Counterspy

by Matthew Dunn

  “You never thought you could be shot with the blessing of the Agency.”

  “Nor needing to be rescued by a guy who’s on the run.” She pulled out another cigarette, stared at it, and replaced it in the pack. “You saved my life. That matters. But what also matters to me is that I’ve gone above and beyond what the Agency should have expected from me, and in return they’ve stuck the knife in me. So, I can no longer put my faith in the organization. And that means I’m faced with the choice of putting my faith in nothing or something.”

  “Something?”

  “You.” She folded her arms. “The only option that makes sense.”

  That option was for Ellie to return to Langley, pretend to senior management that she’d tried to persuade Will to surrender to the embassies in Oslo, somehow gain access to the Project Ferryman files, and relay what she’d discovered to Will if he made it to the States.

  “If you get caught they’ll—­”

  “Oh, come on!” Ellie made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “Don’t give me a pep talk about risk, okay? I know this stuff backward. Just don’t.”

  Will made a decision. “Okay. Get a pay-­as-­you-­go cell phone. Not in your name. Deposit its number at a DLB in Washington, D.C.” He gave her the precise location of the dead-­letter box. “If it rings, it’ll only be me. But you might not hear from me for a while. No idea how long it’s going to take to get to America. Given you’re a deep-­cover operative, I’m assuming you know how to get stuff? In particular, disguises and ­people’s home addresses.”

  Ellie nodded.

  “Okay. I’ll need a lockup or an apartment in D.C. Someplace on the outskirts and cheap. And I’ll need you to procure and store some things for me there.” He told her what he had in mind, and drew out his wad of cash to give her money.

  But Ellie walked up to him and said, “You’ll need every cent you’ve got. I’ll get you what you want. We can settle up later.”

  Will held out his hand.

  Ellie shook his hand and held it for a few seconds, staring at the scars on his fingers. It surprised her that holding his warm hand made her feel so good. “We need to go.”

  “We do.” Will looked at the place where earlier he’d had Russia’s best spymaster in his sights. “Antaeus was here in person to make sure we didn’t learn about his mole.” He fixed his gaze on Ellie. “Be very careful. Trust no one.”

  FOUR

  EIGHTEEN HOURS LATER, Alistair entered a large boardroom in the CIA headquarters in Langley. The MI6 controller, co-­head of the joint CIA-­MI6 task force, had been summoned here because he was Will Cochrane’s boss. The other co-­head, CIA officer Patrick, was already in the room, sitting on a chair facing three ­people on the other side of a large oak table. The room was nothing like the others in the sprawling headquarters: it had oak paneling on the walls, leather-­upholstered chairs, and ornate oil lamps that emitted a flickering bronze glow through their tulip-­shaped glass bulbs; on the table was a tea set and doilies that would have looked at home in Claridge’s hotel. Alistair had been in this room twice before, once to talk in fluent Arabic to a visiting Arab prince who was young and charming and naive to the nastier ways of the world, and latterly to advise the head of the Agency that MI6 was certain the Chinese had recruited an employee of the NSA.

  On each occasion he’d been here, the room reminded him of the officers’ quarters on a seventeenth-­century man-­of-­war ship.

  The slim, middle-­aged controller was, as ever, immaculately dressed, wearing a blue three-­piece suit, a French-­cuff silk shirt with a cutaway collar, a tie that had been bound in a Windsor knot, and black Church’s shoes. His blond hair was trimmed and lacquered in the style of an Edwardian gentleman.

  Patrick looked similar to Alistair and was the same age. But today, the CIA officer had not opted to match Alistair’s immaculate look; he wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal his sinewy and scarred forearms. Alistair knew from experience that his informal attire meant the CIA officer had contempt for the men opposite him and was pissed off.

  Alistair sat next to him and studied the three ­people on the other side of the table. Though he knew of them, he’d never met them in person before. The man directly opposite him was Colby Jellicoe, a former high-­ranking CIA officer and now an influential senator who sat on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, an oversight body that was tasked with ensuring that the CIA operated within the rule of law. Next to him were CIA director Ed Parker and senior CIA officer Charles Sheridan.

