by Matthew Dunn
Out of MI6. No job. No more excuse for him to skulk in the recesses of the secret world because he’s paid to do so by Her Majesty’s government.
Will added, “I imagine you’re not in a dissimilar position.”
Patrick felt exposed in the cavernous building and wondered how a man with Will’s covert profile felt so comfortable being here. “Pretty much, except I’m still in a job for the foreseeable future. I guess the Agency’s put me into the keep-your-enemies-closer category.”
Will watched the last person leave the stage. It was the conductor; a man who’d once been a Russian SVR asset turned MI6 double agent. No doubt he was worried about tomorrow night’s performance. Forever in his life, he would be dreading the day a man like Will Cochrane wasn’t by his side to rescue him from an inevitable further Russian attempt on his life.
“I’m bored,” said Will. “I’m hoping you’re not, and that’s why you wanted to see me.”
“Bored?”
“Fractious. Prone to impulsive and illogical decisions based on the sole desire to wrong-foot myself and everyone I know.” Will stared at Patrick; right now, his eyes were dead. “Bob Oakland’s plight worries you, yes?”
“You guessed that’s why I’m here.”
“I never guess. When did you leave D.C. for Britain?”
“Late East Coast time this morning.”
“Your wife made you breakfast before you left?”
“Actually, I made her our breakfast.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Because she didn’t fix me food? She’s a working woman and has every right not to play housewife.”
“No. I’m sorry because I’ve now established that your wife was with you at breakfast. She’s an interior designer with a gift for attention to detail. Plus, she’s borderline OCD. It wouldn’t have escaped her attention over breakfast that her husband had missed a bit of stubble when shaving. Either she let you leave the house looking like that because she no longer cares about your relationship, or she’s upset with you. It’s the latter. You need to let her install the ceiling-height windows she wants in your house.”
“How in God’s name did you know about the windows?” Patrick was flustered. “And you’ve only met my wife once!”
“She’s curious about the world. All she wants is to look at things. Windows allow that. Give her what she wants, and everything will be good. It will be a kind gesture.”
“It will make our home look like a giant greenhouse!”
“A kind gesture,” Will repeated. “She adores you. Make her happy.”
Patrick nodded. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.” He needed to change the conversation. “Sounds like you’ve got some spare time on your hands. Fancy a freelance job?”
“To find Bob Oakland and his translator?” Will interlocked his scarred hands. “The intelligence and special-operations communities of the United States will have that task in hand.”
“The task, maybe, but not the likelihood of a result. It’s . . .”
“Thousands of square miles to cover in northern Iraq and western Syria. Needle-in-a-haystack territory. And I’ll add no value by getting on a plane to the Middle East to join the queue of others pursuing that fool’s quest.”
Patrick had expected this response. “I’m not asking you to do that. I’ve got full authority from Capitol Hill to look at this from whatever perspective I choose; more accurately, from the perspective of whichever asset I choose. I’m hoping you’ll say yes.” Patrick withdrew a copy of today’s Washington Post. On its front cover was a photo of Oakland in the dead room.
“We want you to establish how Oakland and his team were compromised at the village. Somebody who knew they were going to be there has either got loose lips or is on the payroll of some nasties. Find that person, and you might find a more productive path to the jihadists holding Oakland and the translator.”
Will took the paper and stared at the shot of Bob Oakland. Before seeing him earlier in the day in an edited news-channel broadcast of the jihadists’ video, Will had never set eyes on the man or heard of him. Nor had the news channel been permitted to reveal any information about Oakland beyond confirming the he was an American citizen and a government employee. “Married with grown-up children, I suspect.”
“Yes.”
“A senior officer, and highly regarded by his peers. But, he’s not a backstabbing careerist. He’s achieved his rank by selfless service and merit. His eyes suggest a smart man; wisdom’s in them, also a trace of humor.”
“That about sums him up.”
“A year, maybe much less, to retirement.”
“He had a few weeks until he was out. The man should’ve been coasting to retirement.”
“But he didn’t because he deserved a story.”
“What?”
Will placed a finger against the photo. “He spent his career putting himself second; did whatever was needed; went places others turned their noses up at because there was no glory to be had there. Bob has been a through-and-through professional. But, facing retirement, all he asked of the Agency was one thing in return for his lifelong duty. He remembered his childhood; one spent reading tales of adventure and daring. Before he walked off into the sunset, he wanted the Agency to give him a piece of the action.”
Patrick laughed. “You can’t know that for sure.”
“I can’t. But I posit the notion because it’s better than having no notion at all. Plus, I’m right.” Will handed the paper back to his former boss. “He’s lost in his adventure, and no one can find him.”
“And that’s why I need you to find who sold him out. The president’s chief of staff and the head of the Agency agree.”
“Their idea’s wrong.”
Patrick sighed. “Why doesn’t it surprise me to hear you say that?”
