by Matthew Dunn
“Whoever you are, get out of my house!” Lana was standing.
Will did not move. His speech was sharp. “Whoever I am or am not, I am most certainly someone who can change your life for the worse. So I suggest you sit back down.”
Lana seemed to hesitate. She then reseated herself and picked up her cigarette with a shaking hand. “What do you want?”
Will leaned closer to her. “I need to know if you are still in contact with the Iranians. I need to know if you are still in contact with the Qods Force man.”
Lana stubbed out her cigarette, and a tear slid down her cheek. “Who are you?” she repeated.
Will leaned farther forward. “I work for MI6. And I will not leave this house until you tell me what I need to know.”
Lana shook her head, and tears were now freely spilling from both eyes. “Please don’t do this.”
Will made his voice stern. “Lana, look at me.”
She wiped the back of a hand against her face.
“I am a British intelligence officer. I have no desire to hurt you or get you in trouble. That’s not why I’m here. But you will clearly understand the implications of being a past or present Iranian spy who has a British passport. We call people like that traitors, so unless you help me, the alternative is prison. And the French authorities will not stand in our way to obtain such justice.” Will’s voice was now loud. “Are you still in contact with the Qods Force man or any of his friends?”
Lana shook her head vigorously. “No. No.”
“Anyone from Iran?”
“Nobody.” She was sobbing now.
“We can check. If we ask the French security services to analyze your phone calls over the last year or so and they find just one number dialed to Iran, you realize that all will be lost for you?”
“Then check!” Lana spat the words.
“Prison is not my objective—it does not serve my purpose in any way. I have another reason for needing to know if you are in contact with the Qods Force man.” Will leaned even closer. “Let me put this bluntly. If you are still in contact with the man or his colleagues, I can save you from prison. If not, then you are of no use to me and I will throw you to the British judicial system.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve never spied on Britain. All I did was try to help stop some Bosnian Serb fanatics from being given carte blanche to commit genocide.”
“Very touching. But you were still a covert employee of an enemy of the West. And who knows what else would come out at a trial? What actions your Qods Force man may have taken based upon the secrets you fed him? Maybe you helped stop genocide, but maybe you wittingly or unwittingly helped fuel it. A British trial will be supported by United Nations evidence. They will no doubt be able, fairly or otherwise, to pin any number of atrocities on you.”
Lana dropped her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. “I understand, I understand, but I’ve not had any contact with him since 1995. And I’ve never had contact with his colleagues or anyone else from Iran.”
“Prove it to me.”
“Oh, come on!” Lana sounded exasperated. “How?”
Will leaned back in his chair and considered. He decided that for the moment he had been hard enough on her. Quietly, he said, “Tell me more about your time in Bosnia.”
Lana stared at him for a while and then pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with deliberation. She inhaled deeply and then spoke in a thin voice. “After I graduated from university, I took a job as a freelance journalist with the Düsseldorf-based media outlet you mentioned. They sent me to Sarajevo in 1991 to cover Bosnia and Herzegovina’s impending referendum for independence from Yugoslavia. Shortly after my arrival, all hell broke out in the Balkans, and one of my colleagues in Sarajevo was killed. Düsseldorf then lost its nerve and decided to cover the conflict from Germany.” Lana shrugged. “And I was therefore without work.”
“That’s when you were approached?”
“Not immediately.” She took another draw on her cigarette. “It was another two months before that happened. After I lost my job, I kept myself occupied helping in any way that I could: getting food parcels to the city from the airport, working in shelters, doing basic first aid—anything, really. They were terrible times. And then”—she studied the burning embers of her cigarette before returning her gaze to Will—“then he introduced himself to me.”
“His name?”
Lana shook her head slowly. “I never found out his name.”
“Age?”
“He was then in his late twenties.”
“Why did you agree to work with him?”
Lana’s smile faded, and she looked down at her feet. “The first time I met him, I was working in a makeshift hospital trying to care for victims of bombs and sniper bullets. He came up to me and told me that he worked for a special unit in the Iranian army. He told me that Bosnian Muslims were being slaughtered throughout the country and beyond. He told me that he’d been sent to Bosnia to try to help stop that from happening. He said he needed my help.”
“Why you?”
Lana slowly turned her gaze back up toward Will. “Maybe because I am a Muslim. Maybe because I looked young and impressionable. Maybe because he had few other options available to him.”
“Or maybe because you still had a media identity pass, which in theory offered you a bit of protection when traveling?”
Lana said nothing.
“What did you do for him?”
She coughed. “Initially it was mapmaking. Establishing secret routes in and out of the city, finding small ways to breach the siege. Then, after a few months and when the maps were ready, he started using me to take cash to the Muslim paramilitary groups beyond Sarajevo so that they could buy armaments, food, clothing, and medicine. I would make the journeys, then come back and report anything he needed to know, and then he would send me on new journeys. I did that for nearly four years.”
Will was silent for a moment and then said quietly, “Extremely dangerous work. If you had been caught on one of those trips, you could have been raped, tortured, and executed.”
