by Matthew Dunn
“I can’t, because you’re . . .”
“Working?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
She took another sip of her wine and lit a cigarette. “You said that last time you came here.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
She laughed, then her voice trailed as her expression grew sad. “I feel secure, I guess . . . comfortable in front of you.”
“I feel the same way about you.”
“Why is that?”
Will stayed silent.
She shrugged. “I got what you asked for.”
“Is your back covered?”
“Yes. I made sure of that.” She opened a clutch handbag and withdrew a leather parcel and a folded piece of paper. After handing Will the parcel, she stared at the paper, was about to give it to Will, then pressed it against her lips so that her lipstick mark was on it. “For you.” She held it at arm’s length toward him.
Will took it, looked at the mark of her lips, and smiled.
His smile faded as he gazed at the woman who called herself Katharyne but was really Johanna Kaps, a Dutch AIVD intelligence officer who’d infiltrated a brutal Turkish gang of human traffickers who were using underage eastern European girls as prostitutes in Holland. Eight months ago, she’d posed as an ex-prostitute turned madam who knew how to bribe local officials and thereby navigate local licensing laws for prostitutes. She’d lived deep cover ever since, risking execution every day if she were discovered. It was an incredible act of bravery, and one that was taking its toll on her.
“I will buy you that meal when you finish this job.”
“MI6 money?”
Will said softly, “My money.” He stroked the back of her hair. “MI6 doesn’t know about your work for me.”
Johanna’s eyes watered. “Good, because I never wanted to work for them, only you.”
Will kissed her on the cheek.
Her hand clutched his. “It’s a shame things weren’t different.”
“Even if they were, it wouldn’t . . .”
“I know.”
They both knew. Johanna was too similar to him. They lived in a world where they had little in common with the people around them, and though they did extraordinary things, they recognized that their isolation from normality made them flawed individuals. Though it was highly unlikely they’d ever find them, they needed partners who could help them connect with ordinary people. If Johanna and Will had a relationship, neither would be able to help the other with that monumental task.
Two hours later, Will was standing under a streetlamp in the Wassenaar diplomatic district of The Hague. Wearing a stylish raincoat and expensive suit, he hoped he looked like an ambassador’s bodyguard to any observers. But aside from the occasional passing car, the area was deserted.
He withdrew from his overcoat the small leather parcel, unwrapped it, and took out a Benelli handgun, which he secreted in his pocket. Next to him was one of the district’s large residences. He jogged alongside the property’s ten-foot-high exterior wall. The side street he was on was empty and mostly dark, with rainwater running down the gutter. He stopped, jumped, grabbed the top of the wall, scanned the property, dropped back to the street, and ran to the north and east sides of the house where he repeated the drill. Silently, he cursed. There was CCTV on every side of the house. The cameras had been carefully positioned—no blind spots.
He’d also seen one bodyguard outside the front of the house and an older man inside, in the living room. He was silent, trying to establish what to do. The cameras would be working, so he’d be spotted the moment he entered the grounds. He pulled out a scarf and covered his face, deciding his only option was to go over the wall and do it fast.
He heard a noise, moved flush against the wall, and looked toward the end of the side street. A slow-moving limousine. It stopped by the electronic gates; a chauffeur got out and spoke into the intercom. The gates began to open as the chauffeur returned to his vehicle. Will moved along the wall, withdrew his handgun, and sprinted as the car moved forward.
He ducked low and moved at walking pace behind the car as it crawled up the driveway toward the front of the big house. He waited as doors opened, feet crunched over gravel, and a doorbell rang.
Voices.
Will instantly stood and raised his weapon.
The bodyguard and chauffeur were standing close to the vehicle. Will shouted, “Don’t!” as they reached toward their concealed handguns. They froze, and he took two steps toward the guards while keeping his gun trained on them. “Hands outstretched!”
As the men slowly extended their arms, Will glanced beyond them at the two older men who were standing close to the front door. Both had expressions of shock. “You two. Facedown on the ground.”
The men’s mouths were wide open, but they made no noise as they did what they were told.
Will walked cautiously toward the guards. “You both understand English?”
The men nodded.
“I’m not here to kill anyone, remove anyone, or steal anything. If you do exactly as I say, you’ll have protected your boss far better than if you try to resist me.” He trained his gun on one of the men. “You—remove your weapon with your thumb and forefinger and throw it away.”
The man hesitated, then moved his hand toward his gun.
“If you put three fingers on there, I’ll pull the trigger!”
The guard gripped the weapon’s handle as instructed, eased it out of its holster, and tossed it onto the driveway. His expression was angry.
“Hands out!” Will pointed his pistol at the other guard. “Now you.”
The man did the same, while saying in heavily accented English, “You’re making a big mistake.” He threw his gun away.
“Turn around.”
The men turned so that their backs were to Will, side by side.
Will took a step toward them. “On your knees.”
One of the men did as he was told.
