Counterspy

by Matthew Dunn

  Radimir made sure he didn’t glide with the confidence and precision of a predator. He wasn’t supposed to have the skills to do that. Instead, he meandered his way across the room, smiling to show off his dimples. He stood in the corner, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sometimes smoothing a hand against his suit, as if he were fidgeting because he was ill at ease and had sweaty palms.

  For a while, ­people noticed him. Beautiful ­people get that kind of attention. But as with gorgeous art, there’s a limited period of time one can stare at a good-­looking person before it becomes boring. After thirty minutes, he was sure he was invisible.

  He moved to another part of the room, not too far, just a few yards to the next table, where he could pick at some canapés and fiddle with part of the flower display. He kept his gaze low, as if to avoid the embarrassment of having to talk to someone cleverer than him. Thankfully, the demigods around him knew that Radimir was aware of his limitations, so they left him alone. It was the only good thing they did for him.

  Holding his champagne glass with two hands so that he looked like an amateur at this type of event, he walked to another table, then another, then several more. Forty minutes later he returned to his starting point in the corner of the room. Poor Radimir, he imagined the pros would think if any of them had seen his awkward and pointless amble around the room, though he doubted any of them had noticed. The predators were moving up a gear, pouncing on late and desirable new arrivals, placing firm arms around them and guiding them to ­people they didn’t know but just had to meet, cracking jokes, whispering in ears, kissing cheeks, flattering, nodding with sage expressions, and all the time acting to hide their agenda: pure lust for information.

  The Russian placed his full glass on a table, leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and smiled his very best pretty and dumb smile. He’d practiced the expression many times in front of mirrors and he was convinced he’d perfected the look. It was an expression that he hoped said, I’m resigned to the fact that my looks are all I have.

  It kept ­people away. Even the ones who were as dim-­witted as he was, because no one wants to stand next to a man who’s as stupid as they are but four times more attractive.

  Radimir momentarily closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was the cleverest person in the room.

  A man who was not called Radimir.

  Instead, someone who was known to a limited number of ­people as Gregori Shonin, an SVR intelligence officer. And a predator with skills that were way beyond those of the other predators around him.

  There was a third side to the Russian, one that did not carry the false names of Radimir or Gregori, one that was the truth, but right now that was buried so deep inside him that he gave it little thought. This evening, being Gregori undercover as Radimir was sufficient for what he hoped to achieve.

  Gregori’s huge intellect was processing a vast amount of data, all gleaned from his forty-­minute walk through the room. Hundreds of voices and sentences, many of them in English, some in other languages he understood fluently, only a few in tongues he didn’t understand or care about. He spent several minutes doing nothing more than deliberately forgetting most of what he’d heard. Ejecting the crap, was how he like to term the cognitive process. It was an arduous task, but necessary, because at the end of it he would picture himself standing in this huge room, not with hundreds of diplomats from all around the world, but instead with one or two officials who worked for countries he loathed and who’d said or done something interesting.

  Something that suggested they had the potential to spy on his behalf.

  He continued the process of ejecting. Introductions, pleasantries, small talk, lots of “How long have you been posted here?,” several ­people lying about how beautiful the American hostess looked tonight, a few jaded comments about last week’s G7 summit, bad humor, and a fairly amusing anecdote from an Italian diplomat about her experience at a Mongolian tribal feast. All crap.

  Gregori stared ahead. The room was still buzzing at full capacity, but in his mind he imagined that only one American ­couple was in the place. Both were predators. They were standing still, frozen in Gregori’s radar as he walked around them, staring at their faces from different angles as he sought a glance into their eyes and their very souls.

  The husband was an experienced CIA officer who’d previously been posted to the Agency’s stations in London, Abu Dhabi, and Pretoria. He’d been in Prague for two and a half years and was due to return to Langley in six months. He was thirty-­seven years old, no doubt smart and capable, and had met his wife while both were studying at Harvard. She too could have gone on to have an excellent job in government, though early on they had decided that the overseas life of an Agency spouse would preclude her having a career. So, she’d agreed to be the good wife, accompany him on his overseas postings, and support him in every way, and in return he could give her a ­couple of kids. But so far they’d been unsuccessful in having children.

  Gregori was interested in them for two reasons. One was a hushed and angry comment made by the husband to his wife.

  “Are you sure that’s where you were this afternoon?”

  The other reason was perfume.

  The wife loved Dolce & Gabbana perfume, so much so that she would never step outside of her home without applying too much of it to her throat and wrists. At events like these, one didn’t have to stand too close to her to smell the unmistakable rich scent on her skin. But tonight was different, because she wore no such scent. Where had she been this afternoon? Gregori thought through the possibilities. A place she’d gone to clutching the ball gown she’d collected from the dry cleaners. A venue where she could get dressed in comfort, fix her hair, and put on makeup that she’d brought along in her handbag. Some location that didn’t allow her time to rush home before meeting her husband at the party. And she would have desperately wanted to go home when she realized she’d forgotten to pack her beloved perfume.

