A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  “I wouldn’t accept your money.”

  “I know . . . I . . . Everything is all so last minute. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Not sure my husband would be happy when he gets home and finds your Tess staying with us.”

  James couldn’t stop his grief. “Sarah’s . . . Sarah’s . . . Mrs. McTavish—the police have just visited. My wife’s been murdered in America.”

  The woman’s demeanor instantly changed. “Oh, you poor, poor man.” She grabbed the dog lead. “You must come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “No, no. Thank . . . You’ll look after Tess?”

  Sympathy was all over Mrs. McTavish’s face, together with shock. “For as long as it takes, my dear. You need people around you right now. You can’t be on your own.”

  James nodded. “That’s why I need to get busy now.”

  “Come on in, Tess,” she said while pulling gently on the lead. Tess’s tail wagged as she picked up the scent of baking inside the cottage. To James, she said, “I genuinely don’t know what to say. Sarah seemed like a lovely lady. I’m so, so, very, very sorry. You have got to focus on helping the police find the killer.”

  “It won’t bring her back, though, will it? And she’s so far away right now.” He walked away, rubbing tears from his eyes, stumbling a bit.

  One hour later, he reached his home. Knowing his mind was weak, he told himself to just go through the motions and get ready. Performing tasks might distract him and strengthen his mind. He showered and shaved, put on the suit he always wore when he had the most important business to attend to in Edinburgh, picked up a pen and paper, and laughed as more tears ran down his face. For the briefest moment, out of habit, he’d been about to write Sarah a note saying that he was leaving. How absurd.

  He opened his attaché case, checked its contents, and ensured the back door was bolted on the inside. All was nearly ready for him to depart. But there was one more thing to be done. He collected a length of rope from the workshop, knotted and arranged it so that it was hanging from a large meat hook that was screwed into an oak beam in the kitchen ceiling, stood on a chair beneath the beam, placed the noose over his head, and said, “I’m coming to get you, Sarah my love.”

  He kicked the chair away and dropped.

  One minute later, he was dead.

  “I don’t need to get on that bloody contraption, I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.” Dickie Mountjoy was infuriated that his momentary ill health on the flight had been flagged to JFK airport staff. They were trying to insist that he be shuttled to baggage claim and immigration on a motorized cart.

  No doubt used to dealing with such difficult passengers in these types of situations, the American ground crew woman in front of him kept a fixed grin on her face. “Sir, look at it this way. Everyone else has to walk. We’re giving you VIP treatment.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re treating me like some damn invalid!”

  “The captain of your flight was worried about you.”

  “He should have been more worried about flying the plane. It was just a bit of heartburn. I get it all the time. All this fuss and bother is likely to give me even more indigestion if you keep this up.”

  “Mr. Mountjoy—I . . .”

  “I’m not getting on that thing! Have I made myself clear enough?”

  The woman knew she wasn’t going to win the argument. “Okay, sir. But if you need anything, you just approach a member of our staff. Deal?”

  “What?”

  “Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes, yes, whatever.”

  He straightened his back, ignored the pain in his legs from the cramped flight and old age, and marched toward the baggage claim area.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was standing by the airport’s taxi rank, ready to be taken to the apartment he’d secured for two days near Times Square.

  In Dickie’s London home, Phoebe was watering the major’s plants and adjusting the settings of his radiators due to colder weather hitting the city. David was with his girlfriend, watching her putter about the place while he sat on the sofa drinking a mug of tea.

  “Sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” the mortician asked Phoebe.

  “No. I’m nearly finished. I’ll come back tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s fine before he returns the day after.”

  “He should never have traveled that far at his age. And what on earth does he hope to achieve, anyway?” David blew over the lip of his mug. “Cochrane’s nowhere to be found, despite the fact it looks like half of America is searching for him. What’s Dickie going to do? Just turn up in New York and find him?”

  Phoebe turned to face David. “I’ve no idea. But you know what the major’s like when he gets an idea in his head.”

  “Yeah, he becomes a raving liability.”

  Phoebe laughed, though the sound wasn’t quite right. She patted a duster against a radiator, her expression now quizzical and her voice distant. “Will can’t have done what they say he’s done. That’s not him. It’s just not him.”

  David agreed. “Heard on the news this morning that today American police are going to reveal the identity of the victim. Maybe that’ll help Will. Somehow prove he’s innocent.”

  “How would that work?”

  David shrugged. “Dunno, really. Perhaps if she’s some criminal or something, police might realize another criminal killed her. Wanted her dead.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  David knew he wasn’t, but like Phoebe he was trying to come up with any reason why Will hadn’t gone insane. “What do you fancy for dinner tonight?” was all he could think to ask.

  Phoebe collected her watering can and other items. “Maybe a Chinese takeaway?”

  “I’ve got a better idea. How about I cook our favorite Szechuan chicken?”

  “Perfect. That sounds . . .” She felt herself getting teary. “Will never told us why he was going to New York.”

  “He said he’d tell us when he got back, remember? That he was making plans. He’s always been a bit secretive like that.”