  Jellicoe spoke first. “The Norwegians got there before we could, and they’re saying there are dead American spies on their turf and they want to know why.”

  Alistair placed the tips of his fingers together. “Dead Americans? Oh dear.”

  “Yeah, well, they’ve been made to look like Americans, anyways.” The senator picked up a pen and jabbed it in the direction of Alistair. “We’re now at the diplomatic shit storm stage of a cluster fuck.”

  “What a delightful turn of phrase.” Alistair was analyzing Jellicoe. Probably mid-­fifties, short, fat—­no, fat in places, wrists were normal size, face was jowly rather than round, probably he’d lost and gained weight throughout his life, but he wasn’t naturally fat. What did that mean? He was a binger, yes, a man who at times couldn’t resist being a gourmand, a pig. That was decided then: Jellicoe was a pig. “I’m sure you can placate the Norwegian government with a little honesty and perhaps a reminder about the nature of false-­flag operations.”

  Jellicoe looked over the top of his glasses with an expression of utter hostility. “That’s providing we want to try and placate anyone.”

  “Try to.”

  “What?”

  “Try to. Never mind.” Alistair smiled. “Let me guess—­you’d like to use this . . . cluster fuck to enable your own agenda.”

  “And what might that agenda be?”

  “There are many possibilities, but I’ve not yet settled on one. But don’t worry, it’ll come to me. All I need you to do is to keep opening your mouth.”

  Jellicoe leaned back in his chair, huffed, and tossed his pen onto the table.

  Ed Parker picked up the reins. “You can’t protect Cochrane.”

  Alistair nodded. “Of course we can’t, because we don’t know where he is.”

  “You got a number where we can call him?”

  Alistair answered truthfully. “No. We had to have him completely off the radar in Norway.”

  “Has he called you?”

  “No.”

  “Likely to?”

  “I sincerely doubt he would.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll assume my phone is being monitored by ­people like you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We will inevitably get him.”

  “Inevitably?” What did Alistair think of Parker? Honest face, no anger or hostility in his voice, instead his tone was quiet and resigned, and a moment ago he’d made the briefest of glances at Jellicoe with an expression that said he was uncomfortable with what the senator was saying, or with the situation, or with Jellicoe himself. Alistair decided it was all of those things. But Parker was here because he followed orders. Despite being one of the eight directors who reported to the Director of the CIA, and despite his good nature, he was a weak bureaucrat, a plodder. “Patrick and I have direct lines to our respective premiers, men who’ve always been very keen to ensure that Mr. Cochrane’s free to do his work. Because we’ve no means of getting hold of Cochrane, you’d be doing us a courtesy by inevitably capturing him. But that’s where it will end. We’ll whisk him away and put him back in the field.”

  “No you won’t.” This came from Charles Sheridan.

  “And why not?”

  “We’ll come to that.”

  “Oh good, because I do like
suspense.” His eyes took in everything he could see of Sheridan. Tall man, early forties, a full head of brown hair that was short at the sides and back, probably meant he was ex-­military, the type who thinks that all civilians need a few toughen-­you-­up years of national ser­vice so that the world can be a more disciplined and simpler place. Though they were physically entirely different, his expression matched the hostility of Jellicoe’s, and so far he’d not looked once at the senator; instead his eyes were fixed on the men before him. Sheridan completely agreed with everything Jellicoe represented in this room. He was his ally. No, that was an overly generous assessment. There was no doubt that Jellicoe was running the show, and that meant Sheridan was his pawn.

  Pig. Plodder. Pawn.

  Alistair wondered which of the three men would speak next.

  It was the pig. “We need to know more about the task force you guys run.”

  Patrick exclaimed, “No fucking way!”

  Alistair glanced at his colleague. Oh dear God. His face was flushed, his eyes wide, and the sinews in his neck were jutting out like knife blades. When Patrick went like this, it usually meant he wanted to rip someone’s head off and eat it. “What my friend means is that in order for us to comply with your request, we’d need written clearance to do so and from the highest authority.”

