Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel

by Matthew Dunn

  “What do you want?”

  Adam clasped his hands together. Like his colleagues, he had weapons concealed on him, though he wasn’t going to withdraw them unless it was absolutely necessary to do so. “We’re not going to kill you or rape you. And providing you cooperate with us, we’re going to release you as soon as we can.” He held out his hand. “One or both of you will have a cell phone containing Simon’s number.”

  The mother responded angrily, “I left my phone at home.”

  Adam was unflustered. “Did you now?” He moved his hand toward the girl. “Let’s hope you didn’t.”

  Tears were running down the teenager’s face, and she was shaking. “I don’t have any money. Not here.” She glanced imploringly at her mother. “Have you got money for them?”

  “I don’t want your money!” Adam kept his arm outstretched. “Just your phone.”

  With a trembling hand, the girl reached into her school blazer pocket and withdrew a pink cell. She quickly passed it to him, then grabbed her mother with both arms and pulled her close.

  The mother spat, “If you do anything to her, I’ll kill you!”

  “That’s fair enough.” Adam flicked open the phone, scrolled through its address book, and found a number under the name Papa. He pointed the screen at the girl. “Simon Rübner? Your father?”

  The mother interjected, “What do you want with him?”

  “Just a word. We need to find his boss.”

  “He works alone.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He works for a guy called Kurt Schreiber. You know him?”

  The mother looked venomous, said nothing.

  “Aye, I think you do. He pays for yer fancy lifestyle. Bet you’ve got a lot of vested interests in Schreiber keeping yer old man on his payroll.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “One day I will. When did you last see your husband?”

  The mother looked hesitant, then opened her mouth to speak.

  But Adam spoke first. “If you lie to me, it’ll go bad for all of you.”

  Fresh tears emerged onto the mother’s face. “He’s not at home. He’s been away for a few weeks. Work.”

  Adam returned his attention to the daughter, moving the cell phone screen to within inches of her face. “Rübner. Yes, or no?”

  “Yes . . . yes. What . . .” The girl started crying loudly. “What . . . what are you going to do to Papa?”

  “That depends on him. Do you SMS him?”

  The daughter nodded.

  “Good. Hebrew or German?”

  “German. Papa insists on it, so I improve my language skills.”

  Adam looked at the phone, scrolled through a couple of messages she’d sent to her father, and saw that she was telling the truth. “How do you refer to your mother when talking to him?”

  The girl looked confused.

  Adam barked over the sound of the van’s engine, “What do you call her? Mummy? Mum? Mother?”

  “Mumie.”

  Adam leaned forward. “You sure? ’Cos if you’re trying to warn off your papa by speaking to him in the wrong way, then”—he gestured around him—“this’ll be your home for a long time.”

  The daughter whimpered, “Muma.”

  “That’s better.” He tossed the phone onto the daughter’s lap. “Write him a message. But don’t send it until I’ve read it. Message will read: Emergency. Muma ill. Heading home now. Phone running out of battery.”

  The girl steadied herself as the van took a corner, then began typing the message. She held the phone out.

  Adam took it and read out the message.

  Roger, a fluent German speaker, called out, “That’ll do.”

  Adam pressed Send, pulled the phone apart, and removed its battery. Discarding the pieces, he said, “Now, you ladies need to sit tight until Papa gets home.”

  A pretty woman, holding a clipboard and wearing a matching blue suit with the words EINDHOVEN AIRPORT STAFF on the jacket, approached Will and Mikhail at the airport café. With a smile on her face, she asked in English, “Mr. Cope and Mr. Klyuev?”

  Mikhail answered, “Yes.”

  “I’ve been told to collect you. May I see your passports?”

  They presented them to her.

  Her smile broadened. “Please bring your bags and come with me.”

