by Matthew Dunn
In the kitchenette, he sweated finely chopped onion, added herbs, and braised cubes of beef and kidneys. He added a pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon to the mix, then poured in a can of stout and a tin of tomatoes. After it had simmered for an hour, he prepared pastry in the way he’d seen his wife make it so many times, poured the meat and sauce into a casserole dish, and fitted the pastry on top as a lid.
Thirty to forty-five minutes in the oven would be long enough. When ready, he’d open a window so he could hear the sounds of New York City. He’d sit at the table while still wearing his suit, and imagine his wife eating with him.
He cracked open a second can of stout and poured it into a glass. “To us, my love. Our last adventure.” He raised the glass to his lips and took a swig. “Getting a few more aches and pains these days. Bloody old age.”
He sat in a chair and smiled. For some reason, he liked being here. Maybe it had gotten him out of his comfort zone. It was his last trip overseas, for sure, and Manhattan had unwittingly put a smile on the face of the grumpy bastard. For that, he was thankful.
Edna couldn’t have children. It didn’t diminish the love he had for her. And in recent years, Will Cochrane had become a sort of adult son he’d never had. It was nice for Dickie. Though nearly three decades older than Cochrane, they had a bond. And they got each other’s way of thinking.
It broke his heart to think of Cochrane now, so alone and in such awful circumstances. He wished he were younger and could have done more to help—maybe try to find Cochrane, tell him to lay low while he bullshitted the cops, anything. It was now all a fantasy, but he’d have done that back in the day.
The smell of his cooking wafted through the apartment and gave him the greatest pleasure.
Tomorrow he’d be flying back to London. He was looking forward to seeing Phoebe and David. He hated the idea of being alone in his London apartment.
Twenty more minutes until the pie was ready.
“Sod it, me dear. I’m putting me slippers on,” he declared with a smile on his face. He walked across the open-plan apartment to the bedroom area, and that’s when his heart gave out. He knew what was happening as he collapsed to the floor and crawled with all his might toward the bed. The pain was excruciating and increasing by the second. His breath was short. His mind was dizzy from lack of oxygen. But he kept his eyes on the photo of Edna by his bed. She was looking back at him, a gentle smile on her face.
He pulled himself onto the bed, a gargantuan effort and one he’d never be able to repeat. He couldn’t get to the phone. Even if he could call 911, he doubted it would make a difference.
He grabbed the flower on the bedside table and the photo of his wife, and drew his last breath.
Chapter 24
Dinner with Billy Koenig was a somber affair, and Faye Glass was pleased that the female officer in the Roanoke safe house kitchen wasn’t leaving them in peace. It gave her the opportunity to make small talk with the cop, rather than be alone with Billy and say something dumb like, “I hope Tom is okay.”
But she was in utter shock.
And that’s why the cop, a forty-year-old mother of two named Katherine, was staying with them in the room.
Billy didn’t touch his food. His eyes were glazed, and his legs swung back and forth under the table.
“Ma’am—perhaps Billy needs to go to bed?” said Katherine.
“Yes.” Faye felt she was in a dream as she tucked him into bed. She thought about telling him a story, or just talking to him. But she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t interested. There was absolutely nothing that could be done to offset the agonizing situation.
Faye made to leave, but Billy grabbed her wrist and blurted, “Why did Uncle Will kill Uncle Robert and Aunt Celia and steal Tom?”
Faye pulled his head to her chest and held him as she replied, “We don’t know. We just don’t know.”
Billy was shaking as he asked, “Is Tom going to be hurt?”
Faye rubbed his hair. “Uncle Will wouldn’t do that.” She didn’t know if she was right.
“Why did he take Tom and not me?”
That was a typical sibling question, thought Faye. Even in a situation as dreadful as this, the brother wonders why the other was more special. She told the truth. “He would have taken both of you if he could. It was only by luck that you and I were in Roanoke that evening.” She tried to control her emotions as she added, “I love you, Billy.”
In the kitchen, Katherine made her a coffee. “He needs you.”
The statement irritated Faye. “Of course he does.”
“More than you need yourself.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
The cop handed her the mug. “I know about what happened to your sister—the boys’ mother—a year ago. I also know from speaking to the twins’ school that you’ve been struggling.”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Struggling to look after them. So you handed the twins to your uncle and aunt.” Katherine knew her words would provoke anger. That was why she was here. As a qualified counselor and family liaison officer, her remit was to ascertain whether Faye was tough enough to look after herself and her dependents. The two other cops in the house were the protection detail. “Despite their age, they did a mighty fine job until they were killed.”
“I moved in with them to help them out.”
“You told me that was only because they asked you to.”
Faye bit off a sliver of nail. “I’m still grieving the loss of my sister.”
Katherine walked to her. “And it’s time for you to get over that and focus on the boys. Even if we get Tom back, I can’t recommend they stay somewhere they may be vulnerable because you’re a mess. Do you want them to go into foster care? Moved around from one family to the next? Changing schools every year? Is that what you want?”
