by Matthew Dunn
“He’s a marked man now. Every Western intelligence agency and law enforcement unit is on alert.”
“Are you closing in on him?”
Alistair sighed. “He’s vanished. Any leads we had to him are now dead.”
Will lowered his crutch, shook his head, and felt like shit. “Schreiber’s got to be found.” He thought about everything Schreiber had done, his cold and brilliant brutality, his threats against Will’s people, his success. “Every fucking Western intelligence and law enforcement agency is out of its depth.”
“Without you we . . .”
“Without me you should be better.”
“William, don’t take that tone with your superiors.”
“My superiors?” Will thought about Betty. “Fuck you. Fuck it.” He turned, hobbled away, and said, “Why is it always up to me?”
Sixty
Suzy sat at her desk in Langley and switched on her computer. Around her were hundreds of other CIA analysts; the place resembled the trading floor of a large investment bank rather than the brains of the Agency. She felt tired, knew that it was merely due to a stage in her pregnancy, and wondered if the boy or girl in her womb felt the same way. Boy or girl? It mattered to the section’s men, because money was resting on the outcome. Damn fools. She picked up the book Will had bought her: Work & Pregnancy: Have a Life, Have a Kid.
For the first time, she opened it and started flicking through the pages. She frowned as she saw that most of the pages had pencil notes in the margins; passages of text were underlined or circled.
She recognized Adam’s handwriting. Herbal teas with antioxidant properties are great in the second trimester.
And Roger’s. Iron-rich foods can be found in unexpected places like kids’ cereals.
In one section, Mark had written, Check this out—good exercise routine for Suzy.
And at the back of the book, Laith had written a shopping list of baby items, each exactly priced. The total cost was twelve hundred dollars, the value of the sweepstakes.
She closed the book, deep in thought. Why did her pregnancy matter so much to the operatives? They were killers, not gentle men. She turned to her screen and began trawling through the titles of dozens of telegrams, many from the Agency’s overseas stations. She stopped on one and opened it up.
MI6 OFFICER FOUND FROZEN TO DEATH, CAUSE OF DEATH NOT SUSPICIOUS
Oh dear God. Peter Rhodes. Should she tell Will? She supposed he’d find out soon enough. But she didn’t need to be the one to tell him that his act of kindness had turned out to be a death sentence. Anyway, she didn’t know if she’d be able to break the news to him without shedding a tear, and she made it a personal rule to never cry in front of colleagues, especially men. They always misunderstood what it meant.
She placed a hand over the book and sighed. The team didn’t mind if her baby was a boy or a girl. What did matter to them was that a new life was coming into the world, and they had to support her with that process.
Maybe because the men believed that in some small way they were giving something back to humanity.
Sixty-One
That evening, Will entered the ground-floor communal entrance to his West Square home, looked at the stairs, and wondered how he’d manage the two flights to reach his third-floor apartment. The crutches were severely pissing him off; he hadn’t even been able to buy groceries for his dinner, as he had no way to carry them.
The door to the ground-floor apartment opened. Retired major Dickie Mountjoy stepped into the corridor. The former Coldstream Guards officer was about to make a brisk walk to the Army & Navy Club in central London’s Pall Mall. He did so at precisely the same time every weekday evening, and once at the club would socialize with other ex-guardsmen. Never former infantry officers, and heaven forbid anyone who’d spent their career at sea. It was Wednesday, so this evening he’d partake in a drop of sherry, then lamb hotpot with vegetables, followed by a glass of port. Then he’d march home so that he was back in time for the ten o’clock news and a cup of cocoa while completing the Telegraph crossword.
Sporting a pencil mustache and wearing a camel overcoat, immaculately pressed trousers, and Church’s shoes that had been polished to the standard required of parade grounds, the old soldier looked at Will with disdain. In the same tone he no doubt would have used when dressing down a new recruit, he asked, “How’d you do that then?”
Will tried to appear embarrassed. “I went for a jog along the Thames; broke my ankle stepping off the curb.”
Major Mountjoy jabbed the tip of his rolled umbrella against the wooden flooring. “You’ve spent too long behind a desk. Civvies like you become a liability when it suddenly occurs to them to get some exercise under their belt.”
Will smiled. “Maybe you could give me a military exercise regime. It might knock some shape into me.”
Mountjoy huffed. “Bit late for that. Best you get back to flogging more of that dodgy life insurance to upright people like me.”
“It’s not dodgy.”
“It damn right is, Sunny Jim. My Agnes saved every spare penny to set us up for retirement. During her last weeks, you bastards didn’t pay out a thing and we had to use all of our savings to make her comfortable before the end.”
The widower swept his umbrella up, so that it was perpendicular under his armpit, and strode out of the property.
“Shit, shit, shit!” David the mortician was running down the stairs as fast as his flabby body would allow. Food stains and loose cigarette tobacco were on his sweater. “Another bloody call-out.” The divorcé ran past Will, glancing at his injury. “Don’t let it get infected; otherwise you could be visiting my mortuary.”
As the front door slammed behind David, Will began the painful and slow ascent of the stairs. It took him two minutes to make the first flight. Breathing fast, he reached out to grab a handrail, and when he did so one of his crutches crashed to the floor. Cursing, he picked it up and fixed it back into position.