Will placed the tips of his fingers against his nose. “The search to find Oakland and a security leak are futile because both will take too long. We must turn our thinking on its head and construct another starting point.”
“That’s fine as long as you’ve got an idea where it will lead.”
“I’ve several hypotheses as to where it could lead, and one in particular fascinates me. But ideas are useless without supporting data. In the video, the jihadists stated they wanted a man called Arzam Saud in exchange for Oakland. Who is Saud?”
Patrick told him what little he knew.
“Our starting point is for you to travel back to the States and find out everything you can about your ISIS prisoner. Don’t assume what I need to know. Find out everything. Then, relay what you know to me.”
“Why’s that your starting point?”
Will didn’t answer.
CHAPTER SIX
On the outskirts of the Renaissance-era city of Lucca in Tuscany, the Russian oligarch and property tycoon Viktor Gorsky smiled as he watched the sun mellow into a blood-red haze while it descended over the horizon. It was, as he’d hoped, at the time of day when his newlywed daughter was scheduled to have her first dance with her husband in front of the hundreds of guests in the grounds of his mansion.
Throughout all of yesterday and today, Gorsky had been a bag of nerves: fretting about the wisdom or otherwise of having the wedding and its aftermath celebrations alfresco; worrying that the flower displays would wilt in the heat; checking over and over again the settings on the starched white cloths that covered the dining tables within his orchard; feeling his blood pressure rise as the female wedding coordinator would break off from yelling orders at the legions of wedding staff to tell him for the tenth time in as many minutes that she was fairly certain everything was going according to plan; and phoning and rephoning vintners, caterers, the string quartet, the priest, the jazz band, the supplier of white doves that were to be launched in the air after his daughter had tied the kn
ot, and the baker who seemed reasonably confident his cake wouldn’t melt when it was displayed.
Had his daughter gotten married a few years earlier, Gorsky’s wife would have willingly absorbed the stress of the wedding, allowing her husband to sit back and sip too many glasses of Cinzano while he watched preparations. But his wife had passed away last year. He’d had to step up to the plate and ensure his only child got the sendoff she deserved.
Now, the jazz band was playing. His daughter looked considerably more relaxed than she’d been earlier in the day, tossing her auburn hair back onto her flowing white dress as she laughed, embracing her husband, and allowing him to spin her as the guests quaffed champagne and whooped and cheered. All was good. The evening was warm but not oppressive; lanterns suspended from apple and orange trees were being lit; his twenty acres of land were as enchanting as a fairy tale, yet its lawns were manicured and its stone paths designed to perfection, a good thing since half of the guests were in high heels. People were well fed. The cake hadn’t melted. The best man’s speech had been polite. And the usually voracious appetite of the Martelli family seemed to be showing signs of restraint, given the family was not yet any drunker than the forty other clans in attendance.
The evening would be a long one, and Gorsky could now relax. He clapped his hands in time to the music as his daughter spun faster, her laugh pleasing him as much as it had when she was three years old and would run to him when he returned home after work.
“Papa, Papa!” she’d exclaim while launching her tiny body into his arms, throwing her head back and giggling with glee as if the daily moment had never happened before and was one of pure ecstasy.
Gorsky hadn’t changed since then. But his daughter was now grown-up, and here he was giving her away. He hoped she’d visit often from her new home in Umbria even though he’d told her not to worry about her papa and that she must now live her new life. He gulped his aperitif in an effort to suppress a tear.
“Mr. Gorsky,” said one of his many bodyguards as he approached his boss. “You have a telephone call. Urgent.”
Gorsky snapped, “I told you—no telephone calls yesterday or today unless they’re to do with my daughter’s wedding.”
“Urgent,” the burly guard repeated while looking a little uneasy. “It’s from one of your associates.”
Gorsky slammed his glass down on the drinks table by his side, fixed a grin on his face, and walked between tables and chairs containing relatives, acquaintances, friends of the bride and groom, businessmen and -women, and trained killers.
“Signor Gorsky,” many of them said as he passed them and shook their hands, “today you must be so proud.”
He walked into his huge and tasteful mansion, entered his study, and picked up the telephone. “Yes?” He listened to the caller for one minute, before saying, “Make sure nothing comes back to me. They’ll find out we did business together, and that’s fine. But that’s all they must know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bob Oakland had no idea whether it was day or night when the three jihadists entered the windowless chamber, removed the chain from his throat, and dragged him out of the room; its walls echoing the hysterical cries of Ramzi who remained tethered in the dead room.
Oakland’s head pounded against the stone floor, his lips were cracked and ragged, and one of his eyes was shut because of a punch. He was hauled into a smaller room. It contained a black hangman’s rope fixed on the ceiling and below it a wooden bench the size of a mortuary slab.
His captors breathed fast as they lifted Oakland onto the bench and put his head in the noose. The tallest of the Chechens was the man who’d previously dictated his terms to the president of the United States while holding Oakland on a leash and pressing a knife against his throat. He stood in front of Oakland while his colleagues kept hold of the CIA officer’s arms.