  She led them past restaurants and throngs of commuters, through a door marked AIRPORT STAFF ONLY, down corridors, out a door, along the edge of a taxiing runway, and into an aircraft hanger. There were no planes in the building. Instead it contained eight men all wearing jeans, boots, bomber jackets, and baseball caps, and beyond them two SUVs.

  The woman’s smile vanished as she turned to Will and Mikhail. “I’m Superintendent Engert, police.” She pointed at one of the men. “My second in command is Kapitein Derksen, Unit Interventie Mariniers. We’re from DSI.”

  The Dienst Speciale Interventies, or Special Intervention Service, was an elite law enforcement unit formed in 2006 to protect Dutch society from the threats of terrorism. Experts in dealing with complex situations such as hostage taking and aircraft hijacking, the unit comprised superbly trained police snipers and Special Forces personnel from the UIM, a force comparable to DEVGRU and U.K. SBS.

  “We’ll take you to the base where the witness is being held.” Engert turned to Derksen. “Do it exactly as I ordered it to be done.” She returned her attention to the two intelligence officers. “You’re on Dutch territory, are answerable to Dutch laws, and right now are under Dutch command. My men are going to place hoods over you and they won’t come off until you’re inside the base. Don’t bother trying to use time to calculate the approximate distance between here and there, because they’re going to take a messy route to confuse you. If you try anything silly, they have my authority to knock you unconscious.” All trace of the welcoming expression was gone; instead she stared at them with an icy and professional air of command. “In short, don’t try to fuck with us.”

  Laith had been lying in the same position for six hours, hidden in a cluster of trees within a small stretch of parkland, using binoculars to watch the street containing Rübner’s family home. Though he couldn’t see him, he knew that Mark was 165 yards away, scrutinizing every inch of the quiet residential street from a different angle.

  The big operative kept his breathing slow and tried to ignore the biting winter air that was penetrating his jacket, jeans, and boots. During his service in the Airborne Rangers, Delta Force, and SOG, he’d learned that the cold became your enemy at unexpected times. When deployed to the Arctic, Antarctic, or mountain ranges, operatives were typically equipped with clothing that acted as a total barrier to the extreme weather in those locations; problems usually only occurred if an operative made a mistake or became injured. But it was in situations like this that he’d seen operatives struggle and sometimes go down with hypothermia. If nothing happened in the next hour, he’d suggest to Mark that they swap positions, just so both men could briefly move their aching bodies.

  He thought about Will Cochrane. This was his third mission with the MI6 officer. At first, he hadn’t taken to the man. Cochrane had appeared cold, aloof, reckless, and insubordinate, and at times he seemed to have a death wish. Perhaps some of those observations were still partly accurate. But over time, he’d seen glimpses of another man altogether—a man who had moments of utter compassion that counterbalanced his ruthlessness; an individual who displayed unwavering loyalty to those who helped him; a man who put on a metaphorical suit of armor not only to shield him from the horrors he had to deal with, but also to imprison the demons inside him. Not for the first time, he wondered how he’d cope with Will’s level of responsibility. Not well, he decided.

  His body tensed as he saw a sedan drive slowly down the road. One man was in the driver’s seat. He spoke into his throat mic. “You getting this?” />
  “Yep.” In a quiet, controlled voice, Mark read out the number plate so that Suzy could note it in her hotel room. “He’s cautious. Traveling approx fifteen MPH.”

  “Heard.” Suzy asked, “How far is the vehicle from the house?”

  “About eighty yards.”

  “Not enough time for me to ID the vehicle owner.”

  Laith edged a few inches nearer to the road and slightly adjusted position. He started flexing his toes to aid circulation.

  “Slowing down again. Approx ten MPH.” Mark paused. “Now he’s stopped, fifty yards from house . . . just waiting, engine still on. Driver’s middle-aged, Caucasian, blond hair, close-cropped beard.”