“On your fucking knees!” He took another step, and as he did so, the man who was standing spun around and punched a fist through the air toward Will’s rib cage. Will stepped back, and the fist missed. He slammed the butt of his handgun into the guard’s throat, then shoulder blade, and as the man slumped down onto his knees, the back of his head. The guard crashed facedown onto the ground, unconscious. He pointed his gun at the other guard. “You want to try something similar?”
“No. No.” The fear in his voice was evident.
Will removed two short lengths of cord from his overcoat and tossed one of them in front of the guard. “Tie him up—facedown, throat to wrists to ankles. Do a very good job, or I’ll put bullets in the back of your knees.”
The guard set to work, sweat pouring down his face. He clearly knew what he was doing, as the cord was expertly knotted, and within twenty seconds the unconscious guard was tied up.
“Your turn.”
“Please, don’t . . .”
“Get in position!”
The guard lay facedown and arched his back so that his hands and feet were touching.
Will jabbed his foot against the man’s genitals, warning him that he’d kick him there if he did anything reckless, yanked his head back, and used the second cord to truss him up. Will knew from experience that the position was agonizing—attempts to escape would cause the binds to choke the throat.
“You’ll be cut free in about fifteen minutes.” He ignored the guard’s moans as he picked up the guns and stuffed them in his coat.
Will strode up to the two older men. “Which one of you is Eric van Acker?”
Nobody answered.
“Van Acker!”
One of the men answered, “It’s me.”
“Stand.”
The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court got to his feet.
The portly man looked to be in his late fifties, and was wearing a suit and no tie. When he spoke, fear was evident in his voice, though also a degree of defia
nce. “My wife and children are due back from the ballet shortly. If you’re going to do anything, make sure it happens before they arrive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Will walked up to him and put the nozzle of his pistol against the prosecutor’s temple. “Why are you interested in Kurt Schreiber? What’s his link to an impending testimony at the ICC?”
Van Acker’s expression changed. “You’re not the first British man to ask me those questions. Two days ago, I received a call from someone who introduced himself as Alistair McCulloch, a senior member of the Secret Intelligence Service. Do you work for him? Has he sent you here to bully me?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here. But it’s in your interest that you answer my questions.”
“It’s in your interest that you leave right now, before the police arrive and shoot you.”
“If they arrive, you’ll be dead.” Will pulled back the hammer on his gun. “I’m not here to negotiate with you. It’s simple: You speak, you live. If not, I pull the trigger. And then I’ll pay the president of the court a visit and ask him the same question.”
“There’s no need.” The man who was lying alongside the chief prosecutor began getting to his feet.
“Down!” Will swung his weapon at the elderly man.
But the man waved a hand through the air and stood. “I am Albert Metz.”
The president of the International Criminal Court.
The tall, thin, well-dressed man pointed a finger at Will. “You threaten my chief prosecutor and me, and you attempt to pervert the course of justice. To your face, and in the presence of witnesses, I can tell you that both are very grave crimes.”
Will smiled. “I’ve broken bigger laws than this.” His smile vanished. “You’re standing in the way of a Western intelligence operation that I believe may be linked to your high-value witness’s presence in The Hague. That pisses me off. To your face, I’m telling you that if your obstructive behavior results in my operation failing, then I’ll make sure that every state signatory to the Rome Statute knows that the ICC is run by a group of pencil-pushing bureaucrats who’ve no interest in justice. Your careers and reputations will be fucked.”
The court’s president took a step toward him. “I doubt you have that authority, young man.”
Will kept his gun planted against van Acker’s head. “Oh, I most certainly do.” He stared at the prosecutor. “Why are you interested in Kurt Schreiber?”
“None of your damn business.”
“Wrong!”
Between gritted teeth, van Acker said, “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”
Will walked up to him, pointed his gun at his head, and muttered, “Are you telling me that this has been a waste of time? That I should just get this over with?”
“I think you should.” A Russian man’s voice.
From behind Will.
Will froze.
Footsteps crunching over gravel.
The lawyers were now looking over Will’s shoulder toward the sounds.
Mikhail came alongside Will and put his handgun against the MI6 operative’s head. The big SVR officer smiled, though he looked menacing and focused. “And after you’ve pulled your trigger, maybe I should pull mine, because following you here was my last fucking lead.”
Will remained motionless, his gun still flush against the president’s head. “Lower your weapon, Mikhail.”
The Russian frowned. “How do you know my name?”
“Mikhail Salkov, I know all about you. We got you on your overseas postings.”
“Very clever,” he huffed. “Still, makes no difference given where you’re now standing.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. Make these men talk, or you’re of no further use to me.”
Will smiled. “You followed me after my team and your men attacked the convoy. You watched me leave the Auguststrasse apartment and tailed me to the airport. And this morning, you observed me briefing my team on the outskirts of Berlin.”
“An informed guess. You never spotted me.”
“If that’s true, then I wouldn’t have needed to cover my back tonight. Would I?”
Mikhail frowned again.
Will called out, “Have you got him?”
