by Matthew Dunn
The waitress slammed a mug of black coffee on the table and stood expectantly by Alina’s side. Alina sighed, withdrew all her money, and placed it next to the mug.
After the waitress was gone, Alina put her cold hands around the mug, letting the warmth soothe her fingers. “The trouble is, Daddy did something very silly and we won’t be able to do the picnic until he says sorry to a lot of people.”
Maria moved her arm to push away the next spoonful and started speaking unintelligible words.
“Come on, little lady. Just five more spoonfuls.” She tried to put the spoon into her mouth again, but Maria repeated the movement, her face became angry, and she banged a fist on the high chair. “I wish the Englishman were here. You’d eat from him, wouldn’t you?”
She placed the spoon into the jar and took a sip of the coffee. It was weak and acrid. Probably the waitress had deliberately made it that way. She didn’t care and took another sip, glad of its heat. She’d completed the last of the day’s university lectures. Today she’d asked her students to challenge Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s view that poetry was born from the torment of the soul with her own view that it was rather an encounter with truth.
Alina sighed. She still had other chores to do, including going to the jewelers to see if anyone had bought the necklaces she’d left with the shopkeeper a week ago. The deal was, she’d only get cash for them if they were sold, and even then it would only be 60 percent of the retail price. A mental image entered her head of Will Cochrane trimming pork cutlets in her tiny home while she prepared their promised meal of kotleta pokrestyansky. She wondered why.
Perhaps because increasingly she realized that her future was either being alone with Maria, or one day being with a man who could help her with broken baby carriages, could make Maria smile and eat her food, and wanted what she wanted: a break from loneliness.
As she stared out of the window at passersby struggling through the driving snowfall, she knew in her heart that whatever happened, Lenka was never coming back.
Thirty-Six
Peter Rhodes watched the fire begin to die and shivered as the icy Asian wind came through cracks in the mountain shack. Momentarily, he considered putting the remainder of the logs onto the embers before they were extinguished. He decided there was no point.
His oil lamp flickered, casting shadows over a roll-mat bed, a bench and chair, a horse saddle and luggage, and a portable single-ring gas cooker that was positioned on the soil and straw floor. He got off his bed, opened the front door, and was nearly knocked off his feet by a gust of snow-carrying wind. After steadying himself, he looked around in case there were men on horseback coming for him. The endless mountain range would look beautiful on a postcard, but in person it looked desolate, terrifying, and barren of life.
He’d arrived here last night. Tomorrow his intention was to head farther east along the mountains. He estimated he could be clear of the range in ten days, at which point he would move south toward warmer climes.
As arduous as the journey was, he believed it was essential that he travel this way, that he had to avoid easier modes of transport and routes in case he was challenged while using them. It was vital that he remain alone and go places where no one in their right mind would wish to try to track him.
But being here had made him realize that this type of life was not for him.
He kept his head low as he forced his body through the high-altitude wind to reach the shack’s adjacent stable. Opening the door, he moved to the pony he’d bought yesterday from a tribesman in a lowland village. Though the pony’s head was bowed and her demeanor miserable, he knew that she was considerably more used to the mountain elements than he was. She gave a welcoming snort as he brushed his hand against her neck. “Good girl. Good girl.”
He put a rope onto the pony and guided her out of the stable. Removing the leash, he clapped his hands and shouted, “Go on, now!”
She neighed, remained still.
Peter slapped her on her hind leg and repeated, “Go!”
The pony looked at him, then began walking down the mountain slope, carefully picking a trail between boulders. He didn’t know if she’d survive the thirty-mile route to the village, or if she’d even remember the way there, but he did know that she’d die if he left her here.
He returned to the shack, forced the door shut, and rubbed snow off his stubbly and grimy face. Sitting down at the table, he removed his cell phone from his luggage and saw that it had one bar of signal. He sighed with relief—one bar was all he needed. He rubbed his numb hands to aid circulation and get his fingers working. They throbbed with pain as he slowly typed an SMS.
Cochrane found nothing of interest at Lenka’s house. We’ve all been recalled to London. Operation deemed a failure and has been terminated. Cochrane deployed on other matters. Our secret is safe.
He pressed Send and smiled as he saw his phone flash red, meaning its battery was about to die. He had no way of charging it, but that didn’t matter, as this was the last time he’d use it. The message successfully transmitted, he tossed the phone to one side.
It was the only way he could think of to try to make amends for his treachery. One of the Flintlock operatives would receive the message and advise his colleagues that Will was no longer hunting Yevtushenko. They’d believe that their sacrifice of Yevtushenko, to get more of Rübner’s stream of intelligence, remained a secret.
But Will knew all about Flintlock and their role in trying to kill him. Peter wondered what he was going to do to them.
He thought about his fiancée, Helen. He didn’t think she’d be unduly worried that she’d not heard from him. Helen knew he was an MI6 officer and was used to the fact that he was frequently away on missions and sometimes not contactable. No doubt she was busying herself with further preparations for their marriage. He wondered what wedding dress she’d choose, and pictured the beautiful woman walking up the church aisle toward him. They hadn’t yet drawn up a list of people they wanted to invite to their wedding—most of them would be family and friends, a handful would be colleagues. Perhaps Alistair would be in the audience, maybe Will too.