  “Not with us.” She smoothed a finger against David’s face. “You know one of the things I love about you? You don’t do things like running around being a spy and then murdering people.”

  David could sense Phoebe’s emotions were high. “I’m not that normal. I’m a mortician.” He smiled, hoping his dark humor would lift Phoebe’s spirits. “Sometimes I have to cut up dead bodies to make them look pretty again.”

  “When you put it like that . . .” Her thoughts became distracted again. “I feel cross with Will. Why didn’t he hand himself in to the police and tell them he was innocent?”

  David stood and put his arms around her. “Either because he knew they wouldn’t believe him, or he’s guilty as sin.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “What?”

  Phoebe’s face was flushed, her head shaking, tears now visible. “The guilty thing. He can’t be guilty. Can’t!”

  Marty Fleet entered the U.S. Attorney General’s oak-paneled office, as ever wondering how it would feel to sit in the man’s chair. That possibility was at least a decade away, probably longer. By then one or two other AGs would have come and gone. Fleet didn’t begrudge that. He deeply admired his boss, a man who’d served his time in the trenches as a prosecuting and defense lawyer, as well as being a visiting professor of law at Harvard.

  Behind the hawkish-looking and bespectacled sixty-three-year-old AG were bookcases crammed with leather-bound volumes about U.S. law. On his huge oak desk was only one piece of paper. That was typical of the AG. He was the most uncluttered and unflustered man Fleet knew. Compared to Fleet’s desk in his adjacent office, which typically was strewn with piles of case files, the AG would meticulously deal with one matter at a time, and to do so he had the uncanny ability to summarize huge amounts of information onto a single bullet-pointed sheet of paper.

  Fleet sat opposite him.
“You heard what happened at the Granges’ place?”

  The AG looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “It escalates matters.”

  The AG knew his employee was angling for something. “Beyond authorizing technical interception, which we did earlier, it doesn’t escalate to my department.”

  “Even considering Will Cochrane’s background?”

  “His background has no relevance to what is a straightforward criminal matter, beyond informing certain law enforcement officials of the nature of the man they seek. It’s a manhunt conducted by police officers. Let them deal with it.”

  Fleet could see that he was wearing the AG’s patience down. “I have a thought that may be pertinent to our office.”

  The AG waited.

  “The U.S. government is constitutionally blameless for Cochrane’s crimes.”

  The AG laughed. “Of course it is. Cochrane’s the one who pulled the trigger. He will be caught, tried, and if, as seems certain, he’s found guilty, he will be severely punished. At the least, life imprisonment. More likely it will be capital punishment, since Virginia has the death penalty. He’s a cop killer now. If he’s convicted, I’m not going to ask for clemency.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do.”

  “Then what are you suggesting, Marty?”

  Fleet placed his fingertips together. “The first duty of government is to protect its citizens.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we have to protect everyone all the time, does it? Sometimes we tell our citizens to do things that will put them in danger.”

  The AG glanced at his watch. “You know full well the answer to that. There is nothing in the Constitution on this subject, though the precedents and assumptions have over time been accepted as sacrosanct. A soldier is sent to war by us, and we know he might be killed. A fireman is deployed into an inferno. A police officer is told to stop an armed robbery. And on and on it goes. But the accepted and correct presumption in all such cases is that those individuals know the risks and are directed to take action that will save numerous lives. Thus, the government’s first duty is upheld accordingly.”

  “But we’re missing something.” Fleet smiled. “Will Cochrane has made me think about this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Fleet answered, “I think Will Cochrane’s case requires us to make an amendment to the United States Constitution.”

  Chapter 19

  Lieutenant Pat Brody of the Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Public Information, faced cameras and journalists with recording devices in the Waldorf Astoria’s ground-floor Empire Room. He gripped the sides of the lectern hard enough for his knuckles to whiten, and read out verbatim the script supplied to him by Kopański over the telephone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. At the rear of the room are information packets containing more details on what I’m about to tell you, including precise locations, identities of most of the personalities involved, timings, and various other data, all of which you are at liberty to reveal to the public.

  “Yesterday evening there was a major incident approximately twenty miles outside of Roanoke, Virginia. Two uniformed police officers and two detectives from Roanoke were shot dead while protecting a rural home belonging to the married retired academics Robert and Celia Grange. Alongside their niece, the Granges were looking after their grandnephews—twin ten-year-old boys.

  “The identities of the twins and their aunt are not in the information packets, nor will I reveal their identities. If any of you ascertain their identities by other means and reveal their names, that will be deemed by the NYPD as a criminal offense, and charges will be brought against you.

  “After shooting the police officers, the killer went to the second floor and shot Robert Grange. When this happened, one of the twins was in Roanoke, dining with his aunt. But the other twin was sleeping in his room. In an attempt to protect the boy, Celia Grange put herself between him and the killer. She was murdered as a result.”

  The room was silent as Brody took a sip of water.

