Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel

by Matthew Dunn

  Though he had anticipated that Kronos would have followed him here, Schreiber had no idea how the assassin knew that the man who’d driven him to the city was Israeli. “Half of them are dead. The other half sent me.”

  “You have a traitor?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who?”

  Schreiber gave him the name. “He intends to testify at a hearing in The Hague in two weeks’ time. I can’t let that happen. He’s currently being held in a maximum-security facility in the southern Netherlands. My sources have confirmed that he’s being moved from the facility ten days prior to the hearing and will be taken to another maximum-security complex. He’ll be under significant protection at all times. Do you think you can do it?”

  “Of course. What is he testifying?”

  “All you need to know is that it relates to the Berlin meeting in 1995—a secret we shared at that meeting. I can’t let that secret become public knowledge.”

  A secret that was omitted from the Slingshot protocols.

  One that would kill hundreds of millions of people.

  “You also need to know that I’ve been pursued by a British intelligence officer called Will Cochrane and an SVR operative called Mikhail Salkov. I don’t know if they’re still after me, but it’s possible that Salkov knows about you.” He supplied Kronos with the home addresses of both operatives.

  Kronos shrugged. “They won’t get in my way.”

  “Good. Once the job’s completed, ten million dollars will be deposited into your account. Then, you must change identity and location. Are you married, have children?”

  Kronos did not answer him.

  “If you do have a family, you cannot stay with them. You must disappear.”

  “The deal was that I am permitted to lead my life until I’m activated, that I must move locations after the job. There was never any mention of leaving my family.”

  “Things have changed! I can’t afford for there to be any potential security leaks.”

  Kronos felt anger rise within him. “You can’t afford any leaks?” He thought for a moment. “Are you sure you’re representing everyone present at the Berlin meeting?”

  Schreiber grew impatient. “Everyone’s who’s alive, yes. If you’re doubting my authority to be here, then you’d better say so.”

  Kronos smiled. “I doubt everything that comes out of your mouth, you little shit. But the DLB was activated correctly.” His expression grew cold. “You’ve changed the terms of the deal, so I’m forced to do the same. Five million will be paid in advance.”

  “What!”

  “In advance. Changing identities and locations is an expensive business and requires preparation. Presumably, you want me to slip into that new life immediately after I’ve killed the witness. Aside from that, I need guaranteed compensation if I’m to walk away from my family.”

  “That’s not . . .”

  Kronos took three quick steps toward him. “What were you about to say?”

  Schreiber stepped back, nearly tripped, fear coursed through him. “I was about to say, that’s not a problem. You’ll have half the money up front.”

  “I’m glad you made that decision.” Kronos kept his cold stare fixed on Schreiber. “I’ll take care of your target. In return, stick to your side of the bargain. If you don’t, then you know what the outcome will be.”

  It was nearly midnight when Stefan got back to his home on the outskirts of the Black Forest. He entered the kitchen. Plates and pans had been washed up after his family’s dinner. He knew they’d now be asleep. In the center of the table was a dinner plate, over which was foil and a note from his wife saying in German:

  Three minutes in the microwave—don’t forget to take off the foil first! I love you.

  He removed the packaging and smiled as he saw that his wife had prepared him königsberger klopse—veal meatballs in a white sauce containing lemon juice and capers—with roast potatoes and schupfnudel. After placing the dish in the microwave, he looked around and felt a twinge of sadness. He’d eaten thousands of meals in here, most of them with his family. It had been his rule that mealtimes were an important part of the day for the family to sit together, share the experience of eating his wife’s wonderful cuisine, and swap stories. But the mealtimes were never a formal affair; instead they were usually filled with laughter and imaginary tales.

  Removing the plate of food, he sat at the table, alone.

  Fifteen minutes later, he rinsed his empty plate and placed it alongside the others to dry. His wife was a stickler for maintaining a clean and tidy household.

  He arched his muscular back and yawned. Tomorrow would be a very busy day. He walked up the stairs and entered the twins’ room. Mathias and Wendell were both lying asleep on their backs, their blond hair slightly ruffled, their faces looking angelic. He stood between their beds and brushed his big hands against their cheeks. “My darling boys.”

  He wished he’d been able to continue telling them his bedtime story about the forest gnomes’ search for the legendary Timestop mushrooms. He wondered if he’d ever have the chance to finish the tale.

  His thoughts turned to Schreiber. Tonight, the man had made a mistake by changing the deal so that Stefan had to abandon his family. One day, he’d make him suffer for that.

  Twenty-Eight

  Will walked across the Auguststrasse apartment and stood opposite Peter. “I’m going to be away for a day or two, to see if Patrick really can’t get access to the Rübner files. It’s our last remaining lead. In my absence, you’re in charge.”

  Peter said in a sympathetic tone, “This isn’t your fault.”

  Will sighed. “It’s a fact that most of my initiatives have just provided a handful of names and haven’t got us anywhere nearer to the paper.”

  “Perhaps this guy Rübner’s not linked to any of this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You think you might be able to persuade Patrick to go over the director’s head?”