Billy ran into the kitchen and hugged Faye with all his might, clinging on to her as if he’d fall to his death if he let go. “Please, Aunt Faye. Look after me. Don’t send me away!” His face was flushed, his sobbing uncontrollable.
As Faye held him while looking at Katherine, the moment seemed frozen in clarity. Something changed inside her. Grief for her sister faded. Everything in the here and now was urgent. What mattered was Tom and Billy. She realized that nothing else was as important.
And she finally felt in the bottom of her heart that she was ready to do this.
She held Billy close. “We’re going to stay here until they get your brother back. Then we’re going to move back into my home. I’m never letting you go. I’ll be strong for you all the time.” She kissed him on the forehead. “That okay with you?”
Billy looked at her imploring, “Yes, yes. Just get my brother home safe.”
Viktor Zhukov’s exit out of Lynchburg and drive north had been without incident. He entered the basement of the isolated farmhouse twenty-nine miles north of D.C.’s outer limits. The Russian nodded at the man and woman in the room before crouching in front of the hooded boy. Tom Koenig was sitting on a chair in the center of the room, a bare lightbulb hanging above his head. Zhukov lifted the black hood up a few inches so that his mouth was exposed. “How are you this evening, Tom?”
Tom peed his pants as he smelled garlic on the lisping lips of the man who’d grabbed him from under his bed.
“Are my friends giving you enough food and water?”
Tom shook. “Yes . . . please let me go.”
“Soon, soon.” Zhukov went to the other side of the room, where there was a table containing audio equipment. The digital recordings stored here had been very carefully crafted so that no background noise was present. In front of the equipment was a laminated sheet of paper containing typed notes of the recordings. He ran his finger down the list and found a sentence that suited his purpose.
He said in a clear voice, “Boss—we’re going to have to move the boy soon, and to do that we’re going to drug him again. But there’s always a risk with the dr
ugs that he doesn’t wake up. We don’t know if he has any medical conditions or allergies. Are you happy to take the risk?” Zhukov silently activated the play function on one of the recorders.
A man’s voice said, “I’ve got no problem with that, so just do what you need to.”
The man and the woman next to Tom had to hold down the boy as he tried to leap to his feet and run.
Zhukov said to his colleagues, “Chain him to his bed.” He went upstairs and made a call to Edward Carley. “Everything in Lynchburg happened as you said it would.”
Carley replied, “I’ve been monitoring events. The police have had zero success. In two days, I want you to leave the assignment in a prominent place.”
The assignment was Tom Koenig.
Chapter 25
In the Colonial Parking garage in Washington’s Friendship Heights district, I made a thorough examination of the contents of the car.
The sniper rifle was a Heckler & Koch model, though expertly customized. It had a larger magazine and scope than standard. Its stock had extra cushioning. Lumps of metal were molded onto parts of the weapon to ensure that its alterations didn’t change the weapon’s perfect balance. The gun was military spec, and the person who’d adapted it knew exactly what he was doing. That would make sense. Philip Knox wouldn’t use an amateur to kill me.
I’d earlier removed the dead man’s wallet. Inside was a bank card in the name of Simon Tap and three hundred dollars. That cash was now in my pocket. There was a cell phone in the glove compartment, only one number listed in the contacts, under “PK.” Philip Knox. And his number was the only one shown in sent and received calls and SMSs. I placed the phone and its charger in the jacket I’d stolen from the dead gunman. Though a different color, it was only a minor alteration to my appearance, but right now every little bit helped.
There was a camera on the passenger seat with a powerful zoom lens. Tap must have been using it to search for me. I guess he was going to kill me after arrest. Probably while I was being escorted to the police barricade in Lynchburg.
The last item that caught my attention was what looked like an oversized cell phone. It was plugged into the cigarette lighter in the dash. I examined it for several minutes. It was highly sophisticated equipment, the kind of thing that I’d used when I was a spy. The item intercepted the phone belonging to Detective Thyme Painter. This could only mean one thing. Painter was taking the lead in the manhunt to capture me, because interception of her phone would guarantee knowledge of the very latest police updates. Almost certainly, Knox had given the interceptor to his assassin.
The sniper rifle was of no use to me in an urban environment like D.C.—too cumbersome, impossible to conceal. In any case, I had more than enough firepower with the two detectives’ handguns and the silenced murder weapon. But I kept it in the vehicle anyway, in case I’d need of it elsewhere.
I placed my head on the steering wheel, feeling wretched and exhausted. So many times in my adult life I’d been in danger. But I had purpose then. Now I was reduced to being viewed as scum. And that was the point of all that was happening—not to kill me or get me locked up. Instead, to strip away everything that mattered to me. Everything, including my ability to care for the twins. I thought about poor Tom, barely able to imagine where the ten-year-old was being kept and what state he was in.
Things couldn’t be worse.
I lifted my head and stared at Washington, D.C. Tom had to be out there somewhere, I kept telling myself. Even though it was probable he was a thousand miles away from here. But if he was here, the odds of finding him were stacked against me. The city had a population of over 670,000; adding in commuters and tourists, the number was much higher.
