Spycatcher

by Matthew Dunn

Megiddo smiled, but the look was very bitter. He seemed to think for a long time. “Well, that matters not now. Even though it would have been perfect if I could have taken revenge against my father’s murderer by killing his family, just as he killed mine.” He seemed to be tasting his own anger. “It would have been perfect.” He breathed deeply, and the anger seemed to go. “But it appears that my presence here has been pointless.”

  Will frowned. “You may not be facing the son of your father’s killer. But you came here for another reason as well. You came here to make me the audience for your masterpiece.”

  Megiddo looked hesitant. “Yes . . . yes, that as well.” He looked away for a brief moment and shook his head. “Everything changed for me when I lost my father.”

  “As it did for me.”

  The two men locked gazes.

  Then Megiddo’s expression steeled, and he spoke in a deep, harsh voice. “And so here we both are, men who excel at things because we have nothing in our lives to give us peace, men who are very alike.”

  Will steeled his own gaze. “You wish to kill millions of people and cause mayhem and the destruction of borders to gain power and control over the Middle East. We are not alike. You are a monster. And I am here to kill you.”

  “And I you.”

  The room was silent and dark.

  Will knew that no more words would be spoken. He knew that now was the time to finally settle matters with Megiddo. He studied Megiddo’s eyes and saw how cold they looked, he heard the man’s breathing slow down, he felt his presence and his strength. He knew that the man was watching him just as closely, looking for any indication that Will would raise his gun just as Will was looking for such signs from him. Will used his breath to steady his body and prepare to move his gun with absolute speed and accuracy. He decided to take three more breaths of air before holding his breath to shoot. He desperately wanted to see any signal from Megiddo that would tell him the man was going to move first—a flicker of his eyes, a change of expression, an adjustment of his stance, anything. But Megiddo was motionless. Will breathed. He saw Megiddo do the same. Will took another lungful of air. So did Megiddo. Will took his third breath. Megiddo stopped breathing.

  Will knew that was the sign. Megiddo was about to raise his gun and shoot him.

  For one second nothing happened.

  In the next second everything began and ended.

  Megiddo moved his gun with lightning speed. Will moved his arm upward, pulled his trigger, and dropped his body slightly lower. He heard his gunshot and Megiddo’s gunshot simultaneously. He felt a rush of air over his head. He saw Megiddo’s mouth open slightly and knew that Megiddo had missed his target.

  He watched his bullet strike Megiddo in the center of his head.

  Fifty-Two

  Will ran south down Broadway. He ran past groups of pedestrians, he ran between moving cars, he ran as snow began falling gently from the sky, he ran in a nighttime that was brightly illuminated by the city’s lights.

  He checked his watch and cursed the crowds and traffic. He cursed everything that was slowing his attempt to get to the Metropolitan Opera House. What was the fastest way south? He knew a subway could work, but he could also be waiting on a platform—and he had no stomach for that. He knew his only hope was finding a cab.

  As he ran, he wondered what he should do. He knew that under other circumstances the correct thing for him to do would be to call Patrick and instruct the man to get the FBI Critical Incident Response Group to take over what was now a federal police matter. It would secure the area around the opera house, and it would have drills and procedures to evacuate the building while simultaneously searching for terrorists and bombs. But Will was unsure if that was the right thing to do, because he was sure something was wrong. Something had been said by Megiddo that did not sound right. He knew what it was.

  I will make you my audience.

  He sprinted across an intersection blocked with traffic, still keeping his eye out for a southbound cab. And he desperately tried to think. He knew that Megiddo was not the type of man who needed an audience. He knew that the man had told him about his plan for another reason. But he could not grasp what that reason was. He wondered whether Megiddo had simply fed him another lie and had bombs planted at a different location. He concluded that made no sense at this stage, as Megiddo would have forced Lana to confess everything, including the fact that Will did not really have information that could thwart his plot. He wondered if Megiddo had wanted his plot foiled and maybe even had a desire to stop the death of the children and wives and, ultimately, millions of others. But he recalled the look of death in Megiddo’s eyes and knew that the man had no intention of stopping his attack.

  He cursed, then saw a cab turning onto Broadway half a block ahead and knew he had to catch it. Another sprint later, he caught it as it slowed down at a stoplight. He jumped in and told the driver “Lincoln Center. As fast as you can.”

  He kept thinking, trying to outthink Megiddo, reminding himself that the man was a mastermind, telling himself that the man did everything for a reason, would have left nothing to chance, and would have thought through every possible potential outcome.

  Megiddo told me about his plan because he knew that if I killed him, I would take action to stop the bombs from detonating at 9:00 P.M. He wanted me to be in the opera house or, if not, close to it when bombs went off. He wanted me to suffer, because he thought I was the son of his father’s killer. But I am not. And that was why he finally concluded that his presence in the hotel room was pointless.

