by Matthew Dunn
Mason looked satisfied. “You forgot to mention that he was dismissed from the Royal Navy.”
“Years later, he was pardoned and reinstated with the rank of rear admiral.”
“Correct.” Mason’s fingers were now together, their tips against his nose. “Do you hope to be reinstated into MI6 at some point?”
I hadn’t anticipated the question. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a liability.”
“That’s what they’ve told you?”
“That’s what I am.”
“You lack confidence in your abilities?”
“No. I’m liable to do things that make my former employer nervous. Ergo, I’m a liability.”
“Ergo, you’re like your forefather.”
“If indeed Admiral Cochrane was my forefather.”
Mason poured a glass of water. “The possibility of a family connection is irrelevant; the comparison of personalities is not.” He pushed the glass across the table toward me. “Do you expect me to ask you questions about how you will investigate Gray Site?”
“I don’t know. But if you do ask, I won’t answer.”
“Why?”
“You task me. I set to work. But my methods must be my own business. I gain nothing from sharing my investigation with you.”
“You gain everything from doing so. You must report your findings to Patrick and me on a daily basis. SMS’s, calls from your cell or pay phones—we don’t care. But we must be regularly apprised of your progress. Or failings . . .”
“I trust Patrick.”
“And he trusts you, otherwise you wouldn’t be here today.” Mason’s expression was cold. “But you don’t know whether to trust me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Then what better way for us to get fully acquainted than by working together. Only Patrick and me. Don’t share anything you find with anyone else. There are too many unknown variables in certain quarters to take the risk of broadening the number of people who have access to your work.”
I studied him. Did I trust Mason? It was difficult to know. Clearly, he held his cards close to his chest. But the key element here was Patrick. So many times, I’d trusted Patrick with my life and he’d never let me down. Plus, he was one of the canniest senior spies I knew. If Patrick got one whiff that Mason was playing a game, he’d be all over the admiral like a rash. “Okay. I agree. I’ll make contact with Patrick at least once a day; even if I’ve nothing to report.”
“Good,” Mason said. “It is quite possible the Israelis, or at least elements within Mossad, may kill you if they find out what you’re doing. They want this war.”
“And you? What do you want?”
The admiral’s expression changed. Quietly he replied, “I want the truth.” His voice strengthened when he said, “You set to work. And you don’t tell anyone, apart from Patrick and me, what you’re doing until it’s over. Is that understood?”
“That’s fine by me.” It was. “I do have one question for you. The reference to Thales, in the CIA officer’s Gray Site telegram. Does the code name mean anything to you?”
The admiral shook his head. “I’ve pursued that line of inquiry with the Agency, NSA, and a number of non-U.S. allies. So has Patrick. It means nothing to any of us.”
“Can we get to the Hamas leaders Stravinsky and Stradivarius? Maybe extract them for enhanced interrogation? Anything they can tell us about Thales will help me.”
Mason momentarily closed his eyes. “The Israelis have advised us that Stravinsky and Stradivarius will never trouble the world again. An Israeli team killed them last night.”
“What?!”
Mason opened his eyes and shrugged. “Look at it from their perspective. They’re convinced the men were involved in the death of a highly respected Israeli diplomat.”
“Or they killed them so they could kill the truth.”
Mason withdrew a leather-bound notepad, placed reading glasses on, and studied notes he’d earlier written. “You were in the French Foreign Legion. An unusual choice of military unit for a man who should have known that the Legion has never been a romantic escape.”
“Who said I was a romantic?”
“Why did you join?”
Because I killed four criminals with a kitchen knife and needed to get out of the States fast. “I craved adventure. Much like you did when you ran away to sea.” I smiled.
“You know my background?”
“Yes.”
Mason carried on reading. “GCP Special Forces; seconded to DGSE black ops units. I’d have understood if you’d sought your adventure within a British or American unit, given your dual citizenship of those countries.” He looked at me, his expression somewhat superior. “And yet you seemed to have no problem doing another country’s dirty work.”
I shrugged. “The French haven’t been our enemy since your beloved Thomas Cochrane was at war. Times have changed, Admiral.”
“The principal of loyalty hasn’t.” He tapped his notepad. “After the Legion, how did you settle in to life at Cambridge University?”
The truth was I’d struggled. It was hard being around normal people after five tough years in the military. “Just fine.”
“Really?”
I could see Mason wasn’t buying my answer. “I enjoyed the chance to sleep until late morning.”
“And then MI6. Why do you think British intelligence singled you out for special training?”
“Special training? Who told you I received that?”
“It’s just a rumor I heard about you. Is it true?”
I shrugged.
“Let me put it this way—if such a training program existed, why would they choose you to go on it?”
“Maybe they’d do so because they wanted to kill me.”
“Your flippancy is not appropriate, Mr. Cochrane.”
“Neither is your assumption that it is perfectly reasonable to address me as if I were one of your junior lieutenants on board your ship.” My expression and tone were now serious, my eyes locked on his. “If you want a foot soldier, then find one. I’m not that man.”