The image faded.
As he looked around, he couldn’t imagine being farther away from that day.
His actions had ruined his career, his honor, and his love of a decent woman.
There was nothing else for him now.
He removed his hemp jacket. All he now had on was a cotton shirt, trousers, and boots. After stamping out the remains of the fire and turning off the oil lamp, he exited the shack and scrambled down two hundred yards of the mountain slope. That was far enough; within minutes he would not have the strength or will to climb back up. He sat down on snow-covered ground, facing the full blast of the subzero-temperature wind. Closing his eyes, he wondered how long it would take and whether he’d feel pain. He’d read that Napoleonic troops who’d suffered severe hypothermia while retreating through Russia had felt a moment of warmth just before it happened. He hoped that was true.
Within fifteen minutes, he was violently shivering, confused, and light-headed.
His body started to freeze.
Within thirty minutes, he was dead.
Thirty-Seven
Kronos walked into the smoky bar and sat at an empty plastic table. In the style of an American diner, the place had rows of tables and benches alongside windows that faced the edge of Rotterdam’s vast seaport. Aside from the female attendant who was standing behind the bar washing glasses with a bored expression on her face, the only other people in the establishment were a group of five males; they were all wearing blue overalls, looked like tough sailors or dockworkers, and were seated at the far end of the diner, laughing, singing, and drinking Flemish gin. Outside, heavy rain descended from the night sky, noticeable through the multitude of neon lights that lit up the security gates leading to the dock and the ships and freight containers beyond them. Kronos looked at the attendant. Clearly she had no intention of waiting tables. He
ordered a coffee from the bar and took the drink back to his table.
Staring at the security gates, he wondered if tonight the ship’s captain would suffer bad luck and be searched as he tried to exit the port. He wasn’t unduly worried about this, for he had backup options, though it would be a waste of valuable time.
Cars and trucks were entering and exiting the port. There were too many of them, and they were indistinguishable in the nighttime conditions, so it was fruitless trying to ascertain which vehicle belonged to the captain. He removed his attention from the security gates and gripped his coffee mug. Mathias and Wendell would now be tucked up in bed, and his wife would be reading to them. This was the second night that he’d missed their evening routine, and he hated that. His wife had been understanding when he’d told her that he’d been asked at very short notice to stand in for a sick colleague who’d had to pull out of a teachers’ conference in Amsterdam. And thank goodness his school was shut for the winter vacation, meaning he hadn’t had to make excuses for a sudden absence from work. It would have galled him to let his pupils down at a time when they were gearing up for their summer history exams. Even so, if felt wrong to be away from his family. He supposed he’d better get used to it.
A large, rough hand slapped Kronos’s shoulder. “Ernst, how the devil are you?”
The German assassin turned and looked at Jack Vogels. In German, he said, “You’re late.”
The Dutch captain replied in the same language. “Of course I am.” He grinned and pointed at the docks. “I can sail my ship across the world and arrive within a minute of when I’m supposed to arrive. It’s only when we have to deal with the idiots on land that it all goes to rat shit.” He sat at the table, placing a small canvas bag on the seat next to him. “You want a proper drink?”
“No.”
“Come on. Won’t hurt.” He clapped his hands while glancing at the bar attendant.
She rolled her eyes and sauntered over. In Dutch she muttered, “Spent too long on water and lost the use of your legs?”
Jack’s grin widened as he put his muscular arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Don’t be like that, Marijne. You know that all of me is in perfect working order.” He winked at Kronos. “Get us two large brandewijns.”
After she left, he switched back into German. “You staying the night? Want me to get you some girls?”
“No thanks. I’m heading back to Germany this evening.”
Jack’s smile vanished as he patted the canvas bag. “Not with this.”
“Of course not. It’ll be left somewhere safe in Holland.”
“Good.” His jovial expression returned. “For a moment, I thought you’d lost your touch.”
“You have the spares I asked for?”
“Yes. Plus the tools you need to adjust their impact.” He smoothed a hand over the canvas bag. “Be very gentle with these babies. They’re nasty.”
“I hope they are.” Kronos could see that the group of men was looking at them. They’d stopped singing and had grown quiet, looked hostile. “Best we lower our voices. I think the men behind you object to the German language.”
Jack was dismissive. “I know them. Dockers on the wrong end of a postwork knees-up. Rum bunch, but they know they’ll lose their jobs if they touch me.” He nodded toward the canvas bag. “Important job?”
“All my jobs are important. If you want to know more about this one, please proceed and ask. You’ll die after I finish speaking.”
For a moment, Jack looked unsettled. “I . . . I don’t want to know anything about it.”
“And that’s how it must always be.”
Marijne brought the liquor to their table, leaned toward Jack, and whispered, “I finish at midnight.”
The captain patted her behind. “I’ll see you then, my beauty.”
As she returned to the bar, Jack downed the drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “It’s a shame you’re heading home. I’m sailing tomorrow afternoon, so I’m going to make the most of tonight. You could have joined me.”
“Indeed.”
