A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  I asked the former Mossad officer if he had anything further he wanted to say about his work with Cochrane. What he said next was something he insisted I share with readers of our newspaper. He said, “I will never forget what happened to Cochrane and me in Vienna. I had to give him something. But we both suspected we were being watched by hostiles. The thing I had on me had to get close to Washington, D.C., and Will Cochrane was the only person I could trust to take it there. I called him and said, ‘Let’s meet by the trains today at eleven.’ We had the briefest of contacts. That day, Vienna was dangerous and we were too down the line.”

  This was another experience that had never happened. But there was something here that was vital.

  I reread the last seven sentences. Words jumped out at me.

  Vienna.

  Give him something.

  Watched by hostiles.

  Close to Washington, D.C.

  Meet by the trains.

  Today at eleven.

  We had the briefest of contacts.

  Urgently, I pulled up the Web browser on Simon Tap’s smartphone and searched for a map of the D.C. Metro system. I expanded the map and moved it in different directions, desperately looking at the names of each station in the city and its surroundings. I stopped moving the screen when I saw the name of one station on the Orange Line.

  Vienna. In Fairfax County, Virginia.

  It would be 11 a.m. in ninety-three minutes. And I had to navigate traffic and cover twenty miles to get there. I turned the key in the ignition and drove as fast as I could out of the parking garage.

  Inside the headquarters of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department at 300 Indiana Avenue NW, the large auditorium was full, with commanders and high-ranking detectives from all of the force’s seven district divisions.

  On the way over here, Kopański and Painter had bickered about who should give the briefing, neither wanting to take the stand.

  Kopański had argued, “You know I’m not allowed to speak in public. I say the wrong thing, it goes in the press. Plus, half of my face scares people.”

  Painter had countered, “No press officers are going to be at the briefing. And half of your face is very handsome. Just turn sideways so they can only see that side.”

  Kopański didn’t buy that argument. “You went to Stanford University. Your vocabulary is better than mine. You’re articulate, eloquent, cogent, and even loquacious when the need arises.”

  “Your description of my vocabulary is proving that you’re just as adept.”

  “I don’t like being on a stage. It makes me grumpy.”

  “And I get stage fright, remember?”

  “No, you don’t. Being in front of that many people just reminds you how normal most folks are and what an oddball you are.”

  They’d continued bickering as they’d parked their vehicle, and barely paused for breath while they walked through the police headquarters. In the end, Kopański suggested flipping a coin. He lost the toss and warily took to the stage, notes in hand, a look on his face that suggested he’d pull out his gun and shoot anyone in the audience who ridiculed his performance. Painter took a seat in the wings, unfolding the Washington Post she’d picked up on the way over but had not yet read. Anger and intrigue seared through her as she saw the headline about Cochrane being a former spy. She read the interview.

  Without any greetings or other pleasantries, Kopański growled into the microphone, “The only lead we have is that there’s a possibility Cochrane’s on his way here or is already in the city. He claims he’s innocent of the kidnapping and has reason to believe Tom Koenig is being held captive in D.C. Even if there is only a one percent likelihood he’s telling the truth, we have to follow that up.”

  “Detective Kopański,” called out the commander of the third district, “he’s thrown you a red herring to focus your energies here. My energies, for that matter.”

  “Probably, yes.”

  “I can’t look you in the eye and tell you I’m going to dedicate four hundred of my officers to look for Cochrane and the boy. Cochrane will be holding the boy in a place as far away from here as possible.”

  Kopański knew he needed to tread carefully with such a senior officer. “Three possibilities: First, maybe Cochrane was just bullshitting his hostage in Lynchburg. Second, Cochrane’s innocent of the kidnapping and genuinely does have good reason to believe the boy’s been brought here. The third option is”—he paused and scanned the audience—“he kidnapped the boy, locked him up outside Lynchburg, brought him here after he escaped the city, and told us the boy was in your city because Cochrane wants this to end. He wants to be caught.”

  “Then why not get caught with the boy in Lynchburg?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t say it made sense. Very little of what Cochrane’s doing makes sense.”

  “Well, is there anything that you do know, Detective?”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Kopański. “I’m not standing on this fucking stage to be condescended to by you.”

  Only halfway through the article, Painter looked up, shaking her head and whispering, “Joe, Joe.” She knew that when her colleague got like this, he’d rather walk through walls than suffer fools.

  But Kopański couldn’t hear her. “I’m going to ask you this: What if there is a possibility the boy is here? And third district sits on its fucking ass while the boy gets closer to death?”

  The commander had never been spoken to this way.

  Kopański breathed deeply. “Cochrane was in Lynchburg. We know that for a fact. Virginia police were absolutely correct to throw every resource at Cochrane. I’m not asking you to do the same based on a long shot. All I’m asking for is your cooperation.”

  He spoke to the assembled officers for a further thirty minutes before walking offstage.

  “That could have gone better,” said Painter.