Mason stared back at me, appearing to weigh his response. “Good. I don’t need a foot soldier. I want someone who can operate under extreme duress. Alone. Your background says you can.”
“You know much about what I’ve done in MI6?”
“Probably only five percent. The rest is barred to me. But that five percent is enough.” He put his notepad away. “My question to you is, can this be done? Find out what made a man turn on his colleagues in Gray Site? Establish whether Hamas killed the Israeli ambassador?”
I hesitated. “It is . . .” I was searching for the right words.
“Yes?”
Involuntarily, I rubbed my chin, silently cursing the action because it betrayed doubt or the possibility that I was lying. I breathed in deeply and told him exactly what I thought. “I won’t stop. You have my word on that. But this investigation is incredibly challenging. I’ve virtually nothing to go on.”
Mason studied me silently for a while. “Roger Koenig was more to you than just a former colleague, I’ve been told. He was a friend.”
“Correct.”
“Don’t let his death cloud your judgment. I need you to be clearheaded.”
“And I need you not to tell me how to think or act.”
Mason held his ground. “I’m fully aware of the challenges. And whether you’re prepared to take my advice or not, do understand that I’m putting my faith in you.”
He deserved a better response from me this time, given that his intentions were sincere. “Roger had become a dear friend. I’m shocked by his death. But that won’t stop me doing my job properly.”
He stood. Our meeting was clearly over. “Keep the wind in your sails, but don’t forget to look over your shoulder.”
I shook his hand. “Did I pass?”
Mason looked solemn. “In less than two weeks, Israel will go
to war. What you do between now and then will enable me to answer your question.”
Tanner got into his car in the Pentagon parking lot, unlocked the glove compartment, and used his secret cell phone to call his contact. “The investigator’s just met Mason and has left. I’ll find out what I can from the admiral.”
SEVENTEEN
The drugs seemed stronger tonight. Safa felt like most of his brain had been put to sleep, but the small part of his mind still working was doing so at an optimal level.
His guardian explained to him it was like taking the boy’s brain to the gym. One day we focus on the arms, the next the legs, the day after the abdomen and back. It was piecemeal reconstruction of the most important organ in the body. And when all parts of the mind were put back together again, the result would be not only full mental health, but also an acuteness of thought that was as accurate as a precision tool. The guardian had elaborated that it was about setting some neurons to work while allowing others to recuperate. Safa didn’t understand what any of this meant but didn’t care, because all that mattered was that his guardian was caring for him under expert medical advice.
His guardian had never worked for the United Nations, though when he was last in Gaza he had carried impeccable credentials that said he did. Nor was he receiving medical advice. The drugs he administered Safa were stolen; his techniques had been honed in situations that would make most people gag if they knew about them. But they didn’t know. Nor did they know that the man in the dark study room called himself the code name Thales.
The guardian whispered, “Safa, can you feel the black?”
“The black?”
“The pitch darkness. No light.”
Safa outstretched his hand. “It feels . . . empty.”
“A void, perhaps? Endless nothing?”
“Yes, like space without planets and stars.”
“A pointless space.”
Safa frowned. “It just seems so silly. Something that shouldn’t really exist, but is real and doesn’t have anything in it.”
“Ah, now you take us into the realms of quantum physics, mathematics, and philosophy.”
“What do those words mean?”
“One day, maybe I will teach you their meaning.” The guardian placed his hand on Safa’s shoulder. “Can you feel the weight of my hand?”
“Yes.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“It makes me feel like . . . something has changed. Something is here.”
“Excellent. The weight has meaning. Maybe it is telling you that even in voids things can exist.”
“How can that be possible?”
“You’ve been in a void, a chasm between one place and another. Life and death, even. Yet, here you are.” He lifted his hand. “You are thinking clearly for the first time in your life, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You see things differently?”
“You’ve helped me with that.”
“I have.” The guardian picked up a flashlight. “Four mirrors. One is death that cannot be undone; it will never hold light. The second is angry tragedy, its light shines too strong and erratically; one day you will ease its pain and allow it to sleep forever. The third is you, a beacon of hope, a mighty good thing. And the fourth . . .”
“Gluttony, power, murder.”
The guardian turned on the flashlight, shining its beam directly at the last mirror. “It is time to put a name to the fourth mirror.”
The memory of the boy who’d run through the alleys of Jabalia holding a white piece of paper seemed comical as Safa reflected on it. He wished he’d met his guardian and received his help earlier. The man had empowered him, given him hope and courage and clarity of thinking. Perhaps Safa would have grown up to be ruler of Gaza, made wise decisions that put food and water on the table of every Palestinian family, invented disease-free toilet systems, constructed houses, made rivers gush through the land. These were the thoughts of a boy. A dreamer, some had once said. But he wasn’t dreaming now. At least, he didn’t think so. It was hard to tell.
