Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel

by Matthew Dunn

  Years later, he’d found out that Alistair and Patrick had covered up what he’d done.

  He briefly took his eyes off the door to check the time. Nearly midnight. Outside, London was almost silent.

  He remembered his four years at university and the sensation that the GCP legionnaire and DGSE hit man was gradually being turned back into someone more decent, more human. He saw himself, in his final year of studies, walking through the university’s Darwin College, clutching politics and philosophy books, and remembered the euphoric moment of feeling truly normal again.

  It was the greatest feeling, and it lasted twenty-three minutes.

  Up to the moment he was walking through Cambridge’s shopping district, saw a man try to grab a young woman’s handbag, watched the woman resist, saw a knife, and heard the victim yelp as she fell to the ground clutching her blood-covered tummy. He’d dropped his books, chased the man, grabbed him, and slammed him into a wall with sufficient force to not only make him unconscious but also fracture his skull.

  At the moment the man’s head caved in, the euphoria had vanished.

  Now, as he sat waiting for a killer to enter his home, he doubted it would ever return.

  No other memories came to him. He tried to think about the operation, about what could possibly be happening, but he couldn’t concentrate. Time dragged.

  Two A.M. He couldn’t hear anything now. No passing cars, nothing.

  Three A.M. His body craved sleep, but he kept staring at the door, knowing that it would be in the early hours that the man would most likely come for him.

  Four A.M. He heard a scream, flinched, grabbed the hilt of his knife, then released it as he realized the cry had come from an urban fox.

  Five A.M. His back and shoulder muscles throbbed from lack of activity.

  Six A.M. A door opened somewhere in the building, followed by rapid footsteps. Then the downstairs front door opened and closed. Will knew that it was one of his neighbors going to work—David, a recently divorced mortician who usually left at this hour and always did so in a manner that suggested he was late. Three weeks ago the chubby man, who had taken to rolling his own cigarettes and cooking his way through a famous French chef’s book, had met Will in the lobby, introduced himself, and given Will his business card “in case of need.”

  Six forty. Another door opening and closing. A woman in heels. That would be Phoebe, a thirty-something art dealer who loved champagne, middleweight boxing matches, and Chinese food, and who rarely went to work without a hangover. She’d met Will in the rather embarrassing circumstances of kneeling by the letter slot in his front door one evening and screaming in a drunken voice, “I know you’re in there, you bastard! You can’t fuck me and leave me!” It was only when Will had opened the door that Phoebe had realized that Will wasn’t the previous occupant, a cad called Jim who’d sold Will the apartment in a hurry.

  Six fifty. Retired major Dickie Mountjoy, former Coldstream Guards officer and now retiree, was leaving his home at exactly the same time as he did each morning. Dressed in a suit and moleskin overcoat, and always carrying an immaculately rolled umbrella regardless of conditions, he would be taking a ten-minute walk to his local newsagents, which opened at seven A.M., would purchase a copy of The Daily Telegraph, and would then march on to the Imperial War Museum, formerly Bedlam Asylum. There, he would sit on one of the grounds’ benches and read the paper cover to cover, before walking four miles to West Norwood cemetery, standing in front of his wife’s grave, and giving her headstone a briefing on the latest news from around the world.

  Major Mountjoy believed that Will was a life insurance salesman and had made it clear on their first encounter that Will’s profession was inhabited by the scum of the earth. Will had agreed and told him that he wished he’d had the discipline and courage to be a guardsman.

  The West Square converted house was now empty of all, save Will.

  He placed his hand over the knife’s handle and scrutinized the front door.

  He heard a man whistling, a stair ledge creak. He frowned.

  The whistling grew louder, as did the footsteps.

  Will pulled out the knife and stood. He estimated it would take him one second to reach the door to plunge his knife into the man’s gut.

  Though he wouldn’t get halfway down the hall if the man was a professional and had a gun.

  The whistling stopped. Right outside his front door.

  Will dared not move, had to remain silent.

  The man noisily stamped, scuffed his boots on wooden floorboards, made a rustling noise, and began whistling again.

  Then there was a bang that caused Will to leap sideways.

  But the bang was caused by a cluster of letters being forced through the metal mail slot.

  The man walked away from the entrance, still whistling as he exited the communal downstairs doorway.

  A postman.

  Will breathed shallowly and noisily through his nose as adrenaline pumped through his body. He pushed himself away from the wall and muttered, “Shit.”

  Because his all-night vigil had been a waste of time. Providing the Russian team remained in their Berlin hotel, he reckoned he had time to spend one more night in his home, meaning he’d have to do the same routine for another twenty-four hours.

  He sighed, decided he could risk making coffee, and grabbed the pile of mail. Taking it into the kitchen, he flicked on the kettle and began leafing through the letters.

  Junk.

  His hand became motionless.

  One of the letters wasn’t junk. Handwritten on a cream envelope was his name and address. The postal stamp showed that it had been mailed from London.

  Nobody sent Will handwritten letters.

