by Matthew Dunn
“Liar.” Kryštof tapped his cigarette over an ashtray. “Richard Baines. British. Operates out of the Cayman Islands.”
“He knows Otto von Schiller?”
“No doubt he’ll know of him. But they don’t do business together. Not directly, anyway.”
“But he’s acquainted with someone who does work with Schiller?”
“Correct.”
“Name?”
“A Frenchman named Philippe Dêlage. He lives in Paris but spends a lot of time in Berlin, because that’s where Schiller’s based.”
They were silent as a waiter brought a jug of coffee to the table and poured their drinks. After he left, Will said, “The Cayman Islands are a bit out of my way right now.”
Kryštof lifted his cup and saucer; his hand shook as he did so. “You don’t need to go there. Baines is meeting Dêlage in Munich tomorrow. He’s flying into Germany today and is staying at the Mandarin Oriental.”
“Today?”
Kryštof took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve already checked for you. There are spaces available on the 12:40 P.M. Adria flight. It’s direct, and you can be in Munich around the same time he arrives.”
Will laughed quietly. “You’ve thought of everything.” He withdrew an envelope containing the remaining £5,000 owed to the Czech. “Very good work.”
Kryštof secreted the cash. “Anything else you need me to do?”
“No, that’s all.”
Kryštof inhaled deeply on his cigarette and again looked out of the window. “I thought you’d say that.”
Will snapped out of being David. Something was wrong. “What are you going to do now?”
In a near whisper, Kryštof replied, “Something I’ve been planning to do since . . . since she’s been gone.”
Will reached across the table and grabbed Kryštof’s forearm. “No. You have a future. You’re still useful to people like me. I’ll get you more work—anything to keep your mind occupied.”
Kryštof smiled with a look of sad resignation. “You won’t be able to do that for long. Your star’s long since waned in the service. I’m surprised they even asked you to do this job.” He broke free from Will’s grip and looked at him. “You’ve always been very kind to me. But you need to understand that my mind’s made up. It’s what I want.”
Will was lost for words.
Kryštof’s smile faded. “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question, and given what I’ve just told you, perhaps you might agree to answer it.”
Will waited.
“Is David Becket your real name?”
Oh, dear God. Will’s stomach churned. He was facing a man who had known Becket for years, who liked the MI6 officer, and who wanted to know the truth before he killed himself due to the grief he felt about his daughter’s tragic death. Every ounce of humanity within him screamed out that Kryštof had to know the truth.
Will stood; Kryštof followed suit.
Will moved to him, hugged him, said, “Be at peace, my dear friend.” Then he stepped back and nodded. “You’ve always deserved to know the truth. David Becket’s my real name.”
Chapter Twenty
The taxi took Will away from Munich International Airport and toward the city. Snow carpeted the roads and surrounding countryside, though for now no more was falling.
Will was on his cell phone, talking to Alistair. “Only three?”
“That’s all I could get for you at this short notice. They’re due to arrive in Russia in three days’ time and will wait for you there.”
“Equipment?”
“I’ve told them that handguns won’t be enough. Everything’s going through in diplomatic bags. The team leader has your John Lawrence number and will make contact when he’s in situ.”
“Do I know him?”
“I believe you had a drink with him in Washington before leaving.”
Roger Koenig.
“Excellent. And what have you got on my man?”
Will listened for ten minutes as Alistair briefed him on everything MI6 knew about Richard Baines. It wasn’t a lot, but there was enough on the British arms dealer to give Will the leverage he needed.
“Room number?”
“Cheltenham’s tracked his credit card number, and it doesn’t show which room he’s in.”
Cheltenham—GCHQ.
“But I’ve managed to speak to a contact at BfV.”
The German Security Service.
“No mention made of you. They checked with the hotel and got the room. He’s in the Mandarin suite.”
“All right, but you should have spoken to me first before alerting the locals.”
“I’m so sorry. Sometimes I forget that I’m only your boss.”
The sarcastic comment made Will smile.
“How’s your associate holding up?”
Will thought about Sentinel. “Events are taking their toll on him. But he’s a tough bastard.”
“Is his judgment sound?”
Will responded, “Even though I disagree with what he wants to do, I can’t fault the logic of his plan.”
“You have the authority to overrule him.”
“I know, but this is happening to his people. If I were in his position, I’d probably do the same thing he’s doing.”
Will stood outside the Mandarin suite, straightened his tie, pressed the hotel room’s buzzer, and said in a loud German-accented voice, “Hotel Management.”
He heard a man call out something. He waited patiently.
Thirty seconds later, a man opened the door. He was dressed in a bathrobe, had wet hair, and smelled of soap.
“Mr. Baines?”
The man replied in a south London accent. “Of course.”
Will stepped forward, punched his hand under Baines’s jaw, lifted him off the ground, carried him back into the room, and threw him onto the floor.
“What the fuck—?”
Will stamped a foot on Baines’s flabby belly, causing the arms dealer to retch. He knelt down beside his writhing body and grabbed his jaw again, holding it firm so that they were looking directly at each other.