He imagined himself in his homeland now. His father was by his side, pointing north and talking about Israeli grandparents and where they’d come from. He seemed distant, and his words were barely audible. Safa looked at his finger and followed its direction. “The fourth mirror is Israel. Gluttony, power, murder. Israel.”
The guardian smiled.
Later that evening, when the boy was sleeping, the guardian’s cell phone rang. A long-distance call.
“Do you have what I asked for?” The guardian spoke in his native English, his voice posh and precise.
“Yes.” The caller talked for three minutes.
The guardian wrote notes on a piece of paper. “And the Israeli? Close colleagues? Family or friends of interest?”
The caller gave him details.
“Very interesting. Call with any further news. Don’t let me down. I will take over from here.”
He looked at his piece of paper. On it were details about an Israeli man, together with his address. Below those details, the guardian had written Will Cochrane’s name, his alias of Richard Oaks, and the precise details of Oaks’s passport and credit card.
He called one of his U.S.-based assets. After briefing him, he concluded, “I want four of you to take care of this. Don’t let me down.”
EIGHTEEN
It was midevening as I left the Mandarin Oriental hotel to take a walk through D.C. I was wearing a suit in case I got hungry and wanted to eat in a better restaurant. But that wasn’t the reason I was getting some air. I needed to clear my head.
I walked east across the city, with no particular destination in mind. My mind tried to extrapolate possibilities from the scant data I had on Gray Site. Trouble was, there was so little to go on that the task seemed futile. Getting to Beirut was a priority, but I needed more data before making that trip, and I was hoping to get that from three individuals who lived in the States. One of them might slap me, the second would be desperate to call the cops when I stood before him, and the third would be severely tempted to kill me on sight.
I crossed the Anacostia River and turned north—I had the loose idea that I’d do a circular walk and find another bridge to cross back over the river so I could return to the center of the city and my hotel. The area around me was built up, a mix of residential and commercial buildings. They barely registered as I continued walking, my hands in my pockets and my head low as thoughts whirled through my brain. I hated feeling this devoid of ideas and information. It was like being given a blank piece of paper and being told to identify an invisible image that had been drawn on it. No doubt police detectives felt the same when confronted by a murder scene that had no witnesses, no evident motive, no weapon, no suspects, and zero traces of the murderer’s DNA. My task was harder than anything I’d done as an MI6 operative.
Despite the time of day and the fact that it was getting dark, people were still on the streets, laughing, and calling to each other. Cars were driving alongside me on Minnesota Avenue SE. I unfairly resented the presence of others; I just wanted to be alone. It seemed to me I’d stumbled upon an oasis when I spotted the Fort Dupont Park. I’d never been here before; didn’t know it existed. But the wooded park looked quiet and inviting. Plus, a sign welcoming visitors to the 376-acre park said nothing about restrictive opening hours. I followed a footpath leading through wooded areas interspersed with open spaces of grassland and picnic areas.
The ambience was now calm, and I couldn’t see anyone else in the park. But it didn’t make one bit of difference to my state of mind and frustrations. In MI6, I could fail and still have the safety net of a job. Now my reputation and ability to secure future work rested solely on my success or otherwise in this job. In all probability, this would be my first and last freelance job. I feared that Mason, Patrick, and Alistair had placed their faith in a man who always thought he thrived working alone, whereas in truth he needed the option of
institutional resources even if he rarely drew upon them. That thought changed the way I perceived myself. Perhaps understanding my fallibilities was an indication that I was becoming wiser. That didn’t help me right now.
I was about to turn around and head back to my hotel when I heard a woman or girl scream.
I ran toward the sound, wondering if instead I’d heard the screech of an urban fox. It was much darker now, and the darkness was exaggerated by the density of the trees. I stopped when I saw a woman on the ground, lashing out with her arms and legs. A man was above her, trying to either rape her or steal something. I shouted, “Hey!” and ran straight toward the pair.
The assailant glanced at me, grabbed the woman’s handbag, and sprinted away, off the footpath and into the woods.
I reached the woman. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her demeanor disturbed but also displaying an element of defiance. “Damn mugger,” she said as she got to her feet. “Hate them.”
“Call the cops. Get out of the park and wait by the entrance, where people can see you.” I ran after the thief, following his route into the trees and emerging into another picnic area clearing. That’s where I saw them—three men coming at me fast. The man in the center looked like the thief. Was this a gang of thieves who worked the park? I had no idea. The men were wearing hoodies, but weren’t kids. They were about thirty yards away. All were holding knives.
From behind, someone grabbed my arms and held me firm. I jerked my head back, connecting with his face. The man yelped and loosened his grip on me, sufficient for me to spin around and punch him in the throat. As he fell to the ground, I turned back to face the other three men and ran fast to the man on the left, who was ahead of the others. There was just enough light to see that he looked surprised as I got close enough for him to slash his knife toward my gut. I dodged the strike, grabbed his knife-wielding arm, and twisted it so that it was in a lock that would be excruciating for him, twisted it some more until he dropped the knife, got behind him, and placed my free arm around his throat.