The mental image of Tom stayed in my head. Feelings of self-pity vanished and were replaced by an energized focus and coldness.
Nothing was going to stop me from attempting to tear the city apart.
Edward Carley had no need to do anything further to the Englishman other than deal with Tom Koenig. He’d emptied Cochrane’s bank account after obtaining his card details in the Waldorf, had framed him for the murder of three civilians and six police officers, and had added kidnapping to the list of felonies.
Whether Cochrane was in D.C. or not, Tom Koenig would be dealt with tomorrow night.
He walked on the deck of his yacht in Montauk. In two weeks, he’d be sailing far away from America, his work complete. But he’d miss being in Long Island. It seemed such a civilized place.
Philip Knox would never ring Simon Tap to receive updates. The agreement they had in place was that only Tap could call, and that otherwise their communications had to be restricted to SMSs. From his office in Langley, the CIA officer weighed the phone in his hand. Cell phones were permitted in the building, but only if they were switched off and their batteries removed. Otherwise they could be hacked and used as a microphone receiver by hostile intelligence forces.
It wasn’t unusual for Tap to go silent for long periods of time when working. But things were moving fast. Cochrane had somehow gotten out of Lynchburg, despite the city becoming an armed fortress. Tap would have been there, trying to sight him from a distance so he could remove his head. Now Tap would be waiting for Painter or Kopański to reveal further information if Cochrane was seen elsewhere. Knox was getting impatient. Cochrane had to be killed and Knox needed to know Tap was on the case. He exited the building, walked across the parking lot, got into his car, and sent Tap an SMS asking for an update.
I was at the base of the Friendship Heights parking garage when Simon Tap’s phone beeped. A message from “PK” asking for updates. An idea came to me. It was possible the police wouldn’t take seriously my sighting of the three vehicles at the Granges’. And there was no way I could trace the vehicles. Knox could. I sent him an SMS with details of the plates, telling him not to ask why they might be relevant to tracking Cochrane.
Across the street was a convenience store. There were things in there that I needed. But there’d also be security cameras, so I couldn’t risk entering the place, even though I was wearing Tap’s shades. I supposed I’d have to find a smaller store that didn’t have CCTV. Even then, the risks were significant.
I spotted three teenagers loitering farther up the street. The kids eyed me suspiciously as I approached them. Perhaps they thought I was a pervert or undercover cop.
“Any of you want to earn some quick cash?” I asked in my Virginia accent.
They just glared at me
“It’s nothing weird. I just want to get some stuff from the convenience store over there.”
One of them asked, “Why don’t you go in there yourself?”
“Because I got a court order ordering me to stay away from D.C. Part of the terms of my divorce. My ex lives here. She thinks I’m a threat to her. The police agreed. Can’t have my face on camera if I enter the store. But I couldn’t avoid being in the city today because I got a job interview with a construction firm that’s headquartered here. The work is in another state. But to get it, I’ve got to be here. And there’s some stuff I need to neaten myself up.” I pulled out a wad of cash. “Here’s the deal—if I give you cash for the stuff I need, and you don’t run off with the cash, I’ll give you double if you bring the stuff back to me.”
The kids looked at each other.
The tallest of them said, “Okay, mister. Tell me what you need. But don’t ask for any booze or cigarettes. That store owner is a complete bitch. She won’t sell anything like that to someone my age.”
I gave him the cash and told him what I needed.
Twenty minutes later I was back in Tap’s vehicle. Cars were parked on either side of me, but both were empty. Out of the grocery bag, I withdrew a large bottle of water, a comb, and black hair dye. Soaking my head with water, I applied the dye, combing it through my beard and hair. I repeated the process three times. With the shades back in place, I looked different, though still recognizable to someone close up.
I would
have loved to have done this makeover in the privacy and comfort of a hotel room. But even one paid for in cash would be high risk. If I were the detectives chasing me, I’d have told D.C. PD to contact every hotel and motel in the city and alert them to any man remotely matching my age and stature who paid for his room in cash.
I took bread, ham, and water from the bag and consumed it all, before taking out the last item I’d purchased.
On the front page of the Washington Post was the headline wanted murderer will cochrane was a spy—interview with former colleague. There was a second headline about the latest police briefing on the case. I turned to the inner section containing a two-page spread of the interview. The paper declared that its meeting with a former Israeli Mossad officer had been initiated at his behest. The name used in the article was false, and the photo had his face in shadow. But within two minutes of reading the beginning of the article, I knew who the interviewee was.
Michael Stein.
A superb operative who’d once tried to kill me. Later, he’d allied with me to stop a major threat to the West.
I finished the article, confused. Stein had spoken glowingly about me, but his details of our work together were a complete fabrication. Maybe the reason why Stein had requested the interview was to say I was a good guy, the espionage activities being irrelevant. But Stein would have known that by now nobody would care if I’d been a saint in a previous existence. Too much death had taken place. I was now a mass murderer. I read the article again and stopped at the final section. The article read: