Spy Trade

by Matthew Dunn

  The CIA officer shook his head, making the chain’s links grate painfully over his Adam’s apple.

  “Tell them your name!”

  At this moment, Bob knew all was lost. One last act of bravery? A way to end his story heroically? He decided, yes. “Go to Hell.”

  His captor pulled on the chain again. “Your name!”

  Did it matter if he said his name? No. He wasn’t a deep-­cover officer whose real identity was sacrosanct. As a station chief, he’d been declared to the station’s host country. That meant his name was to all intents and purposes public knowledge. “Oakland,” he muttered.

  “Louder!”

  “Bob Oakland!” Saying his name to the camera made him realize something else: he was now a famous spy, retiring with his name on the world’s lips. It would have been so good if he could have survived this ordeal because now his story had just gone to a whole new level. His yet-­to-­be-­conceived grandchildren would be in awe.

  “Bob Oakland,” said the Chechen leader to the camera. “The president of America must decide if Bob Oakland’s life is worth anything. If it is not, we will end it. But, I must warn you: we will do so in a manner that will give the world much pause for thought.”

  As terrible as events were for him, Bob felt a greater fear for Ramzi’s fate. The young Jordanian would be made an example of by his fellow-­Muslim captors—­possibly raped, certainly tortured, and inevitably savaged to the point he would be begging for an end to his life. Oakland’s immediate future was now unclear; Ramzi’s wasn’t. His value to the wannabe–ISIS recruits was to be killed and thereby warn other Arabs that if they work with infidels, they would be dispatched with comparable unflinching brutality.

  Ramzi liked heavy-­metal music and spoke in clichés about America. Normally, he had a permanent smile on his face, showing off teeth he polished six times a day. He foolishly tried to charm female soldiers in the way he thought 1940s GIs did when liberating Europe. And he had an annoying habit of wearing fake-­crocodile-­skin leather loafers that were pointed at the tips and he thought were cool. But that was the worst of Ramzi. Beneath his good-­time demeanor and facial hair that alternated between pencil-­thin Errol Flynn moustaches and slacker-­dude goatees, he was a kid who was destined for university until his medically trained charity-­worker parents were kidnapped and executed by Boko Haram terrorists in a Nigerian refugee camp. He’d gone off the rails for a while thereafter. America saved him and gave him renewed purpose.

  Until now.

  In here, he was nothing but a corpse-­in-­waiting.

  The Chechen leader strode up to the camera, angled his head, and looked into the lens. “In one of your black-­site prisons, maybe Guantanamo, you have a young martyr in captivity. We want him released in exchange for Mr. Bob Oakland. Whether you agree to these terms or not, you must post your response on YouTube.” The Chechen grinned. “The martyr’s name is Arzam Saud.”

  He switched the video off. Oakland was secured back in place in the corner of the room. The Chechens left the room.

  “Ramzi, you okay?”

  “No, I’m . . .” The Jordanian began weeping. “A traitor to Allah? What will they do to me?”

  Bob couldn’t answer. He just stared at the poor young man, seeing nothing but misery and despair written across his face. He wondered whether Ramzi had ever truly understood the risks he’d been taking by helping American forces. Perhaps he’d thought he was safer accompanying covert units than taking his chances on the streets. More likely, being in a disastrous situation like this had never occurred to Ramzi.

  Ramzi, he decided, had to be protected. Having both of them get out of here alive was all that mattered now. Forget glorious tales to be told on porches to admiring kids. That concept had turned dreadfully sour. “Who’s Arzam Saud?”

  Ramzi replied, “Never heard of him.”

  “Me neither.” Bob looked above Ramzi’s head. “You’ve got writing behind you on the wall. What does it say?”

  Ramzi tried to twist as best he could to view the inscription behind him. In doing so, the chain gripped his throat harder, squeezing on neck muscles and blocking his airway. But the Jordanian persisted until he’d created a sufficient angle to look at the wall and its painted red Arabic letters. He twisted back and slumped, breathing face, his face screwed up in pain.

  “It says . . .” Ramzi closed his eyes, raising his face as if to his God. “It says, Dead Room.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The president’s chief of staff was alone in the White House’s subterranean situation room. Men and women who had moments ago sat around the rectangular conference table were now rushing back to their offices in various government buildings in D.C., all of them in states of high anxiety and uncertainty. Donny Tusk didn’t share their emotions. Instead, he was angry.

  Veins were throbbing on the politician’s bald head; ears that were pointed and flush against his cranium, and had once earned him the nickname of Vulcan 1 when he was in the Green Berets, were red; and the long scar on the side of his face—­a result of being caught on the wrong side of a battle line in the First Gulf War—­throbbed. He sat staring at the TV monitor that moments ago had captivated all in the room; and he didn’t look away when Patrick from the CIA entered.

  “You wanted to see me,” Patrick said as he slumped into the president’s chair at the head of the table.

  Tusk pointed toward the screen. “Did you watch it? Bob Oakland?”

  “I did.”