  “And that authority ain’t going to give you clearance, Jellicoe!” Patrick was leaning forward.

  Alistair patted a hand on Patrick’s leg, knowing it would only further fuel his colleague’s anger—­anger that was useful in situations like this. “Gentlemen, let’s sort this out amicably. I’ve had a rather long and turbulent flight to get here to understand why you’re on the warpath because my officer wanted to kill enemy number one when he had him in his sights, and because in killing Antaeus’s men he breached Project Ferryman protocols. What is Ferryman?”

  Jellicoe and Sheridan laughed, and Parker averted his gaze.

  “Written authorizations or otherwise, you can’t expect us to tell you anything about our task force and the nature of Cochrane’s work if we don’t understand the implications of his actions in Norway. What is Ferryman?”

  The senator composed himself. “I’ll tell you exactly what Project Ferryman is. It’s something much more important than your shitty little special relationship task force, or your loose-­cannon lone wolf for that matter.”

  Patrick leaned back. “Thankfully, the president and British prime minister don’t share that view.”

  Jellicoe seemed unflustered by the comment. “You think so?” He loosened the knot of his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and rubbed his flabby throat. “Task Force S, formerly known as the Spartan Section, has been in existence for eight years, ever since Will Cochrane passed the Spartan Program.” He pointed at Patrick. “Two years ago, Cochrane landed in your lap and needed your help. You and some of your Agency colleagues started working with the Section and as a result of that work a decision was made from on high to make the unit a British-­American collaboration.” Jellicoe picked up his pen and started twirling around his fingers. “I can give you a blow-­by-­blow account of the three joint task force missions you’ve conducted if you like? Actually, make that four missions, if you include Cochrane’s unsuccessful hunt for Cobalt.”

  The menace in Patrick’s voice was unmistakable as he asked, “How do you know that information?”

  For the first time since arriving in Langley, Alistair felt angry. “I too want to know the answer to that, before making a decision on whether to report you to my superiors for obtaining highly classified information without clearance to do so.”

  “Clearance?” Jellicoe withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket, unfolded it, and placed it in the center of the table. “Your superiors?” He tapped the sheet. “You mean these guys?” He pushed the paper toward Alistair with one finger. “Take a moment to read that. Might put things in perspective.”

  Alistair read the brief note, recognized the two signatures at the bottom, momentarily closed his eyes while feeling utter dismay, and handed the letter to Patrick.

  “This can’t be possible.” The Task Force S co-­head’s voice was trembling with rage and shock. He slammed the note onto the table and sat in stunned silence.

  As did Alistair. The president and prime minister had personally signed a letter stating that Project Ferryman had nearly been jeopardized by the actions of Will Cochrane and Task Force S, that an international warrant for Cochrane’s arrest had been issued and would remain in force until Cochrane was caught and dealt with away from public scrutiny, that Alistair and Patrick were to give full assistance to Senator Colby Jellicoe in his efforts to apprehend Cochrane, and that with immediate effect Task Force S was permanently shut down.

  Jellicoe grinned. “You’re lucky Ferryman’s still intact, or you would have been strung up rather than disbanded. Try and”—­his smile broadened—­“try to understand that Cochrane’s a dead man walking, and his bosses have just had their balls cut off.”

  FIVE

  EVEN THOUGH THE sun had started rising only minutes earlier, the occupants of the Norwegian coastal home were clearly awake, with smoke billowing from one of its chimneys and interior lights switched on. It had two small outbuildings and a barn, and in front of them a small trawler boat was moored alongside a jetty on a thin inlet of the sea. The place was in a flat valley, carpeted in snow and an icy early-­morning mist, and was surrounded by hills. Will was on one of the hills, staring at the isolated encampment. He’d walked forty-­two miles north to reach the location.

  Shivering violently, he watched the place for four hours, saw an older man and three younger men coming and going from buildings, and a woman and a teenage girl doing chores. Will’s physical situation was bad. He’d had no food for two days, and his weak state meant his body was struggling to generate heat.

