A Soldier's Revenge

by Matthew Dunn

  “He paid you to do all this, yes?”

  Zhukov nodded.

  “In which case, don’t let me kill you for the sake of money you can’t spend.”

  Resignation was in Zhukov’s eyes. “Edward . . .”

  “Edward who?”

  “You won’t kill me?”

  “All I want is his name and my freedom!”

  Zhukov wiped blood from his lips. “Edward Carley. You know who he is.”

  I did. He was the brother of Jack Carley—three years ago I’d exposed him as a high-ranking CIA traitor working for Russia. Six months after beginning his life sentence in a maximum-security American prison, Jack Carley had killed himself. His brother was a powerful businessman and former surgeon. He’d testified at the inquest, saying that he held the intelligence officer who’d exposed Jack as responsible for his death.

  Edward Carley had somehow identified me as that person.

  He’d waited three years for his revenge.

  And this was his dish served cold.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  Zhukov didn’t answer.

  I shot him in the leg. “Where is he?”

  Zhukov was sobbing. “Stop. Please . . . stop.”

  I stared at him.

  “He’s . . .” Zhukov had blood all around him.

  “Yes?”

  “Montauk Yacht Club, Long Island. Luxury cruiser. He will leave in two weeks. Don’t know where he’s headed, but it will be away from the States.”

  There was one last thing I needed to know. “With your help, Carley made my life miserable. Worse than that, you kidnapped Tom Koenig. When were you going to kill him? Tonight? Tomorrow? Dump his body in a prominent place in D.C.? The final nail in my coffin?”

  Zhukov shook his head. “No. You got that wrong.”

  “I doubt that.”

  The Russian’s body was shaking. “My orders were to take him into the heart of the city tonight, and let him go unharmed.”

  “Liar!”

  Zhukov said, “I’ll tell the police everything. I swear.”

  “If you do, cops will arrest Carley. I don’t want that to happen. More likely you won’t tell them the truth.” Zukhov moaned in agony. “That said, I did promise you that if you gave me your boss’s name, I’d walk out of here. I don’t break promises. But that is all I promised you.”

  I shot Zhukov twice in the brain and walked out of the house.

  Chapter 28

  Tom was nowhere to be seen.

  Urgently, I sprinted around the house, scouring its surroundings for the boy in his red pajamas. Nothing. No doubt the sound of gunfire in the house had scared him away.

  Where would he have gone?

  The road leading away from the house.

  I ran as fast as my exhausted legs could move, covering half a mile before I saw Tom in the center of the road. The ten-year-old’s arms were flapping as he ran over gravel and stone that must be punishing the bare soles of his feet. The poor boy had simply had enough. And in his eyes, Uncle Will was a murderer.

  I caught up with him and lifted him by the waist.

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  I held firm, fixing him into a fireman’s carry and brushing debris off his feet. “We’re going to the police now. You can tell them what the Russian man did to you.” I walked quickly to my car. “And I’m going to tell them what he did to me.”

  Though I’d make no mention of Carley.

  Placing Tom in the front passenger seat of his car, I said, “You’re a witness to the fact that I didn’t kidnap you. That doesn’t automatically prove I’m innocent of the other crimes they think I committed. But it will give the police a huge starting point and motivation to look at things differently. They’ll investigate the house you were kept in.” I drove the car onto the road. “But meeting the police isn’t going to be straightforward. We’ve got to do this carefully.”

  Tom was silent, hugging himself. No doubt he was desperate to be reunited with his brother and for the nightmare to end.

  We were soon back on the main road. I was driving south toward D.C., searching for a place in the surrounding countryside that suited my purposes. I turned the car off the road and stopped. I looked at the number stored in the communications intercept device Tap had been carrying.

  Using one of the cell phones I’d taken from the house, I called the number.

  A woman answered.