  “The boy was taken by the killer. There are no indications that he was injured enough to cause blood loss. The boy and the killer then vanished. There is a manhunt underway for both throughout the state of Virginia.”

  A journalist called out, “Why can’t you reveal the kidnapped boy’s name? If we release it, witnesses might come forward.”

  Brody answered, “The kidnapped boy’s twin brother is in protective custody. His identity must remain a secret. You guys might not deliberately do it, but if you print any details that give the kidnapper a hint of his whereabouts, we will have a major situation.”

  He continued his briefing.

  “Our prime suspect for the killings is a man who was attempting to legally adopt the boys. During the last few days, his circumstances changed drastically. The adoption became impossible, and he became desperate. He went to the house to snatch both, found only one of them there, but by then it was too late. He had already killed six people. He decided to take the boy who was there.

  “Forensic tests remain ongoing, but here’s what I can tell you. The murder weapon used to kill the above-mentioned victims was the same murder weapon used to kill the woman in the Waldorf earlier this week. I can now reveal the Waldorf victim’s identity. Her name was Sarah Goldsmith. Her family has been notified of her death.”

  The journalists frantically wrote in shorthand.

  “The boots worn by the murderer in Virginia are the same boots that were worn by the man who occupied room 1944 on the night of Mrs. Goldsmith’s murder.

  “That man was sighted by the aunt and niece upon their return home to the Granges’ property.

  “Will Cochrane is the man we seek. Sarah Goldsmith was his sister.”

  Questions were fired at him.

  Brody held up his hand. “I can’t add anything further at this stage beyond encouraging you to advise your readers and viewers to exercise absolute caution if they spot someone resembling Cochrane. He’s already proven that he is highly dangerous. Almost certainly, he’s mentally unstable. There are other reasons to do with his background, which we cannot go into, but please make it clear that nobody—repeat, nobody—must approach him. If anyone sees him, they should immediately inform the police. We’ll then send in a SWAT team to take him down.” Brody looked around and saw that the journalists were hanging on his every word. “Make no mistake—right now Will Cochrane is the most dangerous fugitive on U.S. soil.”

  Michael Stein drove his rental car along a glistening Virginia lake, the vista to his right undulating and steep with forests and outcrops of rock. In the distance he could see an isolated wooden house that sat partially on stilts above the shore, along with outhouses and what appeared to be a wire coop, possibly for livestock.

  He’d never been here before. A year ago, Will Cochrane had told him about the Russian man who lived here and the teenage daughter he cared for alone.

  Back then, Will’s instruction had been clear. “He’s a last resort if anything bad happens to me. If you’re able to, talk to him.” Aside from supplying him with details about the man, Will had said nothing more to Michael on the subject, no matter how hard the Mossad operative tried to pry out of him what he meant.

  He parked by the front door of the house, got out, and pulled a chain attached to an old-fashioned bell, having already decided that if the man wasn’t in he’d wait for him to show up.

  But the door opened. A man in his sixties with graying blond hair stood before him, wearing oilskin waders and a hemp sweater that made him look like a nineteenth-century whaler. His eyes gleamed with intelligence, though one of them drooped, and his smooth face had clearly been subject to reconstructive surgery.

  The Russian looked him over. “I suggest you might be Michael Stein, formerly of Israeli Intelligence.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because a year ago William Cochrane
told me that one day you might visit me. He described you. You match that appearance. Plus, I can smell an intelligence officer a mile away.”

  “But you were right that I’m a former intelligence officer.”

  “The stink never leaves us.”

  “A year ago I was still in service. He told you subsequently that I’d left?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “You have a look of contentment. It’s not an expression ever shared by serving operatives.”

  Michael had been warned by Cochrane to be very careful with the man who used to carry the code name Antaeus. Once he had been an opponent of Will Cochrane’s, a brilliant puppeteer spy and the most powerful intelligence officer in Russia’s foreign spy agency, SVR. Cochrane had tried to kill him by placing a bomb in the car Antaeus always drove in alone. Due to last-minute unforeseen circumstances, Antaeus had picked up his wife and daughter. He survived the explosion. They didn’t. Will was tormented by their deaths. Years later, when they had their last head-to-head confrontation and Will had outsmarted Antaeus, Will was able to offer the Russian spy some small recompense. Will had discovered that Antaeus had a daughter he didn’t know about from a pre-marriage fling with an American diplomat. When the mother accidentally killed her husband and ended up in life imprisonment for treason, Will had orchestrated events so that Antaeus could step in and act as father to his daughter, Crystal, providing he defected to America. The enticement had been sufficient to bring him here.

  Antaeus was no longer a participant in the secret world. Alongside parenthood and the peaceful existence he had in America, he flexed his vast intellect by producing groundbreaking theses on archaeological sites on the East Coast. The discipline suited him, because he was a man from another age, and not just in appearance. A gentleman who’d eschewed the crudeness of murder while fighting the West, he favored a calculated guile that would have made a chess master blush with envy.

  And that’s what made him so dangerous. He was always ten steps ahead of most people with comparable cognitive power to his own.