  He knew he was right. And he also knew that even though Megiddo was dead, he was still outsmarting him.

  Why was Megiddo so confident that he would succeed no matter what I did?

  He closed his eyes for a moment as the answer banged into his brain.

  Megiddo has a bomber in the building. That man took Lana into the building earlier in the day and is watching over her. That man is there to detonate the bombs ahead of 9:00 P.M. if I or the FBI tries to evacuate the building. The man is prepared to die by his own hand.

  He opened his eyes, saw the city racing past him, and he felt hopeless.

  Traffic and sidewalk crowds were growing as they got closer. He checked his watch and saw that it was just after 7:30 P.M. The concert would begin in less than thirty minutes. Bombs would destroy the place in less than ninety minutes.

  The cab slowed as traffic became heavier. Will looked around. He could see glimpses of trees beyond two blocks to the east. They belonged to Central Park. He would never think of that place and not think of Soroush. Every place in New York now reminded him of Soroush.

  He forced the recollection out of his mind to focus on what was happening here.

  By the time the cab got to Sixty-Ninth Street, it was bumper to bumper traffic, so he threw some cash at the driver and got out to run the rest of the way. He dodged pedestrians for several more blocks, then stopped to get his bearings, bent over, and sucked in a lungful of air. When he stood up, a bus pulled away from the curb and revealed the massive glass-fronted Alice Tully Hall and the Juilliard School right in front of him, only one more block to the south. He knew the Metropolitan Opera House would be just beyond, slightly to the west.

  When he made it to Lincoln Center Plaza, crowds of people were outside the front of the Met, and it was clear that they were there for the concert. Most were children, and they were being marshaled into groups by supervising adults wearing different-colored fluorescent jackets bearing the names of various schools or clubs. Everyone was dressed in coats and other warm clothes as protection from the cold and snow, and some held umbrellas. Gradually the crowds were organized into long, snaking lines that curled across the open plaza and around the brightly illuminated fountains. The supervisors moved back and forth, barking instructions at the children, and they were no doubt anxious to get their wards out of the cold and in
to the building as quickly as possible. Will slowed to a walk and moved among the crowds. He felt his hidden Heckler & Koch MK23 brush against his hip bone as he did so.

  He stopped and knew that he needed to make a decision, even if it was the wrong one. He decided the FBI could not be involved because its arrival here would be too visible, that he had to enter the building covertly and alone, hope that he was not seen by the bomber, and finish this one way or the other.

  He moved close to the building’s entrances and saw members of the opera house’s staff standing by them. He turned and looked back at the crowds. He saw five lines of children and their supervisors, and he saw a sixth line that contained only adults. He looked away from the lines that led to the house’s entrances and examined adults who were not part of any lines. Many were clearly parents of the children standing in the lines, waving and calling to their sons and daughters. A small number were media types and were taking photographs or using video cameras or holding microphones. Some seemed to be passing tourists or New Yorkers who were taking in the evening spectacle. Some looked like parents or media types or passing tourists or random New Yorkers, but Will’s trained eye could see that they were none of those things. He saw one of them, then another, then counted six of them before deciding that there were nine of them spaced out in the plaza area before the building. They were not wearing their trademark and recognizable black suits and lapel pins but instead were dressed like anyone else in this weather. They were Secret Service and were clearly here because of all the VIPs. And they were clearly positioned among the crowds to search for bad people or people like Will.

  Will looked around in frustration. He was in danger of appearing out of place and therefore being identified by one of the Secret Service men or women. They would have no hesitation in trying to put him on the ground with guns pointed at him for simply looking as though he shouldn’t be there. They were trained to be some of the quickest and deadliest shooters in the world, although he knew he would be quicker and deadlier than all of them put together. But if a confrontation ensued, the bomber might be warned that something was happening.

  He walked casually away from the plaza so that he was looking down one side of the opera house. Police were gathered there, and they stood alongside barricades that stopped pedestrians from getting too close to the building. Will swore under his breath, although he had expected all but the main entrances to be sealed off and protected. He moved to the other side of the building and saw more barricades and more police and also more Secret Service men and women. He stood for a while watching them. He stood as one limousine, two unmarked cars, and four police vehicles pulled up to the side of the building. He saw doors open and men exit and stand by their stationary vehicles as a group of four indistinguishable women walked quickly from the limousine into the opera house. He watched the cavalcade move off quickly. Within an additional ten minutes, three more cavalcades came and went after offloading three more women. Will walked back to the front of the house, knowing that the premiers’ wives were now in the building.

  The lines were moving forward, and Will estimated that at least half of the crowd was now inside. He checked his watch again and saw that the concert was due to start in minutes. He heard the staff members by the entrances call to their crowds to keep moving forward, saw the children’s supervisors liaise with them while holding clusters of tickets and sheets of paper, and watched uniformed police officers walking slowly through the crowds.

