The Spy House: A Spycatcher Novel

by Matthew Dunn

  A small, elderly Arab man answered. He was wearing slacks and a collarless shirt that had small scorch marks on its rolled-up sleeves.

  “Mr. Wehbi? My name is Peter Sandcroft. We spoke earlier on the phone.”

  “Ah, yes. Come in, come in.”

  I entered the shop and was immediately struck by the clutter. Shelves covered all the walls, and on them were boxes, books, and stuffed animals. Sheets of different-colored silk hung from the ceiling, some of them long enough to touch the floor. On a table were burning incense sticks and an electric globe that cast images of stars onto everything in the room. A cord stretched from one end of the room to the other; on it a toy bat was suspended and moved back and forth, emitting a screech. Man-height mirrors were leaning against the walls, reflecting distorted and grotesque images of me as I stood before them. Live white doves fluttered their wings in metal birdcages suspended midair. And a ten-foot-long brass pendulum swung back and forth, fixed in the ceiling’s center, at its bottom an ominous-looking scythe that was scraping a groove in the wooden floor.

  The proprietor ushered me into another room at the back of the shop. It contained a wooden table, a couple of chairs, and a tiny kitchenette and sink. The man made two mugs of black tea and added five spoons of sugar into each, without asking me if I wanted my drink sweetened. He handed me a mug and beckoned me to sit at the table.

  He sat opposite me and withdrew a notebook and fountain pen from his shirt pocket. “How did you become aware of my establishment?”

  “The Internet.”

  “I don’t have a website.”

  I shrugged. “Your shop was mentioned in a review of the old city by a tourist who’d come here. The tourist thought your shop was quaint.”

  “Quaint?” The old man took a sip of his tea and grinned, showing decayed teeth, no doubt a result of the amount of sugar passing across them. “The word ‘quaint’ suggests my shop is harmless and has some degree of charm. I’d have preferred it if the tourist had used the description ‘unique,’ because that is what it most certainly is. At least, in Beirut. There’s no other like it.”

  “I thought as much.” I pointed toward the front room. “You don’t just sell? You actually understand the items you sell?”

  The man nodded. “My shop has been in my family for generations. Many of the things I sell have been manufactured by me. I wouldn’t sell anything unless I knew its precise qualities and workings.” He opened his notebook. “You told me on the phone that you had a theory, but needed to understand whether it was possible.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Maybe you can help.”

  “If I can, what do I get in return?”

  I wondered how he’d react if I told him that his help might ensure that his country wasn’t turned into a war zone. “I can pay you for your time.”

  “And what value would you put on that time?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “No, no. Money’s no good. But I tell you what: write a review of my shop. And make sure it includes the word ‘unique.’”

  I smiled. “We have a deal.”

  I spoke to him for thirty minutes—the shop owner writing notes as I did so—before concluding, “My theory may be completely wrong. I just need to know if it’s possible.”

  The man was silent, deep in thought. Then, he asked, “And this room—does it exist?”

  I lied. “No. Its reality is confined to my imagination.”

  He looked at his notes. “Your solution is possible. Come with me.” He led me back into his shop and pulled open cabinet drawers while muttering, “Where are you, where are you?” Then he exclaimed, “Got you.” He handed me a roll of thin paper. “You may have this for free.” He told me what to do with the paper and ripped out a sheet from his notepad. He folded the paper and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “That contains a list of the items required to produce the desired effect.” He grinned. “The type of mystery you describe has fascinated men like me ever since the inception of our profession. Maybe I can steal your solution and one day use it.”

  I shook his hand. “Just give me a few days before you do that.” I thanked him for his time and insight and headed back to my hotel.

  In an empty apartment overlooking Abdel Baki Street, Colonel Rowe was in near pitch darkness, on one knee while using binoculars to scrutinize Will Cochrane’s hotel room on the other side of the street. He’d been watching the hotel for fifteen hours. By his side was a suppressed-sound sniper rifle. It had no scope, but that didn’t matter. Cochrane’s room was no more than forty yards away. At that distance, Rowe would easily be able to put a round in Cochrane’s head when he showed himself in his window.

  The problem was that the room’s curtains had been closed since the colonel had been watching the place. He was hoping that would soon change, because even with the room’s light on and a man’s silhouette visible behind the curtain, Rowe couldn’t risk shooting at the shape. He had to be sure the person in the room was Cochrane. If the silhouette belonged to a cleaner or other hotel staff, and Rowe shot that person, Cochrane would go to ground; Rowe would have to wait until the former MI6 officer used his alias credit card or passport again to find his new location. He couldn’t afford to wait for that to happen. Time was running out. He put down his binoculars and lifted his rifle, holding it at eye level, ready to fire.

  The receptionist in my hotel smiled when she saw me approach her desk. “Your last evening with us, Mr. Oaks. You should make the most of this evening. Maybe dine out somewhere nice.”

  “Dining alone isn’t a great way to enjoy my last day in Beirut.”

  Her smile broadened. “Then, don’t dine alone.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to join me when your shift finishes?”

  “My shift doesn’t finish until six A.M., plus I’m happily married.”