  I said, “Detective Painter. My name is Will Cochrane. I’m innocent of the crimes you believe I’ve committed. I have Tom Koenig. I want to give him to you and hand myself in. But I know that emotions are running high. I don’t expect you to come completely alone, but I also don’t want to meet you backed up by half of D.C. law enforcement. One of them might put a bullet in my head. We have Tom’s safety to consider if bullets start flying. Only you and Joe Kopański must come. I mean you no harm. I just want this matter dealt with calmly. Drive north on route 124. I’ll call you from another cell with further instructions.”

  She asked, “How did you get my number?”

  I hung up. I removed the battery from the cell so that any attempts to trace its location would fail, and tossed it out of the car window. I looked at the intercept device and waited.

  Painter and Kopański were rushing to their car in the basement of police headquarters in Washington.

  Painter was on the phone to the city’s chief of police. “Maybe Cochrane’s finally had enough. But this could also be a trap. I need a SWAT team, a hostage negotiator, a medical unit, and an undercover firearms unit.”

  Within ten minutes, the basement parking lot was a hive of activity, SWAT officers climbing into two black trucks and thirty plainclothes detectives and three paramedics entering their vehicles.

  Painter fixed her police radio in place and spoke into her throat mic. “Okay. Joe and I will take point. Everyone stay right on our asses.”

  She called the chief of police, updated him about their status, and concluded, “We’re ready to go. I’ll keep you posted.”

  The convoy exited the parking lot.

  I heard the calls Painter had made. I waited fifteen minutes and used another cell to call her. “Detective Painter. I wanted to do this calmly. No drama. You’d do well to assume I’m watching you. Lose the SWAT, detectives, and medical units. Only you and Kopański. Otherwise we don’t have a deal.”

  As they were driving at speed through the northern zone of D.C., Painter looked around urgently. At her side Joe expertly navigated his way through heavy traffic.

  In her radio mic, she said, “Cochrane says he’s watching us. He must be on our tail. I want three unmarked cars to drop back by five hundred yards. He must be between that point and us. Work that gap.”

  Three police cars at the rear of the convoy did as they were instructed, slowing down until they were five hundred yards behind. They took turns driving closer to the convoy, scrutinizing each car in the gap, before dropping back again.

  I called Painter. “Whatever you think I’ve done, I’m not a cop killer. I won’t lay a finger on you or Kopański. But you need to make a decision—do this my way, or maintain the heavy-handed approach. If it’s the latter, you won’t see me.”

  Painter felt utterly conflicted as she asked Kopański, “What do you think?”

  Like his colleague, Kopański wasn’t sure. “He could be playing with us. He’s assumed we’ll bring backup. Or he’s not playing with us. Maybe let the undercover boys behind us see if they can flush him out.”

  “And if they can’t?”

  Kopański glanced at Painter. “If we meet him alone, there’s a strong possibility he’ll shoot us simply because he’s worked out that we’re the lead investigators in his case. It’s his payback.”

  I said to Tom, “I’m going to fix everything and make things up to you and Billy. I know this must be scary for you right now. Soon, this will all be a distant memory.”

  I stroked his cheek.

  He winced.
r />   It deeply saddened me to see the boy like this. But I knew he was traumatized. Specialists would help him overcome the trauma. Right now, nothing I could say to him would help.

  I picked up another cell and called Painter. “Have you made a decision?”

  Painter responded, “That’s not how these things are done.”

  “Then change how things are done. If you think I’m trying to lure you and Kopański out here alone, just so I can hurt or kill you, you’re wrong. I’ve got bigger interests at heart. And the biggest of them are to ensure Tom is handed over to you and my innocence is proven. Make a damn decision.”

  Painter drummed her fingers on the dashboard as she and Joe reached the outskirts of the city. “Shit!”

  Kopański said, “He didn’t want to kill me and the other cop on the Amtrak. But we think he killed plenty of cops since.”

  “We think?”

  “Yeah. We think.”

  “But you and I have kept an open mind.”

  “That principle’s been tested to the limit.”

