by Matthew Dunn
Will was about to respond but stopped. What Derksen was saying made sense. “Who is the witness?”
“Nice try, but I know you’re not permitted to know that information until we move him from here.” The Dutchman’s expression softened. “No doubt, I’d be a complete amateur trying to do the things you do in the field. At the same time, I suspect you’ve never spent every waking second of months on end trying to establish how someone”—he waved his hand around—“could break into one of the world’s highest-security facilities.”
Will nodded. He’d never spent months on end in one place, let alone somewhere like this. He lowered his head, deep in thought. More to himself, he asked, “What the hell is Kronos going to try to do?”
“When protecting a high-value target, the greatest point of vulnerability is if he’s being transferred from one place to another.”
Will looked up. “You think he’ll attack him during the trip north?”
Derksen shrugged. “Maybe, if he’s got access to a jet fighter or a sophisticated long-range heat-seeking military surface-to-air missile system.” He smiled. “But on the basis that he hasn’t got those things, I believe that we’re safe. Most of the flight will be at twenty thousand feet. It will take off and land in our secure facilities. We can’t be reached.”
Will glanced at Mikhail, then the Dutch commander. “The only remaining possibility is that the assassination attempt will be made at the hearing itself.”
Derksen nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Are you worried about that?”
“No. It is impossible to kill a man there. Every inch of land, air space, and subterranean space around the courts is protected.”
Frustration coursed through Will. Though he would analyze all the security around the witness, he could tell that Kapitein Derksen was a no-nonsense professional who knew exactly what he was talking about. Part of him wished that weren’t the case. Kronos would attack a crack in Derksen’s security and that’s where they’d get him. But Will was convinced that there were no cracks. His phone bleeped; he had a message from Mark.
No chance for chit-chat with Rübner. Israelis got to him first, right under our noses. We’ve released mother and daughter. Rübner’s dead.
Will kicked one of the metal chairs and spat, “What the fuck is happening?”
Forty-Eight
Kronos was motionless as he stared at the complex through night-vision binoculars. He’d been observing the place for two hours, watching vehicles move back and forth, men and women at work, establishing patterns of behavior. Dressed in blue overalls and boots, he looked like many of the people he could see, though he hadn’t really needed to adopt the disguise. He’d easily infiltrate the low-security base and reach his goal without being seen.
But he couldn’t take any chances.
He’d wait in his hidden location for at least another two hours, while observing everything beyond the high-wire fence that separated him and the complex. Then he’d complete his final task.
Five hours later, Kronos stripped out of his clothes and tossed them onto the bed. The big German stretched his muscular and scarred frame, and sighed as he heard the headboard in the adjacent hotel room begin to bang against his wall, just as it had done an hour earlier. He supposed he couldn’t complain—the seedy Amsterdam hotel was a favorite venue for prostitutes and their customers. That’s why he’d chosen it; the hotel employees turned a blind eye to everything.
He started running a bath and opened the case containing the stripped-down sniper rifle. After his bath, he’d spend two hours checking the weapon and making preparations. Then he’d leave the hotel and hit the road. There was still a lot of work to do before sunrise.
He felt calm and in control of matters, and knew that this was because he’d spent nearly two decades planning the potential assassination of one of the men who’d attended the disused barracks in Berlin. Every possibility had been considered—an assault in the States, Russia, Europe, elsewhere; urban, rural, mobile, or static. He’d cultivated assets who could get him things at short notice and thereby allow him to enter and exit countries with nothing compromising on his person. He walked to the window and stared at the city. The Hague was less than two hours away.
Kronos smiled.
He’d considered and planned for every possibility, including killing a man in a maximum-security courtroom.
Forty-Nine
Will called Roger. “They’re flying the package north tomorrow at fifteen hundred hours. I’ve conducted an independent security assessment. There’s no way into the base, no way the hostile can get to him.”
Roger was silent for five seconds. “There’s always a way.”
“I know, but we cannot identify what it could be. Trust me—I’ve never seen a more secure facility that’s run by experts as good as these people. There’s no bullshit with these guys; they’re as desperate as I am to find out how their security could be breached.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“I need you and the rest of the men here. Tell Suzy to head back to Langley to speak to Patrick about Rhodes and the F-word boys in the Agency. Patrick and Suzy mustn’t do anything yet, though. I want to deal with those bastards in person.”
“Damn right. But just make sure I’m there with you when it happens. Are the Dutch happy for us to join you?”
Will glanced along the barracks. Mikhail and Derksen were the only other people in the long barracks; they were talking to each other and out of earshot of Will’s call. “Not really. But they’ve agreed we can accompany them on the flight providing we stick to their protocols in the event of an attack—they protect the target, we engage the hostile.”
“They’ll provide hardware?”
“I’ve got that sorted. They’ve got an armory here that I think would make even your old unit blush with envy.”
“Okay. We can land this evening. How do we get to you?”
