by Matthew Dunn
Patrick lifted a glass of water close to his mouth and held it there. “Given time, the diplomats and politicians might be able to smooth over the… misunderstandings to get relations back on track. But we’ve been reliably informed that right now nothing must happen to make the situation worse. The last thing we need is a flash point.”
Glancing around the room, Will thought about Svelte’s dying words. Outside it was daytime, but in here it could have been any time at all. “Does the name Khmelnytsky mean anything to you?”
Patrick answered, “Yes.”
Will looked at the two men. Though Alistair had always been his controller, Will had worked with both men for the first time during his last operation to capture an Iranian general, code name Megiddo. During that time he’d learned that Alistair and Patrick had a deep history of collaboration that had started when they were both young officers: when they had worked with Will’s father, a CIA operative, and witnessed him being captured by Iranian revolutionaries. Their revenge-driven work against those revolutionaries had ensured that both had quickly risen in power to reach their now-unusual positions. The men before him had direct lines to the U.S. and British premiers, in practice did not answer to the heads of the CIA and MI6, and had personally killed many men. Though he rarely showed it, Will liked them, even though they had both made it clear that they viewed him as their most unpredictable and uncontrollable intelligence officer.
Will smiled. “Feel free to stop giving me monosyllabic answers to my questions.”
“Watch your tone.” Alistair glanced at Patrick, who nodded at him, then looked sharply at Will. “When I joined MI6, one of the recruits in the training program was different from the rest of us. He was quiet, kept away from the other students. We found out that he was a former SAS officer, but that’s all we knew about him because two weeks into the course we were told that he was not deemed suitable material for the service and had been instructed to leave the program.”
Alistair took a sip of his tea. Patrick watched Will.
Alistair continued, “Much later, I found out what had really happened. He hadn’t failed the course at all. Instead, he’d been quickly identified by one of the instructors as highly unusual, as someone who could be deployed to help combat the Soviet Union. He was given secret MI6 training, and his identity was kept hidden from all within the service, save the chief and a tiny handful of other senior officers. After excelling in the training program, he was granted intelligence officer status while at the same time being told that officially he didn’t exist.” Alistair was very still. “The chief immediately sent him overseas in deep cover and his remit was to cause damage to the KGB: run agents against them, turn their officers into double agents, disrupt operations against us, and assassinate any Soviet officer who stood in his way. He operated in eastern Berlin, Poland, and the Soviet Union itself; always changing identity, always moving location, always aware that if he was caught he would be tortured and executed. He did this for years and was so successful that the KGB had an entire department dedicated to finding the man they suspected was causing untold damage to their intelligence activities.
“But he was always several steps ahead of them, always maintaining his security, his various covers, trusting no one and making no mistakes. However”-Alistair sighed-“a mistake was made by others. At the end of the Cold War there was a brief moment of euphoria from within the London-based ranks of MI6. That moment was extremely dangerous; it caused secrets to be shared between Great Britain and the reemerging Russia and its new neighboring states, caused many MI6 Soviet agents to wander back to their homeland, their work against the USSR done but their heads now stuffed with dangerous secrets. Of course, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki was no different from the KGB and contained many of the same personnel who saw little difference between the Soviet Union and Russia. And many of those SVR men still wanted to capture our officer.”
Will said, “They got to one of our recently retired Russian agents, made him tell them where they could find our man.”
Alistair nodded. “We still don’t know who betrayed him. But the location of one of our officer’s many safe houses in Moscow was supplied and was put under observation by the SVR for weeks, until he finally showed up there and was captured after a gunfight. The FSB dragged him to the Lubyanka prison. They kept him in a tiny, dirty cell and tortured him for six years, but he told them nothing, not even his name. No doubt he’d have died there had Russia and the U.K. not decided that there would be an amnesty of sorts and certain key political prisoners would be exchanged. Our officer was one of those prisoners.”
“When he got off the airplane at our military airport in RAF Brize Norton, we expected him to be a broken man.” Alistair smiled. “Instead, he stepped onto the tarmac, looked at the chief of MI6, told him that he wanted a hot meal, a glass of single-malt whiskey, a newspaper to catch up on world events, and a new suit, cash, and identity so that he could get on the next available flight back to Eastern Europe to continue his work. We had to force him to stay in the U.K. for a few days to undergo treatment for the torture inflicted on his body, but after that was done we gave him what he wanted. We sent him back to the Former Soviet Union.” He tapped a finger on the table. “That was fifteen years ago. He’s been in deep cover, acting as a businessman, in Central and Eastern Europe ever since, running numerous agents, and disrupting the SVR, GRU, and FSB. He’s the West’s most valuable intelligence resource for all intelligence matters Russia-related.”
“He was Svelte’s case officer?”
“Yes, Svelte was one of his agents, though the two rarely met. For security reasons, Svelte’s DLB was always cleared by one of the case officer’s Russian assets, who’d send the message direct to London. We’d decode it, recode it, and send it in a burst transmission to the officer. But after receiving Svelte’s last message, we knew the officer was not contactable for two weeks while meeting one of his other agents. We couldn’t afford to sit on it so sent you into the base.” Alistair paused. “I’ve told you about this highly classified officer for two reasons. First, in the history of MI6 only two men have ever been kept so secret from others in our service. One of them is the man I’ve described; the other is you.”
