by Matthew Dunn
“They’re walking off the ferry. They’re walking down the pier. I see their vehicle waiting for them.”
Will shouted, “Just watch them! No intervention!” He tried to run faster. He stumbled over a pile of snow, fell to the ground, and landed on the shoulder bullet wound he’d received on Medvednica Mountain. He winced in pain, felt a hand grab his jacket, and was hauled back onto his feet. He looked at Laith and continued running. He saw the navy yard to his right. With Roger and Laith, he moved off Chelsea Street and ran across open ground and a parking lot toward his destination. He pulled out his handgun. He sprinted. He heard Julian speak again.
“I see them get into their SUV. I see the vehicle drive away from my position. I see the vehicle drive away from your position. You’re too late. They’re gone.”
Forty-One
“Megiddo’s held his nerve—now it’s our turn to do the same.” Will spoke the words loudly while leaning over a map of Massachusetts. He was in the CIA safe house in Boston’s West End. Patrick and Roger were with him. Will jabbed at the map and looked up at Patrick. “There’s nothing else that can be done right now.”
“There’s nothing that can be done to undo your mistake.” Patrick pointed a finger at Will before thrusting his arms in the air. “She should never have been taken away by them. Megiddo could torture her.”
“I’m aware of that,” Will snapped, running fingers distractedly through his hair. He felt sick with frustration and failure and an all-encompassing fear for Lana’s safety.
“Then you’ll also be aware that if she’s tortured, she’ll reveal our hand and everything will be finished.”
“Is that all you care about?” Will shouted. “What about Lana? Her life? Don’t you care about that?”
“I care about the thousands of lives we might lose if she tells them what we’re doing. She knew the risks in working with us.”
“How could she? How could a woman like her know the real risks in the work we do?”
Patrick paced forward. “There is no excuse for losing her to them.”
Will banged a fist down onto the table before him. “I’m not the first person in this room to lose someone.”
Patrick shook his head quickly. “Don’t throw that at me. You’re deeply mistaken if you think that losing Lana to Megiddo is comparable to Alistair and me not capturing him in the first place.”
“It’s convenient for you to think that way now.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Patrick’s arms flew up in the air again. He spun around to face Will. “It’s not comparable.”
Will felt the anger increase within him. “Why not?”
Patrick spoke in an exasperated tone. “The comparison is flawed because you’ve done something that we could not do. We never had the young Megiddo in our sights. But you’ve managed to bring the older Megiddo, a man who is now the most wanted mastermind on this planet, to within a cat’s whisker of capture.” Once again he pointed at Will. “I’m angry with you because you’ve achieved far more than I or Alistair could manage to do and yet may have thrown it all away at the last moment. I’m angry because you are no longer in total control of events. I’m angry because we are now vulnerable to Megiddo’s view of Lana.”
“We’re not vulnerable.” Roger said the words quietly and calmly while staring out a window. “Megiddo will not torture Lana.”
He had gotten everyone’s undivided attention.
Patrick spoke up eventually, and his tone was tentative. “How can you be so sure?”
Roger shrugged. “All that matters to Megiddo is the successful completion of his mission. He could be suspicious of Lana, but he’ll be equally mindful that she could be telling him the truth. If he tortures her, he’ll lose her cooperation. His priority now is to get Will, and he’s totally reliant on Lana to make that happen.” Roger turned and nodded at Will. “It’s Will he wants to torture.”
Patrick did not move. “I hope you’re right.”
“I know Roger’s right.” Will rose to his full height and moved away from the map. He looked at Patrick. “Lana will call me to arrange a meeting. She knows it’s what I want, and I know it’s what Megiddo wants. We have to hold our nerve.”
Patrick sighed. “We don’t have time to hold our nerve. The other twenty-five men have entered the country.”
It was night now, and Will was alone. He stared at his cell phone. He desperately needed to hear it ring.
He wrapped his arms around his body. He wanted to believe his own words. He wanted to hold his nerve. But he felt helpless and hopeless.
He felt three bullets in his stomach, and he smelled New York grass. He saw Lana open the door of her tiny Parisian home and frown at him. He saw Ewan shake his head and fall down dead onto Bosnian snow. He saw a man who could have been Will or Megiddo holding a knife to Harry’s throat. He stood close but not close enough to a young Lana as she curled into a ball in a Balkan forest while surrounded by rapists, and he saw her look of fear and defiance. He looked over his father as the man he did not know stood on a lonely road near Bandar-e ’Abbās. He watched an old man no longer wish to be haunted by his past. And he witnessed a bomb rip through unknown lives somewhere in the United States.
Everything now seemed pointless, unreal, or inevitable.
He stood and walked across his hotel room and back again and did not know what to do. He heard noises. He looked at his phone. He stopped breathing. He stopped thinking.
Lana was calling him.