“I know.” Lana’s face had grown stoical. Her tears had ceased.
Will tapped his fingers on a knee before bringing them to a stop. “Tell me about the man.”
Lana extinguished her cigarette and then immediately lit another. “I worked out recently that over the four-year period I saw him on fourteen occasions, and then only for a few hours or less at a time. It was only during the last three meetings that we became”—she shifted slightly in her chair—“better acquainted.”
“That’s still fourteen meetings. What can you tell me about them?”
Lana frowned. “To start with, he seemed inexperienced and headstrong, but nevertheless very clever. Toward the end of the war, though, he seemed totally in control of his work. In some ways he had also grown cold and extremely calculating. And it became clear to me that this unit he worked for, the Qods Force, was in some way testing him, encouraging him to prove himself to them.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“He said to me once that he was the only Qods Force officer in the Balkans, that there were others from his unit but they were merely foot soldiers, that Bosnia was just an overseas school for him. He said that if he could demonstrate sufficient promise in the former Yugoslavia, his masters had significant plans for him beyond the war.”
“What plans?”
Lana raised her palms. “I’ll never know. Because NATO joined the war in 1995 and fighting ended almost overnight. He disappeared, and I’ve not heard from or seen him since.”
Will exhaled deeply. He glanced away toward the far side of the room and began tapping his fingers again. He looked back at Lana. “It benefits me to believe you.”
Lana breathed heavily. “I’m glad. I have told you
the truth.”
Will held up a palm. “I told you that it benefited me to believe you, not that I do believe you—or certainly not that I believe you have told me the entire truth.” Will patted his hand against the breast pocket holding his notebook. “For example, when the war ended, why would you then fly to Rome and present yourself to the British embassy there? Why would you plead to them that you had information about the Iranians’ intentions to use their experience from the wars in Yugoslavia to strike Western targets and Arabian Gulf targets? Why would a noble heroine, who was concerned only about saving Muslim lives during the war, ask the embassy to pay her money in exchange for the information she claimed she had, information that was inconsistent and clearly fabricated?”
Lana sighed. “I was desperate.”
“That is certainly possible. There are also a number of other possibilities. One such is that you felt rejected by your former agent handler, the Qods Force officer who was also your lover. You wanted revenge against him and therefore concocted some rubbish about Iranian terrorist plans. You did so purely out of spite.”
“I was fucking desperate and alone.” Lana stood suddenly, and her chair fell backward. “Even though he would never deign to give me his name, I still shared my bed with the man. And then one day he was gone and I was penniless. Yes, I asked your embassy for money, and when they turned me away with a sneer, I did not stop there.” Lana’s voice had grown loud and frenzied. “I got on the next available flight to Abu Dhabi. I told the Emiratis a similar story. You know what they did?”
Will said nothing. As he was listening to her words, he was also rapidly processing and calculating the implications of what she was saying. He was starting to feel a sense of optimism about Harry’s lead.
“They put me in a prison in their desert for forty days and beat me because they, too, said I was lying.” Lana kicked the prone chair away and then took a step closer to Will. “I’ll show you, Nicholas Cree.”
She swung her arms up to remove her sweater. She wore nothing beneath it. Her upper body showed multiple old scars, each at least six inches long. She turned, and he could see that her back was covered with more of the same.
Will sprang up and grabbed her sweater, which he held out to her. He said softly, “Here, get dressed. There was no need to show me your wounds.”
Lana frowned at him, and fresh tears emerged. She pulled on her sweater with shaking hands and said, “Bamboo canes. And they did worse than that. My back teeth and toenails were removed with pliers. I was drowned and then revived at least five times.”
For the briefest of moments, Will wanted to hold her, to comfort her and tell her she would never suffer like that again. But he knew he had to continue to appear threatening. It was a part of his job he detested. He nodded and sat back down. “And I bet that during that horrible forty-day period your anger against your former lover must have intensified significantly.”
Lana sat and lit herself yet another cigarette. She seemed to be calming down. “I tried to tell myself that my anger was futile. I tried to tell myself that he must have been killed by the Serbs or maybe captured by the UN or NATO.”
“Either is a strong possibility.”
She shook her head and smiled. “I was merely fooling myself. He took my maps. He got out of the country alive. I’m certain.”
Will sat quietly for a moment. Then he said, “How do you feel about this man now?”
Lana waved a hand dismissively. “I was a young girl then, full of energy and purpose. But since the end of the war and my experience in Abu Dhabi, I’ve spent the rest of my life feeling hollow and frightened. I’m approaching middle age now, and all I have to show for my life is four years of doing the right thing in Sarajevo. But even that”—she raised a finger toward Will—“was discarded by him. He used me for what he needed, cast me aside, and sullied the only good memory I have.” She looked around her and then directly at Will. “How do I feel? I feel that he has stolen my life.”
Will nodded slowly. He kept his eyes locked on Lana. When he next spoke, it was with a firm and deliberate voice. “I can give you your life back.”
