Spy Trade

by Matthew Dunn

He punched her in the face with sufficient force to throw her body onto the bed. She held her hands to her bloody nose while kicking wildly through the air with her feet. She was about to cry for help, but the man wrenched her arms away from her face, thrust her bed’s pillow on her mouth, and put his full body weight behind his hand. She lashed, punched, and scratched at the man’s arms and body, but he held her firm, pressing even harder as he squeezed the life out of her.

  No air in her lungs, which were now convulsing in agony.

  Her mind was exploding.

  Eyes and throat, too.

  It felt like an hour, but in one minute her body gave one final convulsion, her back arched, and Nadia was dead.

  Signor Gorsky was tasting a glass of Argiano Solengo while listening to Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring on his living room’s CD player. The red wine was an extremely good vintage and had been difficult to obtain. He was pleased that for the most part it met his exacting standards though the taste was not quite right on the receptor cells in the center of his tongue. His telephone rang. He left it unanswered as he never picked up a phone unless he knew exactly who was calling. Before she’d left home to pursue married life, many times his daughter had purchased cell phones for him and showed him how to add contacts so that their names appeared on the screen when they rang. All of the phones were in a drawer, unused.

  His housekeeper walked quickly into the room, answered the phone, nodded, and held it toward her boss. “It’s okay, sir. One of your associates.”

  The old Russian got to his feet and walked to the phone. “Yes?”

  “It’s done. Both business transactions have been successfully executed.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But there’s a problem. The photograph of old business was not among the paperwork. Maybe it’s been given to someone who shouldn’t have it.”

  Gorsky asked, “You’re sure?”

  “I checked the case many times. It was possible the photo was on his person, but I didn’t have time to search him. The location was too public. Plus, there was a tall man walking toward the place where it was done. I’d earlier spotted him waiting nearby. There was something about him I didn’t like. It was too risky to hang around.”

  Gorsky was silent for five seconds. “We must assume the photo was handed to that person or someone like him. You’re of no use to me now in London. I want you to go to Moscow and keep an eye on the last of them. You know who I’m referring to?”

  “Yes. That loose end should have been permanently tied up long ago.”

  “Ah, but I am a sentimental when it comes to old memories. But my sentimentality has its limits. Call me again if anything happens. I’ll issue you fresh instructions.”

  Gorsky replaced the handset in its cradle, walked back to the sumptuous arrangement of armchairs, rugs, and sofas, and sat down. Stravinsky’s music filled the vast room. He tasted his wine again. It was now perfect. He decided that was because it had been allowed to breathe.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Just one mouthful of the gruel made Ramzi spit it out, and exclaim, “What is that?”

  The jihadist who was crouching before him and attempting to feed the insipid white food to his prisoner was the short yet broad-­shouldered deputy of the six-­man Chechen unit. He smashed the bowl into Ramzi’s face, covering it with globules.

  In the far corner of the room, Bob Oakland thrashed against his bonds and chain. “Please don’t! He didn’t mean it! Please, I beg you!”

  The jihadist was silent as he unclipped the translator’s neck chain from its lock on the wall, and dragged Ramzi to his feet. The Jordanian was shaking his head furiously, trying to get the soup out of his eyes and mouth. “I’m sorry! So sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  The Chechen yanked the chain, forcing Ramzi’s bound ankles to move his feet in an inch-­by-­inch shuffle across the dead room. Ramzi was crying, moaning in despair, and kept looking at Bob. “Mr. Oakland. Say something clever. Make them stop. I beg you.”

  But Bob had no clever words, only ones that instead would have made him sound like a groveling beggar, his pleas being trampled on by men who viewed him as pathetic for stooping so low. “Be strong, Ramzi,” was all he could think to say though he meant every word.

  When the guard and prisoner were out of the room, and the door was slammed shut, Oakland lowered his head and prayed to God, asking him to be merciful and put a bullet in Ramzi’s brain. He’d never prayed before. But this was important; he thought God might listen even though Bob had been rude enough not to reach out to him before. He looked at the ropes that were lashed around his ankles. They’d cut into his skin so regularly that he was sure his legs would carry permanent reminders of his bonds. If he survived his ordeal of imprisonment, he’d have another story to tell, he thought. Did I tell you how I got all these scars? Yes, Grandpa, a thousand times. Wanna hear it again? Yes please!