“He did the Program?”
Alistair gave a brief nod.
The Program to which Will referred was the Spartan Program, a twelve-month course of unrelenting extreme physical and mental tests. Only one MI6 applicant at a time was allowed to be enrolled in the course. Will had always thought that he was the first and last man to successfully go through the Spartan Program and carry its code name.
Will nodded slowly as understanding dawned on him. “He is Sentinel.”
“Yes.” Alistair took a sip of his tea. “Which leads me onto the second reason I’m telling you all this. Sentinel gets his intelligence from ten extremely valuable agents, individuals who have access to top secret Russian military and intelligence material, individuals who are being murdered one by one.” Alistair frowned. “We had no idea who was doing this.” His expression changed. “But you’ve given us the name.”
“Khmelnytsky.” Will pictured Svelte’s dying body and felt a further wave of regret and failure rush over him. “Does Sentinel know him?”
“He does, though he doesn’t yet know he’s the murderer. Svelte was the fourth agent to have been assassinated so far.” Alistair reached for his cup. “Taras Khmelnytsky is a colonel and the head of Spetsnaz Alpha.”
Will knew that Spetsnaz Alpha was Russia’s most effective special forces unit, specializing in antiterrorist operations, intelligence gathering, close protection, deployments behind enemy lines, and sabotage, surveillance, and direct action. It was part of the FSB, and its elite members were shrouded in secrecy.
“Sentinel identified and recruited him three years ago to become an MI6 agent. He gave him the code name Razin and got him to spy on Russia.”
“How in God’s name did Sentinel do that?”
Patric
k glanced at the papers in front of him. “He made Razin an irresistible offer.” The CIA officer slowly shook his head, lowering his voice. “Or at least, that’s what Sentinel thought.”
Will silently swore as a realization struck him: Razin had parachuted into Rybachiy with twenty-four of his Alpha soldiers, having told the base that they were hunting an intruder, and murdered Svelte. “Why is Razin killing the agents?”
“We don’t know. Perhaps he’s doing it under FSB orders.”
“One man sent to kill ten agents? It would be easier for the police just to arrest them and make them quietly disappear.” Will shook his head. “He’s acting alone.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
“I need access to the files on Sentinel’s agents.”
“Of course.” Patrick collected the papers and arranged them into a pile. He was silent for a while, before saying, “Tomorrow, you’ve got to go to Ukraine to meet Sentinel and tell him that Razin is not only the killer but also wants to create a flash point to bring Russia and America to war.”
Will felt disbelief roll over him. “Whatever Razin does, Russia would be mad to go to war with the United States. It’s completely outgunned.”
“It is.” Patrick’s expression was somber. “Though it has one thing that we don’t: a willingness to sacrifice millions of its countrymen.”
Will was deep in thought. “He’s going to use Alpha to create that flash point.” He returned his attention to the coheads. “Though they’ll be loyal to him, I doubt Razin’s men know what he’s planning. He’ll use them in a way they won’t suspect-maybe a covert training exercise. Razin’s the key. If we can get rid of him, we’ll stop his operation.” He looked up. “Have you considered taking our information to the Russian premier?”
“We have, and my president has. But in order to do that we’d have to give him what little evidence we have. As a result, we’d risk compromising Sentinel, his agents, and maybe even our entire intelligence network in Russia. The consequences for us could be as devastating as Razin’s actions.”
Will knew that was true. He spoke fast. “I’ve got one chance to end this quickly: get Sentinel to set up a meeting with Razin, and I’ll be there to kill him.”
“Provided Razin attends the meeting.”
“That’s the problem.” Will’s mind raced. “Razin may attend if he believes that his treachery is still a secret. But I think I disturbed him at Svelte’s quarters-he hadn’t finished off Svelte. I think he heard me enter the building, might have thought I was a sailor, and got out quick before he was compromised. Later, Razin’s men opened fire on me. Razin now knows that there was a genuine intruder and will be worried that I got to Svelte and spoke to him.”
“Well, let’s hope he makes the meeting.”
Will shook his head. “There has to be a backup plan.” He looked at Alistair. “As you know, I’ll need some of my alias passports, but I’ll also need an unused passport with a multiple-entry visa for Russia.”
Alistair nodded. “We’ll have the passport ready for you when you get back from Ukraine.”
“When I get back?” Will shook his head. “I’ll come back when I’m ready. Arrange for the passport to be available in Europe.”
“What’s your backup plan?”
Will relaxed his hand. “I have in mind a plan to discredit Razin, get him suspended, maybe even dismissed-regardless, to take him out of the equation.” His words were measured, though privately he wondered if the plan would work. “Then, when he’s isolated and powerless, I’ll track him down and put a bullet in his head.”
Chapter Four
That evening, Will sat at a corner table in the discreetly lit wine bar at Washington, D.C.’s, five-star Willard InterContinental hotel. The place was half full, and around him earnest-looking, sharp-suited men and women sat in couples, hunched over drinks, leaning close to each other, and talking in low voices.
