was imperative that Cochrane didn’t learn the truth and destroy Antaeus’s strategy to cripple America. Cochrane had to fail and back down, or be killed.
Killing a man was not only distasteful to Antaeus; he also saw it as a sign of weakness, because it usually meant that something had gone wrong. Throughout his career he’d always believed that the most effective weapon in a spy’s armory was his mind. Time and time again, he’d proven that his brilliant tactics were infinitely superior to those of his more brutish colleagues. That’s why he answered to no one except the premier of Russia. And even the premier rarely dared to challenge or attempt to direct Antaeus. As a result, Antaeus was the real brain and power behind Russia’s desire for ascendancy and world dominance. And right now, that brain would not hesitate to issue orders to have Cochrane murdered.
Even though Antaeus highly respected Cochrane and would gain no pleasure from killing him.
He put Cochrane and Ferryman out of his mind and started scrutinizing the land beneath him. After a while he stopped, used the tip of his long walking stick to unearth a barely visible stone, and ignored the pain down one side of his body as he picked it up. After brushing off soil, he smiled. The object was a Stone Age flint axhead, crafted with immaculate precision, and was no doubt the best he’d found during his comprehensive research into the settlement that had existed here twenty-two thousand years ago. Back inside the house, he would mount the tool and draw it so that he could add the illustration to the thesis he was submitting to the Moscow Archaeology Museum. The discovery of the tool would bolster his argument that, contrary to perceived wisdom, Stone Age man was not solely nomadic during the Ice Age in western Russia, but would settle in one place for long periods of time and would rely extensively on the fur, flesh, and bones of mammoths for clothing, food, and the construction of shelters. The tool would have taken days to make and was unlike the crude tools made by people on the move. Its maker was a patient, cunning man who had the wit to let his prey come to him rather than risk death from exposure during a hunt. Despite the severity of his surroundings, he was in control of his environment.
Antaeus’s cell phone rang.
A U.S. number.
He listened to the caller for two minutes before saying, “I will alert my team that Cochrane’s in the States. But if the FBI gets to him first, you know what needs to be done.”
Charles Sheridan snapped shut his cell phone, poured a large glass of red wine, and slid it across the table just as Senator Jellicoe sat down opposite him in a discrete corner of the D.C. Ritz-Carlton’s Westend Bistro. “You’re going to need that.”
“Bad news?”
“Cochrane’s in the U.S.”
“What?!” Jellicoe looked around, realizing his raised voice had caught the attention of others in the restaurant. He leaned forward and whispered, “You told me there was no chance he’d head west!”
“I got it wrong.”
“But Marsha Gage didn’t.” Hostility and apprehension were evident on Jellicoe’s face. “How did he manage to get this close to us?”
The CIA officer shrugged. “He’s resourceful.”
“And driven.” Jellicoe pointed a finger at Sheridan. “He mustn’t disrupt our project. We’re this close t
o Cobalt.”
Sheridan thought for a moment. “We could just tell him to give himself up, that no charges will be made against him. Put a statement out to that effect on the networks and print media. Maybe he’d listen.”
“Why would he do that?”
“If he knew the true value of Ferryman and its link to getting Cobalt, the professional in him might realize he’s not operating in the interest of our national security.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe he’ll go to the Washington Post and tell them that he’s been hung out to dry because of something called Ferryman. And once the media’s involved, you know where that will lead.”
Sheridan smiled. “So that means we stay on track.”
“Yep.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Jellicoe took a sip of his red wine and patted his mouth with a handkerchief. “But, he’s too close.”
“This could work for us. There was always the risk that if he got caught in Europe, one of the foreign agencies might not have handed him over to us. Here, it’s cut and dry.”
“But also more exposed.”
Sheridan looked around. The Westend Bistro was a favorite among politicians and lobbyists working in Capitol Hill. Some of them were in here right now, and he wondered what they’d think if they knew what he was discussing with Jellicoe. “I got a couple of deniable Agency assets on standby and a place west of here where we can take Cochrane and make his body disappear.”