  Ramzi’s screams and shouts were unmistakable from the room next door. There was banging, most likely from his head being smashed against the wall. It had happened so many times to both prisoners. But there were also knives, other instruments, and a bucket in that room. So far they’d not been used. But so far Ramzi and Bob had done everything the guards had told them to do.

  A fly landed on the rope wounds on his legs. He tried to shake the fly off, but it kept landing back on his flesh. “Don’t lay eggs,” said Bob to the fly. “Please. Don’t lay eggs in there.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The detective in Heathrow Airport’s police station stopped writing and looked at Will Cochrane across the desk in the bare interview room. “Mr. Groves—­you’ve nothing else to add?”

  Will shrugged. “Like what?”

  The detective reread the statement he’d taken from the sole human witness to Eddie Lanes’s murder. “You didn’t know the victim?”

  “Correct.”

  “You were in Heathrow to meet an American colleague?”

  “Yes. Like I said, it was only when I arrived that I got his message that he’d missed his flight.”

  “And you never saw the killer?”

  “I didn’t. Will the CCTV video you have of the murder be sufficient to identify him?”

  “Not likely. But DNA’s a miracle cure for crime these days.”

  Will suspected they’d never catch the killer that way.

  “We’re going to need to take your DNA as well. You held Lanes. We got that on camera as well. You okay with our taking samples from you?”

  “No problem.”

  The detective slid the handwritten statement and a pen across the desk. “Okay. Just initial each page and sign and date at the end. If we need you again, we’ll get in touch. You may need to appear in court as a witness if it gets to trial. Possibly not, though. You didn’t actually see the murder.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Will signed the document while looking at the detective and making rapid assessments about the man. Thirty-­five; made detective recently; divorced; remarried; regretted doing so; was once a smoker but quit at least four months ago; is on a diet that requires him to fast twice a week; and supports Arsenal soccer club. “I don’t suppose you know the score from today’s match?”

  The detective frowned. “Which match?”

  “Arsenal v Everton. I’m a Gunners supporter. Would hate to see Everton even get a draw with my team.”

  The detective grinned while withdrawing a soccer ticket that was previously partially exposed in his jacket pocket. “I support Arsenal, too.” His smile vanished as he flicked the ticket. “Sorry to say we lost out. The Toffees kicked our asses. Three nil.”

  “Shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  Will shook his head. “When I got job promotion twelve months ago, I was given a VIP pass to Arsenal games. I thought I was given a pass to Heaven. Seems I was wrong.”

 
“What do you do for a living?”

  Will replied, “I’m an academic. I’m not a medically trained oncologist, but I specialize in the study of cancer. Am I allowed to smoke in here?”

  “No. We used to allow it but not anymore.”

  Will pretended to look frustrated. “Just as well I quit. My wife busted my balls about it. Said I couldn’t study cancer and smoke at the same time. It made sense, and I listened to her. It was the only thing she said that felt right. Everything else was nuts. Still, I kept going back to her for some reason. I wish I wasn’t that weak.”

  The detective was silent, trying to hide signs that he knew exactly how Will felt.

  Will breathed in deeply and adopted an expression that suggested he was back in the here and now and transcending personal reflection. “You’re ambitious?”

  “Yeah. Well, I tell myself I am.” The detective looked pissed off. “Heathrow wasn’t my choice. All I get here is guys and gals who’ve smuggled in an extra carton of fags, and drug mules whose jaundice makes them stand out a mile when they stagger through the Nothing To Declare customs aisle. It’s when the condoms in their asses rupture and release the drugs into their systems that they turn that color. There’s no challenge in spotting them.”

  “But now you have a murder to investigate.”

  The detective’s eyes glistened. “Yes.”

  “Can I see the CCTV footage again?”

