Counterspy

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Counterspy Page 6

by Matthew Dunn


  “I . . .”

  “Shut up and keep moving.”

  Trapper’s slow breathing was audible as I walked for another five minutes.

  “Stop.”

  I did, and realized that my vision had fully adjusted to the night. Ahead of me, about fifty yards away, an oil lamp sat in the center of the field. Next to it was a trunk the size of a coffin. At the far end of the field was an old cylindrical wooden water tower, on top of a single thick stilt that was given further support by two diagonal ladders. A fenced walkway ran around the entire perimeter of the base of the tank. It was approximately three hundred yards beyond the lamp and trunk, and was an excellent place for Trapper to hide in while watching me through high-­powered binoculars or something far worse.

  The oil lamp was casting a golden glow over part of the trunk.

  Trapper asked, “What do you think is inside the box?”

  I pointed my gun at the tower. “Maybe nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes. Perhaps you want to put me in there. Suffocate me.”

  “Clever, Mr. Cochrane. I know what it’s like to suffocate. It’s the worst death. You deserve that. But let’s presuppose that there might be something else in the box that’s relevant to our . . . situation. What could that be?”

  The lack of light made it impossible for me to see anyone on the tower. “Explosives,” a thought occurred to me, “or bait.”

  “Bait. Excellent. What kind?”

  “The human kind.”

  “Well done, sir. A radio mic is attached to the bait; I have the receiver. If I hold my cell close to the receiver, we can all communicate with the bait. Would you like that?”

  “You bastard!”

  “Because of you, I’m parentless. But I’m not a bastard. ”

  “You are a . . .”

  “Shush, shush. No time for that. Let’s get bait on the line. Hello, bait.”

  I could hear a woman whimpering.

  Trapper said, “Tell him your name.”

  “Isa . . . Isabella.”

  Trapper muttered, “Izzy Bella. You must be scared.”

  Her voice sounded muffled when she responded, “Please . . . please, let . . .”

  “You go?” Trapper laughed again. “Not likely under current conditions. Mr. Cochrane: if you drop your gun, she might live. If not, she’ll die because of your cowardice.”

  The numbness I felt earlier was gone, and my heart was pounding. “Who is she?”

  “A twenty-­year-­old Argentinian girl with ropes around her body.” Trapper sounded matter-­of-­fact when he added, “I can’t really think of anything more interesting to say about her.”

  I took a step forward, my gun still pointed at the water tower. “Her voice could be a prerecording.” Just like the woman’s voice in the GPS that had brought me to this kill zone.

  “Ask her anything you like, something I couldn’t predict and prerecord.”

  My cell felt clammy against my ear. “She’s still listening?”

  “Yes.”

  My mind raced as I tried to think of a question that might resonate with a person who wasn’t my gender or nationality, and was fifteen years younger than me. I decided to ask her to do something that was out of Trapper’s control. “Isabella. Listen to me carefully. I want you to repeat back to me what I’m about to say.”

  Her voice sounded strained as she replied, “Okay.”

  “The phrase is: Trapper is seriously fucked up. I repeat: Trapper is seriously fucked up.”

  “I beg you . . .”

  I shouted, “Just say it. It’s proof of life and may just save your neck.”

  Isabella responded in a near whisper. “Trapper is seriously fucked up.”

  “Good.” I asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “Enough!” Trapper was back on the line and sounded angry.

  I smiled. “Bet you didn’t like that.”

  “I might as well kill you now.”

  “With a gunshot?” I took five steps forward. “Then you’ll have failed to put me in the box.”

  Trapper was silent for a moment before asking, “Would you like to meet Izzy Bella? The trunk can be opened from the outside.”

  I stood stock still.

  “Go on. If you’re brave enough.”

  I walked quickly toward the trunk, knowing that if I fired my handgun, I’d struggle at this distance to hit the tower, let alone a man on its walkway.

  I reached the trunk and saw that it was secured by numerous steel bolts. I’d no idea what Trapper’s game was, but I had to open the trunk and get Isabella out of there. Keeping my gun pointed toward the tower, I slid back each bolt and swung the lid open.

  What? I thought.

  Inside was a young Indian man. He was bound in chains. Around his throat was razor wire that had cut into his skin. Blood had drooled out of his mouth; more of it covered his naked upper torso, having oozed out of a bullet wound in his chest. I placed my fingers against his neck, then his wrist. No heartbeat. He was dead.

  The man at the end of the line said, “His name was Sahir. I told him you murdered his father and I could help him get revenge.”

  I tried to make sense of it. “Who was his father?”

  “The man I described to you. Don’t worry—­you didn’t kill him. I did. And tonight I killed his son.”

  I gripped my gun harder. “What is this about?”

  Calmly, the man replied, “It’s about a young man deliberately getting himself arrested in Afghanistan so that he could convincingly tell the CIA that you’re being targeted for assassination. It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.”

  “For what?”

  “One day you’ll find out. Today’s not that day.”

  I glanced at Sahir. He looked so young. “Did he know I was going to be here tonight?”

  “Yes. He brought me the lamp, box, and sweet Isabella. He thought he was going to kill you. He was wrong.”