  Laith withdrew his handgun and flicked off the safety catch. If the man drove fast out of the street, they’d have to let him go. He might not be Rübner, in which case if they forced the car to stop by shooting its engine block and tires, the wrecked car would be an almighty warning sign to the Israeli if he did subsequently turn up. Equally, if the driver was Rübner, he could bolt just to see who was flushed out by the action. They had to make him feel safe to approach the house on foot. But when that happened, there’d be no hesitation: Laith and Mark would explode into action, grab him, haul him back into his car, and drive fast away from the city.

  Holding his gun in one hand and his binoculars with his other, he stared at the driver. The man was motionless, looking straight down the street in the direction of Rübner’s home. He stayed like this for ten minutes, just waiting.

  Laith pressed the tips of his boots into the hard ground, readying himself to get to his feet and sprint.

  “Driver opens his door . . .” Mark’s voice was now tense. “But he still ain’t moving.”

  Laith muttered, “Come on,” between gritted teeth. He inhaled deeply, then held his breath as he saw the driver put one foot onto the pavement, then the other. The man got out of the sedan, quietly shut the door, glanced around, and began walking down the deserted street.

  “Athletic build, roll-neck jumper, windcheater trousers, canvas boots. Looks like he can do a runner.”

  “Yeah.” Laith moved his binoculars to keep the driver in his sights. The man was walking slowly and had one hand positioned over his stomach. “He might be carrying a weapon close to belt buckle.”

  “Okay.” Mark was breathing fast. “I’m moving nearer to you. You’ve got point.”

  The driver stopped, withdrew a cell phone, and held it to his ear. Two seconds later he replaced the cell into his pocket. In all probability, he’d just tried to call his daughter or wife. He continued walking, was now thirty yards from Rübner’s house.

  Mark whispered. “I’m in position, fifteen yards to your east.”

  Laith secreted his binoculars. The driver was easily visible to the naked eye and was walking on the other side of the road, across his line of sight. He reached the bottom of the driveway leading to Rübner’s property and looked around.

  Laith and Mark would break cover when he was halfway up the drive.

  The driver turned so that he had his back to the intelligence officers.

  Laith raised his upper body onto his elbows and brought his knees under his chest.

  The man took two steps along the drive.

  And another.

  Laith gripped his pistol tight.

  The driver took a fourth step.

  Any moment now.

  Engine noise.

  Loud.

  The driver stopped, half turned.

  Laith froze.

  A rush of movement from the west side of the street.

  Men. Four of them. All carrying handguns.

  A car raced past them and screeched to a halt near the driveway.

  The target ducked low, spun, pulled out a gun.

  One man shouted, “Rübner,” a fraction of a second before he and the others opened fire.

  The force of the volley caused Rübner to flip backward, release his gun, and fall awkwardly onto the driveway with bullets in his head and chest.

  Two of the men rushed to the body and quickly examined it. One of them nodded, and called out in Hebrew, “It’s done. Go, go!”

  The men piled into the car, and it sped away.

  Laith shook his head with disbelief. A Mossad hit team had finally caught up with Simon Rübner and expertly punished him for betraying their agents. But in doing so, they had unwittingly killed the last lead to Kurt Schreiber and Kronos.

  Forty-Six

  Kronos lit tobacco in his old briar pipe, opened a metal container, and delicately removed one of the cigarette-lighter-sized devices supplied to him by the Dutch merchant captain in Rotterdam. He examined all sides of the device, unscrewed the bottom cap, and eased out a section containing a circuit board and timer. After making adjustments to the timer, he quickly slotted it back into the device and jogged across the large, empty warehouse. In the center of the building were drums crammed with scrap metal. He placed the device into the center of a drum and ran back to the other side of the warehouse. Checking his watch, he waited.

  Ten seconds later, there was an explosion.

  The device had torn apart the barrel.

  He examined the debris, deciding that the explosion had caused too much damage. Retrieving another spare device, he unscrewed the top cap and removed the PE4 plastic explosive. Tearing it in half, he placed one piece of the explosive back into the device, sealed it, set the timer, and placed it into another barrel.