  “Sure.” The detective tapped on his laptop keyboard, swiveled the computer so that its screen could viewed by both men, and pressed Play. There was Eddie Lanes in the parking lot, pulling his bag over the lip of a sidewalk. Will wasn’t in view. A tall man appeared on the left of the screen, wearing jeans, boots, sunglasses, and a grey sweater with its hood up. He plunged his knife into Lanes’s back, grabbed his briefcase, spun him around, stuck his knife into his gut, prized the case off the journalist, and ran. Moments later, Will was on the scene.

  Will said, “Go back to the bit where the man first appears.”

  The detective rewound the footage and pressed Play again.

  “Stop.”

  The detective did as he was told, pausing the video on the moment the killer was about to make his first strike.

  “Do you notice anything about the way the killer approaches Lanes?”

  The police officer frowned. “Nothing odd.”

  “He doesn’t run at him; nor does he use stealth. It’s more like a cocky saunter.”

  “He’s done this before?”

  Will completely agreed though he didn’t answer because he didn’t want the detective to know that he was doing anything other than playing at amateur detective. Nor did he want the man to know that Will was helping him crack his first murder case. “He approaches Lanes like a strutting cockerel that’s approaching its opponent in a cockfight. His walk is muscular, but there’s also self-­assured rhythm in his footing, a rhythm that’s necessary to ensure his upper body is perfectly poised to make its attack. Where’ve you seen movement like that before?”

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe a boxing ring.”

  “Excellent.”

  “After the first bell to round one rings, he’s circling his opponent, almost floating, ready to spring.”

  “You’re making a fine detective. Now, press Play again, then stop it after he prizes the case off Lanes. Watch what happens.”

  When the detective stopped the video, he said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “The killer might be a boxer. But when he spins Lanes around, the killer swings his arms to create momentum that wholly off balances Lanes. The killer steps in close, shifts his hips, and twists Lanes’s arm upward, putting it in an agonizing lock. That in itself would have been sufficient for the assailant to successfully force Lanes to drop his case.” Will nodded at the screen. “When I was younger, I did some mixed-­martial-­arts training. One of my kick-­smoking-­and-­get-­fit phases of life. These moves remind me of someone who’s had the same training.”

  The detective leaned in close to the screen. “You’re right. A mixed martial artist. Probably he does it to keep him in top form for his day job, which is . . .” He hesitated.

  “I’m not thinking mugger. Even the dumbest of robbers would know there are infinitely better places to randomly rob someone and get away with it. This man wanted Lanes’s case—­only Lanes’s case.”

  “And even though he got the case, he killed Lanes anyway, so the victim couldn’t identify him.”

  “Or he was paid by someone to execute Lanes. If I were you, I’d look at the membership of mixed-­martial-­arts clubs. Start in London. Check whether any members have convictions, but also look for military combat history.”

  “Why military?”

  Will shrugged, careful not to appear too convincing in what he was saying. “Just a guess. I haven’t a clue about these things. But I’m thinking this through logically, much in the same way that I approach my work when I look at cancerous cells. What if this guy’s a contract killer? Maybe his employer doesn’t want to use someone who’s spent time in prison for serious assault or murder because that type of person’s profile might lead police to the employer. But the same employer might decide that an ex-­military guy for hire might prove just as useful, maybe more so. Just a thought.”

  The detective grinned. “Mr. Groves, you’re in the wrong job.” He stood and shook Will’s hand. “You’ve been really helpful. We won’t bother you again unless we have to.”

  “I’ll send you some tickets to watch The Gunners if you catch the guy.”

  The detective’s eyes lit up. It had been unprecedented for him to interview a witness to a crime who had so much in common with him. And Groves’s observations had given the detective a major starting point in the murder case. It had been a pleasure to encounter such a cooperative member of the public. As a result, he’d ensure that the police didn’t bother Groves again unless absolutely necessary.

  Not that the police would be able to contact Groves again. He didn’t exist. And Will’s DNA samples would be of no use. There wasn’t a DNA base in the world that had records of a sample belonging to a man called Will Cochrane.