“You wish for a quick death?”
Oakland lowered his head; his brain felt like a powerful hand was squeezing it to pulp. “Do I have a choice?”
“You are”—the Chechen frowned as if trying to establish what he was going to say next—“a puppet on a string, are you not?”
That’s exactly what Oakland felt like.
“What will you say?”
Oakland frowned. “Say?”
“Final words. A dead man must have his final words.”
Bob wanted to spit in the man’s face. It would’ve served no purpose. “Please tell my wife and daughters that I’m sorry.”
The Chechen leader took a step closer to the bench and Oakland. “Go out of this world with dignity, not regret! I won’t give you a quick death unless your final words deserve it.”
Bob smiled. Better final words? He recalled his trek in the desert, a walk wholly unlike that of T. E. Lawrence in magnitude but not in spirit. At least, not according to the David Lean movie depiction of the Englishman. A line from the movie stuck in his head.
“My final sentence is as follows.” Oakland spoke the words uttered by the actor who’d played Lawrence in the film. “The truth is, I’m an ordinary man.”
“I doubt that.” The jihadist nodded at his men, who swept Oakland’s legs off the bench.
He dropped to his death, a split second left of life, with Oakland hoping his body weight would cause his neck to snap when the rope became taut. Or maybe it wouldn’t, and he’d be allowed several seconds more of life to recall other memories while his legs thrashed.
He crashed to the ground, the rope still around his neck but its length no longer fixed to anything firm.
A mock execution.
His captors laughed.
The Chechen leader stamped on Oakland’s head and held it flush against the floor. “It’s not that simple. If Arzam Saud is given to us, you’ll walk out of here alive. If the American president decides that you must die, we’ll hang you for real.”
Oakland was hauled back into the dead room and chained against the wall. Thirty feet away, in the opposite corner, Ramzi wept. “What happened, Mr. Oakland?”
Bob told him.
“Will your country agree to the jihadists’ demands?”
Bob thought it unlikely though he didn’t know. He felt the chain tighten around his throat as he leaned forward. “No matter what they say, they’re not going to give us a quick death. It will take mental strength to do this, but if we can get to our knees and lean forward, we might be able to get the chains to strangle us.”
Both men tried. And both men failed; their instincts to survive kicking in quickly and forcing their bodies to adopt an alleviating position that caused the chains to slacken. Ramzi used his bound hands to strike his forehead with frustration. Oakland just sat, blinking fast as he stared at the solitary ceiling bulb in the center of the room.
“They must rescue us,” cried out Ramzi.
Oakland shook his head. “It took us ten years to find someone as recognizable as bin Laden. How long do you think it will take them to find a Jordanian kid and a guy from Montana?”
Ramzi prodded the ground, his usual good looks and enthusiastic demeanor cast aside in favor of actions that seemed to belong to an aging ape that had strayed too far from his patch and been caught unawares by other predators or the climate. He was touching the land, willingly preparing for death.
Oakland wanted his mind to grow wings and leave his doomed body. “They say I can be free. They make no mention of you.”
“I know,” said the Arab. “I wanted a different life.”
“Me too. At least, a different ending to the life I’ve led.” Quietly, Oakland added, “We just have each other now.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ninety-three miles southwest of Washington, D.C., is an old redbrick mansion that had in its history been the location of a murder, a suicide, a training ground for World War II OSS agents, an institute for the insane, and a beatnik poets’
retreat until they’d been evicted from the premises after a hallucinogenic-fueled weeklong orgy of free love had culminated in the crazed poets spilling naked into the neighboring village.
The government had repossessed the home and its grounds and totally renovated the property, returning it to the sumptuous glory favored by its first owner—a nineteenth-century high-court judge who’d by day practiced law in D.C. and by night had dined on flesh whose consumption was banned. During the last few decades it had been a discreet place for senior spies to gather and discuss matters of national importance, for high-ranking defectors to be housed, debriefed, and entertained, and for security-cleared senators to be taught the ways of the secret world and how to move within it while keeping one’s mouth shut.
Today it was devoid of all such characters though it was brimming with personnel whose sole area of expertise was ensuring that people could never escape their grasp.
Patrick showed his pass to the armed guardsmen at the razor-wire perimeter, waited while they checked the inside and underside of his vehicle for bombs or anything else untoward, and drove his vehicle onward along the sweeping gravel driveway before bringing his car to a halt in front of the huge house.
Before the CIA officer could get out of the car, a young man in a suit was by the driver’s window. He tapped on the glass. “ID.”
“I’ve already shown it at the gate.”
“ID,” the official repeated with the charisma of an airport immigration officer at the end of a hectic shift.
Patrick held his passport to the window. “This do?”
“You don’t have Agency identification?”
“Nobody does,” replied Patrick, making no attempt to hide his impatience. “But you should be expecting me, plus I’m carrying the letter of introduction you needed.”
“Come with me.”