“Listen very carefully to me.” Will leaned closer. “I work for British Intelligence. We know about your deals in Africa, your shipment that’s sailing through the Persian Gulf, and the missiles you’re about to purchase from the Chinese. You’ve got a lot of blood on your hands, and we’ve got enough evidence to put you in prison for the rest of your life. But I’m not here for that. Tomorrow you’re meeting Philippe Dêlage. I’m going to be at that meeting with you, and you’re going to say that I’m someone you trust and have done business with for years.”
Baines tried to break free from Will’s grip. “You’ve got to be crazy.”
Will held him firm. “You are going to do this for me. And afterward, you’re never going to mention this little chat. Fail at either, and I promise that I’ll come back for you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The three men were sitting around a large oak table in the Mandarin Oriental’s business-suite boardroom. Dressed in a Camps de Luca suit, a silk shirt, and a tie that he’d bound into a schoolboy knot, Philippe Dêlage looked at home in the five-star surroundings. He was probably around fifty years old, but wealth, a charmed life, an attractive wife half his age, a personal trainer, or all of those things had made him look ten years younger. By contrast, Richard Baines looked like a 1980s barrow boy banker—pin-striped suit, suspenders over a striped shirt, slicked-back hair, and overapplied eau de cologne. The third man, Will Cochrane posing as Thomas Eden, was dressed as if he were about to have a glass of port in the Household Cavalry’s officers’ mess—dark Huntsman bespoke Savile Row sports jacket, pink shirt with cutaway collar, regimental tie, cords, and brogues.
Dêlage studied Eden’s business card and said in a barely accented voice, “I’ve never heard of Thomas Eden before.” He looked at Baines. “Why is that?”
Baines shrugged. “Fucked if I know, pal.”
Dêla
ge shook his head. “You say you’ve done business together for years. Strange, given that you and I have known each other for the same length of time and you’ve never mentioned him before.”
Baines pointed a finger at the Frenchman. “Don’t be a shit, Philippe. I bet you’ve got a dozen contacts tucked away who I don’t know about.”
Dêlage smiled. “Maybe that’s true. But why are you revealing Thomas Eden to me now?”
Baines was about to speak, but Will raised a hand to silence him. “Because I’m paying him an introductory fee that equates to ten percent of anything I get out of the relationship.”
“Introductory fee to meet me?”
Will laughed. “No. Someone you know.”
Dêlage seemed unflustered. “So what’s in it for me?”
“Not my problem. I suggest you arrange terms with the man I want to meet.”
“And who is that?”
Will smiled. “Otto von Schiller.”
Dêlage did not smile as he began rapidly turning over Eden’s business card in his hands. “Who gave you that name?”
“I have my contacts.”
Dêlage held the card still. “What’s your interest in him?”
Will looked serious. “Soon I’m going to have my hands on some very interesting blueprints. I’m looking for a buyer, and I think von Schiller might be that person.”
“Blueprints of what?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
The Frenchman looked sharply at Baines. “This has been a waste of my time.”
Will interjected. “Give him my business card. That’s all you need to do. The blueprints I’m talking about—I reckon they’ve got a market value of around fifty million dollars. If I were you, I’d start thinking about what percentage you want from the deal for”—he nodded toward the business card—“merely handing over a tiny bit of cardboard.”
That evening, Will’s Thomas Eden cell phone rang.
Philippe Dêlage.
He listened to the Frenchman’s precise instructions. Otto von Schiller would meet him tomorrow.
But it was crucial that he come alone.
Chapter Twenty-two
Will drove around Großer Alpsee searching for his destination. The Bavarian Alpine lake was tranquil, surrounded by tree-covered hills and low mountains. Snow and icicles hung from the trees’ branches.
He felt tense. He was unarmed and had followed Dêlage’s instructions to come alone. He’d considered getting armed backup for the meeting, perhaps some of Kryštof’s contacts, but had decided that was too risky. If it looked as though he was coming to entrap Otto von Schiller his plan would fail. He’d also hoped that the meeting would have been held in a public place, but the area around him was deserted; it would be easy for men to shoot him in the head and dump his body in the lake without alerting others.
But Will had to follow this through because this meeting was his final move. He hoped that the Ukrainian SBU had sent the SVR the full transcript, that Schiller had alerted his SVR masters to the approach by Thomas Eden, and that they had tasked him to meet Eden urgently to try to ascertain the identity of the mysterious Russian colonel. But right now he couldn’t be certain of anything.
He drove for another mile, following the shore.
He saw the place.
A large house, right by the water’s edge.
Nothing else around it save forest.
He breathed slowly to try to calm his racing heart beat. He tried to imagine how Thomas Eden would be thinking right now. He had to match his thoughts and mood. Would he be scared, or would meetings like this be commonplace for a man like him? Perhaps he’d be slightly irritated that he’d had to go so far out of his way to meet Schiller. Yes, that’s how he’d feel.
He approached the house and stopped the vehicle in a spot that was easily visible to the building’s occupants. After walking casually to the front door, he knocked on it three times. There was movement inside. The door opened. Two thickset German men, dressed in suits. They were obviously bodyguards and no doubt would be armed.