Will smiled. “Just wait at the airport. They’ll take care of everything else. But a word of warning—don’t fall for the pretty woman’s charms.”
Sarah stopped on the Isle of Wight coastal footpath and looked down the cliff toward the sea. She was wearing corduroy trousers, mountain boots, and a thick Aran sweater underneath an oilskin coat.
As she turned to Betty, a sea breeze blew her hair away from her face. “James and I have decided to move out of London. Our law firm has been very good about things. They think my illness and absence from work has been related to the stress of London life. For the last twelve months, they’ve been considering opening a branch in Edinburgh, and they’ve just asked us to be partners of the office.”
Betty thrust her hands into her tweed jacket and nodded approvingly. “It’ll do you both a world of good. Will you live in the city?”
“No. The great thing about Edinburgh is that it’s surrounded by countryside. We’ll get a place there, commute in.” She lowered her head. “A new life.”
“You’ll have to tell Will. He’ll miss you.”
“He never saw us in London,” Sarah huffed. “Alfie said my brother might die soon.”
“Sometimes my husband talks nonsense. Just ignore him.”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?”
“Your brother is one of Churchill’s rough men. People like that are hard to kill.”
Sarah frowned.
“Winston Churchill’s quote: ‘People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.’ ”
“Well, you can add my father into that category of men. A knife killed him.”
Betty wondered how to respond, because she knew that Alfie and Sarah were right. She breathed in deeply and said with a strident voice, “Come on, petal. We’d better get back to the men before they start killing each other again.”
Roger, Mark, Lait
h, and Adam looked mad as hell. They’d just been brought to the base and were now standing in one of the barracks. Will and Mikhail were with them, as were some members of the DSI. Like all parts of the base, the long rectangular room had been stripped of all but the most essential of furnishings.
“Five hours to get here!” Laith shook his head, his deep southern voice booming. “I didn’t know Holland was big enough for anywhere to be five hours away.”
Kapitein Derksen laughed. “I think you’re mistaking Holland for Luxembourg.”
“Well, there’s no mistaking the pain behind my eyes.” The ex-Delta operative took a step toward Derksen, and for a moment it looked like he might swing a punch at the man. “Next time you’re in the States, make sure you look me up so I can stick a bag over your head and take you for a nice spin in the trunk of my old Chevy.”
“William.” Superintendent Engert was leaning over a large table covered with maps and other paperwork.
Will moved to her side.
Pointing at a map, she said in a clipped tone, “At thirteen hundred hours, the witness will be moved to this holding pen here. At thirteen thirty hours, the aircraft will land here. It will taxi to this hangar, where it will be searched thoroughly. At the same time, the whole base will be on alert. My men will be in predetermined positions.”
Will stared at the map. “What kind of plane are you using?”
“G-IV-SP.”
“Civilian carrier?”
Engert nodded. “They’re capable of transatlantic flights, but we need it because we want high altitude for part of the flight, plus it can carry fourteen passengers.”
“Threat during takeoff?”
The police commander checked her watch. “Some of my men are already in position.” She prodded her finger against several locations around the base runway and outside the perimeter. “Snipers, assault teams, dogs, plus we’ve got thermal imagery in all the right places, backed up by Claymores and other land mines. The teams will be there until the plane’s high enough to be out of range of a land-based attack. And before you ask, we’ve refined this type of exfiltration over a thousand drills to the point it’s impossible for anyone to get close enough to put a SAM lock on the craft.”
“I presume it’ll be the same for landing in The Hague?”
“Yes, we’re taking no chances.”
Will’s team and Mikhail were now standing around the table, listening to Engert’s briefing.
Roger asked, “Where’s the witness being held now?”
Engert didn’t look up. “In his villa.”
“Villa?”
She smiled. “It’s what we call it, though in reality it’s a fortress within a fortress within a fortress. But he hasn’t been complaining. The rooms are more luxurious than a five-star hotel.” She drummed her fingers and stood upright. “When you land in The Hague, I’ll be there to take over security of the northern base.”
Mikhail asked, “You won’t be traveling with us?”
Engert shook her head and pointed at Derksen. “We take turns escorting high-value targets, but we never travel together. If we both got wiped out in an attack, it would leave too big a hole in the team.” She grinned. “We’re a bit like a royal family in that respect.” Her smile vanished. “Understand this: if an attack is made at any point before the witness takes the stand, my men will use maximum force to fend off the attack. Their sole priority will be protecting the witness. Don’t get in our way.”
Fifty
Will and his men had been given rooms in the base and had been told by Engert that they should get their heads down as there was nothing they could do now until morning. But as he sat on the edge of his military camp bed, Will had no thoughts of sleep. He was tense and felt that everything was out of his control. Ordinarily, he’d take a walk through the base and get some night air to try to clear his head, but the base was on lockdown and in any case Will and his team were highly restricted as to where they were allowed to go. He banged a fist against the bed, frustrated and helpless.