Forty-Two
Will stepped out of his hotel shower and regarded his reflection in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. He saw scars, welts, bruising, puncture wounds, and burns. He stood for a moment and then reached for a towel. Then he turned and walked through to the bedroom. He looked at the clothes he had laid out over the bed, and for the third time this evening he checked every pocket and fold of every item. Once he was satisfied that there was nothing compromising within them, he dressed in an Ede & Ravenscroft white French-cuff shirt, silver cuff links, a Chester Barrie navy tie, a bespoke Huntsman blue suit, and a pair of Crockett & Jones black shoes. He examined himself again in a different mirror. With the exception of the darkened bullet groove on the side of his head, he was satisfied that he looked respectable.
He pulled on an overcoat and gloves and walked over to a side table where his wallet, cell phone, and passport waited. He removed cash from the wallet and stuffed it into a pocket, leaving everything else untouched. He glanced at a bedside clock, waited for a few moments, and then left the room.
He walked through the lobby of the five-star Mandarin Oriental hotel before exiting the place to face Washington, D.C. A doorman came to him and asked if he would like a limousine. Will rejected the offer and answered that despite the heavy snowfall over the city, he preferred to walk to his destination. The man politely told Will that he was crazy and then left him alone. Will pulled up his overcoat collar and walked.
He knew that Roger, Laith, Ben, and Julian would be close to him, but he didn’t bother looking for them. He knew that they would be talking to one another, but he had no communications equipment to hear them. He knew that they would be sufficiently armed to compensate for the fact that he carried no weapons.
He walked through the barely populated Seaton Park, past the park’s Smithsonian Institution and National Gallery of Art before heading north on Seventh Street N.W. He arrived at his destination.
He looked at the luxury Hotel Monaco and smiled. To anyone else the elegant, marbled, tastefully illuminated place would no doubt appear welcoming and inviting. But Will knew that the hotel held men who would try to kill him. He stood still for a moment and then walked through the building’s entrance. He approached the concierge, gave his name, and said that he was a guest of Miss Lana Beseisu.
Will rode up four floors until he reached the area containing the hotel’s Majestic Suites. He p
aused by the room he needed to enter. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. After he opened them, he pressed the bell.
Lana stood before him. She looked stunning and showed no signs of being hurt. But her eyes were wet, and her expression clearly showed that she was under strain. She stared down at the floor and muttered, “Nicholas. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Will wanted to step forward and hold her. But he knew he could not. He wanted to ask if she was okay. But he knew that the question had to remain unspoken.
Lana turned and walked back into the suite, which Will knew would contain two bedrooms and be of sufficient size to accommodate up to twenty guests. He followed her along the interior corridor and past a bathroom and a series of closets. He heard a noise behind him.
The blow struck him on the side of his neck and sent him straight down to the floor. Pain shot along his back and arms before settling on the wounds he’d received during the preceding few weeks. He shut his eyes and groaned loudly. He felt someone bind his wrists in plastic handcuffs. He felt arms lift him partially to his feet and walk him quickly forward. He opened his eyes and saw men and the weeping Lana. He heard voices, one of which was shouting, but not at him. He watched as if from outside himself as he was pushed onto a dining chair set in the middle of the lounge area. He looked around quickly and saw four men. One of them walked up to him and punched him on the side of the face. The impact caused both his body and the chair to fall backward. Men moved him upright and then proceeded to wind a rope around his torso so that he was tied tightly to the chair. They checked his pockets and other places but found only the cash he was carrying. They moved away from him. The man who was shouting was looking at Lana. He walked up to her and ushered her into an adjacent bedroom. When he returned, he pulled out a hunting knife and approached Will. He turned and grabbed another dining chair, which he positioned in front of Will before sitting down to face him.
The man looked to be in his midfifties. His black hair was meticulously creamed and styled in place, he was clean-shaven, and he wore an expensive-looking jacket and slacks. He smelled of tobacco and Chanel men’s cologne.
The man’s face had no expression. Will calculated that he spent one minute just looking at his captive. When the man spoke, his voice sounded polished and barely accented. “You can live if you deal with this situation in an intelligent way.”
Will looked at the knife, then back at its wielder. “What is this situation?”
The man smiled a little. “I would have thought a member of MI6 would be able to make a very rapid assessment of what has happened here.”
Will exhaled loudly. “Well, it’s obvious that I’ve been betrayed.”
“Why do you think that has happened?”
Will looked around. The other three men were looking at him but remained mute. Will recognized two of them as members of the Iranian surveillance team. They had silenced pistols resting on their laps. Will looked back at the man who was clearly their superior. “Go to hell.”
The man moved his knife into his other hand. “Misplaced defiance has no purpose here.” He leaned forward and stroked the tip of the knife along Will’s face. “I understand that you are looking for a man.”
Will smiled. “Are you going to help me with my task?”
The man pressed the knife harder so that it cut a path into Will’s face. He moved back to watch a thin thread of blood bloom. “Do you think I am the man you seek?”
“I don’t know.”
“Correct. You do not know.” The man nodded at one of the other men, then turned to look at Will again. “I am led to believe that you have information of value to us. I want that information.”
“I will speak only to the man I seek. If you are he, then you’d better tell me so before I lose interest.”