  Carefully he lifted the letter between forefinger and thumb and held it in midair. It felt light, though Will knew how to make letters of similar weight that could blind or poison when opened. He rotated it, and as he did so he caught the hint of a fragrant scent. Holding the envelope close to his nose, he frowned once he recognized the smell. His frown remained as the saw a water seal on the rear flap bearing the name of the stationer.

  The Letter Press of Cirencester

  A thought suddenly occurred to him, and it was coupled with panic. He dashed to the bathroom, opened the cabinet, and pulled aside deodorants, toothpaste, shaving gear, mouthwash, and a hairbrush. His bottle of Chanel Platinum Égoïste eau de toilette was missing. He ran into the living room, placed the letter on the dining table, and moved to his leather-covered writing desk. Inside its drawer he kept his gold fountain pen, given to him two years ago on the grounds of Versailles Palace by a Czech intelligence officer who’d placed a note inside it telling him how a terrorist unit was planning to kill the Chief of MI6. Alongside the pen would be a bottle of blue ink, a pad of high-quality writing paper, and matching envelopes.

  He used the stationery to write to his sister, though she never replied.

  The paper and envelopes had been purchased from the Letter Press of Cirencester.

  He yanked open the drawers.

  They were empty.

  Turning, he stared at the letter on the table.

  A letter that had been written with his pen on his stationery, and had been squirted with his eau de toilette in order to get him to do what he had just done. The message was clear.

  You can’t trace me via this letter.

  Knowing that someone had been into his home, anger coursed through him. He strode up to the table, grabbed the letter, briefly wondered if he should get it analyzed by a team of forensic experts at Vauxhall Cross, then said, “Fuck it,” and tore open the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, nothing else. He eased it out, sat at the table, and held it with two shaking hands.

  Dear Mr. Cochrane

  I have learned from an unexpected quarter that you have made it your business
to meddle in my affairs. You seek a man called Lenka Yevtushenko. You have no interest in him per se, but you are most interested in the sheet of paper that he has delivered to me—a paper comparable in size to the one you are now holding. The paper belongs to me, you have no rights over it, and I will severely punish anyone who tries to steal it from me.

  I did consider speaking to you in person about this matter, in a place of my choosing, and under circumstances that perhaps would be rather more conducive to me than you. But I’m told that you are not a man to hunt. Rather than fail in an attempt to capture you and thereby drive you out of contact, I concluded that a letter to you would be a far more efficient and civilized course of action. I’m sure you agree.

  I’m also sure that a man of your intellect will understand that not all of our dealings can be civilized. If I told you to back down or face the consequences, I’m convinced you’d eschew the former in favor of the latter. That inevitable decision has placed me into a rather brutish tactical stance. I don’t like that stance, but you put me there, and here I am.

  You won’t back down because you are not afraid. But you might for something else.

  I’m going to give you a name for you to refer to me by. It is not connected to me and no one else has this name. But it’s a label, eases our introduction to each other, and has been carefully chosen in order to remind you of the consequences of your actions.

  Before I do so, know this:

  If you don’t stop, I will find the name and location of someone you care about.

  And I will savage that person.

  Yours,

  William

  PART II

  Eleven

  Stefan stopped and looked back down the mountain. In German, he said, “Come on, you two. We’re nearly there.”

  His ten-year-old twin sons were several yards below him and were struggling with the walk.

  “We’re tired, Daddy.”

  “Can we stop for a rest?”

  “Not yet.” Stefan waited for them to catch up while looking at the view. No matter how many times he’d made this journey, the splendor of the Black Forest mountain range always captivated him. Today there was a clear blue sky and snow was only present on the very highest peaks. At the base of the mountain, his car was now a red dot, stationary next to a glistening, tranquil lake. “Another two hundred yards, then we can rest, eat, and play.”

  Mathias reached him first and asked, “If we keep doing this, will we be as strong as you, Daddy?”

  Stefan smiled. “Maybe stronger.”

  Panting and red faced, Wendell drew closer and said, “I don’t know anymore if I want to be strong like Daddy.”

  Stefan put his arms around his boys. “You’ve both done well today. Just you wait until I tell Mummy how far you walked. She’ll be so proud of you.”

  “Are you proud of us?”

  Stefan beamed. “I’m the proudest daddy in the world.” He lifted both boys so that they were snug against his waist and said, “I think you’ve walked far enough. Next time we’ll see if you can make it all the way to the top.”

  Carrying them in one arm each, the big schoolteacher strode onward up the mountain. His breathing was relaxed, and the cool air felt good against his smooth face.

  Wendell giggled. “It’s like being on a camel.”

  Mathias laughed and chanted, “Daddy’s a camel. Daddy’s a camel.”

  Stefan grinned. “Camels don’t like mountains and they can’t do this.”

  To the children’s delight, Stefan broke into a run, leaping over uneven ground, sprinting fast despite the incline of the mountain and the weight of his burden. Reaching the summit, he placed them down, breathed in deeply, and said, “I think I was more like a horse. What do you think?”

  Mathias frowned. “Maybe a donkey.”

  Wendell shook his head. “Donkeys don’t run.”

  “Yes they do, stupid.”