  “Ah.” I glanced at the entrance to the lobby. “Anything for me? Letters? Visitors?”

  The receptionist began tapping on her computer keyboard. “Nothing.”

  “You sure? I was expecting a couple of my associates to come over. One of them is the guy who came here before—with red sideburns. The other is blond, about ten years younger.”

  “No. They’ve not been here.”

  “That’s a pity, because I was hoping to invite them out for a beer.”

  “If they come, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Thanks.” I took the elevator to my floor. As it was every evening, the lighting in the corridor was dimmed. I could only assume this was done to imbue a sense of relaxation. I saw no signs of other guests on the floor. The hotel was quiet; all that could be heard was the noise of vehicles in the adjacent street. I reached my room’s door, looked up and down the corridor, and placed my ear against the entrance. It was a futile action because the external sounds of the city were too loud. Plus, what was I expecting to hear? I swiped my key card through the slot.

  I entered my hotel room, but didn’t yet turn on its lights, because I wanted to check that the curtains were closed. They were. I turned back to the room’s door and the main set of light switches. As I did so, I saw the slightest flash of metal, illuminated by the tiny LED light in the ceiling smoke alarm. Instinctively, I jumped back, feeling a searing pain in my stomach as something sharp sliced across my shirt and skin.

  A knife.

  I saw the blade move fast again, dodged its trajectory, and moved quickly forward, trying to grab the arm of the man with the knife. I connected with his wrist. I gripped tight and ran backward, twisting his arm with all of my might and trying to drag him to the ground. He kicked me hard in the groin and spun around, but I maintained my hold and dragged him to the door, where I lunged at the light switch and lit up the room.

  I was holding the blond assassin. Sweat shone on his face as he tried to yank his knife-holding hand free of my grip and slice through my palms and fingers in the process. He placed a boot on my chest and used it to kick me back and free himself.

  We stood feet apart, both of us br
eathing fast though otherwise silent.

  He moved the knife back and forth in front of his waist, waiting for the right moment to attack again. I had to let him make a move first, as I wouldn’t stand a chance of preempting an attack. He stepped forward, raising his knife to head height to thrust the blade down toward my chest. I crossed my wrists and threw my arms above my head, blocking his stroke, and kicked with all of my strength into his gut. He fell back, winded. I dove onto him, locking one arm around his arm, the other around his neck, and rolling him onto his side, using my strength and body weight to pin him down. From this position, I could choke him to death.

  “Drop your knife!” I squeezed harder on his throat. “You know what will happen if you don’t.”

  He tried to move his knife closer to my body.

  But I arched back, pulling his neck and head with me. “Drop the knife.”

  “You’ll kill me anyway.” He wheezed; his accent was foreign. I couldn’t yet place his nationality.

  “No, I won’t. And I don’t believe you want to kill me—not here, not in London. But you want to hurt me badly.” I squeezed again, causing my captive to gasp. “I can’t take any chances. If you keep hold of the knife, I’ll have no choice other than to finish this.”

  He dropped the knife.

  I kicked it away. “I’ll be on my feet quicker than you. If you try anything now, I’ll have the knife in my hand and in your body before you even get to your knees. Understood?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  I released my grip, sprang to my feet, and grabbed the knife.

  My assailant got up, rubbing his neck and looking at me with suspicion.

  From across the street, Colonel Rowe frowned. He’d seen quick movement behind the curtains in Cochrane’s room once the lights were turned on; perhaps two people, though he couldn’t be sure. Maids cleaning the room? Most likely. Though it was equally possible Michael Stein had entered the room and attacked Cochrane. “Open the curtains,” he said between gritted teeth, while keeping his rifle pointing at the window and his finger on the trigger.

  “Who are you?” I asked the blond man.

  He didn’t answer, just stared at me. He was a handsome man, tall and athletic.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  He took a step toward me.

  I raised the knife so that it was perpendicular to him and at chest height, the palm of my free hand flat against the back of its hilt. If he came closer, I’d slam it forward. The action wouldn’t necessarily save my life, but it would ensure the blade got him.

  He looked at the knife, then me. “You want to destroy my brother’s name.”

  “Your brother?” My mind raced. Brother? This man’s accent? I thought I knew what was happening. “You’re Israeli?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Special Forces? Mossad? Shin Bet?”

  He returned his attention to the knife.

  I raised it so that its tip was at the level of his eyes. “Do you know what Gray Site is?”

  He nodded.

  “Have you been there?”

  “I visited the site before you did, earlier today.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But your brother died there?”

  His eyes held venom as he responded, “Yes.”

  “And you think I’m here to besmirch your brother’s name. To—”

  “His name’s Ben.”

  “To tarnish Ben’s name? Blame him? Exonerate the CIA officer in the station?”

  “You believe Ben wanted to tamper with coverage of the Hamas meeting. You suspect the CIA officer who shot him discovered Ben’s intentions. You want the CIA officer to be seen in a pleasing light. The CIA man did what he should have done. He was a good guy. Ben was bad. That’s what you’re hoping to prove.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Michael.”

  “Your family name is Stein.”

  “Yes.”

  I lowered the knife. “I think you work for Mossad, though you’ve had military experience.”

