A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  “I don’t see any other choice.”

  “You’re four hundred yards behind him.” This was from the chopper pilot. “He’s halfway through the bottleneck.”

  The convoy was moving at ninety miles an hour in the fast lane.

  Within seconds, Painter said, “There, that’s him.”

  They had Cochrane in their sights. But in a moment, he’d be clear of the traffic and racing ahead.

  “I say we do it.” Kopański followed the squad car as it moved into the center lane.

  Painter spoke into her mic. “Kopański and I are going to take over the lead. I want the squad cars to drop back by one mile. And I want the helo to return to base.”

  The chopper pilot said, “You’re kidding.”

  Painter replied that she was not.

  Reluctantly, the pilot complied, turning his helo around and heading back to Philly. The squad car in front swapped lanes, slowed down, and let Kopański’s unmarked vehicle stay on Cochrane’s tail. Within one minute, the squad cars were out of sight. And that meant that Cochrane could now see no evidence of police pursuing him.

  It was the right call to make, but the detectives knew that they were taking one hell of a gamble.

  What was going on? The helo had vanished. And now I couldn’t see the squad cars behind me. A police barricade somewhere up ahead? I thought it unlikely, as logistically it would be difficult. Plus they’d be worried I’d put a bullet in Pete’s head. But the police wouldn’t back off completely. I was wanted for murder. And I’d added assault on police officers to my charge. No. I was still being followed. By officers in unmarked cars. Possibly two of them were the detectives on the train.

  I had to make a quick decision.

  As signs told me I was passing Newark, Delaware, I glanced at Pete. “Listen carefully to me. No matter what happens, I’m not going to shoot you. Nor will I hurt you. Do you understand that?”

  Pete seemed like he didn’t know how to reply.

  “I need to hear that you understand exactly what I’ve just said.”

  Pete looked confused. “I understand.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Pete’s voice shook as he said, “Don’t make me answer that. I don’t want to know anything. It’s best if I—”

  “Who am I?”

  “The . . . the guy on the news. English. Man who shot a woman in the Waldorf.”

  “That’s what they say I did. The truth is different. I’m not a murderer. But there’s no doubt the police will do everything they can to get me.” I sped up. “I have an idea how you and I need never see each other again. It involves you doing exactly as I say. At the end of it, you’ll be tired. But that’ll be the worst of it. Then you’ll walk away.”

  I told him what I had in mind.

  “Brake lights. No cars ahead of him. What’s he doing?” Painter placed her hand on the dash as Kopański urgently braked to slow to Cochrane’s speed.

  “Maybe he thinks he’s still being followed and is trying to clock us.”

  Painter spoke on her radio to the squad cars. “He’s slowing down. Where are you?”

  They told her they’d just passed a turnoff to Newark.

  “Good, you’re about a mile behind. But slow to thirty.”

  She watched Cochrane’s car further reduce speed.

  Then it veered onto the hard shoulder and stopped.

  “Shit!”

  It happened so quickly.

  Cochrane and the passenger jumped out of the car, Cochrane’s gun pointing at the man’s head. From behind, Cochrane wrapped one arm around the man’s chest and placed the muzzle against his temple. They stepped over the guardrail and ran backward, into a field, Cochrane keeping his body flush against the hostage’s. And they kept running, Cochrane supporting the man’s body so he didn’t trip.

  Kopański stopped his car by the abandoned vehicle. The detectives got out, sidearms unholstered.

  Painter was screaming into her mic. “Get here now! He’s on foot with the hostage!”

  Cochrane and his hostage were fifty yards away.

  Cochrane was looking straight at them.

  Still moving as fast as possible.

  Kopański made ready to leap over the guardrail.

  But Painter said, “Wait for the squad cars.”

  A hundred fifty yards. Beyond accurate pistol range.

  Two hundred yards.

  Cochrane released the hostage. The man was stock-still in the field, Cochrane’s gun still trained on him.

  Then Cochrane turned and bolted.

  Now, nothing was going to stop Kopański. He jumped over the guardrail and sprinted. Sirens were drawing closer, no doubt his colleagues. But for now he was on his own. Kopański was athletic for his age and had chased down many perps. But Cochrane was faster, dashing off the field into a suburban area.

  He was at least three hundred yards ahead.

  Zigzagging to make himself an even harder moving target.

  Kopański fired a warning shot in the air, anyway, hoping it would make Cochrane stop.

  He didn’t.

  Cochrane turned into a side street, disappearing from view. Kopański ran to the spot he’d last seen him.

  But now Cochrane was nowhere to be seen.

  The detective stopped, gasped for air, and said, “Shit!” He got onto his radio mic. “I lost him.”

  Chapter 6

  In northeastern Israel, on Kibbutz Dalia, Michael Stein kicked man-high sacks of soap powder in the commune’s factory. His job was to work an assembly line for eight hours each day, bagging up powder, ensuring conveyer belts didn’t jam, and ultimately making sure the bags were full for distribution to Israelis and Arabs across the Middle East. The factory was the biggest exporter of soap in the region. Its product transcended racial and religious antipathies more than any number of political summits and any amount of back-channel diplomacy. That’s why Michael lived and worked here. It seemed to make more difference to the Levant he so loved than all his years of being a Mossad assassin.