  “No they don’t. Not uphill anyway.”

  Stefan looked around. The peak wasn’t high enough for snow, and the area was covered with grass and a few boulders. Removing his knapsack, he pointed at a spot of open ground and said, “This will do us nicely.” They sat together and Stefan stretched out his legs as he began rummaging in the sack. He withdrew a Tupperware box, a bottle of water, and a metal flask. “Let’s see what Mummy has made us for lunch.” From the box, he took out cold meat sandwiches that had been wrapped in waxed paper, a salt-cured sausage, a small jar of homemade pickle relish, a hunk of Bierkaese cheese, and three slices of the stollen cake that his wife had baked for Christmas. Laying the spread on top of the sack, he stated, “Food fit for mountain kings!”

  The boys grabbed the sandwiches and began devouring them. Stefan withdrew a penknife from his fleece jacket, opened the blade, and sliced into the sausage. After unscrewing the jar of relish, he dipped his knife into it, coated a piece of the meat, and tossed the food into his mouth. It tasted very good. “Okay, so what do we know about the Black Forest?”

  Both boys instantly raised their hands.

  Stefan nodded at Wendell.

  In between chewing his food, the child said, “The Romans called it ‘Black Forest’ because the trees are so close together that there’s no light inside the forest.”

  “That’s good, Wendell. Mathias?”

  “The highest mountain is the Feldberg.”

  “How tall is it?”

  Mathias hesitated. “Four thousand six hundred . . . no . . .”

  Wendell interrupted. “I know! I know!”

  Mathias darted an angry look at his brother. “It’s my turn to answer.” He held his fingers in front of his face. “Four thousand eight hundred . . . and ninety-eight feet.”

  Stefan rubbed the boy’s shoulder. “Excellent. Now, Wendell. What’s the name of the state that administers the forest?”

  Wendell narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me the answer . . .” He lowered his head, then looked up quickly. “Baden-Württemberg.”

  “Correct.” Stefan cut himself another slice of sausage. “The state has a big responsibility.”

  “But why, Daddy? Nobody comes here. We never see anyone when we do our walks.”

  “That’s because we’re not in a tourist area. And a place can be important even if people don’t visit it.” He smiled. “Anyway, we like being on our own, don’t we?”

  The boys grinned as they took more mouthfuls of their sandwiches.

  Stefan placed his knife down and began unscrewing the flask’s cap. “Last question. Who can tell me if there are any dangerous animals in the forest?”

  The boys nudged each other, clearly excited by the question. “Are there wolves here?”

  Stefan poured tea into a cup. “There used to be lots of them. Not so many these days.”

  “Are they very dangerous?”

  Stefan smiled. “Only if you get close to them. They don’t like that.”

  The boys turned to each other and broke into a private conversation.

  “Even if they are really dangerous, they’re not as strong as Daddy.”

  “Yes, Daddy would be able to defeat a whole pack of them.”

  “He’d probably kill the wolf leader first.”

  “Then the others would run away.”

  “Or maybe they’d make Daddy the new wolf leader.”

  Stefan took a sip of his tea and marveled at the way his sons worshipped him. He knew it wouldn’t last. In three or four years they’d be disagreeing with everything he said and stood for. That wouldn’t matter because he loved his boys unconditionally, though he had to admit that it did make him feel good when they talked about him in such admiring terms. Part of him wished they could stay as children forever. “You’ve both forgotten about a creature in the forest that is far more dangerous than a wolf.”

  The boys’ eyes w
idened, their expressions expectant. “Tell us!”

  “Lumbricus badensis. The giant earthworm.”

  “It lives here?”

  Stefan nodded. “Only in the Black Forest.”

  “How big is it?”

  In truth, the worms could grow to two feet, but Stefan liked to enrich his sons’ imaginations. “Fifteen feet long, and three feet wide.”

  “Wow! Does it have teeth?”

  “It has fangs. Five rows of them, all razor sharp and as long as your arms.”

  “Where’s its home?”

  “It hides under the ground, making huge tunnels in the mountains and in the valleys. It only breaks through the surface to feed.”

  “What does it eat?”

  Stefan shrugged. “Deer, cattle, sheep. It drags them underground while they’re still alive and takes them to a cavern that is littered with the bones of other creatures. That’s where it kills them, devours them, and drinks their blood.” He stared at them and pretended to look serious. “But, do you know what it really likes to eat?”

  The boys shook their heads fast. They were hanging on his every word.

  “Its favorite meal is little boys.”

  The twins’ mouths opened wide.

  Stefan laughed, and ruffled their hair. “Don’t worry. He sleeps during the day. And anyway, you’re right—nothing in the forest is as strong as Daddy, and that makes me the most dangerous creature here.”

  The boys broke into smiles and started talking to each other with hushed, rapid words, embellishing the size and prowess of the giant earthworm, creating stories about it, their imaginations fully fired up.

  Stefan reached into the sack and withdrew two folded kites, which he assembled and handed to his sons. “Okay, time to have some fun. But remember, no running and try not to get them tangled this time.”