  Tusk rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing more scars on his muscular forearms. “Dead Room. Sons of bitches!”

  “What has the president decided?”

  “He’s listened to those who say we never negotiate with terrorists and therefore can’t agree to a trade. And he’s listened to others who argue that there needs to be an exception, since Oakland’s a high-­ranking Agency officer. At the moment, the president’s weighing both options.” Tusk turned to Patrick. “What are you guys doing?”

  Patrick was still. “General Kinnear’s mobilized JSOC. The CIA’s calling in big-­time favors with multiple domestic and foreign agencies. It’s a manhunt, and everyone’s excited, energetic, working round the clock, totally focused, and determined to find Oakland. And . . .”

  “They’ll find him dead.”

  “In all likelihood, yes.”

  Tusk spun the TV remote on the wooden table. “We’re damned every which way we turn.”

  “Seems that way.”

  Tusk turned the monitor back on. The image on the screen was the same one frozen after he’d paused the video before the situation room had erupted in a cacophony of indignation thirty minutes ago. Bob Oakland was on his knees, looking smashed up yet defiant, his hands and legs bound in ropes. Six jihadists were standing behind him, one of them gripping a chain that was wrapped around Bob’s throat and holding a knife to the CIA officer’s gullet. The tethered translator was in the corner of the room, on his ass and looking in even worse shape than Bob. And above them were the red letters.

  “It’s all over the Internet,” muttered Tusk. “We’re trying to take the video link down, but the bastards have used multiple sites, and proxy servers, and other shit that I don’t understand. No matter what we do, ­people can find the link if they’re looking for it.”

  Patrick stared at the image. He’d only briefly met Bob Oakland once, and had been struck by the officer’s intelligence, charm, and humor. It was also clear that Oakland had tremendous inner strength. But now he was probably praying for a quick death. “Did anyone watching this suggest to the president a neutralizing solution?”

  Neutralize all conundrums and persons involved by bombing all suspected ISIS locations; hopefully, strike lucky and kill Oakland and his captors; put Bob out of his misery.

  “Yeah, it was mentioned. President’s taking it into consideration. It’s not a bad option sinc
e it means we don’t need to negotiate with the scum; nor do we have to fail to recover Oakland alive. And no member of John Q. Public will ever find out that Oakland was more than just an unwitting victim of a surgical strike against ISIS units.”

  “Tell the president to ignore that option.”

  “Why?”

  “The men holding Oakland and the translator aren’t ISIS. Not yet, anyway. And they’ve told that to the world. These guys won’t be using known ISIS facilities. You can’t bomb them and claim you were hitting an Islamic State target. Plus . . .”

  “We don’t know where they are.”

  “So you’re back to square one.”

  Tusk rubbed his aching facial scar. “How does it come to pass that these days a handful of crazies can hold entire states to ransom?” He turned off the TV. “Who’s Arzam Saud?”

  “I’m looking in to it. So far I know, he’s a full-­fledged member of ISIS. We’re holding him at Guantanamo.”

  Tusk stood. “Director Soames tells me you’re assigning an asset to investigate how the jihadists knew Oakland, or someone like him, was going to be at the village.”

  “Correct.”

  “Who’s the asset?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “What did you say?!”

  “You heard me.”

  Tusk’s anger was palpable. “I’ve got enough secrets to deal with! Don’t need another one!”

  Patrick remained calm. “Secrets aren’t your biggest problem. Over the coming few days, you’re going to have to wade through a heap of unproductive bullshit. You’ll have agencies telling you they’re making progress—­Kinnear advising you that he’s putting his men here, there, and everywhere and that his analysts are examining some promising satellite photography; someone presenting new intelligence leads about Oakland’s location; and politicians telling you and the president what you should be thinking and doing. Most of it will simply be nothing more than ­people’s justifying their jobs. All of it will most likely prove to be crap.”

  “You take a pessimistic view of our capabilities.”

  “You disagree with me?”

  The chief of staff was silent.

  Patrick continued, “I take a realistic view, and I owe it to you to be at least one voice that ain’t spouting bullshit. The identity of my asset needs to remain a secret. If I tell you his name, possibly soon someone will force you to appear before a closed-­door committee to update them on progress. Maybe you’ll have no choice but to reveal the identity of all operators involved. When that happens, egos come into play. I can’t afford for my guy to be hindered or compromised because some senators, intelligence officers, or JSOC officers think their limelight’s being stolen by someone else.” Patrick walked up to Tusk. “Please, Donny. No doubt I’m where I am because I don’t play politics well, but I’ve got good instincts. My instincts now tell me that revealing my asset’s identity won’t help you.”

  Tusk was deep in thought. “Answer me this: is he good?”

  “I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this.”

