by Matthew Dunn
The man tried to kick his legs and move his arms, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Who sent you?”
“Fuck . . . fuck you!”
“Wrong thing to say.” My face was inches from his. “Talk, or you know how this will end. Was it you who framed me for murder?”
He tried to shake his head, but the action caused him to choke. “Not . . . not talking.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“No idea. I’ve had nothing to do with any of that.”
“Liar!”
“You can . . . torture me all you like. Kill me. But I can’t tell you something I don’t know.”
“I’ll let you live if you tell me who you’re working for.”
Silence.
“You’d die for your employer?”
He looked hesitant.
“Fair enough. Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait! Wait.”
“I’m listening.”
“Philip . . . Philip Knox. CIA.”
I frowned. “The CIA framed me for murder?”
“No. It just wants your mouth permanently shut. Doesn’t want you arrested and revealing any embarrassing secrets you know, in exchange for a plea bargain.”
“The Agency wouldn’t authorize my death on U.S. soil.”
“This was Knox’s idea. No one else knows about my work for him. That’s everything, I swear.”
I’d met Knox twice while working for the Agency. He was a piece of shit. What I was hearing now was precisely the type of thing Knox was capable of.
“That’s everything,” the man said. “You can take my gun. My car, even. I’m not going to come after you.”
“I will take your gun and car. And no, you most certainly won’t be coming after me again.”
A moment ago this man wanted me dead. Well, good things come to those who wait. I clutched his throat and squeezed hard until his legs stopped thrashing.
Kopański was walking, feeling stupid for following his hunch to search the northern area of the perimeter and beyond. Captain Richards was right—Cochrane was so desperate that he’d gone in the only direction available to him. He’d be caught or killed very shortly, and Kopański would have no satisfaction in that because he’d gone off on a wild goose chase in the wrong direction. He reached a T-junction on a quiet side street in a residential suburb. All was quiet, streetlamps the only source of light in an otherwise black night.
Three hundred yards to his left, he saw a car’s reverse lights and heard the sound of its engine being gunned. The reverse lights turned off. It was impossible to make out the license plate or the car model, but as it sped off, he knew in his heart that it was Cochrane.
Two hours later I was by the side of a pond in the center of Monongahela National Forest. Everywhere around me was deserted. I took off the dead assassin’s clothes and set to work. It wasn’t pleasant. Removing the dental work, eyes, and fingerprints never is. And getting the air and buoyancy out of a corpse requires a strong stomach to inflict massive puncture wounds. The hunting knife I’d found in the car enabled me to cut open the chest, throat, and gut. I hated doing so. My only solace was that he’d have done the same to me. I placed rocks in his chest cavity, mouth, and stomach. After stripping, I swam, towing the corpse, to the center of the pond. I let it sink, then returned to the shore.
It wasn’t a perfect removal of a body. That would have involved a furnace or hungry pigs. But I doubted he’d be found for days. By then, I would be in Washington.
I was certain that was where everything was going to end.
Part Three
The Justice
Chapter 22
Thyme Painter was on her cell, receiving updates from Kopański. She ended the call with “I’ll be leaving here in about an hour. Meet you in D.C.”
She walked into one of the central Manhattan precinct’s interview rooms. The room was warm, but the man was wearing a Royal Navy woolen overcoat over his immaculate suit. She sat opposite him and apologized for being late.
“Apologies are for quitters. Are you a quitter, missy?” the man said in his precise but gruff English voice.
“No, and I’m not a missy.”
“Missus, then.”
“I’m not one of those, either, Mr. Mountjoy—you can call me Detective Painter.”
“And you can call me major. What you limping for?”
“People don’t usually come straight out with that question.”
Dickie shrugged. “Life’s too short to pussyfoot around.”
Painter resisted a smile. “I got blown up in Afghanistan. I have an artificial leg as a result.”
“You were out there being some charity do-gooder?”
“No, I was in the army on active combat service.”
Dickie huffed. “Women in the army. What is the world coming to?” Though secretly, he now had respect for Painter. “What unit were you in?”
“I flew helicopters.”
“Heaven forbid—one of those types.”
“Yes, and I also held the rank of major.” She placed a pen and paper in front of her. “You said you had important evidence relating to my manhunt for Will Cochrane. It’s taken me hours to get here just to hear what comes out of your mouth. I’m hoping I haven’t wasted my time.”
“And I flew all the way from London just to be here.” He straightened his tie. “While I was waiting, your colleagues told me something was happening in Lynchburg. Have you arrested him?”
“He hid until it was dark in a woman’s house while holding her at gunpoint. She said she’d called us right after he left her house, but we know she’s lying. She waited several minutes, probably longer, before making the call.”
“How do you know she was lying?”
“Because by the time she called, he was a mile south of her house and had killed two police officers.”
“Killed?” Dickie was shocked. “You’re sure?”
Painter nodded. “He left the murder weapon at the scene. Probably it was of no further use to him because it was out of ammunition. As we speak, more tests are being done on it, but we already know for a fact it’s the same gun he used in New York and in the massacre outside Roanoke. He’ll get the death sentence.”