  Now retired from that world, Michael, who was in his mid-thirties, had recently turned up at the gates of the kibbutz with his beloved mongrel dog, Mr. Peres, and asked, “Do you have room for us?”

  Michael and his loyal companion lived in a little house on the site. People here knew he had once been a member of Israel’s Sayeret Matkal, a special forces unit comparable to the U.S. Delta Force, but didn’t know about his subsequent work with Mossad.

  They didn’t need to.

  For Michael, his years in the secret world were a bad taste in the mouth compared to his prior military service. Five months ago he’d had a lifestyle volte-face, thrown in the towel of being a Mossad combatant, sold his apartment in Tel Aviv, and decided to kick bags of soap.

  Strikingly handsome, and with the face of a man ten years younger, the tall, athletic Israeli had blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. His looks caught the attention of the single ladies on the kibbutz. But at this point in his life, women didn’t particularly interest him. He’d stripped his life back to simple essentials, a monklike existence.

  There was one woman, though, who he allowed near to him. Her name was Joanna and she was a friend.

  Knowing he was about to break for lunch, she came to him now holding a copy of the Jerusalem Post. She was the only person he’d told about his life in espionage. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done so, though he’d felt it was important to have a confidante, and Joanna listened very well without judgment. One of the things he’d told her about was his last mission. It had taken him to Beirut, London, and the French city of Rennes, where he’d initially tried to kill an English spy before deciding to work with him. He’d given her the name of the spy. Today, that man’s image and name were headline news in many foreign newspapers. She handed the paper to Michael as he brushed dust off his blue overalls and shook his hair to rid it of more of the stuff.

  He read the front page carefully, betraying no signs of emotion. Joa
nna liked that about him. He seemed collected, thoughtful, and poised, though in what direction she couldn’t tell. But she worried that the paper would take him to a place that wouldn’t be good for him.

  Michael handed her the newspaper back and said, “I need to leave for a while.”

  Joanna placed her hand on his arm. “To do what?”

  He pointed at the picture of the man in the paper. “Will Cochrane saved my life. He’s a good man. Something’s not right about this. I need to try to help him.”

  The subterranean White House Situation Room was at capacity. The president was at the head of the rectangular wooden table. His chief of staff was by his side. Facing them were the secretary of state and other officials from the State Department. Philip Knox of the CIA was the only nonpolitician in the room.

  The senior CIA officer felt smug being in the seat of power. It was where he felt he belonged.

  The chief of staff said to Knox, “You called this meeting because of Will Cochrane. We want a damage assessment.”

  Knox raised his pen. “If there’s one employee we don’t want going rogue, it’s Will Cochrane. He’s cracked. So here’s the problem.” Knox smiled. “We made him this way.”

  The president asked, “A killer?”

  “Too highly trained.”

  The chief of staff added, “And with too many secrets in his head?”

  “Yes.” Ink from Knox’s pen dripped out on the sheet of paper in front of him. “The Brits trained him. We used him. And boy, did we use him.”

  The chief of staff said, “So what that he was a former special operative? All that means is that he’s going to be harder to take down.”

  “Take down?” Knox looked at the politician over his half-rim glasses. “And how do you expect police to take him down?”

  “If he’s compliant—shot in the leg; cuffs behind his back. If he wants trouble—shot in the head.”

  Knox nodded. “It won’t be that easy.”

  The chief of staff looked exasperated. “Police officers are trained for this.”

  “Not as well as Cochrane.”

  “He’s not bulletproof.”

  “No, he’s not.” Knox grinned. “He can be killed. But it’s a question of where and when.”

  The president interjected. “Now hold on a minute. Are you suggesting a shoot-to-kill policy? I can’t authorize that.”

  Knox lied. “I’m not suggesting that.”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  The CIA officer chose his words carefully. “I’m suggesting his capture be dealt with as delicately as possible. Excuse my language, Mr. President, but I don’t want the son of a bitch opening his mouth and telling people what we made him do. He could bring us all down. We used him. He did what we wanted him to do—no matter how tough or unpalatable. That has to be kept secret.”

  The chief of staff said, “Cochrane doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll open his mouth if he’s arrested.”

  Knox agreed, but said, “We can’t take that risk. Maybe Cochrane won’t say anything. But in a court of law, a defense lawyer will explain his background as a means to partially mitigate Cochrane’s actions.”

  “It will be a closed court hearing.”

  “But if even just five percent of his background is leaked, the press will be all over it.”

  The president asked, “So what are you suggesting?”

  No way was Knox going to share his solution. “There is nothing that can be done other than letting the NYPD do its job. But we have a serious vested interest in this case. Cochrane is a hero. The American public will think we let him down. They’d be right. We wring guys like him dry and toss them aside. What the public doesn’t understand is that our heroes are pawns. The executive is all that matters, right?”

  The president nodded. “I wouldn’t go on the record with that, but yes, damn right.”