  “What are you? A terrorist?”

  “Oh dear, no. I’m much more special than that.” When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, and he sounded older. “Sahir and I are very different ­people—­different nationalities, ages, backgrounds, and aspirations. But I let Sahir use my code name when he was in captivity so that you knew who you were dealing with. And I pretended to be Sahir when I called you. Misdirection. That’s one thing Sahir and I did have in common. He was good at it. But I was better. I killed him after his work for me was complete.”

  “Why haven’t you killed me?”

  “I could easily do so right now if I wanted to. Instead, I prefer to punish you. And I’ll keep doing so until I decide that you’ve suffered enough and need to be killed. But for now, you don’t need to fear me. You’ve been punished enough tonight.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the real Trapper.” He sounded like he was running. “Good-­bye, Mr. Cochrane. We’ll meet again.”

  The line went dead.

  I shoved my cell into my pocket and ran across the field to the water tower, clambered up one of the ladders, and raised my gun. Isabella was sitting on the walkway, her knees bunched under her chin, ropes lashed around her wrists and ankles. A sock had been thrust into her mouth. I walked around the base of the water tank, poised to pull the trigger if I found Trapper. But he wasn’t here.

  I released Isabella from the ropes and gag. “Are you okay?”

  “No . . . no, I’m not okay.” She started crying.

  “Are you injured?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone, gone . . .” She lowered her head and started shivering.

  “I’m getting help.” I called Patrick, told
him what had happened, and ignored his yelling that it was the middle of the night.

  He told me that he’d send a team of paramedics to help Isabella, an FBI agent who could ensure matters were kept quiet, and CIA officers who’d sanitize the place. He added that he wished I’d never been born.

  I pulled Isabella to her feet, helped her get off the tower, and walked her across the field toward Sahir’s coffin. I had her sit down where she wasn’t close enough to see what had been done to Sahir.

  I looked at Sahir, feeling sorry for him. He’d been duped by someone even smarter than him. It had cost him his life. But Trapper would have known that killing him was in no way punishing me. I didn’t know Sahir. Nor did I know Isabella, and in any case, she was alive and unharmed.

  None of this made any sense.

  Chapter 11

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I drove back to the safe house to collect the rest of my belongings. Patrick and his team had left the farm thirty minutes ago. His CIA specialists had spent hours sanitizing the field of all traces of what had happened there. Paramedics had removed Sahir’s body for cremation. The FBI officer had taken Isabella to a hospital, where she would be treated and monitored before being made to sign nondisclosure documents and flown back home to Argentina.

  The sun was out and I was glad, because it meant I didn’t have to worry about being killed. Plus, tonight I was going to take Chrissie out for dinner. When I’d asked Patrick about her, he’d told me that she was still at the safe house, adding, “Why wouldn’t she be? She can’t cover your ass from any other place.” As I’d been about to leave the farm, he’d shaken my hand, given me the very slightest of wry smiles, and said, “Tomorrow, I want you on a plane out of here.”

  I knew Patrick wouldn’t discipline Chrissie for helping me. She was too valuable to the Agency, and in any case I suspected Patrick was glad that I’d confronted Trapper and established that I was no longer under immediate threat. Patrick and my MI6 controller had told me that a big operation was looming and they needed me for the job. They couldn’t afford to keep me in hiding much longer.

  I stopped my car outside the safe house. It was the time of day when the ordinarily quiet residential street should have been showing some signs of life—­­people going to work or doing school runs. But it was dead. I decided that the occupants of the street must all be retirees who did nothing more productive all day than watch TV. I wondered if that’s what I’d be doing in thirty plus years’ time. I doubted it.

  I was delighted to see that Chrissie’s car was outside. If she wasn’t already awake, I’d start cooking some breakfast to entice her downstairs—­play housewife, as she called it; prove to her that I was a modern man who’s good around the house.

  I unlocked the front door and entered the house. The kitchen radio was playing samba music, so Chrissie must be up, I thought. I imagined her shamelessly wiggling her hips in time to the beat and then stopping and feeling a bit embarrassed when I caught her. “Honey, I’m home,” I called out.

  She didn’t answer. Music’s too loud, I thought.

  I removed my jacket and decided that I needed to take a long soak in the bath. I felt grimy and didn’t want Chrissie to have to hang around a man who’d spent the whole night in clothes sodden with rain and sweat.

  She wasn’t in the kitchen; she was probably taking a shower. Damn. Now I had a mental image of her naked.

  I made myself a black coffee and tried not to burn my mouth as I drank it fast to get a much-­needed hit of caffeine. I felt exhausted; no doubt I needed at least a ­couple of hours’ sleep in the safe house before we went out tonight, or I stood no chance of being good company over dinner. And I’d need to be at my very best, because apparently tomorrow I was on a one-­way ticket out of town.

  My back was hurting; I walked toward the living room so I could finish the rest of my coffee resting on the sofa.

  Then my world turned over. “No,” I yelled.

  My hand involuntarily released the coffee mug.

  Wearing a bathrobe, Chrissie was sitting on the sofa.

  Dead.

  I ran to her, threw myself onto my knees, grabbed her limp hands, and repeated, “No, no, no! Chrissie: no!”