“You’ve got him, then?”
“No. He escaped.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“Every inch of Lynchburg is being searched. We had a solid perimeter around the area where he was spotted, and we can’t figure out how he got out. But we’ll find him.”
“And if you don’t?”
Painter didn’t tell the old man what Cochrane’s hostage had said about Tom Koenig probably being in Washington D.C. “Tell me about the information you have.”
Dickie cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “Probably it might all sound a bit daft.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look—I can’t prove to you Cochrane didn’t kill all these people. I can’t say he was in a different place at the time. In fact, I’ve got no evidence that he’s innocent.”
Painter rolled her eyes. “My time is valuable. I’ve come all this way just—”
“Steady, missy.” He raised a hand and said in a soothing tone, “It’s all right. I’m not wasting your time.”
She was silent.
“Mr. Cochrane lives three floors above me in London. He moved in four years ago and I’ve known him ever since. For a while, I didn’t know what he did for a living. But then there were events that brought that information to light.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen no mention of it in the press, but do you know his background?”
“Yes. I’m keeping his profile out of the media. He was a covert operative, joint with the UK and U.S.”
“Correct, but do you know much about what he did?”
“Actually, no.”
“You know nothing about the time he prevented three thousand child musicians and the wives of premiers from the States, Europe, and the
Middle East from being blown up at a New York concert?”
Painter shook her head.
“How he averted war between Russia and America? Stopped the U.S. from unwittingly conducting a biological attack on China and killing millions of civilians? Prevented the assassination of the Russian foreign minister that would have been blamed on your president? And solved a mystery that enabled the United Nations Security Council to persuade Israel not to invade Lebanon to obliterate Hamas? You know none of that?”
“I don’t.” The detective wasn’t writing any of this down, but she was listening attentively. “How do you know this?”
“Rest assured he didn’t come to me and brag about it all. He’s not that type. Quiet man. Private. Modest. No, I know about it because three years ago his reputation was wrongly challenged because an operation he was involved in went wrong. Mind you, that was nothing compared to the shit he’s in now. In a closed court, I had to provide a character testimonial of him. Beforehand, they made me sign all sorts of documents saying I wouldn’t reveal anything I heard about him in court. The missions I just mentioned were revealed by senior members of MI6. Suppose I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I got to thinking I had nothing to lose.”
Painter felt sorry for the old man as she said, “Mr. Mountjoy—none of this changes anything. Actually, it reinforces in my mind that Will Cochrane was pushed to the breaking point. We think trauma has driven him over the edge. From what you’ve just told me, I’m amazed he didn’t snap a long time ago.”
“But . . . but he always does the right thing.”
“Not anymore, and you must accept that, sir.”
“We both hold the rank of major. It’s inappropriate for you to call me ‘sir.’” Dickie was trying to use humor to offset the rising emotion inside him.
“Cochrane served the West with distinction. But none of that exonerates him for what he’s done. Nor does it cast any doubt on his guilt.”
“That’s not why I came here.” Dickie’s eyes were getting watery.
“Then why?” asked Painter in a sympathetic tone.
“Because . . . because.” Dickie’s thoughts were a mess. He tried to hold himself together. “He’s a right decent gentleman. I know him. He’s got his hard side; men like us always do. But he always does the right stuff. Helps me out. Helps Phoebe and David out.”
“Who . . . ?”
But Dickie was blurting and unstoppable. “Makes me dinner when my club’s shut. Plays chess with me just to keep me company. Sorted out some DIY in my home that my old bones weren’t up to. Got me a VIP ticket to watch the Trooping of the Color. Every Christmas buys me a bottle of Bailey’s because”—he laughed, though tears were evident—“he knows I hate the stuff and it annoys the bejesus out of me. And”—he bowed his head—“he takes me for walks in Green Park and talks to me just to keep me distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“I miss my wife.”
“Oh.”
There were times when Painter truly loathed aspects of her work. The worst was when she had to present hard facts to people suffering grief. Now was one of those moments. “Major Mountjoy—the character of the man you’ve described belongs to a loyal friend. Hold on to that thought. That is the Will Cochrane you know. He should always be that person to you. The Will Cochrane I’m after is not that man. Separate the two.”
“It can’t be like that, though. He wouldn’t do these things. Just wouldn’t.”
“Mr. Mountjoy . . .”
The major placed a hand over Painter’s. The lack of formality surprised her, and under other circumstances she would have removed his hand. Now, she let it rest over hers.
He said, “I know him. That’s what I wanted you to hear. My statement on his character. He’s a good man. I wanted to look you in the eye and hear this from me. And I’ve no reason to lie to you.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“And it’s the last thing I can do to say thank you to him for everything he’s done for me, Phoebe, and David. You see”—he patted her hand gently—“I’ve got a heart condition. Too old for a bypass operation. I suppose I shouldn’t have flown, but had to take the risk. I’m dying, Detective Painter. Don’t exactly know when it will happen, but I’ve been warned it’ll be any day. So what I’ve just given you is a dying man’s statement.”