She frowned. “How?”
He rose from his chair and picked up his overcoat, then turned and looked down at Lana. “I’m going to try to lure him out into the open. And when he’s there, you can watch me steal his life.”
Ten
Sixty minutes later Will was in a taxi heading back to Charles de Gaulle International Airport. He took out his medication and popped pills into his mouth. He then realized that today was the first day he’d been without pain; his body was starting to feel strong and confident again. He reached into another pocket and pulled out Ewan’s cell phone. He knew that MI6’s European Controllerate would conduct a full analysis of all data within the phone, but right now he needed only one number. He found it and dialed.
On the fourth ring, a man answered. “Ewan, I was just thinking about you. Let’s meet soon. But nothing serious this time—just a few drinks.”
The man’s voice belonged to Harry, and he sounded jocular.
“Harry, this is Charles Reed. I’m with Ewan right now, and he’s lent me his phone to speak to you.”
“Ah, Charles. The messenger boy who does not like small talk. What can I do for you?”
Will smiled a little. “Ewan thought we had a good meeting last night. So did I. Listen, there have been some positive developments since we met, and I wondered if we could get together again . . . just so I can run some ideas by you?”
There was a pause before Harry spoke. “Sure. Is Ewan going to join us?”
“Normally he would, but on this occasion it will just be me, I’m afraid.”
“Okay.” Harry sounded unfazed. “There’s one thing, though. After our meeting I had to dash straight off and catch a flight to Munich. I had some business problems to attend to in Germany. I thought I’d be back in Bosnia tonight, but it looks like I might be stuck here for a couple of days. Can our meeting wait?”
Will thought for a moment and then said, “It’s probably best that we meet sooner rather than later. I can be with you by early evening.”
“Great.” Harry sounded very upbeat. “It means that this old man will have some company tonight. Meet me at my hotel room in the Königshof—it will be a bit more private. Say seven P.M.?”
“Done.” Will closed the cell phone and looked out the taxi window beside him. His car was pulling up at the airport. He checked his watch. He had just enough time to get his luggage out of storage and buy a business-class Lufthansa ticket for the early-afternoon flight.
Will walked through the grand lobby area of Munich’s finest five-star hotel and approached the concierge. He gave the name Charles Reed and said that he was expected by Harry Solberg, a guest of the hotel. The concierge checked a computer screen, nodded, and gave Will a room number and directions to see Harry.
Within two minutes Will was standing outside Harry’s room. He pulled out the purchase he’d made at a small shop on Rosenheimer Strasse during his journey from Munich’s airport to this hotel. He cupped the purchase in his left hand so that it was held flush against the back of his forearm, out of sight. He pressed the door’s buzzer.
“Charles, good to see you.” Harry was dressed in cream slacks and a pale pink shirt. He looked energized and extended a hand, which Will shook. He grinned, baring his white teeth. “Come and have a look at my room. It’s incredible.”
Will followed Harry into the room graded superior by the hotel. It was clear that Harry was a man of means who sought luxury. The place was as big as a reasonably large apartment.
“What do you think?” Harry stood with his back to Will, his arms outstretched.
Will stepped forward rapidly. He punched a knee into the small of Harry’s back and swept a leg around the man’s ankles, throwing his right arm around his throat. Harry fell to his knees.
Will brought his left hand up before Harry’s face. He placed the tip of the German hunting knife against Harry’s right eye. He said nothing, holding the man in his frozen grip.
Harry remained absolutely still. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
Will did not reply.
“What have I done wrong?” Harry wheezed the words.
Will did not answer.
“What have I done wrong?” Harry repeated.
Will brought his mouth close to Harry’s ear. “Who else knew about our meeting last night?”
“If you mean did I tell anyone else that I was meeting you and Ewan, then the answer is no, I did not.”
“A lover? A business associate? Anyone?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody knew.” Will tightened his grip. “Because after you left, a professional shot my colleague dead.”
“Ewan’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Harry wheezed again. “Mr. Reed, I’ve had to live my entire life being suspicious of people, and that includes people who might think they are friends or colleagues of mine. I would never have let slip to anyone that I was going to the Inat Kuća restaurant, let alone that I was meeting members of British Intelligence there. I have far too much to lose by being careless.”
“Someone could have followed you.”
“Could have, yes, but to what end? In any case, someone could have followed Ewan. Or you, for that matter.”
“We’re trained to spot surveillance. You’re not.”
“I thought you said Ewan was killed by a professional.”
Will moved his mouth away from Harry’s ear. He thought for a moment and leaned in again. “You were officially retired from service to MI6 over fifteen years ago. Why did you reapproach us after all of that time?”
Harry said nothing, and Will heard him breathe in deeply before exhaling.
“It is not a difficult question.” Will slightly adjusted his hold on the hunting knife while keeping its tip exactly in place against Harry’s eye.
Harry breathed again. “I know. But now that you have posed the question, I realize that my response will sound foolish.”