Phoebe opened her door and looked at him with concern. “Poor darling.”
Will gave her the story about the jogging accident.
The thirty-something art dealer was dressed to kill, which usually meant she’d be going out to watch a middleweight boxing match somewhere in town. She took a sip of her champagne. “You want me to help you up the stairs?”
Will looked at her six-inch heels and smiled. “I think we both might struggle with that.”
Phoebe wagged a finger. “Us girls are used to it, darling.”
“It’s okay, I’ll manage. Are you picking up a Chinese takeout tonight?”
“Of course, but not until after the fight. You want me to get you some?”
“That would be very kind.”
Phoebe placed a hand on her hip, striking a sexy pose. “You suggesting we make a night of it?”
Will laughed. “I think you’d be picking the wrong guy for that. It’s been an exhausting few weeks, I’ll probably be asleep by nine. If you could leave the takeout outside my door, I’ll settle up with you in the morning.”
“Nonsense. You can return the favor and cook me a meal one evening.”
Will lied, “My cooking’s dreadful. Tell you what, though—David’s a great cook, and he’s in need of some company. I bet he’d be delighted if you knocked on his door one evening.”
Phoebe considered this. “He’s not my normal type, although . . . that might not be a bad thing. But what about you? When you’re here, you always seem to be on your own.”
Will blew her a kiss. “I’m used to it.” As he continued hobbling up the stairs, he called out, “Szechuan chicken with noodles, if they have it.”
He entered his apartment and was immediately struck by the changes to the place. He limped through the hallway, past the bedrooms that now contained new lamps, Egyptian cotton bedding, framed drawings, and new paint on the wardrobes and chests of drawers. He smiled as he stared at the living room. Joanna had done an incredible job. Everything had been u
npacked and carefully positioned to add contours, depth, and different dimensions to the room. His antiquities were prominent but cleverly located to match the different styles and colors within the place.
It looked like a real home.
He picked up his German lute, sat on the sofa’s arm, and rested the instrument on his injured leg. Quietly, he began playing Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 in E minor, while continuing to take in his surroundings.
His front door buzzed, meaning someone was outside the communal downstairs entrance. Probably David had suddenly realized he’d left without his keys, a usual occurrence. Will placed his instrument down, picked up the intercom handset. “Yes?”
A woman answered. Will hesitated, then buzzed her in.
One minute later, Sarah was standing before him in his living room. “What happened?”
“I got shot, doesn’t matter.”
Sarah recalled Alfie’s comment about Will’s line of work. “One day, a bullet’s going to hit you in a place where it does matter.”
“Probably.” He looked at her. “Why are you here?”
“James and I are moving to Edinburgh in two days’ time. Our law firm’s secured us a fully furnished house in the country.”
Will’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s great.” He smiled. “When can I come and visit?”
Sarah broke his gaze, looked uncomfortable. “Betty told me what you do for a living.”
“Did she, now?” Will sighed. “Perhaps she was right to do so.”
“Maybe.” Her lower lip trembled, face flushed, trying to hold back tears. “I thought about it, told myself that maybe it changed things knowing that your job required you to do something . . .” She frowned, trying to think of the right word. “Noble.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand, now looked angry. “But there’s nothing noble about seeing three men burst into a house and put bullets into a woman’s head!”
“Sarah, that wasn’t my—”
“Fault?” She pointed at him. “Then whose fault was it?”
Will was silent, felt wretched.
“Whose bloody fault?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“I was right next to her when it happened. Her blood was all over . . .” She looked at the palms of her hands and rubbed them against her skirt. “You’ve made your choices, Will, just as I’ve made mine. James and I don’t want you in Scotland. We don’t want you anywhere near us!”
As Will watched her storm out of his home while crying loudly, tears rolled down his own cheeks. As he’d predicted in the Dutch hospital, Schreiber had killed his relationship with the last remaining member of his family.
Sixty-Two
Six weeks later, Will stripped out of his sweat-drenched tracksuit, turned on the shower, and walked quickly to his front door as he heard the mail drop onto the mat. He’d been checking his mail every day in the vain hope that Sarah had written to him, changing her mind about him coming to visit. In his heart, he knew that it was false hope, but the notion had kept him going during the preceding weeks of recuperation and physiotherapy. His leg was now fully healed, and a week ago he’d been able to start going for daily early-morning runs.
He leafed through the mail, then froze. An envelope that had no stamp or address on it, merely his full name written in ink.
Another letter from Kurt Schreiber?
The psychopath was still loose; no agency had been able to trace his whereabouts.
He tore open the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper.
It’s taken me some time, but I’ve found him. Are you fully fit? You’d better be, because I’m gifting you the opportunity to obtain justice. Timings must be precise. 1200 hrs GMT on the day after tomorrow. But be very careful. His place is heavily guarded. I’ll be watching over you and will help where I can. Address overleaf. Do not approach from the north side or I will not be able to see you.
Will turned the sheet over. A location and grid reference for an isolated mountain residence on the German-Austrian border, and a cell phone number. His heart beat fast as he pulled out his phone and called Alfie Mayne. “Please, can you meet me?”
After he ended the call, he stared at the letter again. He wondered if it was another of Schreiber’s tricks—to lure him to a place where he could easily be killed. No. There were easier places for Schreiber’s men to attack him, and he certainly wouldn’t give Will a date and a time for such an assault.
The man who’d written this note had meant what he said.
Will knew exactly who he was.
Kronos.
Two hours later, Will was in Highgate Cemetery. He was very familiar with the famous nineteenth-century graveyard, having been here often, and walked confidently through the eerie place of the dead, along narrow twisting paths, between gnarled trees, past gravestones wrapped in vines and covered in moss, through the tunnel of the Egyptian Avenue and past the Circle of Lebanon and the grave of Karl Marx.
He looked at the sky and saw that dark rain clouds were beginning to take over. Spots of rain began to hit him as he continued onward, pulling up the collar of his overcoat, moving toward a section of the cemetery that held no residents of any particular interest or notoriety. The rain became heavy.
He walked onward for twenty yards and stopped in front of a small headstone. Alfie was standing next to it, dressed in the same ill-fitting suit he’d worn when he’d helped Will collect Sarah from her home, one hand clutching flowers wrapped in sodden paper. He’d shaved his face an hour ago with his favorite cutthroat razor; bits of tissue were stuck to areas he’d accidentally cut. The former soldier nodded toward the grave. “You did me proud, son, getting my missus a place in here.”
Will looked at Betty’s grave. “I don’t think I have any pride left.”
Alfie momentarily glanced at the MI6 officer. “Can’t think that way.”
Will crouched down and smoothed fingers over the inscription on the brand-new headstone.
MY BETTY. FINALLY GRABBING A BIT OF REST.
Quietly, he muttered, “Too many die because of me.”
Alfie placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Betty wasn’t one of ’em. She was doing a job. Always loved workin’, she did. Always loved . . .”
Will stood and looked at Alfie, who was fighting his emotions. “Why didn’t you have a service?”
“Letters, matey. Would’ve had to write bleedin’ letters to the family and the like. Hate writing. Plus”—he awkwardly bowed down and placed the flowers on Betty’s grave—“well, you know, I just wanted a bit of quiet with her. On my own. Just her and me, like it was when we were on honeymoon in Blackpool in the seventies.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have met you here. I’m intruding.”
Alfie gestured to the grave next to Betty’s. “You’ve as much right to be here as I do.” He smiled, though the look was bitter. “I wonder what they’d think of us, standing over them.”
Rainwater ran over Will’s face. “Maybe they’d want us to join them sometime soon.”
“You want that?”
“They’d make sure we kept on the straight and narrow.”
“And cook us a nice meal.” Alfie nodded slowly. “Yeah. Reckon we should both join ’em soon. We’ll fuck up if we stay here.”
The two men were silent for a minute.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Keep workin’. Can’t stop and think.” Alfie placed a filterless cigarette in the corner of his mouth, struck a match, and lit it. “Trouble is, I’m retired.” He removed the cigarette, covered its embers with his hand to stop the rain from extinguishing it, and placed it alongside the flowers. “There we go, my petal. You always liked a couple of cheeky drags on my cigarettes.”
Smoke wafted up from the grave for a few seconds before the cigarette became saturated and dead.
Alfie turned away from the grave. “Betty would probably say something like, ‘Revenge will give you indigestion—get on with other stuff.’ Bet
she’d be right, but trouble is I can’t think of anything else. I want the bastard who did this.”
Will stared at the old SAS warrior, now retiree. He hesitated, then sighed. “I know where he is.”
Alfie’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m going to try to kill him.”
Alfie took a step toward Will. “And I’m going to help you.”
Will lowered his head. Alfie’s predictable response had prompted overwhelming sadness within him. “It’s going to be hard.”
Between gritted teeth, Alfie spat, “You think, sunshine, these old bones ain’t up for the task?”
Will was silent. Though Alfie was a foot shorter than Will, the MI6 officer knew that the broad ex-soldier still had enough power to punch him off his feet.
“Do you reckon Betty would like me to sit around watchin’ bloody daytime TV while you’re going after the bastard? After . . . after . . .” His lips trembled. “. . . after what they did to her . . . her face . . . cookin’ and the like?” Tears rolled down his face. “Cookin’ like her lovely breakfasts. Oh, Jesus!”
Will placed two hands on Alfie’s arms.
Alfie shook his head wildly, more tears running down the tough man’s face. “Get yer hands off me, you poofter.”
But Will held him firm. “It’s okay, Alfie. Okay.”
Alfie shrugged his arms away, his voice quavering as he said, “No, it ain’t okay, son. It’s bleedin’ nothing like okay.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
Alfie exhaled slowly and reengaged eye contact with Will. “You want me to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you told me?”
“Yes.”
“Testing me? Just like selection?”
“Of course. A test to see how you reacted. Just like your old SAS selection interrogation exercises.” Will had no idea if what he was saying was the right thing, he was taking his lead from Alfie, though he knew in his heart one absolute truth: Alfie deserved to be there when he had Schreiber in his sights.