Roger jumped down from the wall, his pistol aimed at the center of Mikhail’s head. “Yeah, he ain’t going anywhere.”
Will nodded at Mikhail. “I’ve been looking out for you since we attacked the convoy. I spotted you three times. And I suspected you might break cover this evening.”
“You want me to drop him?” Roger was very still, his finger poised to pull back the trigger.
“Gentlemen!” Albert Metz placed a frail hand over Will’s forearm. “Who are you?”
Speaking quickly, Will answered, “I’m an MI6 officer. The Russian is an SVR operative. We’ve been working the same operation, from different angles. Is Schreiber the high-value witness?”
“I can’t answer that!”
“What’s this about?” Mikhail nudged his muzzle against Will’s temple.
At first, Will didn’t respond, his mind racing. He was in no doubt that Mikhail would pull the trigger if it helped him get closer to the missing paper. But if the Russian shot him now, he’d achieve nothing. Moreover, Will had witnessed him risk his life to protect others in Gdansk. The man wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. He made a decision and told Mikhail about the ICC’s interest in Schreiber and the witness being protected in the Netherlands. “Do you know who the witness is?”
“No. But he won’t be Kurt Schreiber.”
“Why not?”
Mikhail was silent.
“What’s on the missing paper?”
More silence.
“You told the Pole you saved in Gdansk that we must all try to get the paper, that it’s lethal. Even though my superiors think I’m crazy for doing so, I’ve been trying to help you.”
“This is a Russian operation to retrieve Russian property.”
“This was a Russian operation that failed.”
Anger flashed across Mikhail’s face. “You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“From where you’re standing, do you really think you have the upper hand?”
“I’m not talking about me, you idiot! Schreiber sent out a dummy convoy. That means he’s now loose.”
Roger called out, “We’re running out of time!”
But Will remained still, keeping his eyes on Mikhail. “Kurt Schreiber orchestrated the theft of the paper?”
Mikhail nodded. “He’s behind all of this. He’s gone to the Black Forest, but I don’t know where.”
“The paper?”
Mikhail hesitated.
“What’s on it?”
Mikhail muttered, “You’re right—this has been a fucking failure. And there’s nothing more we can do.”
“The paper!”
Mikhail stared at him. “It’s one-half of a military grid reference. Schreiber’s theft of it must mean he’s got the other half of the paper. It pinpoints a DLB in the forest. He’ll have used it to activate an assassin.”
A realization struck Will. “An assassin, code name Kronos.”
“How do you know that?”
“Am I right?”
Mikhail sighed. “I don’t know his identity, but that most certainly is his code name. He’s Russia’s most deadly assassin and it appears that he’s been activated to . . .”
“Stop a high-value witness from opening his mouth in The Hague.” Will looked directly at Metz. “Correct?”
“Lower your weapons.” Metz spoke with a commanding voice. “If we’re to talk, we can’t do so like this.”
Will hesitated, then pointed his gun at the ground.
But the SVR officer kept his weapon in place against Will’s head.
“Gun down. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
“Not while your American friend’s still aiming at me.”
Will shouted to Roger. “L
ower your weapon. For now.”
Roger did so.
Van Acker’s eyes were wide, and sweat and rainwater were dripping down his face.
Mikhail smiled, then flicked his gun’s safety catch on and took a step back. “Let’s hope you both have something of value to say to us.”
The president of the court slowly exhaled. “The witness came to us six months ago and said that he needed to testify under oath to his knowledge of a secret pact between Russia and the United States. He gave us the names of everyone who was directly involved in the pact.”
“What pact?”
Metz shrugged. “We don’t know. Despite our numerous attempts to get him to tell us more, the witness has consistently refused to say anything further until he is under oath in a televised courtroom. He’s said that he’s only got one chance to tell the world about this pact, that in doing so he’s probably signed his own death warrant, but that he has to keep his mouth shut before then because he trusts no one, including”—he nodded toward van Acker—“ ‘pencil-pushing bureaucrats’ like us.”
The prosecutor added, “We agreed to his terms, set up a date for a hearing, and have kept him under high security ever since.”
“Where?”
“None of your damn business. He made it very clear to us that powerful men would do everything they could to stop him from speaking at the hearing.” Van Acker’s expression was now hostile. “The most powerful and ruthless of them all is Kurt Schreiber. We alerted Interpol so that they could search for him. But our witness never mentioned this assassin, Kronos. How much of a threat is he?”
Mikhail answered, “He’s the most dangerous threat there can be.”
Will turned to the lawyers. “What kind of security have you got around the witness?”
“World class!” Van Acker pointed at Will. “We’re very used to protecting high-value targets.”
Will frowned. “What are the points of vulnerability?”
Van Acker was about to reply, but Metz interjected. “Long-range sniper rifles, surface-to-surface missiles, airborne assaults, covert infiltration, overt land attacks using dozens of men—our specialists have considered every possible means of attack against people in our care. The witness is in a very safe place.”