Chapter 23
Though he had a backlog of work that had piled up while he’d been conducting his research for the Supreme Court meeting, Marty Fleet wasn’t in the mood to stay a moment longer in his office.
His fast-track career had had significant successes, but, like everyone else in the AG’s office, he’d also had his share of failures. They came with the territory, and he’d always had the ability to shrug them off and move on to the next project. But the outcome of the Supreme Court meeting hit him hard. Unable to shake the disappointment, he decided that he’d take tonight and tomorrow off and spend a little quality time with his sister.
He entered his luxury apartment in Chevy Chase and saw that his health aide was spoon-feeding Penny.
“I’ll take over. You take the rest of the evening off,” he said to the aide. When she was gone, he kissed Penny on the cheek and gave her more pureed food. “Not my best day at work. The chief justice and her justices didn’t buy my constitutional angle.”
Penny murmured something.
“I know. What makes it so damn hard is that these operatives’ minds are being broken all the time; and when we’re done with them, they’re just left in the gutter. I feel I’ve let them down.”
Penny murmured something else that Marty partially understood.
He brushed his hand against her cheek. “That’s kind of you, sis. Yeah, at least I never let you down. I got that right.”
The knock on the door of the Dupont Circle hotel room came at precisely the time Michael Stein had been expecting two visitors. He opened the door and ushered in the investigative journalists from the Washington Post. One of them was the interviewer, the other a photographer. With the door closed and locked, Michael pointed to an area of the room containing two armchairs and a straight-backed office chair.
Michael sat in the latter and said, “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“You calling me and saying Will Cochrane was a spy got me interested.” The interviewer smiled. “The fact that you said you’d worked with him and would go on record got me sniffing a scoop.”
“I’m not going to give you my real name.” Stein glanced at the photographer. “And my face will have to be blacked out or in shadow. After this is done, I need to get out of America without being stopped at the airport.” And the airport he departed from and his route to Israel would be unusual, in case American authorities decided to stop any Israeli man heading home from a major airport who might look like a former Mossad combatant.
The interviewer weighed up options. “I’ve got no problem hiding your face. If anything, it’ll add to the intrigue.” Before he started the interview, there was one key thing the journalist had to ascertain. “Credibility of sources is paramount in our business. How can we be sure you’re ex-Mossad and not some Walter Mitty character?”
Michael knew that was the first question he’d be asked. “Intelligence officers don’t carry badges or licenses to kill or any other documentation saying who we are. And even if we did, I’d have been forced to hand those documents back when leaving the service.”
“We get that. Look—I’ve interviewed guys from the CIA, NSA, and others. I’ve hung around with enough of them to know if they’re the real deal. Maybe start by telling us a bit more about yourself.”
Michael spoke for fifteen minutes about his time in Israeli special forces and Mossad, sanitizing sensitive details, but supplying sufficient information and using vocabulary that only a real spy would know.
He asked, “Satisfied?”
The interviewer grinned. “Absolutely. Okay, we’re going to get the tape rolling. While you and I are tal
king, Brian will be moving around you, taking shots. Don’t worry—he’ll be editing the photos. If he accidentally captures your face, that shot will be deleted.”
“It had better be.” The way Michael said that momentarily unsettled the journalists. “When will you be going to print?”
“This’ll be in tomorrow’s edition, and I’m hoping it gets front-page mention as well as a two-page spread.” He activated his recorder. “Ready?”
Michael nodded.
“Okay. Let’s start with you giving us an introduction about your background—exactly the way you gave it earlier. Then we’ll go into the meat of the interview about your work with Cochrane a year ago.”
Two hours later the interview was complete.
The interviewer said, “That’s everything I need, unless you’ve got anything to add.”
Michael did, and it was the entire reason why he’d requested the interview. But first, he asked, “I suppose you might have to cut out bits of what I’ve said.”
The interviewer replied, “I’m hoping not too much, but there will be a word count limit in the feature. Rest assured, all the good stuff will stay in.”
“And you guarantee this will be in tomorrow’s edition?”
The journalist beamed. “You kidding? This is gold dust. My editor’s going to grab this by the balls.”
This was superb. Michael said, “There’s one more thing I’d like to say, but I have to be certain you will assure me it will make the print article.”
The interviewer frowned. “I can’t guarantee . . .”
“You have to assure me!”
The interviewer felt clammy as he looked at the tall assassin. “If it’s brief, I guarantee you it will make the final edit.”
Michael spoke for thirty seconds, clasped his hands and said, “And that’s everything I have to say.”
Though he was tired, when Dickie returned to his apartment near Times Square, he was determined to make his wife’s steak and ale pie. It would mean he wouldn’t be eating the dish for a couple of hours, but that didn’t matter. What did was that he imagined his dear Edna here with him, both of them chuckling at the absurdity of such old-fashioned English types being ensconced in the neon glow of Manhattan. She was a carefully spoken and prim lady, but Dickie knew that if she were here with him she’d have become entranced with the dynamism of the city. Edna would have broken out of her proper ways and become like a giggling girl who’d been told she could buy what she wanted in the world’s greatest toy store. He would have loved to have seen that transformation.