Jack stood. Quietly, he added, “Don’t hang around here.” He shook Kronos’s hand and walked out of the bar.
Kronos placed cash next to his untouched drink. Reaching across the table, he gripped the canvas bag and stood to leave. The men were still staring at him.
One of them called out in slurred words, “German pig?”
From behind the bar, Marijne slammed a glass down and looked angrily at the man. “Stop it, Theo!”
The dockworker ignored her, got to his feet, and took two steps toward Kronos. “German pig.”
The other men stood. All of them were big.
Kronos was motionless, keeping his eyes fixed on the men.
“This isn’t a place for pigs!”
The assassin stared at them. He could see that they’d reached a stage in their drinking where joviality had passed, that they now needed a fight. No doubt it would make their evening if they could all stand around his prone body, kicking his head until it became a bloody pulp. He glanced at Marijne and saw uncertainty and fear on her face. Clearly, she knew what these men were capable of.
He reached for his glass of brandewijn, clicked his heels together, raised the glass, and began singing “Wilhelmus van Nassouwe,” the national anthem of the Netherlands.
The men frowned, though the hostility remained on their faces.
Kronos sang louder, his voice note perfect, no hint of an accent as he recited the peaceful Dutch song.
One of the men smiled, then laughed. The others looked puzzled before joining their colleague in laughter. They grabbed their glasses, lifted them high, and accompanied Kronos in the song. The café was filled with the sound of the anthem.
When the song finished, Kronos downed his drink, placed a fifty-euro note on the bar, and said commandingly in Dutch, “Gentlemen. That was excellent. You all deserve a drink.” He clicked his heels again, turned, and walked out to the sounds of more laughter and singing.
As the assassin stepped into the driving rain, he smiled. A moment ago, he could have snapped all five men’s necks in under thirty seconds. But they were just simple-minded thugs whose dumb brains had become addled with booze. They probably had families to go home to. Just like him.
But he wasn’t going back to Germany and his family.
He wouldn’t be leaving the Netherlands until he’d conducted an assassination that would be his masterpiece.
Thirty-Eight
It was early evening as Will strode through a fine rain and winter chill in De Wallen, the red-light district in Amsterdam’s old city. Divided down the center by a canal, the district’s labyrinth of streets and side alleys was filled with tourists and locals gazing at the multitude of cabins containing scantily clad prostitutes; entering and exiting the neon-lit sex shops, theaters, and peep shows; drinking in bars; or smoking marijuana in the coffee shops.
He barely registered his surroundings, instead wondering if tonight he was about to make a big mistake.
Moving east away from the district, he crossed canals, past street vendors selling warm stroopwafels, pannekoeken, poffertjes, and Vlaamse frites, and dodged buses and trams and mopeds being driven at speed. One mile later, he was walking along Zeeburgerpad, a strip of land straddled by canals. Pleasure cruisers chugged along the waterways, with more tourists inside them being given waterborne tours of the city. Other boats were moored along the riverbanks, beside cobbled streets containing residential houses and a windmill that had been transformed into a microbrewery.
He stopped by a houseboat, clambered on board, and knocked on a window. A young woman appeared on the other side of the window, then briefly disappeared before opening the door. Will entered.
The interior was open plan and contained a double bed, a kitchenette, and a living room. Two suitcases were adjacent to the bed, brightly colored clothes spewing out of them. The air was thick with the smell of cannabis, cigarette sm
oke, and petunia oil.
The attractive Dutch brunette moved to the kitchen, wearing only a short negligee. “You want wine?”
“No thanks.” He sat on a red sofa in the shape of a heart. “I’ve got to work later.”
“So have I, and I’ve got to look the part.” Katharyne van Broekhuizen poured herself a glass of rioja and sat opposite a vanity mirror. While applying makeup, she asked, “How’ve you been, Anthony?”
“Busy.”
“You look tired. Are you eating okay?”
“When I have time.” He watched her pat foundation over crow’s-feet that hadn’t been there last time he’d seen her. “What about you? Do you get to do . . . other stuff?”
“A bit of sleep. That’s about it.”
“When will it end?”
She used a blusher brush on her cheeks. “Two months, three months, six months . . . who knows?”
“You won’t be able to keep this up much longer.”
“I’ve got no choice.” She sprayed perfume onto her throat, took a sip of wine, and turned to face him. “Next time you’re in town, will you buy me dinner?”
Will answered quietly, “I’ll treat you to a nice meal when you get out of this game.”
Katharyne seemed to consider this, then smiled. “Okay, deal.” She stood, removed her negligee, and started rummaging through one of the suitcases. Finding a pair of matching panties and bra, she put them on, together with a pair of velvet heels, and frowned as she stared at a rail containing dozens of dresses.
“You look stunning in black.”
“Do I?”
Will nodded.
She picked a black silk cocktail dress and slipped into it. “Can you zip me up?”
Will walked to her, placed his hands on her hips, gently spun her around, and fastened the dress.
She turned to him, wafted the hem of her outfit, and asked, “What do you think?”
He smiled. “I think you’re gorgeous.”
She briefly kissed him on the lips, pretended to look angry, and wagged her finger. “But you never make a pass at me. That’s very naughty of you.”