  By midday the sun was up high in the cloudless sky but the temperature was still dreadfully cold, at least fifteen degrees below freezing. Will saw the men get into a pickup truck and drive off the property along its only track. When they were gone, Will rose to his feet, brushed snow and ice from his face, and shuffled painfully down an escarpment until he was in the valley. Keeping the outhouses between him and the main residence, he carefully moved forward, desperate not to be seen by the woman or the girl. He reached the jetty, moved along it in a crouch until he was beside the trawler, and searched the boat’s metal hull. He found what he was looking for, close to the bow on the vessel’s port side. Crouching lower, he looked at the fist-­sized circle that had been scratched on the hull’s paint. He took out his handgun, ejected the magazine, and used the gun clip to scratch a cross within the circle. Replacing the magazine in the gun, he carefully made his way back off the jetty, past the outbuildings, and back up the escarpment.

  Three hours later the vehicle and men returned. Will’s teeth and jaw were shuddering uncontrollably, but he didn’t care because nobody could hear him here. The men exited their truck and went about their duties.

  After a further two hours it was dark. Will was lying on his front, his arms wrapped around his chest even though they did nothing to get him warm. His breathing was shallow and he could taste blood in his mouth; his eyeballs throbbed in agony from the cold; the shaking continued. The house was fully illuminated again, with two exterior lights switched on as well as tiny lights lining the jetty. Will imagined that the occupants of the settlement were sitting down in their house to a hot dinner and drinks. He desperately wanted to go down there, to find any shelter and warmth, but he knew he had to wait.

  Seven hours later, it was midnight. Only one light was illuminated within the house, but the outside lights were still switched on. The older man stepped out of the house’s sea-­facing door, stopped, lit a cigarette or cigar, and blew smoke before walking along the jetty. He moved to the front of the pier, turned toward the trawler, crouched down for a brief moment, sto
od again, walked back to the house, and disappeared inside. Will hauled himself to his feet, staggered, collapsed onto his knees, raised himself up again, and took agonizing steps down the hill and into the valley. His mind was a daze and he barely knew if things around him were real anymore. He desperately tried to stay conscious but felt that he was minutes away from losing the last remaining mental strength he had. Using a hand against the walls of the outbuildings to steady himself, he staggered to the jetty. He collapsed to the snow-­covered ground, silently cursed, knew that he could no longer stand, and instead used his hands to pull himself inch by inch along the jetty. Snow entered his mouth; he tried to spit it out, gave up trying to do so, but kept pulling himself along the walkway until he was by the trawler’s bow. He looked at the circle and cross scratched on the hull.

  Three horizontal lines had been engraved over both.

  It was the covert signal telling him that the Norwegian captain of this trawler knew the British intelligence officer was nearby, that it was safe for him to approach the house, and that the captain was ready to sail him out of this country.

  Will rolled onto his back and stared at the spectacular star-­filled sky before his eyes closed without him wishing them to do so. He wondered how long it would be before the captain found his frozen dead body.

  SIX

  FBI DIRECTOR BO Haupman had long ago decided that the CIA was a rootless entity because it wasn’t law enforcement, military, or civilian. Its officers reflected that amorphous state; they were soulless creatures who, when asked to explain what results they’d achieved and how those results mattered one bit to the man on the street, would look coy and use the excuse of secrecy to avoid the question, when in reality they just plain and simple didn’t have a concrete answer. For sure, post-­9/11 the Agency had taken the lead on counterterrorism work, turning many of its young bucks into John Wayne wannabes who relished the prospect of swapping their suits and attaché cases and diplomatic life for a dishdasha, an AK-­47, and a tent on an Afghan mountainside. Right now, they had a bit of tangible purpose—­we shot this bad guy, did a predator drone strike against this bunch of crazies, put this leader into a cell with only a blanket and a bucket of water and three burly men for company. But you could see in their eyes that they knew the party wouldn’t last forever, that pretty soon they’d be going back to the world of paper reports, cocktails, agonizingly boring analysis, and the only highlight of their lives being the opportunity to listen in on a telephone intercept and learn that a terrorist’s wife wants her husband to pick up some potatoes, chicken, and cabbage for dinner.