A tall man walked across the bar, carrying drinks in one hand, and sat opposite him. He was wearing a suit but no tie, looked sinewy and very strong, was three years older than Will, had straw-colored hair, and a face that was handsome but etched with the weight of experiences that few men ever had. Placing two glasses of Maker’s Mark whiskey on the table, the man looked at the people around him and smiled. “Lobbyists, senators, businessmen, political consultants. I know ’em all, but they don’t know me.” The man pushed one of the glasses across the table, looking at Will. “Have a drink.”
Will glanced at his glass before looking at the CIA Special Operations Group paramilitary officer. He smiled. “Hello, Roger.”
Roger Koenig lifted his glass and tapped it against Will’s. “It’s good to see you again.”
The last time Will had seen Roger, the officer had had bullet wounds and had been lying on a hospital floor in the small village of Saranac Lake, New York. He was Will’s only friend. “When did you get back on active duty?”
“Few months now.” The former DEVGRU SEAL took a swig of his drink. “How long are you in town?”
Will drank some whiskey. “I’m leaving in a few hours.”
“Shame. My wife wanted me to invite you over to our place for dinner.”
“I-”
“Yeah, yeah. Your work comes first.” He seemed to be studying Will. “Don’t worry. I know, you’d have hated it.” He grinned. “You can talk your way out of any situation, but you’re terrified of a family dinner and idle chat. You really do need to lighten up a bit.” His expression and tone of voice changed. “Patrick told me you just got back from Russia, that you were nearly killed.”
“Did he send you here to check up on me?” The moment he said the words, Will regretted them.
Anger flashed across Roger’s face. “You should know me better than that. I came here to have a drink with the man who saved my life.”
“Stupid question. I’m sorry.”
The anger on Roger’s face receded, but his expression remained stern. “Don’t try to push me away, Cochrane. I’m not like the others.”
Will nodded slowly. He wondered why Roger stuck by him. It was true that he’d saved the CIA officer’s life, but he’d saved many people’s lives and none of them had wanted to be in his presence for a second longer than they had to.
“Have you heard from your sister?”
Will shook his head. “She won’t return my calls or reply to my letters.”
“Give it time.”
Will had given it time. He’d seen Sarah only once by chance during the last nine years. His existence reminded her of the day that criminals had come to kill her and their mother when Will and his sister had been teenagers. Will had killed the men but had been too late to stop his mother from dying. “I bought some gifts for your children.” He handed Roger a duty-free carrier bag.
Roger looked inside. “Teddy bears? My twin sons are twelve and spend every free hour killing each other in Xbox games, and my daughter’s just turned fourteen and is starting to think about cuddling other things.” He smiled. “But thanks for the thought.”
Will felt foolish. “How’s Laith?”
Laith was a CIA SOG officer and ex-Delta Force operative who had worked with both men in their last mission. Like Roger, Will had last seen Laith in Saranac, though Laith’s stomach had been slashed open with a knife.
“He was in the hospital for a while, but he’s operational again.” Roger’s cell phone bleeped. He checked the screen, his expression one of irritation.
Will smiled. “Work comes first.”
“It thinks it does.” He stood, a wry smile now on his face. “Find a nice woman and marry her. It’ll be the solution to all your problems.”
A n hour later Will was in his hotel room. His bag was packed; he’d be checking out shortly. Turning on the television, he flicked through the channels until he found one devoted to classical music. An orchestra was playing Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6. He sat down, closed his eyes, and placed the tips of his fingers together.
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br /> As the third movement commenced, one of his rare good memories came to him. He was sixteen years old, and he was on his first proper date with a girl named Mary. He had known her for a couple of years-they played viola together in their school orchestra-but had only recently plucked up the courage to ask her out. They went to a National Symphony Orchestra performance in the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The musicians were delivering an excellent performance of Symphony No. 6. Will was nervous and his date looked nervous, but halfway during the third movement, he looked at Mary, smiled, and took her hand.
The television concert paused before commencing the fourth movement. The memory vanished and was replaced by another. He was twenty years old, and he was sitting in a cafe on the banks of the Barada River in Syria’s capital, Damascus. He was dressed in jeans and an open-neck shirt and was sipping a glass of arak. The early-evening sun felt good on his tanned skin, and he smiled as he listened to Tchaikovsky’s fourth movement coming through the old speakers of the cafe. Several tables away from him sat a woman who looked to be around the same age as him. She was very pretty, had a glass of wine, and was reading a book. She glanced at him; Will smiled wider, and she responded. Three men walked in. Dressed in nice suits, they appeared middle-aged. Sitting down at a vacant table, they ordered drinks and began talking to each other with earnest expressions on their faces. Will looked at the woman again and wondered if she would be offended if he offered to buy her a drink. He looked at the three men and saw a waiter approaching them, carrying a tray with glasses. One of the men’s cell phones rang. The man stood, listened to the call, closed his phone, and spoke to the other men while ushering the waiter away. The men clearly had urgent business elsewhere.
That was not supposed to happen just yet.