Will’s expression was terse. “Thomas Eden. I have an appointment with Mr. Schiller.”
The men said nothing and stepped back a few paces, keeping their eyes fixed on him.
Will stepped into the house.
The door shut behind him.
Will was about to move forward when one of the men grabbed him and slammed his face against the corridor wall.
“Stand very still.”
Will followed the bodyguard’s order. The second man began to expertly search his overcoat, suit, undergarments, shoes, and body surface. He removed Eden’s wallet, car keys, and BlackBerry before nodding at the man who was holding Will in a viselike grip. That man kicked Will’s ankles while simultaneously thrusting down on his arm and shoulder. Within two seconds, Will was facedown on the floor, his limbs outstretched, a boot fixed firmly against his neck.
Will lay still, knowing there was nothing he could do other than let the men do their job. He heard the front door open and a moment later the sound of his car being unlocked. There was nothing in there that could compromise him, but he wondered how long it would take the guard to search the vehicle.
Approximately twenty minutes.
The front door was shut. The guard walked past him and disappeared into a room. He’d now be searching Eden’s wallet and in particular analyzing his BlackBerry—sent and received e-mails, calls, files, individuals in his contact list, and his Internet browsing history. The guard would find nothing unusual. Will had crammed the phone with data that showed only one thing—that he was a businessman who worked in military consultancy and was ultracautious about electronically communicating matters pertaining to Thomas Eden Limited. He was, after all, always conscious that he could be picked up by customs, Interpol, or other law enforcement agencies.
He estimated that it was forty minutes before the boot was lifted off his neck.
Red-faced and angry, Will got to his feet, rearranged his clothes, and looked at the two bodyguards now before him. “Was that absolutely necessary?!”
No reply. One of them handed Eden’s belongings back to him and beckoned him to come forward. He was led along the corridor and into a large room. Its windows overlooked the beautiful vista of the lake. But inside the room, nothing was beautiful. It was empty of anything save two straight-backed dining chairs in the center, facing each other. The floor was entirely covered with black plastic sheets that had been taped together.
Will had seen rooms like this before.
Sometimes they were used for interrogations.
More often for executions.
He turned and was about to say something, but the bodyguard pushed him forward and pointed at the chair facing the windows. Will sat in it and crossed his legs. He was afraid.
Because that’s what Eden would be feeling right now.
The bodyguard disappeared from view. Will checked his watch and waited. Sweat began to trickle down his back. Ten minutes passed. Everything was silent. Another ten minutes. Then footsteps on wooden flooring, followed by footsteps over plastic sheets.
He stayed still, expecting to feel a gun barrel against the back of his head just before a tiny moment of absolute pain.
The two bodyguards came into view and stood in the corners of the room, facing him. Both held pistols. Will glanced over his shoulder and saw that two more bodyguards were in the corners behind him, also armed. He looked back toward the windows.
More footsteps.
A man came into view.
Small, midfifties, suit pants and open-neck shirt, clean-shaven, gray hair that had been immaculately cut into a style favored by Germany’s officer-class soldiers.
Otto von Schiller.
He sat in the chair, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and asked, “What do you want from me?”
Will answered quickly, “I came here to discuss a business opportunity with you.” He glanced at the bodyguards. “I’m wo
ndering why I bothered.”
Schiller smiled, though his look was cold. “Of course you are.”
Silence.
Schiller kept his blue eyes fixed on Eden.
The silence was unsettling. Will had to say something. “I’ve been to other meetings where guns have been present—mostly in Central America, Africa, and the former Soviet Union states—and can assure you they achieve nothing.”
“Now you can add Germany to that list.”
More sweat, this time down his face.
Von Schiller pointed at him. “I’ve been to meetings where guns haven’t been present but should have been. I’ll not make that mistake again.”
“This meeting isn’t a mistake.”
“From where you’re sitting, do you really believe that?”
Will looked around. Despite his circumstances, he had to achieve some degree of control over the situation.
He looked directly at von Schiller. “I want”—he paused, then spoke in a more confident voice—“I want you to listen to me so that you can understand that I’ve gone out of my way to bring you a highly unusual business proposition.”
“You could be here to entrap me.”
Will looked exasperated. “I rather think it looks the other way around.”
Von Schiller glanced away. “Are there men out there, waiting for the right moment to come for me?”
“If there were, they’d be here too late to stop your men from putting a bullet in my skull.” Will shook his head. “I came here in good faith. On. My. Own.”
Schiller unclasped his hands and leaned back, drumming his fingers on his leg. Clearly, he was deep in thought.
Will muttered between clenched teeth, “We both hate the same organizations.”
Schiller stopped drumming. “Dêlage told me that you have access to blueprints. What are they?”
Will glanced again at the bodyguards. “I’m not going to talk to you while under duress.”
“And I’m not going to remove my men!” Schiller was motionless. “If you are genuinely here to discuss a business transaction that is of mutual interest, then I give you my word that you’ll walk out of here unharmed.”
“Your word?”