  “The thing is, though, American citizens will argue that Cochrane signed up to protect ordinary folks, not just those at the top table. They’d say that a man of his incredible achievements should have been highly decorated, not thrown onto the scrap heap and left to go crazy. They’ll start pointing at other American heroes who we’ve treated badly. If we’re not careful, Cochrane’s case will be held up as a prime example of how we crap on our military, even Special Forces.”

  The president was deep in thought. To Knox, he said, “You have my authority to keep a very close eye on Cochrane’s case. What’s the best outcome?”

  Knox didn’t hesitate. “The best outcome for everyone in this room is that the police kill Cochrane. And all the world ever knows about him was that he was a cold-blooded murderer.”

  Chapter 7

  Phoebe and David were cross with Dickie Mountjoy. The old man was having one of his obstinate moods. They were in his apartment in London, having come downstairs after hearing him bashing, crashing, and cursing at the top of his voice. Though once a seasoned traveler, Dickie hadn’t ventured out of London for years and his out-of-date experience showed as he tried to remember what to pack in his suitcase.

  “Where are you going?” David asked for the sixth time in as many minutes.

  “I need more shirts.” The retiree went into his bedroom and returned with the garments, rolling them into tight tubes, which he then inserted into the case on the living room floor, alongside other rolled garments.

  “They’ll crease like that,” said Phoebe.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Dickie had his hands behind his back as he surveyed the contents of his bag. “I’ll iron them when I get there.”

  “You shouldn’t be traveling at your . . .” David glanced at Phoebe, nerves taking hold of him. “Your doctor said—”

  “My doctor isn’t my commanding officer. He’s an interfering busybody who needs a bit of life under his belt.”

  “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Phoebe placed an arm around Dickie’s back. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You don’t break routine, remember? This isn’t like you.”

  Dickie walked away from her and picked up his passport. “Routine’s for the barracks. But that’s not where soldiering begins and ends. Now and again, we have to go out and fight.”

  David was exasperated. “For you that was decades ago. Now . . . now you’re an . . .”

  “Old man?” Dickie tucked the passport into the inner pocket of his overcoat. “Maybe, but I’m not one of your corpses on a mortuary slab just yet. Still got blood pumping in me.”

  “Where are you going, Dickie?” Phoebe’s tone was now forthright.

  He looked at his neighbors, and for the briefest of moments his bottom lip trembled, before he coughed, straightened his back, and replied, “I’m going to help our boy Cochrane. And to do that I need to go the United States of America.”

  Demijohns of apple, gooseberry, and plum wine were carefully lifted by James Goldsmith out of the boiler room and placed on the kitchen table. James was still alone in his rural house outside of Edinburgh. Most likely Sarah would be home in a couple of days. That still seemed like such a long time to James. He knew his emotions were frayed because their financial situation was still so dire and he and Sarah were at the lowest ebb in their marriage. Right now the one person he wanted around was his beloved wife. To take his mind off matters, he was keeping busy doing anything. Outside, the hills were a fierce swirl of sleet, rain, and high winds. He’d tried to take his beagle, Tess, for a walk, but only managed to get a few hundred yards before muttering, “Fuck this shit,” and returning home. Even the ordinarily hardy Tess seemed grateful for the decision. Now she was in her basket next to a fire, watching her master remove air traps and corks and lower a hydrometer into the wine to test for alcohol content.

  “Wine’s not yet at the right strength, my girl,” he said to his dog as he noticed the flotation levels of the hydrometer. “A bit more sugar and another couple of months in a warm place will sort them out.”

  After completing the task and returni
ng the demijohns to the boiler room, he briefly considered catching up on the world’s news, though quickly discounted the notion. One of the joys of his new lifestyle was the recognition that what was happening elsewhere didn’t make a blind difference to his day-to-day life. He and Sarah had a TV, but they only used it to watch DVDs. In his capacity as a solicitor, he used the Web, but he was taking a few days off and the Web reminded him of work. It was the last thing he wanted to view right now. In any case, the only news he wanted was from his wife. Her job was their only way out of their debts, though he remained utterly conflicted on that option given it would mean leaving home. Still, he had to man up on that. He had to man up on a lot of things, he’d already decided.

  He called the garage to check up on the status of his crashed car. For now, he had the use of a car on loan, though only for a week. After that, goodness knew what he’d do. He was cut off here, miles from anyone. And he didn’t have the cash to buy another vehicle.

  He prepared himself a late breakfast of bacon, sausages, and beans. It was a bachelor treat, as Sarah liked him eating only healthy food because of his weak lungs. He wondered how he could occupy himself for the remaining twelve hours of waking time. He’d do a meal plan, he decided; something very special for Sarah for her return home. She deserved that after being away for so long, and because he had no idea how to dig his marriage out of the financial crap he and his wife had found themselves in.

  He tried calling her on his cell, but it went straight to voice mail. He sent her a text, but it went unanswered. It would just be good to have an idea when she would be home, if he could make her something special to eat without her throwing it in his face. He hadn’t called her at her hotel, because she’d left James strict instructions not to disturb her while she was trying to rescue their situation. But now he felt an overwhelming need to hear her voice, to tell her that he loved her, to say he couldn’t wait until she was home.

  He looked at Tess. “What do you think, my girl? Give her a call and risk her wrath?”