“How deniable and reliable?”
“Grade A to both.”
Jellicoe grinned, his flabby face looking reptilian and smug. “Good.”
Antaeus’s four assassins were sitting in a car on Colorado Avenue, in the Crestwood section of Washington, D.C. The quiet street was lined with family homes that were modern, functional, and medium sized, for those whose paychecks were neither great nor small. All had large front lawns that were immaculately cut and uncluttered. The men were observing one house from a hundred yards away. Two kids were playing while their dad was keeping an eye on them and stamping his feet to stay warm. It was afternoon and the family had returned home ten minutes ago.
One of the two Englishmen asked his compatriot, “How come the boss calls you Scott and me Oates?”
Code name Scott shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, for starters it means I’m cursed.”
“Why?”
“Captain Oates got out of his tent during the Terra Nova expedition and went walkabout in the Antarctic so that he could die and not be a burden to his mates.”
“It was a brave thing to do.”
“Whereas Scott got to reach the South Pole. It’s not fair.”
Scott gestured to their Norwegian colleague. “You’re forgetting that I die on the way back, and anyway Amundsen here beat me to the South Pole. Wasted journey.”
Amundsen laughed. “I made it to the South and North Poles.” The Norwegian frowned. “Still, I later die in a rescue mission in the Arctic.”
The Irishman ran a hand over his pistol’s barrel. “I got no complaints being Shackleton ’cause I got knighted by King Edward VII for getting furthest south before Norwegie Boy later reached the Pole. Plus, I die of natural causes.”
“No you don’t. The booze gets you in the end. Stops your heart.”
“Never proven.”
“It’s what your doctor said.”
“So what? Anyways, what’s unnatural about booze?”
Oates laughed. “An Irishman to the bitter end.”
“Quite right.” Shackleton’s expression turned serious as he rammed a magazine into his handgun, while keeping his gaze on the family. “I give it fifteen minutes maximum before the father tells them to pack it in and get inside ’cause he’s freezing his nuts off.”
Scott raised a hand. “Showtime.”
The four men were motionless as they watched a car pull up into the driveway of the house they were watching.
“Give it five minutes, then we’ll put the beacon in the car. And we stay on the target day and night. Got it?”
Scott’s colleagues nodded.
“Target leads us to Cochrane. We kill Cochrane.” Scott watched the vehicle door open, his expression focused. “And the boss has given us complete authority to clear a path if anyone gets in our way.”
Marsha Gage stepped out of the car, greeted her family, and walked with them into their home.
TWENTY-FOUR
Catherine Parker kissed her nine-year-old daughter good night, went downstairs, and was pleasantly surprised to see her husband sitting at the kitchen table. He’d warned her that he might have to work late because the fugitive Will Cochrane was now on U.S. soil. Her surprise turned into concern as she watched him down his Scotch, pour another, and rest his head in his hands while staring at the drink. Outside their Arlington home, it had started to rain hard, and ordinarily that would have been perfect for Ed. After a long day at work, he loved sharing a drink with his wife, and doubly so if he and his family were all toasty while the outside world was chucking everything it could at their sturdy house. But tonight he seemed oblivious to the weather and the presence of Catherine.
“Home early, my dear. Everything okay?”
Ed looked up, tried to smile but failed, and rubbed his hand over his fatigued face. “Just glad to be here.”
“Now, now, darling.” Catherine grabbed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass. “You can’t fool a spook’s wife that easily.” She sat opposite him, pulled out the knitting needles that held her long, raggedy gray hair in place when she was gardening and doing other chores, and placed a hand over his. “What’s happened?”
Ed took a swig of his whiskey and huffed. “I got overpromoted, that’s what happened. Should never have been made director.”
Catherine squeezed his hand. “We’ve spoken about this before.”
They had, many times. Though a capable Agency operator, deep down Ed hated the additional responsibilities attached to being in senior management.
Catherine eyed the whiskey, wondering whether she should tell her husband to switch to a softer drink. She decided to let him get his worries out of his system by finishing the Scotch, but after that she’d take the tumbler away from him. “Just a wobbly day?”
Ed sighed while gripping his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Not just any wobbly day. Things are escalating, and I’m damned if I like the direction they’re going in.”
“You have a voice and a say. Speak your mind to your peers, if you don’t like what they’re doing.”
“Peers?” Ed looked bitter, swirled his drink, and downed it in one. “Technically, Jellicoe and Sheridan are my peers. But I’m not their equal. At least they don’t treat me that way, and they do what they darn well like.”
Catherine knew she had to tread carefully on the rare occasions when Ed was like this. Not that he could be a threat to her—on the contrary, he was the gentlest of souls—but he was a sensitive man and always liked to feel that Catherine was his closest ally. Saying the wrong thing could make him doubt that, and therefore give him anguish. Trouble was, sometimes Ed also needed to be told he was wrong. She was sensing that now could be one of those times. “How are things escalating?”
“Marsha Gage is putting together a task force. The Bureau manhunt’s about to kick off.”
“So?”
“So when she gets Cochrane, we’re authorized to take him off her hands. What the Bureau doesn’t know is that we’re then going to put Cochrane out of his misery and dump his body somewhere it’ll never be found.”
“You told me days ago this might happen. What’s changed things for you?”
“I just . . . just keep thinking that this could be me or one of my officers. Cochrane disobeyed orders in Norway in order to rescue Ellie Hallowes. Sure, he should get a reprimand and be told to keep his mouth shut. But I don’t know if I’d have done any different if it was me with a rifle in my hand watchi
ng men coming to kill one of our own.”
Catherine smiled sympathetically. “I think you’re a bit old to be in a situation like that. Plus you were never one for the guns-and-glory stuff.”
“Yeah, and look where it’s got me: promoted because I spent more time in a suit, mixing with the Capitol Hill folk, than I did out in the field.”
Catherine had to snap Ed out of this mood, because he was spiraling. She got an extra glass, filled it with wine, moved the whiskey tumbler out of his reach, and gave him the drink. “Wine always makes you happy.”
“Can’t promise you that tonight.”
Catherine leaned forward and kissed Ed on the cheek. “You trust me, my love?”
“Yeah, always.”
“Know that I’ve got your back?”
Ed smiled, though his eyes were moist. “Sure thing, Mrs. Parker.”
“And know that I think Sheridan and Jellicoe aren’t even worthy of wiping your ass?”
That comment cheered Ed up. “Now that’s an image I don’t want stuck in my head. But, yeah, I know what you think of them.”
“Then you’ll also know that there are times when you should listen to your wife, because she just might get some sense into that head of yours.”
“Sense?”
Catherine nodded. “You’ve always had to make tough decisions, haven’t you?”
“Nature of the job.”
“It is. And I know for a fact those decisions have to take into account the greater good.”
“Doesn’t mean the process of getting there’s all cherry blossom.”
“It doesn’t, and I can see you’re in that place right now.”
Ed was about to speak, but Catherine held up her hand.
“Maybe you’ve told me more about your work than you should; maybe not. Either way, I do know that if Cochrane does anything to unsettle Ferryman, then it is probable that you’ll lose access to Antaeus and in turn will fail to get an exact time and location for Cobalt’s meeting in Afghanistan. You may have one window of opportunity to kill Cobalt and save thousands of lives by taking him off planet Earth. Cochrane’s in danger of blundering into something he knows nothing about and shutting down that window. I know you don’t like it, and I have to say that as your wife I hate the idea of what needs to be done to Cochrane. I hate it. And I love you for the fact that you hate it. But I also love you because you’re helping people.”