  He was motionless.

  I had no idea of his intentions.

  Though I was sure that Michael was a killer.

  He was too calm.

  “I’ve no interest in ruining your family name. Please,” I raised my hands in a gesture of peace. “Who is Thales?”

  Michael didn’t move. “I don’t know.”

  “But you know of him?”

  Michael nodded.

  “Your assessment?”

  “A manipulator with a hidden agenda.”

  “A person who got you to go out on a limb?”

  Michael looked momentarily annoyed. “I put myself out on a limb.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I pointed at the curtains. “There’s someone out there. A man who works for Thales and who’s a proficient shot. He attacked me at the same time as you attacked me in London. But I don’t think you work together. How did Thales manipulate you?”

  “I didn’t say he manipulated me.”

  “How?” I repeated.

  Michael looked at the curtains. “Thales sent me a letter. I’ve no idea how he got my home address or my identity.”

  “I do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I thrust the knife into a side table, hoping my release of the weapon would show my willingness to trust him. The knife’s tip was embedded in wood, the weapon upright. “Someone is feeding Thales information about me, you, and everything else that’s happened and is happening.”

  “A paymaster?”

  I nodded. “A traitor.”

  Michael moved to my side, putting himself between me and the knife. His hand brushed against its blade. “I’m here because I want my brother to be free. You’re meddling in Gray Site because most likely someone’s financing you to do so.”

  “I’m here because the CIA officer in Gray Site was a dear friend of mine and an honorable man. Subsequently his wife has been murdered; so too have my former bosses and two of my peers. Almost certainly, it was all done by Thales.”

  “They’re all dead?”

  I nodded.

  “My God.” Michael moved his hand away from the knife. “Thales wrote to me. He said he’d deploy a man to hunt you.”

  I glanced at the curtains again. “I think that man killed my friends. He tried to warn me not to continue. You’ve been tracking me via my passport and credit card. Correct?”

  Michael nodded. “Richard Oaks. Details of your passport and card were given to me by Thales.”

  I walked closer to the window. “Your brother Ben and my friend Roger didn’t do anything wrong in Gray Site. I need you to listen to me. And when I’ve finished, I want you to help me get even.”

  Colonel Rowe saw the silhouette of a large person behind the curtains in Cochrane’s room. He aimed his gun at the center of the man’s head, willing him to open the curtains and expose himself. The shadow vanished. Rowe adjusted his stance, putting one foot against the baseboard below the window in the apartment and his other farther back on the floor. He was ready to shoot the moment Cochrane showed himself. Then, Rowe’s job would be at an end and the path would be clear for Thales. Rowe muttered, “Come on. Show yourself, Cochrane.”

  I unrolled the thin roll of paper given to me by the Lebanese shop proprietor, using tape to fix one end of it to the ceiling and the other end to the floor. Michael was with me. I lit the paper near the ceiling. It burned rapidly to the floor, the paper disappearing and leaving no trace of ash. “Flash paper.”

  Michael nodded.

  I punched a wall mirror, causing it to fragment into large shards, and checked my watch. “It’s time to leave. Good luck.”

  Rowe saw the flash of light in Cochrane’s hotel room and had no idea where it had come from. It had traveled diagonally from ceiling to floor, and its illumination only lasted a second. He called Thales and told him what he’d seen.

  Monsieur de Guise soun
ded uncharacteristically perturbed when he responded, “Kill Cochrane on sight.”

  The lights in Cochrane’s room were extinguished. The curtains were opened, though Rowe couldn’t see anyone standing behind them. He waited.

  Michael kept his body low as he moved along Cochrane’s room, then stopped below the window and carefully raised a small fragment that he’d taken from the smashed mirror. In its reflection, he saw a man in the room across the street. The man was holding a rifle, stock still and waiting. The sniper. Thales’s hit man.

  Michael sent Cochrane an SMS.

  Fifth floor. Directly opposite your room.

  Cochrane immediately responded from across the street, but Michael ignored his SMS, dropped the mirror, stood, and dashed left just before a silenced rifle bullet was discharged. The bullet struck him in the shoulder and slammed him sideways.

  In the apartment building across the street, I rushed into the room as the sniper tried to load another bullet into the chamber of his weapon. In my hotel room, Michael was down. He’d been in that room, using a piece of glass to try to spot the sniper in one of the empty apartments on Abdel Baki Street, then sacrificing his safety by briefly exposing himself to the shooter so that he could buy me two seconds of time. It was tremendously brave and might have cost Michael his life.

  The sniper heard my fast footsteps and swiveled to face me, desperately trying to load and fire his weapon at me. His expression was one of panic and surprise. I slashed the knife across one of the sniper’s arms, then the other, leaving deep cuts that made his limbs go limp. I struck with the knife again, this time into his leg. He collapsed to the floor, wincing, his weapon discarded and useless.

  I ripped off my belt and used it as a tourniquet above the wound in his leg. “Don’t move!” I used my cell to call Michael. No answer. I called again.

  This time he answered on the fifth ring. “I’m . . . I’m okay. The bullet sliced across my shoulder, but the wound’s not deep.”

  “Are you able to get over here?”