Will saw one of the men walk slowly around the room and out of his sight. Within moments he felt a cord around his throat. It was then pulled tight so that he could not breathe. Will stared at the seated man before him. He silently counted seconds in his head. At one minute of no breath, he began to feel weak. At two minutes his vision blurred. After three minutes he knew that his body desperately needed oxygen.
The cord slackened, and Will gasped for air while rocking back and forth on the chair. He shook his head and looked at the man before him. Then he smiled. “That was interesting.”
The man waved a hand dismissively. “You may find it so, but I have no interest in brutality.” He withdrew a cigarette from a jacket pocket, carefully lit it, and inhaled smoke. “But I do have an interest in doing my job to the best of my abilities.” He watched Will for a while before saying, “It is important for us both to now discuss the information you have.”
“What information?”
The man nodded at the underling who was clearly still behind Will. The cord was tightened again. Will counted up to four minutes before he saw his legs lash out violently and felt the cord go slack.
“I thought we had lost you then, but it appears you are strong.” The man’s cigarette had burned close to its butt, and he stubbed it out. “Now let’s talk, and this time please do not be obtuse.” He lit another cigarette.
“What do I get in return?” Will’s voice was strained and weak. He coughed several times.
The man smiled. “What would you like in return?”
Will frowned and hoped that he appeared to be considering the question. Instead he was calculating time. He exhaled. “I’d like to walk out of here.”
“I’m sure you would.” The man studied his own manicured fingers. “But that is going to happen only if you talk to me first. And even then you won’t be leaving this place”—he looked around—“until this event has served its purpose.”
“That’s hardly enticement to talk.”
The man sighed and nodded. The cord dug deep into Will’s lacerated throat, and at first the pain from the cut was more severe than the discomfort of the strangulation. Will began counting again. He knew that it would be longer this time, and he also knew that he could not under any circumstances lose consciousness and thus lose track of time. He counted to four minutes and felt his mind grow giddy. He counted to five minutes and felt his whole body shuddering and his legs again convulsing as if in a fit. The man behind him was very strong. Will counted to almost six minutes before he thought he could count no more and that his head might explode. The cord went slack.
Will fell forward and onto the floor. He felt his heart pumping too fast, and he wondered if it would seize and stop. He tried to slow his attempts at breathing, but his oxygen-starved body’s instincts were too strong and made him gasp involuntarily. The act was excruciating. Men sat him upright and forced his head back so that his airway was fully open. A minute passed while he desperately tried to regain control of his body. As soon as his breathing finally slowed, he felt someone push his head aggressively forward. He looked at the man before him.
“I’m doing my job.” The man sucked on his cigarette. “But your job now has no purpose. Only your life should matter to you now.”
Will shook his head.
The man nodded at his strangler.
“No, no.” Will said the words weakly. His head throbbed in agony, and the movement of blood within it was deafening to his ears. “No more.”
“I will decide if there is any more, not you. But what you say next may inform my decision one way or the other.”
Will wheezed for a moment. He knew that, give or take twenty seconds, he’d been in this room for nineteen minutes. He knew that the next minute was crucial. He also knew that he could not allow the men to strangle him again for fear of straying over that time. “There is no information. It was a lie.”
The man narrowed his eyes and then smiled. “Subterfuge won’t work on me.”
Will shook his head quickly. His own eyes were wide. “I lied to Lana. I’ve never
had information about the specifics of Megiddo’s plan. I just wanted her to believe that I did. I just wanted her to lead me to him.” He stopped shaking his head. Sweat poured down his face. “Are you Megiddo? I need to know.”
The man before him tossed the hunting knife from one hand to his other. “You need to know?”
“You’re going to kill me anyway. I need to know.” Will’s head slumped forward as he said the words. But the moment it did, a hand grabbed his hair and pulled at it so that he was again looking at the man.
“You need to know?”
Will coughed again. “I lied to her to get close to Megiddo. Please do me the honor of telling me that I succeeded, before you kill me.”
The man stilled his hands and his knife. He looked around the room, at his men, and then back at Will. “It seems that this truly has been a waste of time. And I will not dishonor myself by closing your life with a lie, even though your lie has caused you to be here. I am not the man you seek. I am not Megiddo. I am his servant.” He chuckled. “You are about to die, but I cannot lie to you and say that you have come close to your quarry.”
The disappointment hit Will with more ferocity than the assaults that had just taken place against him. He had wanted to be here; he had wanted to be tortured to the extent that he appeared vulnerable and fearful for his life; he had wanted the man before him to be convinced that there was nothing lost in declaring his identity to Will. But he had most certainly not wanted to hear that the man wasn’t Megiddo. He breathed deeply and then exhaled. He knew that he had been here for nearly twenty minutes now.
Will shook his head slowly. “You must know of his exact plans?”
The man barked a short laugh. He took a step forward and put the blade of the hunting knife against Will’s forehead. “I’m going to spend the next two hours working on you. I will find out for sure if MI6 really has no information about what my master is doing here. You will tell me the truth simply to stop the pain. And when that happens, I will allow you to die.”