  There were two bullet holes in her forehead.

  Tears were running down my face, though I was barely aware of them. I was giddy from shock and felt like I was going to vomit. I sat next to her, cradled her head, and rested it against me while rocking her. Between sobs, I asked, “Who did this to you? Who . . . who could do this to you, my Chrissie? My . . . Chrissie.”

  I was overcome with grief, and I just held her, not knowing what to do. I cursed myself for leaving her here alone, for thinking this house was safe, and now finding her . . . like this.

  She was cold but not in full rigor mortis, meaning she’d been murdered sometime during the night.

  Sometime while I’d been out looking for Trapper.

  I had to force my grief to one side and get my mind to focus. I pulled out my handgun and searched the house. But no one was here. I sat back down next to Chrissie and recalled what Zakaria told me.

  The fact that Trapper wants you dead isn’t your biggest problem. What should concern you the most is that he’s told your colleagues and you that he wants that outcome.

  And I remembered what Trapper told me last night.

  It’s about flushing you out and doing so in a way that gets you on your own. And ultimately, Mr. Cochrane, it’s about punishing you.

  Punishment.

  Zakaria had suspected I was being taunted by Trapper so that I’d go after him. But I now realized he also suspected that Trapper wanted me to go after him because in doing so I’d leave behind ­people I care about. One of those ­people was the real target. I went after Sahir. Trapper killed him to keep his mouth permanently shut about their collaboration. And then Trapper went after Chrissie.

  To punish me.

  I felt like a fool.

  And I had no idea how Trapper had gotten my cell phone number and the location of the safe house, and established that Chrissie and I were getting close. Nor did I know who Trapper was and why he was doing this to me.

  That had to change.

  I had to make Trapper pay for what he’d done.

  But for now, I could no longer ignore my grief. I kept hold of Chrissie’s hand. She was dead because of me.

  Dead.

  I tried to clear my head, telling myself that I should call Patrick. But he’d come over here straightaway and sanitize the place. I knew it had to be done, but now I wanted a few moments with Chrissie before my life was completely erased from hers. I reached into my pocket, withdrew a tiny box, and flicked it open. I removed the pendant I’d bought for her yesterday, placed it in her hand, and brought her fingers over it.

  I wanted her to hold on to it for as long as possible.

  More tears ran down my face as I kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Good-­bye, my love.”

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to my wife for being such an enthusiastic proofreader of my book; to my two brilliant mentors, David Highfill and Luigi Bonomi, and their second-­to-­none teams at William Morrow/Harper­Collins publishers and LBA literary agency respectively; and to the lovely estate in the Scottish Highlands for enabling me to have the solitude to complete this novella amid inspirational surroundings.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Dark Spies

  the next installment

  in Matthew Dunn’s

  thrilling Spycatcher series

  Coming in hardcover October 2014

  From William Morrow

  An Excerpt from Dark Spies

  ONE

  Prague, 2005

  IT WAS NO easy task to identify a spy and make that person betray their country. But that was what the Russian man was here to do.
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  Wearing a black tuxedo, he entered the InterContinental hotel’s Congress Hall and fixed a grin on his face so that he looked like every other insincere diplomat who was attending the American embassy’s cocktail party. There were hundreds of them, men and women, beautiful, plain, and ugly, from at least forty different countries. The less experienced of them were huddled awkwardly in small protective groups, pouring champagne down their throats to ease the pain of being here.

  The Russian wasn’t interested in them.

  Instead he was here because he wanted to watch the ­people whom he termed “the predators”: the seasoned, clever, heads-­crammed-­full-­of-­ juicy-­secrets diplomats who glided through events like these, moving from one person to another, offering brief, charming, inane comments, touching arms as if the act conveyed profound meaning, before floating effortlessly to the next person. Diplomats called it “working the room,” but the Russian understood that wasn’t what they were doing. They were controlling the room and everything within it, watching for a moment when they could snatch a vital piece of information from someone weaker than themselves, or choosing the right moment to speak a few carefully chosen words and manipulate vulnerable minds.

  The Russian knew the predators, and some of them thought they knew him—­Radimir Kirsanov, a forty-­something, low-­level diplomat who was on a short-­term posting to the Russian embassy in the Czech Republic. The women in the room liked Radimir because he had cute dimples, sky-­blue eyes, blond-­and-­silver hair that was styled in the cut of a 1960s movie star, and the physique of a tennis player—­the kind of shape that was not particularly good or bad in the naked flesh, but that wore a suit with rapierlike panache. Plus, they thought his dim mind made their superior intellects shine. The men, on the other hand, briefly glanced at him with disdain, as if he were a brainless male model.

  Radimir grabbed a glass of champagne from one of the dozens of black-­and-­white-­uniformed waiters who were navigating their way across the vast room, dodging diplomats, and skirting around tables covered in immaculate starched white cloths kept firmly in place by heavy candelabra and artificial-­flower arrangements. The Russian held the glass in front of his chest, with no intention of drinking from it, moved past a bored-­looking string quartet, and walked into the party. All around him was the sound of laughter, manifold languages, and women brushing against men who were not their partners.

 

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