  “I know!”

  The detectives were consumed with their own thoughts for a few moments.

  Kopański broke the silence. “I say we give Cochrane one more chance to prove his innocence.”

  “I agree.”

  Painter ordered the convoy to stand down but remain static in the area in case it was needed. There were objections from each unit’s commanders, but she overruled them.

  She wondered if she and Joe were making the worst mistake of their careers.

  Twenty minutes later, I called her from another phone. “Have you made a decision?”

  She told him she had. It would only be her and Kopański coming to the meeting.

  I replied, “I’d like to believe you, but I still need to be cautious. I’m going to guide you to a place where any backup you may have will stand out a mile. If I spot that backup, you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll find other means to get Tom into your care.”

  I gave her very precise instructions. I grabbed my bag. Looking at Tom, I said, “We need to get out of the car and go for a walk.”

  Outside the car, I removed my jacket and placed it over Tom, its hem touching his toes.

  I smiled. “The teddy bear I bought you was what told me you were alive. You were a clever boy to record the Russian man’s voice.”

  Tom didn’t smile.

  We walked for twenty minutes, for the most part me carrying Tom.

  “This’ll do,” I said. “Now we just need to wait.”

  We were on an escarpment of open fields. Three-quarters of a mile away there was a solitary farm track. The layout was near identical to the surroundings leading to Zhukov’s house. No trees, no other features. Just the track that probably led to another farmhouse, though it was not visible.

  I called Painter and gave her further instructions. “Remember—I’ll know if you break your word.”

  “Are we doing the right thing, Joe?”

  “Damned if I know the answer to that.” Kopański turned the car off 124 at precisely the place Cochrane had told him to exit. They were on a single farm track that went on for miles, according to the GPS. The fields on their right were flat, and those on their left rose to a small hill about three-quarters of a mile away. “You know that if Cochrane kills us, we’ll have a fancy full honors funeral. But all of East Coast law enforcement will rightly think we were dumb to stand the convoy down.”

  “I know. Not sure that concern is high priority for me right now.”

  “Me neither.”

  Painter’s phone rang.

  I was watching the blue car through the zoom lens of Tap’s camera. It was about two miles off the 124. Nothing was behind or ahead of it. I conducted a 360-degree examination of our surroundings. The location allowed me superb visibility over miles of land, despite dark clouds hanging motionless in the sky. Thankfully, the rain had stopped.

  When Painter answered my call, I said, “I’m assuming that’s you in the blue car.”

  She replied that it was, asking where they should meet me and Tom.

  “Nice try, Detective. Keep driving.” This time I kept the line open instead of hanging up.

  The blue car continued onward.

  I waited until it was directly opposite me. “Stop the car and get out.”

  A male and female got out of the car. The female was in a black pantsuit and white blouse, her black hair pinned up. The tall male was in a suit. I recognized them both from the confrontation on the Amtrak.

  I said to Painter, “Put your handguns on the roof of the car. Any backup weapons as well.”

  Painter said, “No way.”

  I said, “My handgun is in a pack on my back. If you put your weapons on the roof, Tom and I are going to walk to you. It will take us about fifteen minutes to reach your location. If things go wrong, you’ll have as much chance of reaching your guns as I will of unslinging my pack and reaching mine. But without the weapons in our hands, we stand a much better chance of having a constructive dialogue.”

  Painter said she was putting her cell on mute while she discussed this with her colleague. I stayed on the line, watching Kopański shake his head and Painter raise her hands.

  Both put their handguns on the roof of the car.

  “Satisfied?” asked Painter when back on the call.

  “Yes. And as we approach you, if you see a gun in my hand I will fully respect your decision to reach for yours.” I ended the call. “Come on, Tom. It’s time to get you home.” I placed the camera into my pack, ensuring a gun was on top.

  I lifted Tom into my arms and walked quickly down the escarpment until we were on flat land. At this distance, Kopański and Painter were mere specks.