  Where was that place? Like all top spies, Gregori used his instincts and imagination to fill in the gaps. Of course, that place was another man’s home. The woman had been unfaithful to her husband. She’d dressed for the party after she’d made love.

  Gregori smiled.

  Her infidelity could give him leverage over her husband.

  Perhaps it would make her husband betray the United States.

  TWO

  Norway, Present Day

  WILL COCHRANE CROUCHED on the frozen ground, removed his gloves, and withdrew two metal tubes from his rucksack. Each tube was two and a half feet long, ten centimeters in diameter, and branded with the name of the fishing equipment manufacturer Orvis and a label denoting that one tube contained an eight-­foot-­four-­inch mid-­flex Helios 2 fly-­fishing rod and the other contained a ten-­foot tip-­flex variant of the same precision distance-­casting model. He laid the tubes side by side on the ground, pulled out binoculars from his jacket, and examined his surroundings.

  The tall man was alone on a mountain escarpment along the stunningly beautiful northern coastline. Around him were large azure-­blue fjords that cut through the snow-­capped mountain range, low areas of barren land carved into numerous islands by thin stretches of seawater, patches of mist hanging motionless over sea and earth, and above him a windless clear sky that looked heavenly and yet was cold enough to kill an ill-­equipped man in less than an hour. But there were no signs of life out here save for an occasional kittiwake bird gliding close to water.

  Carefully, he moved his binoculars until he spotted an area of lowland through which a thin meandering mountain river led to the sea. It was an excellent place to cast a lure and tempt a salmon or sea trout. But it was approximately one thousand yards beneath him; one would need be dressed in appropriate clothing and be at the very peak of physical condition to reach the area and fish there at this time of year. Thankfully, Will was sup
remely fit and had come fully prepared to stay out all day in this remote place. He was wearing a white woolen hat that was pulled down tightly over his close-­cropped dark hair, a jacket and fleece, thermal leggings and water-­resistant pants, and hiking boots covered with rubber galoshes. In these parts, an angler needed to dress like someone who was hiking to the North Pole.

  As he further examined the distant stretch of river, his vision locked on the only evidence that any person had been here before: three log cabins and a track leading away from them. He wondered if the owners of the buildings had long ago deserted this place, or whether the cabins were rented out to vacationers during the summer months. He imagined clambering down to the river, preparing one of his rods, and making a few casts before being confronted by an angry owner of the cabins who would be shouting at him to leave.

  Still, it would be worth the risk to try to fish there, as it would be a once-­in-­a-­lifetime experience.

  But that experience would have to take place on another day.

  Because the MI6 operative wasn’t here to fish.

  He unscrewed the caps on both tubes and withdrew pieces of metal equipment that had been designed and handcrafted by specialists in England before being couriered in a diplomatic bag to the British embassy in Oslo. Carefully, he slotted each piece together. One minute later, the sound-­suppressed, high-­velocity sniper rifle was fully assembled. After putting his gloves back on, he lay flat on the ground and stared at the buildings though the gun’s powerful telescopic sight.

  He spoke into his throat mic. “In position.”

  And immediately heard an American woman’s voice in his earpiece. “Okay. We got you.”

  The woman was a CIA analyst, operating in the Agency’s headquarters in Langley, and was temporarily seconded to the highly classified joint CIA-­MI6 Task Force S, which Will worked for as its prime field operative. She wasn’t very experienced, but didn’t need to be, as today her job was simply to sit at her computer and make notes of what Will could see.

  Getting on this assignment had infuriated Will because it had come on the back of his being told without explanation that he was to cease his hunt for Cobalt. He’d spent the last eleven months chasing the financier—­a man without a name or identifiable nationality, but one of the most dangerous men on the planet due to his funding of terrorist activities across the globe. Cobalt was all the more dangerous because he had no causes beyond seeking profit; his support of terrorist cells bought him their allegiance and gave him access to opium and coca plantations under their control. He transformed the crops into salable drugs, used his extensive network to smuggle them out of the countries, made vast fortunes, and in return gave the terrorists a cut of the profits. It was a deal that suited him, and suited them. And it was one that ordinarily would require someone like Will Cochrane to put a bullet in Cobalt’s brain. But the powers that be in Washington and London had decided that Cobalt needed to be left alone.

  So here he was, on a routine job that should have been given to one of the Agency’s many paramilitary Special Operations Group officers.

  In the largest wooden building below was Ellie Hallowes, the CIA’s best deep-­cover officer. Will had never met her, but he knew she was thirty-­five years old—­the same age that he was now—­and was an excellent and courageous operator whose job required her to live in near constant danger. Today, he was here to watch over her while she met a Russian intelligence officer who carried the CIA code name Herald. The Russian was her spy, and during the last two years they’d met many times without the need for protection. But this meeting was different. Two days earlier the CIA had received signals intelligence that suggested the Russian intelligence ser­vices had suspicions about their officer and the real reasons for his trips overseas. The Agency was worried that the meeting could be compromised and that Ellie could be attacked. If that happened, Will was under orders to do whatever was necessary to ensure Ellie escaped to safety.

  It was a straightforward job for a man like Will.

  As a younger man, he’d spent five brutal years in the French Foreign Legion, initially in its elite 2e Régiment Ètranger de Parachutistes before being handpicked to serve in the 11e Brigade Parachutiste’s Special Forces unit, the Groupement des Commandos Parachutistes. Upon completion of his military ser­vice, he’d returned to England and studied at Cambridge University. After being awarded a first-­class degree, he’d briefly considered a career in academia, though others had different plans for him. MI6 tapped him on the shoulder and said it was very interested in someone with his skill set. He could have turned the intelligence agency down and hidden away from the world in an ivory tower, surrounded by books and with human contact limited to students and other lecturers and professors. But MI6 knew it was an impossible dream for someone like him: a man whose CIA father had been captured in Iran when Will was five years old and incarcerated in Tehran’s Evin Prison for years before being butchered, who’d fled to the Legion aged seventeen after witnessing the brutal murder of his English mother, who’d killed her four assailants with a knife to protect his sister from a similar fate, who’d been deployed not only by the GCP behind enemy lines but was also used by France’s DGSE as a deniable killer, a man who was not completely at peace with the world.

  Within the first few weeks of training alongside other recruits, MI6 had singled him out as having attributes that were even greater than expected. He was removed from the course and put on the top-­secret twelve-­month Spartan Program. Only one person at a time was permitted to take the mentally and physically hellish selection and training course and, if successful, carry the code name Spartan. Despite the fact that all other applicants before him had either voluntarily withdrawn from the program, failed, received severe physical or mental injuries that prevented them from continuing, or died in selection and training, Will passed the program. He was awarded the distinction of carrying the code name, and the program was shut down and would remain closed all the time Will was operational and alive. He’d spent the subsequent eight years on near continuous deployment in hostile overseas missions, and was tasked on the West’s most important operations. Throughout that time, very few ­people knew he was an MI6 officer, let alone the nature of his work and his achievements.

  He sighed, concluding once again that today’s babysitting job should have been given to someone else. After slotting a magazine containing twelve rounds into the rifle, he trained the weapon on the track leading to the cluster of buildings. That was the route Herald would take to drive to the meeting. He checked his watch. Ellie Hallowes was a stickler for exact timing, and she’d told the Russian that he was not to arrive a minute before or after the allotted time. The Russian wasn’t due to arrive for another eight minutes.

  Will relaxed and thought about other things. A year ago, he’d moved into a new home in West Square, in the Borough of Southwark, south London. It was a two-­hundred-­year-­old house that had been converted into four apartments. For the first time in his adult life, it was a place where he felt he was putting down roots. A sudden panicked thought hit him. Had he paid the latest council tax bill? He thought he had, though—­shit—­he couldn’t be sure. The local council was becoming a bastard with ­people who didn’t pay up on time. Well, there was nothing he could do about it until he got home tomorrow. He thought about his three single neighbors who lived in the converted house: stubborn Dickie Mountjoy, a former major in the Coldstream Guards and now a retiree; Phoebe, a thirty-­something art dealer and lover of champagne, high heels, and middleweight boxing matches; and David, a recently divorced, slightly flabby mortician. They believed Will was a life insurance salesman. That false cover seemed apt, because today he was here as insurance that Ellie lived.

  He glanced at his watch again and put his eye back against the scope. A black sedan was driving along the coastal track, at exactly the right time, easily visible against the backdrop of the tranquil blue sea. Will moved
his weapon millimeter by millimeter to keep the crosshairs of his sight in the center of the vehicle. It stopped, and a man got out and walked fast into the largest of the three buildings.

  “Our man’s arrived. He’s in the building.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “It’s him.”

  He flexed his toes and his muscles. Not for the first time this week, he tried to decide if he could afford the nineteenth-­century sheet music for Bach’s Lute Suite No. 1 in E minor. It was for sale in a tiny basement store in London’s Soho district. He’d paid the elderly proprietor of the store a £50 deposit to take the music temporarily off the market, with the promise that he’d settle up the balance of £750 after his next paycheck had come through. Still, as desperate as he was to place the sheets on a stand, pick up his German antique lute, and expertly play what was in front of him, he had to reconcile the high cost with the fact that he was a man who was on government salary, could obtain the same music for free at a library or off the Internet, and in any case knew every note of Suite No. 1 by heart. But the score had been produced and edited by Hans Dagobert Bruger, meaning the papers were a rare and beautiful thing. That was decided then; he’d eat beans on toast for a month to ensure he had enough cash to pay for the sheets. Will had made many similar decisions in the past. His new home was crammed with antiques and rare items he’d picked up during his travels, including a Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode, Venetian trespoli, a pair of Guangzhou imperial dress swords, a German chinoiserie clock, an Edwardian mahogany three-­piece suite and chaise longue, woven silk rugs from exotic markets, and vintage vinyl records of Andrés Segovia guitar recitals. He shouldn’t have bought any of them, because every time he’d done so he’d nearly bankrupted himself, but he’d always done so because life was too short to ignore beauty in favor of financial well-­being.