  Will shook his head. “I think you’re right. He wouldn’t win that battle. And that means I’m about to fail again.” He stepped away from Peter, then paused. “The section’s losing its teeth, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  As Will exited the Auguststrasse apartment, Mikhail turned on his vehicle’s ignition, engaged the gears, and slowly crawled forward. The MI6 operative was one hundred yards ahead of him. He’d keep him at that distance until the man hailed a taxi or got into a private vehicle.

  His large handgun was tight against his beltline, ready for use the moment the British intelligence officer led him closer to the whereabouts of Schreiber.

  Will walked quickly across the concourse of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, Germany’s biggest train station. It was early evening, and the station was crowded with commuters. He found a pay phone, shoved twenty euros into it, and dialed an international cell phone number.

  Patrick answered, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Can you talk?”

  “Hold on.” The line was silent for thirty seconds. “Can now.”

  “Okay. Are you able to cut through the bureaucracy to get to the files Suzy asked about?”

  “Possibly, rather than probably. But either way, it’s almost certainly a nasty one-way ticket for us if I try. Bureaucracy and self-interest’s a pile of crap. What’s this about?”

  “I need you to get on a plane.”

  “When?”

  “Now. Or as near to now as possible.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Israel.”

  Patrick said tersely, “That’s a long flight.”

  “Please, Patrick.”

  “You’re sure it’s going to be worth my time?”

  “No.”

  Silence. “It had better be worth my time.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

 
; “To do what?”

  “We need to meet the in-country head from your organization.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the meeting set up through the normal channels.”

  “No. It’s imperative you set it up yourself. No one else must know.”

  Silence for seven seconds. “Give me a call back in thirty minutes and I’ll give you details.” He repeated, “What’s this about?”

  Will smiled. “It’s about unblocking crap.”

  At four the next morning, Will was in a taxi heading toward the airport. He felt tired and knew that he’d have to get some sleep on the flight, but right now his mind was too active to allow him to rest.

  Understanding Rübner’s role was key. Will suspected that once Rübner had been given Lenka Yevtushenko’s name, he had been involved in coercing the Russian to steal the paper from the SVR. But Langley was blocking Will accessing information on Rübner, so his plan was now to approach someone who almost certainly would have been a customer of Rübner’s CIA intelligence reports, intelligence that could indicate whether Will’s suspicion that Rübner had been manipulating his CIA handlers for his own ends was correct.

  And one of the biggest customers of all would have been the CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station.

  Mikhail watched Will check in at the El Al desk. He frowned, having no idea why the MI6 officer was travelling to Israel, as it was highly unlikely that Schreiber was in the Middle East. In any case, this presented him with a problem. If the MI6 officer obtained information in Israel that could pinpoint Schreiber, he’d relay that information to his men in the Auguststrasse safe house, who’d then immediately deploy. Stuck in Israel, Mikhail would have no chance to follow them. But he would also be taking a huge gamble if he let the officer out of his sight.

  He made a decision.

  Twenty-Nine

  Kronos sat in a café in the arrivals section of the Frankfurt airport, studying the people who were exiting passport control as well as those who were moving across the concourse. He ignored most individuals, instead focusing only on those who were dressed in the uniforms of pilots. He’d discounted all of the thirty-two pilots he’d seen during the last five hours, as only four of them had been wearing the insignia of the Dutch carrier KLM, and they’d been no good to him as it was clear they were about to fly out of the airport. He needed a Dutch pilot who’d landed and was about to go off duty.

  He took a sip of his coffee, checked his watch, and casually flicked through the pages of Die Welt while occasionally glancing over the top of the newspaper. Wearing an expensive suit and overcoat, and with an attaché case by his feet, he looked like every other businessman who was traveling through the place. If challenged by airport security, he would explain that he was waiting for a colleague whose flight had been delayed. Every thirty minutes, he’d checked the arrivals board to update his knowledge of flight arrival times. Currently, there were seven flights that weren’t running on schedule. He also knew exactly what time every KLM carrier was due to arrive.

  One of them had landed thirty minutes ago from Amsterdam Schiphol. Its pilots would soon be walking into view.

  He’d thought through every possibility. The pilots could use private vehicles to exit the airport before he had a chance to follow them, could use taxis but not declare their destination until out of earshot within the vehicle, could be met by loved ones or KLM limousine drivers who’d whisk them away without declaring where they were going, or could get changed into civilian clothes in a secure part of the airport and then use a hidden exit. That didn’t matter, because he was prepared to wait here all day and night until a Dutch pilot walked up to the external taxi rank and announced his destination to the driver. When that happened, Kronos would be standing right behind the man and would hail the next available taxi to take him to the same location.

  Most likely it would be a hotel. He hoped so, because hotel rooms were easy to break in to.

  But it didn’t matter if it was somewhere else.

  Among many talents, Kronos was adept at burgling the most secure complexes.

  Four men walked into view.

  Kronos kept his paper motionless as he fixed his gaze on them.

  All were wearing KLM pilot uniforms.

