by Matthew Dunn
She leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, held him for a while, turned, and walked toward her husband. Will watched them both move away into the wilderness of the cemetery. He watched his sister until she was out of sight, then kept watching in case she returned. He desperately hoped she would. He knew she would not.
Then he looked down at the grave beside his feet. He knelt, placed the flowers on the grave, leaned forward, and kissed the headstone. He stayed still for a while and spoke quiet words of love and reverence. When he rose, he regarded his mother’s grave for what he knew would be the last time.
For all her insight into Will, Sarah had been wrong about one thing. As he approached the terraced house in London’s Paddington district, he knew that his final meeting in this city today would be with the living. Even though it was about the dead.
He knocked on the door. When it opened, a girl stood before him. Will knew she was ten years old. Will looked over her shoulder, then back at the girl. “Is your mother in?”
The girl stared at him for a moment. Her black hair hung in two braids, black ribbons woven into them. She wore a black blouse and a black skirt. She had black circles under her eyes, circles that Will knew came from crying.
The girl nodded and disappeared into the house. Will stood still and allowed the rain to hammer at his bare head.
The mother walked toward him and stopped by the open door. Like her daughter, she was dressed completely in black. Like her daughter’s, her face looked exhausted and drained by emotion. She frowned at Will.
“Mrs. Abtahi, I am a representative of the British government. I knew Soroush. He was my friend.”
He saw Soroush’s wife open her eyes wide. He saw tears wet her cheeks. He felt sick. He felt giddy with his own emotion.
He cleared his throat, glanced up at the FOR SALE sign on the house’s exterior, and looked back at the woman. “I am here to tell you that your husband helped us on certain matters. I am here to tell you that we are indebted to him. I am here to tell you that nothing we can do can in any way compensate you for your loss. But I am also here to tell you that we have taken the liberty of making arrangements to help you with your future.” He felt a surge of increased sickness rise within him, and he breathed deeply to try to calm his voice. “You do not need to sell your property. We have contacted your bank and paid off your mortgage in full. We know that this will do nothing to ease your grief. But I hope that it will unburden you of any current financial worries.”
Will looked down. The rain struck him with increased force. He wondered if he should say anything else. But then he turned and walked away.
He walked until he was out of sight of the house. When his legs became weak, he stopped and leaned against a wall. He felt as if he was going to vomit. He swallowed hard.
He knew that his decision to transfer his life savings to Mrs. Abtahi’s bank was the correct thing to do, savings that had been carefully accrued over seventeen years and amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds. He knew that he had made the transfer with no care or desire to ease his conscience. He knew that he wished he had more money to give to Soroush’s family.
He pushed himself away from the wall, cursing the way events had unfolded in New York. He cursed the things he had to do in his job. But more than anything else, he cursed himself.
Seven
“I’m surprised that our paths have never crossed before.” The MI6 Head of Sarajevo Station lit himself a cigarette and was clearly studying Will. “Which controllerate are you working in?”
The two men were seated at a corner table of the Inat Kuca restaurant on Veliki Alifakovac in Sarajevo. It was early evening, and there were only a handful of other diners in the place.
“For the time being, the Middle East and Africa Controllerate.” Will glanced at a menu. “But that’s only temporary. They’ve got me hopping between different desks at the moment. Apparently I’m to be posted overseas somewhere soon, so I’m currently just filling in time doing whatever’s asked of me.” He sighed and looked up.
The station chief continued to analyze Will. The man was in his late forties and had the air of leadership but also looked as though he had become tired over time.
Will put down his menu. “What about you, Ewan?”
The man inhaled smoke from his cigarette. “I’m only three grades below the chief, but this is as far as I go. I’m now in the stratum where politics and patronage matter more than experience and insight.” He took a sip of beer. “During my career I’ve worked in three controllerates, seven operational teams, and four overseas stations. Also, I’ve undertaken secondments to MI5, GCHQ, and the cabinet office. You may think all of that would have set me up nicely for a position on our Service’s board of directors. But”-he chuckled softly-“our Service generally remembers only the last thing one did, and in my case that was to dare to suggest that we should be devoting more energies to Bosnian and Herzegovinian issues. Not my wisest move, given that an MI6 senior-management reshuffle has now produced a pro-Serb European Controllerate.” Ewan shrugged. “It means that the only war going on out here now is between me, the Head of Belgrade Station, and the Head of Zagreb Station. I’m going to lose. My colleague in Belgrade will soon make Europe Controller, my colleague in Zagreb will get Central Europe Team Head, and I will be retired.”
Will adjusted his position in his chair. “Tell me about your man.”
Ewan nodded slowly. “He’s a bit of a mongrel in every sense. His ethnicity is difficult to define, although we know that he’s part Albanian and part Norwegian. He’s had schooling in Winchester College and as a result has impeccable English.” Ewan looked serious. “We recruited him during the wars and siege out here in the early 1990s and gave him the code name Lace and an alias identity. At that time he was working as what the locals called a fixer, getting armaments primarily to the Bosnian Muslim paramilitary units but ultimately delivering arms to whoever would pay him the most.”
“How on earth did he pass our scrutiny to be recruited as an agent?”
Ewan spoke slowly. “You have to remember that at that time all around us was chaotic conflict. We knew that Lace had no real allegiances and therefore no ideological motivation to help our Service. But he did have two facets we thought were interesting. First, while motivated solely by money, he did take great risks to access parts of the country and groups of people who in turn gave him excellent intelligence that would have been otherwise out of our reach. Also, he was and continues to be conceited, and we believed that his vanity alone would warm him to working with our Service. Both factors would not be sufficient for his recruitment in peacetime, but they were enough during those desperate times.”
“He produced, then?”
“Yes, he produced very good intelligence for us.” Ewan extinguished his cigarette and leaned forward a little. “So good that our Service saved his neck from appearing before the Hague as a suspected war criminal.” The man smiled. “In February 1994 he and thirty soldiers took five trucks containing guns and ammunition to a Bosnian Serb village. He was supposed to receive payment upon delivery from the head of the village, a man who was also the leader of a Serb paramilitary unit, but for whatever reason a dispute over costs broke out and the Serb refused to honor the deal. A standoff resulted between Lace’s soldiers and the Serb’s men. Lace knew that he was not going to get his money, and he also knew that the situation was in danger of going out of control, so he ordered his men to cover his back while he exited the place. He told them that when he was safely away they were to carefully retreat from the village. To the Serb he said that business was more important than bloodshed and that he would call him in a day or two to see if terms could be peacefully agreed upon.” Ewan sighed. “Unfortunately, when Lace was safely away from the village, his men took matters into their own hands. They gunned down the Serb’s men, kept their leader alive so that he could tell others what had happened, picked out six women and six children from their homes, and forced them onto the
ir knees. They then cut their heads off with long knives.” Ewan turned up his palms in a gesture of futility. “When Lace found out what happened, he was appalled. But Lace is first and foremost a businessman, and he quickly realized that he could use the atrocity to his advantage. He allowed rumors to spread that he had ordered the massacre so that fear and respect would surround him.”
Will shook his head slowly. “And as a result he would receive prompt and uncontested payments for every arms deal thereafter.”
“Correct. Trouble was, word got to the UN as well. Our Service had to blow smoke all over the village affair and say he was elsewhere at the time. And as insurance, we changed his identity again, giving him the alias name Harry Solberg. That’s the name we still call him, although I suspect he’s got other identities we don’t know about.” Ewan leaned back and rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “They were different times then. Mind you, ever since Al Qaeda’s attack on the States we seem to be back in the business of turning a blind eye to some of our agents’ predispositions in order to further the greater good.” He sighed again. “But I know Lace well enough to know that underneath his charm and sometimes ruthless business persona, he still unfairly blames himself for what happened in that village. It still haunts him.”
“Why has he reapproached you after all these years?”
Ewan looked away and then back toward Will. “He’s getting old, and age begets vanity. It happens to many of us. We want at least one last chance to prove our capabilities to others. Lace thinks he has a swan song in him.”
Will was about to speak, but before he could do so, Ewan looked over his shoulder.
“And here he is now.”
Lace was small, maybe in his early sixties, and was dressed in cream slacks and a blue sport jacket, with wiry but well-lacquered hair. He looked like a wealthy man who cared about his appearance. Ewan introduced Will to Lace as Charles Reed and in turn introduced Lace to Will as Harry. A waiter came to their table.
“Get me a Red Label,” said Harry, shaking Will’s hand. To assimilate, Ewan and Will ordered the same drink and then sat. “So you’ve come to meet me, Charles. Have you been to Bosnia before?” Harry produced a gleaming white smile and brushed something from one of his shoes.
“This is the first time for Charles.” Ewan lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to his agent. He then took out a small notepad and pencil.
Harry put away his smile and appeared to be studying Will for several seconds. He bared his teeth again. “Let’s eat fish and get three more of these.” He tapped his whiskey glass.
“Do you live permanently in the city?” Will asked, and then he took a sip of his Red Label. He wondered if the drink would have an adverse effect on his body, given all the medication in his system.
Harry looked at Ewan, who nodded at him and signaled to their waiter. He looked back at Will. “I’ve got a house on the outskirts of town, but I’m on the road a lot. My business interests require me to spend more time in hotels than at home.”
Ewan laughed. “I think we all know how that feels.”
Will did not laugh or even smile. “Do you like it here?”
Harry blew smoke across the table and seemed to consider the question. “It suits me as a base. And I like the fact that it’s a quiet city these days.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “Not too quiet, I hope. Otherwise I’ve just made a wasted trip.”
Ewan looked quickly between the two men. “Not a wasted trip at all, eh, Harry?” He placed both his hands flat on the table. “We think there are some things about this city that might interest you a lot.”
The three of them were silent for a moment, and then Harry flashed his white teeth again. “You’re not a man for small talk, are you, Charles?”
Will pointed a finger at the Head of Sarajevo Station while looking at Lace. “He is your case officer. That means he has to go through the pain of idle chat with you, of making sure you’re okay, laughing at your jokes or whatever.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ewan frowning slightly. “I, on the other hand, am simply here to see if you have anything worthwhile for me to take back to London.”
Harry smiled wider. “So you are a messenger boy, then?” He turned to Ewan. “I would have thought your head office would have sent me someone better than that.”
Ewan raised a hand. “It’s irrelevant who they send, Harry. You work for me and me alone. Whatever comes out of this arrangement, it will be business as usual as far as you and I are concerned. Nobody meets you without my permission and without me being present. That is how it works.”
Will leaned back in his chair and watched Harry. “I understand that you may be able to help us identify and recruit a senior Iranian military intelligence officer. But have you been told that we’re looking for somebody quite specific?”
Harry tilted his face toward Ewan. “Yes, I’ve been told about the type of man you seek.” Then he looked up again. “And to reach such a person will be a layered and complex task.”
Will sighed audibly. “Do you know him?”
Harry shook his head. “As I said, a layered task. I do not know this person, but I can be useful to you because of my knowledge and connections in this region. And”-he examined one of his manicured fingernails-“such knowledge and connections can bring you a significant step closer to finding this man.”
Will drummed fingers on the table between them. “I am listening to you, but for all our benefits please be brief and to the point.”
For a moment Harry’s smile faded. He then seemed to compose himself. “The Iranians are all over this city. It started during the war, and they’ve been here in different guises ever since-Iranian charities, businesses, military advisers, religious institutions, to name but some. Much of their presence is organized by Iran’s IRGC and MOIS organizations.”
“I’m not interested in MOIS, only IRGC.”
“I know, I know.” Harry swirled the remnants of whiskey in his glass. “But you must understand, it will be complicated. IRGC people can’t be bought. And the man you are hunting will be the most incorruptible of them all.”
“So.” Will sighed again. “How can your knowledge and contacts help me?”
Harry smiled fully. “You need to take a subtle yet surgical approach to your task. Your biggest challenge will be identifying your prey, but I believe that I may have the solution to that problem.”
“Go on.”
Harry paused and looked at Ewan. “Everything must go through you?”
The Head of Sarajevo Station placed a hand on his agent’s forearm. “Rest assured, Harry, everything goes through me.”
Will caught a look on Harry’s face and wondered if Ewan’s words were as reassuring as they were intended to be.
Harry gulped the last of his whiskey. “I can see that you don’t want to eat, Charles. That is a shame, because the trout here is excellent.” He placed the glass down on the dining table. “There is an Arab woman who used to work out of Sarajevo during the war all those years ago. She was then a very young journalist, but my business interests brought me close to her because she was also working for the Iranians. They used her to discreetly deliver Tehran cash to Bosnian Muslim paramilitary units across the country, money that was often”-Harry smiled-“then used to buy my goods. I heard that she was controlled by one man who was in charge of all Iranian activity in Bosnia during the Balkan wars. I also heard that the man was an IRGC Qods Force officer.”
“That was a very long time ago, and we’ve no way of knowing whether that man is of interest to us now.”
Harry raised his hands in the air. “I know, but it could be a good starting point.”
Will recalled Alistair’s words during their meeting on the preceding day:
To start with, I want you to pose as a regular intelligence officer.
He felt anger surge within him, and he breathed slowly to calm the emotion. “This is all you have?” He directed the question to Harry and then glanced at
Ewan, who in turn lowered his gaze.
Harry seemed unfazed. “You will see, it is as good a starting point as any.”
“All right, Harry. As you say, we will see. Who is the woman, and where is she?”
Harry rubbed his hands together. “I knew you’d be interested. Her name is Lana Beseisu, and for years she’s been living in Paris working as a freelance journalist. I’ve seen some of her articles in the French and British press and specialist journals. She should be easy to track down.” Harry’s hands stilled, and he now clasped them as if in prayer. “There’s also one other thing I should mention. As well as working for the Qods Force officer during the wars here, there was a strong rumor that Lana was his lover.”
“What do you think?” Ewan lightly stamped his feet on the ground. He and Will were outside now, having watched Harry depart ten minutes earlier. It was close to 11:00 P.M., and despite being on one of the city’s main tourist streets, the men were alone. Snow was falling.
Will looked down at the snow under his feet and then back up at Ewan. “You know what I think.”
Ewan sighed and nodded. “I realize Harry’s idea is a long shot. Does head office have any other targeting leads?”
“None that I’m privy to.”
“Then a lot rests on this woman Lana.” Ewan exhaled and turned fully to face Will. He frowned. “Given my seniority and length of service within MI6, it is incredible that we’ve never met before.”