Roger knocked on his open door and leaned against the frame. The CIA officer looked irritated. “Laith’s driving me nuts. Guy’s pacing up and down the corridor like a caged animal.”
“I know how he feels.”
“Yeah, we all do.” The American rubbed a hand over his face. “When I was looking to leave the SEALs, I got approached by the Secret Service, who said they’d be very interested in having someone with my skill set on board. I turned ’em down in a flash, said there was no way I could spend a career protecting folk and just waiting for something unexpected to happen. I opted for SOG instead because they’re the ones who go out and do stuff.”
Will completely understood. In the field, people like him were the hunters, the ones who had power and autonomy, who could define the unexpected. But now that role belonged to Kronos—Will and his team were in reactive mode. He didn’t know how Engert, Derksen, and the rest of DSI coped with the stress of this existence. “What happens if we fail?”
Roger shrugged. “We go home, grab a beer, then wait for the next mission.”
Will was silent.
The CIA officer smiled. “You can’t comprehend that, can you?”
“What?”
“Failure.”
“I can easily comprehend it; everything I’ve done so far has been a failure.”
Roger frowned, shook his head. “This all started with a single sheet of paper going missing. Most people thought you were crazy to pursue this operation, given we had no idea what was on the paper and had zero leads. Look what you’ve achieved to bring us this far.”
Will smiled. “I’ve brought us to a situation of going stir crazy in a Dutch high-security military base.”
Roger burst out laughing. “Yeah, you’ve done just that.” His laugh receded. “We’re keeping well away from Mikhail.”
“Good. Don’t speak to him without me being present.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“What do you think?”
“Yeah, dumb question.”
“I’m the one who feels dumb right now.” Will stood. “Come on. Let’s get the team together. Texas Hold’em poker. Fifteen dollars big blind. If nothing else, it means one of us will fly out of this base tomorrow with something to show for being here.”
Fifty-One
Joanna surveyed Will’s London home with pride and satisfaction. All of the boxes had been unpacked and removed; the West Square apartment was perfect. She looked at the dining room table and tried to picture Will sitting there, eating a meal with a woman, laughing with her. To her surprise, the image came naturally and the event seemed possible. She imagined them retiring to the other end of the living room, Will placing one of his Segovia records on the Garrard turntable, lighting a fire, pouring her a calvados, and sitting next to her on the Edwardian sofa. What would they talk about? Perhaps music, if they had that in common. Or maybe Will would try to impress her with his past exploits in MI6 and the Legion. No, he would never share those memories with someone he liked. He could capture her interest with his knowledge of London and its secrets, knowledge gained from his many walks through the capital’s streets and alleys, though he’d need to omit telling her all the dark secrets. And he could enthrall her by describing the beauty that he’d seen during his overseas travels: Indian mists revealing glimpses of palaces and placid lakes in Rajasthan; shooting stars racing through a blue diamond-encrusted night sky above southern Chile’s archipelago; fishermen and their trained cormorants drifting in tiny boats in the azure lakes of the Jiuzhaigou Valley; and candles being lit across Myanmar’s plain of a thousand pagodas. He’d taken time to see these and a multitude of other stunning places, even though he’d been there to kill men.
Joanna rubbed her arthritic hips as she walked into the kitchen. Robert was in there, frying bacon. “Darling, the post will be here in a
minute.”
Her husband was wearing a chef’s apron that Joanna had bought for Will’s return home. On it were the words WILLY THE KITCHEN WIZARD. “Right you are, old girl. You want ketchup in your sandwich?”
“No. And I don’t want you putting any in yours, either.”
Robert huffed. “Bloody doctor’s orders are going to see me die early of boredom.”
They heard whistling in the stairwell outside the front door. The postman. Robert turned off the pan, grabbed his pump-action shotgun, and nodded at Joanna.
Two minutes later, Joanna’s hand was shaking as she held the letter and reread it to make sure that her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
Dear Joanna and Robert,
Have you enjoyed your stay at Will Cochrane’s house? I’m sure he’ll be very grateful that you’ve spent so much time unpacking his items and making his home look tasteful. I particularly like how you’ve combined the Louis XV lacquer and ormolu commode with the set of Venetian trespoli and the pair of eighteenth-century Guangzhou imperial dress swords. Like me, Mr. Cochrane has a good eye for antiquities, though his tastes are too eclectic. I commend you for achieving the near-impossible task of arranging his collection within one home.
I’m writing to let you know that you don’t need to remain in his house any longer. This will be the last letter I send. I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Mrs. Rübner has contacted me in what can only be described as a state of hysteria. To my disgust, I learned that British and American men kidnapped her and her daughter in order to try to get to me. I had wondered if Mr. Cochrane had given up chasing me; it appears that has not been the case. There is no excuse for what he did to Mrs. Rübner and her daughter, though I’m grateful he released them unharmed. But I cannot forgive him for killing Mrs. Rübner’s husband, a man who was also a trusted and valuable employee of mine. That action was deplorable.