  They walked across the concourse, past a group of teenage girls who gave them admiring glances while giggling and nudging each other, then stopped and shook hands. Three of them walked off but not in the direction of the main exit.

  They were no good to him.

  The fourth pulled his trolley suitcase behind him as he moved toward the exit. The blond man looked to be in his early thirties, and the slight smile on his face suggested he was happy to be in Germany.

  The assassin folded up his newspaper, placed cash on the table to pay for his coffee, grabbed his attaché case, and followed the pilot toward the taxi rank.

  Thirty

  Will drove his hired Jeep south, away from Israel’s Ben Gurion airport. Soon he was on Highway 6, heading toward the Negev Desert. Around him were lush fields of grass, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies; it was nothing like the harsh winter he was used to in Europe.

  Ninety minutes later he was circumventing the functional-looking city of Beersheba. Ahead of him was the stunning desert. He stopped the car in a small Bedouin village, directly outside a café that contained a couple of men smoking hookahs. Sitting at one of the outside tables, he ordered tea from a waiter and looked around. On the opposite side of the dusty street, two young girls who’d been playing were now watching him, fiddling with their long black hair. The men in the café were also staring at him while they smoked. Even though Will was dressed in jeans, boots, and an open-neck shirt, he knew he looked out of place.

  That didn’t matter.

  What did was the location of the village.

  The Arab waiter brought his drink and placed it on the table, next to Will’s car keys. In Hebrew, he asked, “You lost?”

  Will smiled, pretended to look embarrassed. “English.”

  The waiter repeated the question in English.

  Will shook his head and replied, “Tourist.” He nodded toward the desert. “Desert trekking. Thirsty work.”

  A woman came out of a house and ushered the two girls inside. The waiter said, “They think you’re an Israeli cop. They’re frightened.”

  As the waiter returned to the inside of the café, Will took a sip of the sweet tea and tried to relax. The aromatic smell of the hookah tobacco wafted across his table and prompted brief memories. He recalled walking through a vibrant and bustling Moroccan souk one evening, following one of his Syrian agents, who was unaware of his presence and was heading to a covert meeting with an Iranian intelligence officer; sitting in a café similar to this one, in Cairo, scouring the buildings opposite to spot the man who’d planted a bomb in the café and was waiting for the right moment to blow it apart and kill the men who were sitting three tables away from him; drinking tea in a Bedouin tent with a Jordanian tribal leader who believed he could help Will negotiate the release of an American aid worker who’d been captured by a gang of criminals with affiliations to an Al Qaeda cell; and eating dates and baklava with a stunning Lebanese woman who told him that she was falling for him, when in fact Will knew she wanted to put a bullet in his head.

  He lifted the tea to his mouth, then froze. A sedan car was driving along the street, two men inside. The car slowed down and stopped forty yards away. The driver remained in the vehicle; the passenger got out and walked quickly along the street toward the café. He was dressed like Will, looked European or Israeli, and was wearing shades. The car turned in the street and drove off in the direction it had come from. By the time it had disappeared from view, the passenger was only a few yards from Will’s table. Will stayed still as the man walked right alongside his table, scooped up his car keys, kept walking, entered Will’s Jeep, and drove off. Two seconds later, an SUV entere
d the street, driving fast. Will placed cash on the table to pay for his tea, watched the vehicle draw closer, waited, then stood and jogged to the street. The SUV slowed to walking pace, a door opened, the vehicle came alongside Will, and he grabbed the open door and jumped inside. Immediately the vehicle accelerated fast, causing Will to lurch backward into the seat.

  Three men were in the speeding vehicle. As Will slammed the door shut, one of them said in an American accent, “Get your head down.”

  Will did as he was told, lying sideways so that he was not visible to anyone outside of the SUV.

  The man in the front passenger seat said, “First turning on the left, thirty yards.”

  “Got it.” The driver changed gears.

  The man next to Will looked at him. “Ninety percent certain we weren’t followed. But we’re going to have to take a fairly complex antisurveillance route back to the embassy. The Israelis are superb at this stuff, so we can’t afford to take any risks. Just keep out of sight. Okay?”

  Will nodded. He didn’t know if the Americans were paramilitary operatives, intelligence officers, or Special Forces. But he did know that they were under CIA orders to get him into the U.S. embassy in Tel Aviv without him being seen by the Israeli security services.

  The CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station closed the thick steel door to the embassy’s safe room, locked the handle in place, and sat opposite Will and Patrick. Middle-aged, chubby, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit and circular spectacles, and with a grin on his face, Geoffrey Pepper looked more like an accountant than a senior intelligence operative. He said in a southern accent, “All that effort just to get you into a soundproof room.”

  The place rather more resembled a small cell. It contained three chairs and a small table with two secure telephone units.

  Patrick had been picked up on the outskirts of the northern city of Haifa and had arrived at the embassy thirty minutes before Will. He wouldn’t have liked the journey—he’d been out of the field too long and these days was more used to being driven in limousines—though he would have far more hated the idea of being covertly photographed by the Israelis if he’d turned up at the embassy by more luxurious means.