  “It could have gone worse. Head of third district’s lucky I didn’t strangle him.”

  As officers started filtering out of the auditorium, Painter opened the Michael Stein interview fully and placed it on the chair she’d been sitting on. “The cat’s out of the bag about Cochrane’s background. Can’t say I’m happy about that. Then again, maybe it doesn’t matter now. There’s something odd in the article. Look at the last few sentences.”

  Kopański scrutinized the final Stein quote.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “A coded message.”

  Painter limped onto the stage toward the lectern and microphone.

  The New Yorker spoke to the now half-empty auditorium. “Guys—before you go, does the name ‘Vienna’ mean anything in the context of Washington, D.C.?”

  One of the nearby officers replied, “Not the city, but just outside there’s a town called Vienna. It’s in Fairfax County, about fifteen miles from here.”

  Painter glanced at Kopański before speaking to the D.C. cop again. “Does it have a train station?”

  “It’s the last stop on the Orange Line Metro.”

  “Who’s the most senior person left in this room?”

  The approximately one hundred officers left in the room looked around.

  One of them raised his hand. “That’ll be me. Commander of fourth district.”

  “At eleven o’clock, Cochrane’s going to be at the Vienna Metro station. We can’t scare him off. Can you mobilize an undercover task force right now? It needs to put surveillance on the place without being seen, ready to do a takedown when he’s sighted.”

  The commander raced out of the room.

  Painter walked fast to Kopański. “We’ve got thirty minutes max.”

  I drove off I-66 and onto a ramp that led me to the parking lot on the station’s south side. I exited the vehicle, one of the detectives’ stolen handguns in my jacket, and used an elevated walkway to access the station. Only three people were on my side of the barriers. Beyond the barriers, I could see five people standing on the platform. Nobody looked like a
n undercover cop. I had no idea whether I should wait where I was standing, or enter the platform. It didn’t matter—the place was small enough for me to easily be seen.

  My shades on, I purchased a return ticket to Ballston, with no intention of using the ticket, and passed through the barrier to the platform.

  It was ten forty-five.

  Kopański was loudly cursing the traffic. He had attached the flashing light to the roof of his unmarked car, and he raced through every opening on the highway.

  Painter was on her cell to the chief of the Fairfax County Police Department. “If we’ve read this correctly, Cochrane’s going to be at the Vienna Metro at eleven o’clock this morning. D.C. has deployed forty undercover firearms and surveillance specialists. They’re ahead of us and should be there any minute.”

  The chief said, “I should have been consulted. They need authorization before they can operate in Fairfax.”

  Painter didn’t have time for this. “I’m consulting you now. And if you have a problem with it, ring the attorney general and get his take on the chain of command in this situation.”

  The chief said nothing.

  Painter continued, “But I need your help. Can you put squad cars in a perimeter five hundred yards away from the station? They’ve got to be out of sight. Their role is twofold: First, if Cochrane gets away on foot or driving, he runs into your guys. You’ve got to make that perimeter watertight. Second, if there’s a gunfight in the station, they move in to assist.”

  The fact that his officers were going to be so crucial to the takedown fully placated the chief. “You got it. But what happens if he takes a train out of Vienna?”

  “He can’t. The last train into the station will arrive at eleven. We’ve arranged for it to terminate there, and trains for the next hour have been canceled.” Painter hung up. “Can’t you move any quicker?”

  Grinding to a halt while beeping his horn to get two cars to move out of his way, Kopański replied, “I could if I had a missile launcher to clear a path.”

  To his relief, the traffic became much lighter. He put his foot to the floor and sped along route 66.

  It was five minutes to eleven.

  I watched a train pull in. Nobody got off; everyone on the platform except me got on the train. I walked along the platform, hands in my pockets, one of them gripping my pistol. The possibility that this was a trap hadn’t escaped me, but I thought it was unlikely. Even if he thought I was guilty of the alleged crimes, no way would Michael Stein agree to set me up.

  After our brief allegiance in the secret world, we’d shared a coffee together and spoke about our personal aspirations for the future. There’d been something about Stein that made me open up more than I ordinarily would. Most likely it was because Stein had said that the best spies are never loyal to the organizations they work for. Instead they’re loyal to those who help them. He said that he would help me if ever I were in trouble. And he asked if there was anyone else I could trust. That’s when I told him about Antaeus.

  Stein’s appearance in the newspaper had Antaeus’s hand all over it.

  I saw another train approaching.

  Painter and Kopański were entering the town of Vienna.

  Painter shut her cell after speaking to the head of the undercover task force. “Squad cars have their perimeter. If we want to, we can shut down every street and road in and out of the zone. They’ve got uniformed officers on foot too, in case Cochrane bolts without a vehicle. In the zone, the undercover unit is in place, watching the station. If he’s in there, this won’t be another Lynchburg fuck-up. There’s no way out for him this time.” She asked, “Do you want to be the one who goes in there? You owe Cochrane a visit after he put you on your ass on the Amtrak.”

