by Matthew Dunn
During my visits to the chapel, I imagine him sitting next to me on a wooden pew, wearing a nice suit, man and his boy looking near identical aside from age, both of us contented and silent. I like to think that part of his soul lingers in this place, that he watches me when I sit where he may have sat, attempting to complete my crossword, wishing he could help me solve the clues.
Today was the first time I didn’t think of my father as I sat in the empty chapel. I wondered why and joked to myself that perhaps I’d come here to pay my respects to Her Majesty and tell her that I was no longer wanted by her Secret Service. I smiled at the notion of her and me being the sole occupants of the chapel and our speaking about such matters. The smile felt forced, and I realized it was because there was some foundation of truth in my frivolous image. I was here to say farewell to the British Establishment after fourteen years of serving it well and being in its inner circle of trust. And though I’d never been able to abide the pomp and ritual within the ranks of Britain’s elite, I did feel that my country gave me some purpose and prevented me doing something that would land me in an English prison.
I opened my copy of the Times onto the page containing today’s crossword, withdrew a bullet-gray fountain pen that had once belonged to my dad and bore an inscription of his name, left both on the pew, and walked out of the church.
I decided I’d never return.
The angle of the glaring midafternoon sun was all wrong as I walked toward Millbank, adjacent to the north side of the Thames. Though there are few high-rises in the capital, there are plenty of midrises, and their windows reflected the sun’s beams to produce painful flashes of light that were sometimes so blinding one could easily bump into the surly road workers who perpetually commandeer London’s streets. I hated London when it was like this—overexposed with light, soulless, loud, air thick with the saccharine smell of sugar-coated nuts roasted by cash-in-quick hawkers; everyone except tourists pissed off because the city had become a sweaty see-the-sites tart. It affected my mood, which was already bad enough. The capital was rubbing salt into my wounds as I walked with the Houses of Parliament behind me, past MI5 headquarters in Thames House, and toward the Babylonian headquarters of MI6. The government institutions were places that I could no longer enter. And I felt that they were turning their noses up at me.
I walked over a bridge to the South Bank, and kept walking until I reached Southwark’s West Square. The small, beautiful area contains a cluster of Edwardian houses, all of which have been converted into apartments. My home is one of them, an antiquity-strewn bachelor pad on the top floor, above the three apartments containing a champagne-swilling thirty-something art dealer called Phoebe, a middle-aged divorced mortician called David, and a seventy-something retired Coldstream Guards officer called Dickie. Even by London standards, we are the oddest collection of cohabiters. Yet, thanks to the malevolent U.S. senator who outed me, they have recently discovered what I do for a living and don’t care. Because we are friends.
Sort of.
Dickie Mountjoy was outside in front of our terraced house, cursing his arthritis as he was painting the frame of one of his windows. Despite his task in hand, he was, as ever, wearing pristine clothes fit for an off-duty major partaking of a glass of port in the officer’s mess. I wondered why he bothered, given that he was a widower and had been out of the army for decades.
“Good afternoon, Major.”
Dickie replied in the well-spoken but clipped, angry-sounding tone favored by British army officers. “Ah, Mr. Cochrane. Good afternoon to you too, young man.” His eyes narrowed. “What yer wearing a suit for? Been for a job interview?” Dickie, Phoebe, and David knew about my change in circumstances.
“No. Church.”
The major huffed. “Bit late in the day for you to ask His forgiveness for all the stuff you’ve done.”
I examined the window frame. “You’ve missed a bit.”
Dickie looked affronted. “I haven’t finished the job yet, plus guardsmen never miss anything. We know precision too well because—”
“Yes, yes. You’ve lectured me on this before.” I smiled.
Dickie painted over the bare spot I’d referred to, and his expression momentarily softened. “Fancy joining me for a tea break? This’ll need at least thirty minutes before I can apply a second coat.”
Dickie and I both knew he’d struggle with the three flights of stairs to my pad, so we headed straight into his ground-floor apartment. As he was filling up the kettle, he asked, “What you going to do?”
“For work?”
“No, your bleedin’ lack of love life. Of course, work.”
“I’ve one or two ideas.”
“Hope they don’t involve some poor chap having you as his employee, ’cause you’re unemployable. Too many antisocial traits. Not a team player. Ill disciplined.”
“Not when I’m working.” I sat on the sofa in the living room adjacent to the open-plan kitchen; to have sat in Dickie’s favorite armchair would have made him apoplectic.
“When you work, you spy on people or kill them. I doubt there are any positions in the local Job Centre requiring those skills.”
I joked, “I suppose I could join the Coldstream Guards.”
“Age forty-one?” He walked in, carrying two mugs of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. “You’re not cut out for the army. Too—”
“Ill disciplined.” I nodded while wondering how Dickie would react if I told him something about myself that he didn’t know: At age seventeen I’d killed my mother’s four murderers with a kitchen knife and fled to France to join the Foreign Legion. I’d spent five harsh years in the Legion, initially in the elite 2e Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes, before successfully completing selection into Groupement des Commandos Parachutistes (GCP), a Special Forces unit of the 11th Parachute Brigade of the French army. And during my time in GCP, I’d been frequently requisitioned by France’s intelligence services to conduct assassinations.
I knew all about army discipline in its most extreme form, though I didn’t tell Dickie about my history because it would have made us too alike. The army meant the world to Dickie, and it gave him purpose to tell civilians like me that we could learn a few things from him. I wasn’t going to take that away from the old man.
I looked at the ceiling as a rhythmic banging noise came from David’s apartment above us. “Jesus, what’s that?”
Dickie sat opposite me in his armchair and followed my gaze toward his ceiling. “Er . . . that’ll be David and Phoebe.”
“Ah.” The two neighbors had recently become boyfriend and girlfriend. Clearly Phoebe had gone to David’s apartment for some intimate time. “We . . .” I’d no idea what I was about to say.
The banging continued. Dickie looked as uncomfortable as I felt. We lowered our eyes in unison as he pushed the plate of biscuits toward me. “Home baked. Try one.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t particularly hungry but was grateful for the distraction. “How long will the banging last?”
“Usually not more than ten minutes.”
We both gave up trying to make small talk. The thumps got faster. Every second felt like a minute. Eventually the noise stopped.
Dickie shook his head. “I’m counting down the days until Phoebe and David reach the jaded phase of the relationship.”
That made me laugh. “What are you up to this evening?”
Dickie shrugged. “My club’s temporarily shut for refurbishment, so I guess I’ll stay in and watch a bit of telly.”
Since Mrs. Mountjoy had passed away two years ago, Dickie spent most weekday evenings at Pall Mall’s Army & Navy Club. In his finest attire, and with a rolled-up umbrella no matter what the weather, he’d march from his home to the club at precisely 7 P.M., ignoring the pain of his arthritis. There he’d have one drink with fellow former guardsmen—never ex–naval officers, heaven forbid—eat his meal at the club, and return home in time for the ten o’clock news. It was a ritu
al that gave him purpose and prevented him from dwelling on the absence of the love of his life.
But tonight that was taken away from him because a few carpets needed replacing. That worried me. “I’m also at a loose end. Why don’t I cook us a beef and ale pie with some fresh veg and bring it down here; maybe a game of chess?”
Dickie gave me a stern look. “Meals on Wheels charity for the lonely causes?”
“A couple of bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape? Help numb the pain of being in my company.”
“Sir.” The major’s back was ramrod straight. “Men of my generation do not sit opposite another man with a bottle of wine between us unless we are queer, theatrical types, or French.”
“Calvados?”
“No!”
Oh Lord. That left the inevitable. I lied, while thinking I’d need to go to a liquor store. “I’ve got a lovely vintage port, plus a bottle of thirty-year single malt, both getting dusty and thirsty.”
Dickie’s eyes twinkled. “That’s better talk, Mr. Cochrane. Seven o’clock sharp. And make sure the beef is tender.”
I finished my mug of tea and was about to leave.
But Dickie leaned forward and grabbed my forearm for the first time ever. “I asked you in here because I did need a break. But . . . but I also wanted to ask you . . .” His voice was trembling; I knew he’d loathe that. “Wanted to ask you if you’ll be okay. Rent? You got enough money to tide you over? Hate to see you . . . have to leave ’cause you don’t have the funds.”
I placed a hand over Dickie’s. “I’ve got a bit of cash. Enough for a while.”
Dickie blurted, “After everything you’ve done for me, I was thinking I could help you out. Some of my pension. Just make sure you can keep paying the rent until you get a job on a checkout at a local supermarket.”
“I haven’t done much for you.”
“You took me to the doctors when I thought I had lung cancer.”
“Someone had to.”
Dickie leaned back, warmth evaporated.
He was glad.
So was I.
“Why would you give me your money?” I asked a man who was as belligerent as I imagined I’d be at his age.
“You hate beef and ale pie” was his answer.
This was true. But I knew it was Dickie’s meal of choice. “I promise you, I’ll come to you if I need cash.”
“Promise? No bank managers and crippling loans?”
“For sure.”
The major nodded. “Very well. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to painting.” He winced as he pushed himself to his feet. “It’s not just money I worry about. The normal world isn’t the place for you. You need work, and not the regular kind. But I just can’t see where you’ll find it.”
The CIA analyst ran when no one was around her and walked when she passed other officers on the third floor of the Agency’s headquarters in Langley, Virginia. She knew her change of pace made no sense, and even when walking she was aware that people were looking at her clammy face. Perhaps they thought she was ill and needed to get to a restroom. More likely they understood her mind was deeply troubled. It was, but she didn’t want anyone to know that. Not yet.
She needn’t have worried. People in the building run a lot, usually when something really bad has happened. Witnesses get used to it, because many of them have done the same—dashing to someone who just might know what to do, like a child who’s fallen over and needs his mom or dad.
In a normal organization, a colleague would likely ask a runner, “What’s wrong?”
Within the secret cell-like structure of the Agency, such a question would be answered, “You’re not cleared to know.”
But the analyst was young and had only worked for the CIA for seven months. She didn’t know that it was a common occurrence for officers to go into headless chicken mode. She banged on a door, breathless, clutching her heaving chest.
“The door’s shut for a reason!” a woman barked from inside the room.
The analyst’s stomach cramped. Her boss had had an exemplary fifteen-year career as a field officer before being promoted away from her overseas missions into management. The boss had been pissed off ever since, and for the most part the juniors on her team bore the brunt of her frequent fury. The analyst raised her fist to the door, hesitated, and banged again.
“God damn it! I’m busy.”
The analyst felt teary and confused. No, she couldn’t be confused. She had to go into the room. She did so.
And immediately wished she hadn’t.
Her boss wasn’t the only one glaring at her; so too was the head of the Agency, the director of intelligence, and the director of the National Clandestine Service. Part of her wanted to turn around and run. But instead she stood before them, shaking, her petrified eyes darting from one person to the next.
“What is it?” her boss asked with an expression that suggested she was going to sack her junior.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Spit it out!”
Screw this, the analyst thought while deciding she couldn’t hack this job. It gave her momentary strength. But her voice still shook as she said, “It’s Gray Site, ma’am. It’s gone silent. Telegrams, calls, I’ve tried everything for hours. The station’s manned twenty-four seven. But I can’t get hold of them. Haven’t heard a peep from them since Gray Site’s night-duty officer sent us a telegram yesterday evening. The one I showed you about the Hamas meeting today.” She felt light-headed. “Gray Site’s gone dead.”
TEN
That night, six CIA men were silent as they disgorged from the stationary SUV and ran off a street into a derelict house in Beirut’s urban suburbs. The three technical officers in the team had been here weeks before. The other three were paramilitary officers, men who’d told the techies moments ago to move fast, watch angles, and drop to the ground if ordered by them to do so. The shooters were former Delta and SEALs, the techies were former Microsoft and builders of U.S. fighter jets.
The techies felt sweaty and breathless as they lugged their equipment—gas canisters, pipes, bags containing other equipment. Though their immediate surroundings were dark, the specialists felt exposed and ill at ease because they didn’t like being on foreign soil. Especially soil where American government employees are prime kidnap bait. Mosques were calling the faithful to prayer; the salty smell of the humid Mediterranean air was mixed with the aromas of fried okra and grilled beef shawarma; distant cars were honking; and someone was playing bongos while women sang. Good people were socializing too close to the team’s entry point, and all intelligence operatives—whether field trained or not—always assume that bad lurks amid good.
The team ran through the empty shell of the huge house, which had been partially destroyed during Israel’s siege of Beirut in the 1982 Lebanon War. They moved downstairs to the basement and confronted the bombproof steel door. Locked, of course. The techies had put it there. And they’d made sure the cellar that had once contained thousands of bottles of Château Musar was impenetrable. Wine cellars didn’t need such protection. Intelligence units did.
The techies put on visors and ignited blowtorches. The fire burned through the metal; the techies knew what they were doing. The shooters felt useless as they stood guard and wondered if armed men were going to come for them from ahead or behind. There were twenty-two steps back up to the house, and a sealed door in front of them. The shooters gestured the techies to hurry. The stressed techies flipped them the finger.
The men were different, and yet all of them would suffer the same fate if caught. The blowtorches moved around the edge of the door. Sparks, blue light, and smoke caused the men to wince; and an acrid stench filled their nostrils. For forty minutes they continued their breach, burning what they’d installed with pride.
Most of the door fell to the ground. The impatient shooters rushed through the hole. One of them shouted “Fire!” because sparks from the blowtorches had ignited a nearby sofa. “Black
smoke,” he said. “Number six: reposition.” Five of the team moved along the spy house’s corridor, using their flashlights to guide their way in the pitch dark; the sixth moved away from his predetermined position of standing guard at the door and started putting out the fire while coughing.
The team headed farther into the complex. The corridor was broad; its floors, ceiling, and walls were thick stone; on one side were metal filing cabinets that the techies and the station intelligence officers had placed there after purchasing them from a nearby school that was closing. Dust on the floor was displaced by the men’s boots, its specks looking like agitated fireflies in their flashlight beams. They moved forward; ahead of them they couldn’t see anything save glimpses of the subterranean structure. But they could smell must and decay, a scent that grew stronger with each tentative step they made. They reached the end of the corridor, which ended in four rooms of identical size. The techies knew the rooms well because they’d installed all the equipment the Gray Site officers needed inside them. One of the CIA shooters gestured that they check the first room on the left first. They did so, then two more of the rooms. The windowless rooms were empty except for old furniture, desks, and state-of-the-art CIA surveillance equipment that had been systematically smashed to pieces. Even the hardened shooters were uneasy as they moved to the last room, their handguns held high. The techies trailed them, scared beyond belief, thinking that this wasn’t what they’d signed up for. The shooters rushed the room. Within seconds, the techies outside the room heard them shout.
“Clear!”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
The technical specialists entered the room. One of them immediately vomited; another exclaimed, “Oh dear God, no!”; the third held his hand to his mouth. The men who’d manned Gray Site were in the room—one CIA officer and his three colleagues from MI6, DGSE, and Mossad.
They’d been killed by gunfire.
The CIA analyst had inadvertently summed up what had actually happened.