  One hour later, Will called from a pay phone in Heathrow’s Terminal 5. “Lanes is dead. Someone knifed him and stole the papers he was bringing me from Dubai. But not everything’s lost.” He told him about the photo that Lanes had managed to withdraw from his jacket, so Will could take it. Given he was on the brink of death, it had been an extremely brave thing that Lanes had done.

  The photo was of Gorsky serving as a lieutenant in the 9th Company, 345th Independent Guards Airborne Regiment, during the Soviet-­Afghan war. It was an official Soviet photo, had Gorsky’s name under his image, and Cyrillic handwriting in the corner saying, Me, two days before shrapnel put me on my ass and into civilian life—­V. Gorsky.

  Will said, “I need you to do something for me fast. You might need to liaise with your DIA,” the United States Defense Intelligence Agency, “or maybe the information I need is in your databases. Either way, I’ll call you back in one hour.”

  When Will called Patrick back in that time frame, he listened to the CIA officer say, “Got it. Name and address.”

  Will committed the details to memory.

  “What are you going to do next?”

  Will glanced at the nearby flight departures board. He was in Terminal 5 for a reason. It was the terminal used for departures to Russia. Patrick’s information had confirmed Will was right to put himself here. “I’m getting on a flight to Moscow.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  During his journey to Moscow, Will had eschewed offers of food and drink, had not touched the inflight entertainment, and instead had sat motionless, thinking about Eddie Lanes’s death. So often in his line of work, the imperative to rescue one individual resulted in the demise of another. Each time, he told
himself that he had no way of predicting his assets’ downfalls; and yet he also knew full well that if he hadn’t entered their lives, there was every possibility they would still be alive. Will Cochrane sent ­people to their deaths, he frequently concluded. He was like a judge of old, who would place a black cloth cap on his head before pronouncing to a petrified prisoner in the docks that he would be hanged until dead.

  He couldn’t know for sure that someone in DIFC would realize that Nadia had copied the KapSet registration files and report that to Viktor Gorsky. As a result, it was impossible for him to predict with certainty that a killer would be unleashed to murder Lanes. But Will Cochrane knew all the possible outcomes of his work before he made his first move on his figurative chessboard. What had happened in Dubai and London was one possible sequence of events that could follow his entry into Lanes’s house in the Hebrides. It made him feel shitty and angry with himself.

  If he’d just been a few yards closer to Lanes in the parking lot, things could have been different. Or not. The man who attacked Lanes knew exactly what he was doing. Will had been telling the truth when he told the Heathrow detective to look for an unarmed-­combat expert who was ex-­military. If Will was a gambling man, he’d have bet the Lanes’s murderer was ex–Special Forces.

  He took a taxi from the airport and stared out the window. He’d been to Moscow many times and knew it as well as he knew London. It was a city where he’d suffered pain and joy, had made the very best of friends and worst of enemies, shot and kidnapped high-­value targets, rescued men and women, and seen some of his brave colleagues being beaten to the ground by rifle butts and dragged off in an army vehicle to be tortured. None of it had happened during the height of the Cold War. It had all taken place when Russia was momentarily best pals with the West. That veneer of bullshit had subsequently slipped. It made Moscow an even more dangerous place for a man like Will Cochrane to be.

  The taxi turned into Ul. Marshala Poluboyarova, in the residential and commercial suburbs of the city’s southeastern outskirts. After paying the driver and waiting until the taxi had disappeared, Will walked a hundred yards and stopped. On the other side of the street were apartment blocks and residential houses. He stood on the sidewalk as a fine rain began to descend, cars on the street driving slowly, some of them with their headlights on even though it was late morning. There were ­people on the streets though not many. Most of them were solitary, moving quickly with their hands in their pockets and hoods and collars pulled up to shield them from the weather. A break in the clouds introduced a scythe of sunlight illuminating the fine drizzle of rain droplets, its long blade touching the earth and moving with the shift in clouds. As the clouds became still, the scythe was motionless, pointing at Will and the house he was observing.