  Kopański would dearly have loved to be the officer who went into the station to get a visual on the Englishman. But he said, “No. I stand out too much.”

  As they drove past a stationary Fairfax County squad car that had been partially concealed between trees, he glanced at Painter and said, “I just want you to be very careful. No heroics. Promise me that?”

  For a moment, she was unsure how to respond to the tough detective’s genuine concern. Quietly she responded, “Sure, Joe. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  The train pulled into the station and three people alighted, one male, the others female. The male was over a hundred yards away from me.

  I removed my shades and checked the time on my cell.

  It was precisely 11 a.m.

  Kopański parked his vehicle as close as he dared to the Metro station. “You sure the radio mic is working fine?”

  Painter had fitted the device under her blouse in the car and had tested it several times. It had excellent connection to the radios of the D.C. undercover unit and the commander in charge of the Fairfax County troopers. “It’s working.”

  She opened the car door, put one foot on the ground, and stopped as Kopański grabbed her arm.

  “How close do you think you’ll need to get to him to make a positive ID?”

  She answered, “No idea. Depends what he’s wearing.”

  With urgency, he said, “Just don’t get too close.”

  “You care about my safety, Joe?” Her tone was jesting.

  But Kopański wasn’t seeing the funny side. “If he recognizes you, you’ll be dead before you can do anything about it. Not too close.”

  Painter approached the station entrance. Earpiece in place, she spoke into her body mic. “This is Detective Painter. I’m approaching Vienna. Stand by. I’m now entering the station.”

  She hadn’t felt this tense since her Night Stalker helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan.

  I stood still as the solitary male passenger walked along the platform toward me.

  All he was carrying was a satchel. He was tall, athletic, mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a jacket. He wasn’t looking at me as he drew closer.

  Painter stopped in the ticket hall of the small complex. A male and female in their twenties were buying tickets from a machine while laughing; the male was too short and the wrong age to be Cochrane. An elderly black woman was berating a staff member, telling him the subway prices were way too high. A father was bent over, wagging his finger at his naughty son. And a mother was negotiating her way through the ticket barrier, clutching shopping bags and pushing a pram.

  Aside from getting on a train, the ticket hall was the only way out of here.

  She purchased a ticket and walked toward the barriers.

  The passenger was now fifteen yards away from me, his face easily visible. I stared at him. The man didn’t make eye contact.

  Other people in this situation would be desperate to look around to see if they were being observed by others. But that’s not how this worked. The man coming toward me controlled the ground. He’d know if something was wrong. I had to put my complete faith in him. And if he walked past me and did nothing, that meant the shit was about to hit the fan.

  Painter whispered, “Nothing in the ticket lobby. Going through the barriers.”

  In her earpiece she could hear the D.C. and Fairfax County commanders acknowledge her update and start issuing further orders to their men. The undercover unit was poised to storm the station on foot.

  She placed her ticket in the barrier, it swung open, and she walked through.

  The passenger was three feet in front of me, his satchel in his right hand. Still, he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he appeared to be staring at the ticket barriers forty yards behind me. There was a look of contentment on his face, as if he were looking forward to getting home.

  Two feet.

  One foot.

  When he was directly alongside me, he quickly looked at my face. I glanced at him without moving my head. It was the man I’d worked with a year ago. Michael Stein. He gave me his satchel and continued walking.

  I would have loved to have spoken to him.

  But antisurveillance brush contacts don’t allow for any kind
of behavior that might show hostile observers that two agents know each other.

  All Stein could do was keep walking.

  I stayed still, my back to the barriers, waiting until I was confident that Stein had exited the complex.

  “I’ve got one man on the platform. His back’s to me. Approximately forty yards away.”

  “That’s close enough,” barked Kopański in Painter’s earpiece.

  She’d never heard him so concerned for her safety. Her handbag was in front of her, and she moved her hand inside it as if she were rummaging for a mislaid ticket. In truth she was gripping her sidearm.

  The man turned.

  She bowed her head, pretending to look in the bag.

  Would all his expert training instantly tell him she was pretending to be something she wasn’t?

  She didn’t dare speak into her radio mic. He was too close.

  Her stomach flipping, hand ready to pull out her gun and fire, she looked up.

  The man was not Will Cochrane.

  A thought suddenly occurred to her as she recalled the last sentence in the Washington Post article. Not caring about maintaining her cover, she urgently said into her mic, “Whatever station is two stops away from here, we need to get there now.”

  I walked out of the West Falls Church Metro station and entered my vehicle. The parking lot was half empty and I couldn’t see anyone else.

  Everything had gone according to plan. Inserting the coded message inside the Washington Post interview had been a hell of a long shot, because the chances of my not reading the article were significant.

  The final sentences of the article were a code telling me that Stein wanted to meet with me and give me something. But the meeting place wasn’t the Vienna Metro. It was in a place denoted by the final sentence of the article.