Dark Spies

by Matthew Dunn

  But she was in no way going to back down from her duty.

  After another forty yards, she stopped and listened but heard nothing. And she had a clear view of the remainder of the alley and could see nothing out of the ordinary.

  He wasn’t here.

  She was sure.

  She breathed in deeply; her heartbeat began to slow; her muscles started to relax.

  Then she tensed again as she heard a clanging noise behind her, and spun with her gun ready to fire.

  But it was merely a pigeon that had landed on one of the rusty fire escapes.

  She silently cursed, turned to complete her search of the alley, and involuntarily gasped in shock.

  Will Cochrane was standing right in front of her.

  His gun’s muzzle inches from her forehead.

  A nondescript brown jacket covered his police tunic, the cap was gone, and sunglasses were clipped to his collar; he no longer looked anything like a cop. In a flash, he ripped the gun out of her hand, pulled out the radio set that was clipped to her waist, and smashed it against the wall. “Any secondary weapons on you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Prove it.”

  “You . . . you want me to strip?”

  “Not in this weather. You’d catch your death from cold. Frisk yourself—firmly.”

  Marsha ran her hands tightly around her arms, legs, and the rest of her body.

  As she did so, Will threw her handgun as far as he could down the alley behind her. He nodded toward the weapon as it rolled to a halt. “You can pick that up after I’m gone. I know you cops give each other a lot of grief if someone disarms you.”

  “Thank . . .” God, was she really about to thank him? “I’m not a cop.”

  “FBI?”

  Marsha nodded.

  “You work for Marsha Gage?”

  Should she lie? Would he put a bullet in her brain if she answered honestly? She recalled what Alistair had said to her.

  Once he’s found out the truth about why he’s on the run, he wants you to get very close to him, though I must warn you it will be completely on his terms.

  It made sense. He’d tried to come to her home last night but was confronted by men with guns—probably the same men who’d been killed today. And he had no gripe with Marsha, because he’d know that she and the rest of the FBI were as much in the dark about Project Ferryman as he was.

  She made a decision.

  Not an easy one, but she just made it.

  “I’m Marsha Gage. I was warned you might come for me once you had answers.”

  Will smiled, though his expression remained menacing. “Between Norway and here, time and time again you considerably inconvenienced me.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  “I’m sure it is.” He was motionless, his gun still pointing directly at her head. “What have you done with Ellie Hallowes?”

  Marsha’s eyes widened, but she stayed silent.

  “What have you done to her?!”

  Marsha shook her head, fear coursing through her body. “Until this morning, I’d never heard of Hallowes.”

  “And yet you wouldn’t be here unless you or someone like you made Ellie set this up!”

  The fury on Will’s face was easily recognizable, but as she stared at him she also saw absolute concern in his eyes. She’d been right about him. He was extremely loyal to Hallowes. What was the right thing to say and do? She settled on what her heart was telling her: truth and justice. “I had nothing to do with this. If you ever meet them again, Patrick and Alistair will attest to that because they’ve been assigned to my team for the duration of our manhunt. The men responsible for capturing Hallowes are Charles Sheridan and Colby Jellicoe.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Will’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his gun’s hammer. “But I need to know that Ellie’s okay.”

  Marsha lowered her head.

  “Head up!”

  She lifted her gaze, and her voice trembled as she said, “We can’t prove it, but we know for sure that Sheridan had her killed. She was murdered in her hotel room. We’ve taken possession of her body.”

  Will’s eyes were unblinking. His lack of movement and silence were more terrifying than if he’d done or said something.

  In a split second, Marsha could be dead.

  Murdered, for being vaguely associated with Hallowes’s killers.

  But Will asked, “You still believe in the reasons you joined the FBI? Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity?”

  The Bureau motto.

  Marsha nodded.

  “I want to hear your answer on your lips!”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Good.” Will’s greenish blue eyes looked intense. “When you get home today, you’ll find a package in your mailbox. It’s from me, but don’t be alarmed—there’s nothing dangerous inside. Just make sure it’s used no later tonight than the time I’ve written on the box. And when you do, ensure that the attorney general and the directors of the FBI and CIA are standing next to you.” He took a step back. “I’m going to deliver you the most dangerous double agent who’s ever operated in the States. He’s a high-ranking CIA officer, working for the Russians. But in order for him not to be warned off, I need you to do something.” He explained his thinking. “Can you do that for me?”

  Marsha’s head was spinning. Here she was, face-to-face with Public Enemy Number One, and he was asking for her help, and she was seriously considering giving it to him.

  “When it’s done, you can arrest the double agent. It will be your success, your glory, and your career that goes sky high as a result.”

  “I don’t care about any of those things.”

  Will smiled, and this time the menace seemed diminished. “In which case, I judged you correctly.” His smile vanished. “Will you do what I ask?”

  “No!”

  Will was exasperated when he said, “All I need is a window of a few hours. After that you can do what you want, maybe say that you were mistaken.”

  “The answer’s still no!”

  Frustration coursed through him. There was only one option left to him. He told her about the link between Antaeus, Ferryman, the proposed American assassination of Cobalt, and what he suspected could happen after the bomb detonated in Afghanistan.

  But he omitted telling her that Ferryman was Ed Parker.

  Marsha was shocked. She knew that her career could be ruined if she agreed to do what he was asking. But sometimes you just have to go with your gut. And right now, her gut was telling her that if she didn’t do what Will wanted, U.S. national security and dominance in the world were screwed. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’ll need to get approval from the Bureau director. I can’t make this call on my own. It’s too big.”

  “Fine, but do it fast and make sure no one else knows—in particular anyone in or associated with the CIA.”

  “Okay. But I ain’t going to promise that I’ll back off from hunting you after you’re done.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  Marsha frowned. “I think you knew Hallowes wasn’t going to be here today.”

  Will said nothing.

  “And yet, you came here anyway and shot one of the men who were after you, so you could have his team taken out by my colleagues.”

  Marsha was right. Will had deliberately kept alive the Irish assassin he’d confronted the night before and had fended off the cops who showed up on the street where Marsha lived so that the assassin could escape, because he wanted to identify him today and establish who was with him.

  It took a few seconds for Marsha to work this all out, then she said, “Smart.”

  “Or, just plain stupid.” Anguish was on Will’s face. “I heard SCAR automatic gunfire when I was running down the avenue. To my knowledge, they’re not weapons used by the FBI or SWAT. I’m hoping you’re not going to tell me that civilians got caught in the crossfire.”

  The last updat
e she had from Duggan was that the civilian body count was twenty-two and rising. Should she tell him? Cochrane looked like he was in so much pain. “Some of my men were shot. But we’re still trying to establish whether there were any fatalities.”

  Will knew she was lying. He’d thought that the assassins would only be armed with handguns and would easily have been taken down by HRT. No way would he have triggered an assault on them in a crowded place if he’d known they were packing battle weapons. “Turn around.”

  She did so, wondering if his words had been a trick and if he was now going to execute her by putting a bullet in the back of her head.

  In the distance she could see a tiny glimpse of the terror and panic that was still prevalent on Wisconsin Avenue.

  Was this going to be the last thing she ever saw?

  Death and carnage.

  Twenty seconds passed.

  Nothing happened to her.

  She turned back.

  Will Cochrane was gone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  By noon the next day, Parker, code name Ferryman, would be of no further use to Antaeus. Until that time, he needed Parker’s treachery to remain undiscovered and for the information Antaeus had relayed to his asset to continue to be taken as the truth. The Americans had to believe that bombing Cobalt’s meeting in Afghanistan tomorrow was the right thing to do.

  Whereas in reality it would make America’s entry into the Vietnam War look like a brilliant yet brief skirmish.

  Afghanistan was nine and a half hours ahead of Washington time. Noon tomorrow in Afghanistan was two thirty A.M. in the U.S. capital. And given that it was currently eleven A.M. in D.C., that meant he only needed Ferryman to remain intact for the next fifteen and a half hours.

  Only Will Cochrane could ruin everything.

  But by now, he should be dead.

  If he wasn’t, Antaeus would have no choice other than to tell Parker to go into hiding. It wasn’t an ideal option, because Cochrane could take his suspicions to someone else, a powerful and law-abiding official, who’d then see red flags if the asset whom Will was accusing of treachery had run away.

  He entered his living room and turned on a television that had been state of the art in the 1980s but now looked like a decrepit box of junk. Still, it got the news and history channels—as well as the one that showed his favorite repeats of Only Fools and Horses and Monty Python’s Flying Circus—and that was all he needed.

  RT news network, one of the largest in Russia, was showing scenes that were akin to a war zone in Washington, D.C. American civilians were being interviewed while shaking with tears and pointing back to a barricaded street.

  He didn’t care about that.

  The camera cut to a police officer saying that three men had been killed in a gun battle outside the Friendship Heights metro station, and that a fourth, believed to be their colleague, had been found dead in the trunk of a car in a parking lot close by.

  That would be Antaeus’s assassins. The spymaster turned the volume up.

  The camera cut to a woman with matted hair and wide eyes. The banner beneath her read in Cyrillic, AGENT MARSHA GAGE: HEAD OF THE FBI MANHUNT FOR WILL COCHRANE.

  The interviewer asked, “Agent Gage. What happened here today?”

  Gage looked straight at the camera. The expression on her exhausted face suggested she didn’t care she looked a mess while appearing on global TV. “What happened is we killed Will Cochrane. We got him. It’s over.”

  Antaeus tried to smile as he turned off the TV, but something felt wrong. For three years he’d wanted to avenge the death of his wife and daughter by killing Will Cochrane. He’d dreamt about it, visualized it, and planned it; but now that Cochrane was dead, he felt no satisfaction. Instead, he felt like a brute.

  He forced his mind to snap out of these ruminations, lit a cheroot, and inhaled deeply on the aromatic tobacco. No need to get Parker to go into hiding now that Cochrane’s dead, he thought. And yes, Agent Gage; it’s over. But at noon tomorrow there’ll be a new beginning. You won’t like it, though.

  In the United States Air Force’s Shindand base in Afghanistan, a USAF ground crew was making final checks of the large predator drone. A CIA officer was standing nearby, drinking beer from a bottle as he looked at the five-hundred-pound bunker-destroying bomb on the drone’s undercarriage. He had no role or expertise in preparing the lethal craft, but he did need to be here to make sure the drone was fully functional and ready for takeoff at exactly the right time tomorrow. And though he wasn’t like the new breed of Agency officers, who thought that spying was all about neutralizing enemies rather than obtaining secrets from them, he had to admit that the sight of the bomb made him feel good. It would kill Cobalt. A man whose secrets were no doubt hugely valuable. But more important than that, a man whose death was priceless.

  He sipped his beer.

  Noon tomorrow, the drone would be high above the target.

  Its bomb hurtling downward.

  Catherine Parker saw the last bit of the sun disappear over the horizon and beamed. “It’s official. Cocktail hour!”

  Ed tossed his newspaper onto the kitchen table, having been unable to read anything in it because his mind was so distracted. “Not for me, thanks. Got to stay sharp tonight. I’ve got a very important day tomorrow.”

  Catherine rubbed her husband’s knotted shoulders. “Maybe we should have an early night.” She nibbled his earlobe. “Or does the Agency operate the same rules as football teams—no sex before a big match?”

  “To be honest, babes, I’m not sure I’d be much use to you there, either.” He tried to smile. “Anyway, I’ve still got to fix that darn bed frame. Can’t have Crystal hearing all that squeaking.”

  Catherine poured herself a glass of wine. “Crystal’s on a sleepover at her friend Cherry’s house tonight, so we can squeak as much as we like.” She smiled, and said with sympathy, “It’s okay, my dear. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  Ed rubbed his temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”

  Catherine smoothed a hand against his cheek. “Try to relax. After tomorrow, you’re going to be man of the moment. Man of a very long and exciting moment.”

  “I’m just a cog in the machine. Bigger men than me will get the real glory.”

  “You’re not . . .” Catherine felt anger as she tapped her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not insignificant. I love you. We love you. Tomorrow the Agency will love you.”

  Ed looked embittered. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Will stood in total darkness at the end of the driveway, watching the house and in particular the illuminated room containing the two men. He hadn’t anticipated they’d both be here, but it made no difference. He had a job to do, and there was no chance he could come back later. He felt calm, and that was normal for him. Anger would come; right now was not a time for blind, unproductive fury.

  He walked to the large home’s front door and tried the handle. Locked. He put on his most charming smile and rang the bell.

  A woman opened the door.

  Will’s smiled broadened. “Good evening.”

  He pushed past her, walked along the corridor, and entered the living room.

  Colby Jellicoe and Charles Sheridan were seated in leather armchairs next to a roaring fire. Jellicoe stood quickly, horror on his flabby face as he exclaimed, “You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “I got better.” Will punched him with sufficient force to render him unconscious, then grabbed Sheridan by the jaw and hurled him full force across the room.

  The CIA officer smacked against a wall and slumped down onto his ass. He looked terrified.

  Will crouched nonchalantly and placed the muzzle of his handgun against Sheridan’s belly. “Who killed her?”

  Sheridan’s face was screwed up; his whole body was in agony. “Fuck you!”

  Will repeated the question. “Ellie Hallowes. I know you ordere
d her death. Got people to torture her to set up today’s meeting. Thing is, though, she was a very brave and clever woman. She let me know she was calling me under duress.”

  Will prodded his gun into Sheridan’s gut. “Try to imagine that kind of bravery. Who killed her?”

  Sheridan gritted his teeth and looked venomous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  With deliberation, Will said, “You. Don’t. Know.”

  Sheridan nodded, his eyes wide, sweat pouring down his face.

  “That means you’re of no use to me.” Will stood and pointed his gun at Sheridan’s head. “Best we get this over with.”

  “Stop! Stop!” Sheridan was shaking his head wildly. “You won’t kill me if I tell you?”

  Will answered, “All I care about is knowing the identity and location of her murderer.”

  Sheridan lowered his head and whimpered, “The twins did it. They weren’t supposed to kill her.”

  “Where are they?”

  Sheridan told him.

  “Look at me.”

  Sheridan glanced up, his eyes now pleading and expectant. “That’s all you wanted?”

  “Yes. Thing is, though, I don’t believe you.”

  “The farm! Approximately one hundred miles west of Langley. They’re in the forest. It’s the truth!”

  Will nodded. “I don’t doubt that. You’re lying about not wanting her dead.”

  “Jellicoe made me do it!”

  “That means you’re both in the shit.”

  “Please. I was following orders.”

  “I’ve heard that before from other psychopaths.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  Will smiled, though his eyes remained cold. “Please don’t beg. It’s very undignified and shows weakness of character.”

  Sheridan’s expression became defiant. “You’re not going to kill me.” His voice grew louder as he said, “I’m a senior CIA officer. You wouldn’t dare hurt me on U.S. soil.”

  “You’re not a senior CIA officer.”

  “I am!”

  “No you’re not. At least, not anymore.” Will pulled the trigger, saw bits of Sheridan’s brain splatter into the fire, then walked over to Jellicoe’s prone body and shot him twice in the head.