  This time the explosion didn’t penetrate the barrel.

  Kronos looked inside. The bomb had done exactly the right level of damage; he would adjust the quantity of PE4 in the two devices he’d shortly be using so that they would do the same amount of destruction.

  It was time to go. He had one last task.

  Forty-Seven

  The hood was removed, and Will blinked fast and for a moment felt disoriented. He’d been blindfolded for at least four hours, maybe much longer. Beside him, Mikhail rubbed fingers against his eyes, cursed, and looked around. They were in a brightly illuminated room that was furnished with a functional metal table and chairs and nothing else. Kapitein Derksen was sitting on a chair, one leg resting over the other, smoking a cigarette while keeping his gaze fixed on the intelligence officers. Two of his men were standing close by, their expressions hostile and suspicious.

  In English, Derksen said, “Long journey.” He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Bet you feel like shit.”

  “I’ve done worse.” Will’s eyes ached as they gradually adjusted to the light. “We’re here?”

  “We’re here.” The black-haired Special Forces commander stood and stubbed out his cigarette. He was of average height but had a physique that some might conclude derived from bodybuilding, though Will suspected it came from the rope-climbing and other skills required of hostage rescuers—skills that produced strength and stamina well beyond those of an Olympian gymnast. “You want water, tea, coffee? We can’t offer you anything better than that because we don’t keep liquor on the base.”

  Mikhail answered, “Black coffee.”

  Will smiled and put on his most gentlemanly voice. “I’d like a cup of tea, please, but could you make sure it’s made with leaves, that the pot is prewarmed before the boiling water’s added, the tea is infused for three minutes, and it’s served without milk or sugar?”

  Derksen looked at him with a stern expression, though he had a twinkle in his eye. “This isn’t fucking Claridge’s Hotel. A tea bag, warm water, and that’ll be it. Good enough?”

  Will pretended to look disappointed. “Never mind.” His expression changed. “Forget the tea, let’s get to work. I’ll need to have a complete tour of the base, its perimeter, and any land beyond it that overlooks the base, need to study maps of the area, look at the airstrip where the aircraft will tak
e off with the witness, a complete breakdown of the flight plan, and will also need every detail you have about the secure facility in The Hague. Oh, and of course I’ll need to speak to the witness.”

  The twinkle in Derksen’s eyes vanished. “The boss—she’s a clever lady and keeps us on our toes. Her office has a safe containing ten thousand euros. Every week, we play a game of guards versus intruders. We take turns so that we know what it’s like to be on both sides. The guards never know when or how the intruders will strike. In one of our barracks there’s a life-size dummy of a man. If an intruder can reach him, or knock his head off from a distance, or blow up the building he’s in, then that man gets Superintendent Engert’s jackpot. Trust me—we could all do with that cash. But so far, no one’s succeeded.” Derksen sat on the edge of the desk. “The base covers one square mile. It was designed from scratch to protect men who entire countries wish dead. At any one time, we have a minimum of three hundred specialists on duty here, and twice as many can be on duty within one minute of an alert. If your assassin had managed to grow wings and had superpowers that made him invisible, he might be able to penetrate the perimeter of the base. But he’d never be able to reach his target.” The Special Forces officer slapped his hand on the table. “Regardless, I’ll give you want you want, with the exceptions that the maps won’t show this base’s location in Holland and you’re not going to meet the witness.”

  “You have to let me see him . . .”

  “I don’t have to do anything you ask of me! There are extremely strict rules about who can access people under our protection. We never deviate from those rules because we know how to keep people alive.”

  Will felt exasperated. “Anything the witness can tell us about the assassin must be of value to us.”

  Derksen shook his head. “No. It would be a hindrance. The witness’s potential knowledge about Kronos’s past assassinations will naturally skew our thinking toward believing he’ll do something similar to those previous hits. It’s safer if we have a blank canvas and believe that he’s capable of anything.”