  Fifteen minutes later, I could see them standing side by side. Their car was behind them, guns still on the roof.

  They were two hundred yards away, motionless.

  I kept walking, saying to Tom, “I’m sure these are good people. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  One hundred yards.

  I said, “We’ll sort everything out. I’m going to be in trouble for what I had to do to rescue you. But I think the police will understand it was all necessary.”

  Fifty yards.

  “No guns!” I called out to the detectives. “I’m keeping my word. We take this steady.”

  Tom and I were now five yards in front of the detectives.

  “Detectives: so nice to meet you.”

  Painter and Kopański were silent, their guns six feet behind them.

  I lowered Tom to the ground. To the detectives, I said, “I’m going to tell you what I’m guilty of and what I’m innocent of. I assaulted you and a uniformed police officer on the train. I badly hurt a large man in a diner in Lynchburg; he was trying to stop me leaving the establishment. I disarmed two police officers in the same city, and am guilty of causing damage to their vehicle. I am guilty of not handing myself in earlier. And I’m guilty of having to use maximum force to rescue Tom.” I gave them the location of Zhukov’s house, while placing my hands on Tom’s shoulders. “But I’m not guilty of kidnapping this young boy. Nor did I kill my sister, the Granges, or any other innocent people. I’ve been framed and I would like to tell you how I think it was done.”

  I crouched beside Tom and said to him, “Go to these people. They’ll take you to Billy and Aunt Faye. Tell them who kidnapped you and that I had nothing to do with it.”

  I stood.

  Tom looked at me, a look of fear and disbelief in his eyes. His lips were trembling and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  “Go on, Tom. There’s nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t ask you to go with them if I thought they were unsafe. Isn’t that correct, Detectives?”

  Kopański nodded.

  And Painter held out her hand. “It’s okay, Tom. We will take you straight to your family.”

  To my relief, Tom ran to them.

  The boy then pointed at me. “He . . . Uncle Will . . .
he kidna . . . he stole me. Put me in the house. He was there sometimes while they kept a hood on me.”

  Shock sucker-punched me. “What are you talking about, Tom?”

  “Your voice. I heard your voice. You were in the room with me. The man with the funny voice asked you questions. I heard you answer him.”

  They must have made covert recordings of me speaking during the preceding months. And used elements of those recordings in ways that sounded natural in Tom’s prison. It was the only explanation. Tom would know if someone was trying to impersonate me.

  Knowing that didn’t do anything to alleviate my shock. “That was part of the plan. The man who took you told me that he was going to release you unharmed this evening in the city. I didn’t believe him. I was wrong. He wanted you to tell the police what you’ve just told me. In their eyes, that would mean there was no doubt I was a kidnapper.”

  Kopański took a step toward his gun.

  But I was quicker and had my pack off my back and in front of me. “Don’t! Just don’t. Notice that I haven’t pulled out my weapon. Let’s keep it that way.”

  The look in Tom’s eyes and the expressions on the detectives’ faces told me they didn’t believe I was innocent. “They used recordings of my voice. Maybe they got them at the Waldorf. More likely they got them many other places.”

  Painter said, “With everything stacked against you, we can’t accept that possibility.”

  Emotionally overwrought, I said to Tom, “Whatever anyone tells you about me, I want you to grow up remembering what I’m about to tell you. I didn’t do the things they say I did.” Using the words grow up made me realize that I was telling myself that I’d probably never see the twins again. Under other circumstances, that realization would have reduced me to tears. “I wanted to look after you and Billy after everything that happened to your mom and dad.” My eyes were burning. “Look after yourself, Tom. Work hard at school.” I asked the detectives, “Is Faye going to look after them? Is she strong enough?”

  Kopański answered, “Yes, to both. She’ll cope just fine, and that’s the way we want it. We didn’t want the boys to go into . . .” He was about to say foster care, but held back finishing the sentence because of Tom.