  It was all Tusk needed to hear. He shook Patrick’s hand and returned his attention to the image of Bob Oakland. “You’re hoping that if your asset can find out how these guys knew Oakland was going to be at the village, then maybe that information will lead us to his whereabouts. That’s beyond a long shot. Increasingly, I’m hoping Bob gets the chance to grab one of the jihadist’s guns and turn it on himself.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following afternoon, a tall gentleman took a seat in the center of the empty stalls in London’s Royal Albert Hall. He slung his wet raincoat over the seat next to him, and watched the London Philharmonic Orchestra rehearse Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2. Nobody else was in the stalls or the boxes above him. The only reason he was allowed in was because the orchestra’s Russian conductor was grateful that six months ago the man had smashed the Russian’s cup of tea before the musician could consume its contents of Assam leaves blended with polonium.

  The man wore a suit well, and today was no exception; his once-­blond hair was now dark, cropped, and greying at the temples; he was muscular though not in an obvious way; his face looked a few years older than his midthirties age because he’d lived a life of hard effort and sorrow; and, depending upon the circumstances, his blue and green eyes alternated between looks of amusement and death. He was handsome to some, less so to others; he carried his frame with a ramrod-­straight back, not because he’d once had to do so as a paratrooper on the parade grounds of the French Foreign Legion but rather because he’d been doing so ever since a kindly schoolteacher had told him in his adolescence that his height was nothing to be ashamed of, and he should stop slouching.

  His face would be of particular interest to astute observers. Hairless, wrinkled around the eyes, sometimes tanned, other times white, his visage spoke of a loneliness that was superficially content and resigned to its plight. His lips were often angled in a wry smile, one that suggested wisdom, experience, and was a communication to all around him that ­people should embrace the happiness of life rather than bemoan an existence that had never experienced the horrors he’d seen.

  Of course, the same observers would have loved to access the man’s mind. But it was a locked vault of terrible memories peppered with recollections of rare moments of joy and imbued with a fearsome cognitive processing power that saw things others couldn’t. His brain deliberately eschewed interest in places and inanimate objects in favor of clearing mental space to capture all there was to know about the human condition. Only ­people interested him.

  He was, after all, a spy.

  And yet, for all of his insight into the populations of the countries within which he roamed, he often felt detached from those around him, as if he were a human-­looking creature who’d fallen to Earth with the instruction to make sense of it all. He hated his detachment and bemusement with the chaos he witnessed and made every effort to blend in as best he could with the ­people around him. It was as near as he could get to being one of them. To some, he was an Englishman; others, American; he could also convince France, Germany, Russia, and five other nations that he was born and schooled in their countries. It gave him multiple roots though none was as alluring as England. When he wasn’t working, he came here because, among other things, he was a journeyman who sometimes liked to return home and listen to Rachmaninov and check that his compatriots were safe and okay.

  His eyes were closed as the orchestra embarked on the crescendo of the symphony; his fingers tapping note perfect the armrest of his chair, as if he were the lead violinist; humming the music through his nose with vocal cords that had the ability to range from countertenor to soprano. The tone of his voice reflected this ability. Most ­people spoke from the front of their mouths. He did so from his lungs, and once the emission reverberated over his cords, it produced a sound that was sometimes as commanding as a general ordering his troops to follow him into battle and others times as sweet and beguiling as a siren calling to those who must trail its notes across misty waters until entrapped and dead.

  Of the few ­people who’d met him and knew his real identity, a handful adored his unwavering compassion, contrarian intellect, and self-­sacrifice. They also pitied him.

  The majority, however, loathed everything about Will Cochrane.

  They wanted him dead.

  The Royal Albert Hall is an acoustically flawed venue when at full capacity, but today the sounds emanating from the orchestra soared within the hall’s empty cylindrical structure, notes having the space to reach their full potential before finally dying at the back of the stalls and becoming spent as they reached the high dome ceiling. Within the epicenter of the music’s full power, Will smiled and kept his eyes shut until the last note was played.

  His smile faded as a man took the seat next to him and watched the orchestra start packing up its instruments.
“Hello, Patrick.”

  “How’ve you been?” asked the CIA director.

  “Over what time frame?”

  “Recently.”

  Will kept his eyes on the stage. “Of late I’ve been listening to a rehearsal of a score composed by a dead Moldovan whose genius outshone the faux-­aristocratic bent of his snobbish and impoverished family. The orchestra’s 96 percent there. The upper strings need to pay attention to their tempo in the second movement’s ostinato; and the solo clarinetist and oboe section might wish to consider increasing their volume in the third movement, to compensate for this building’s acoustics. But otherwise I’m satisfied the ensemble will be ready for the performance tomorrow evening.”

  “I meant, what has your employer been doing with you?”

  “My employer . . .”

  The Secret Intelligence Ser­vice, otherwise known as MI6.

  “ . . . has moved on to other matters. It believes our little project has run its course.”

  The project he was referring to was Task Force S—­the joint CIA-­MI6 unit to which Will had belonged and been its lead field agent. Alongside Will’s MI6 controller, Patrick had been co-­head of the force until it had been disbanded at the behest of powerful individuals on both sides of the Atlantic who were envious of its success.

  Will looked at Patrick. “Recently, I’ve been signing bits of paper telling me to keep my mouth shut because I’m persona non grata and in a few months will officially be a former intelligence officer.”