  He knew that he was running out of time and options. He felt his handgun press hard against his body, and he decided he had to get rid of the weapon. He looked around, saw a garbage can, walked to it, and quickly dropped the gun and spare bullet clips inside. He walked slowly back to the center of the plaza and looked at the line containing only adults. There were approximately three hundred people in the line. Most of them were couples and therefore of no use to him, as he knew that they were most likely parents of either child performers or spectators and therefore would never give up their space in the line. But a handful of them were solitary adults, and Will looked up and down the line at them. He wasted no time in moving toward the line.

  He approached a man who looked to be in his midthirties. “Do you have a ticket?”

  The man frowned at Will and no doubt briefly wondered whether he was an official before deciding he was not. “Of course. Why?”

  Will shrugged and nodded toward the opera house. “My daughter’s playing in there tonight.” He shook his head. “I only found out two days ago. My ex-wife didn’t feel like telling me. I would do anything to see her perform, but I know the event’s sold out. Would you sell me your ticket?”

  The man looked sympathetic. “Tough break. But I’m here with the New York Times to write a review of the concert, so unless that’s something you could do in my absence, I’m going to have to decline your request.”

  Will nodded, thanked the man anyway, and moved farther up the line. He spotted a woman and gave her the same story. The woman told him to get lost.

  He walked up to a man who looked to be in his sixties and was clearly suffering from the cold, with his arms wrapped around his torso. Will said, “Cold night.”

  The man said, “Damn right.”

  Will said, “My daughter’s playing in there tonight. I’m sure she’d love to see me in the audience. Could I buy your ticket?”

  The man said, “My granddaughter’s playing in there tonight. That’s why I’ve spent forty minutes out here freezing my ass off, and I’m not about to move an inch away from this line.”

  Will felt frustration coursing through him as he again looked up and down the line. He spotted a solitary adult toward the front and walked over to him. The man was very young, maybe only twenty, and was dressed like a student. Will said, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your ticket.”

  The man looked at him in surprise. “A thousand dollars?”

  Will nodded.

  The man frowned, looked unsure, then repeated, “A thousand dollars?”

  Will spoke in a stern voice. “In ten seconds you can walk away from this line with that cash in your pocket. But if you don’t want it, I’m sure someone else here does.”

  The young man shook his head quickly and thrust his hand into his coat pocket. “Here.” He showed Will his ticket.

  Will put his hand into his suit pocket, pulled out the plastic envelope that he knew contained just over two thousand dollars, looked at it, and said, “It’s a bit more than I told you. Take it and go.”

  They exchanged the ticket and the cash, and Will joined the line. The young man walked quickly away.

  Will was approximately ten meters from the opera house’s entrance. He pulled up the collar of his suit jacket and stamped his feet on the ground while hugging his chest to try to make him look cold to any observers. Officials kept calling, telling people to move forward. Nearly all the children were in the building now, and the plaza area was no longer crowded. Will casually looked around the place. The nine Secret Service men and women had all moved position but were still on the plaza. He looked toward the entrance and saw glimpses of the inside of the building. He saw people in his line move through a metal detector and felt huge relief that he had disposed of his weapon.

  As people entered the building, Will shuffled forward until he was five meters from the entrance. He turned a little to look back up the line. His eyes narrowed as he saw the woman whom he had earlier approached take two steps away from the line and talk to a police officer. She was about forty meters from Will, looked up and down the line, shrugged her shoulders, and stepped back into the line. The police officer spoke on his radio. Will immediately fixed his eyes on one of the plainclothes Secret Service men. The man was very still for a moment before walking quickly toward one of his colleagues. Will’s heart beat faster. He knew that the woman had reported his approach to her as suspicious and that all security officials in the vic
inity of the opera house would now be aware of that approach. He turned to face the entrance and shuffled forward a couple of yards.

  There were three people in front of him now. Will pulled out his ticket and breathed carefully to calm himself. The ticket attendant by the door looked stressed and grabbed tickets with one hand while waving people through the doorway with the other. Will took a step forward as the three people in front of him became two. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a police officer walking slowly along the line, examining every man and woman standing behind Will. He looked away from the line and saw that four of the Secret Service people had moved closer to the line. He willed the line to move more quickly. The two people in front of him became one, and Will stamped his feet to make himself look colder. The man in front of him handed his ticket to the attendant and walked in.

  Will took a deep breath and smiled as he handed his ticket to the official. He exhaled slowly as he stepped into the opera house.

  He moved through the metal detector, stopped, calmly looked at the officials who were monitoring the detector, saw them nod at him, and then walked on. He moved quickly, knowing that other attendees who were not yet seated were doing the same. He glanced at his ticket, saw that he was supposed to be seated on one of the balcony aisles and that he would need to walk up the sweeping red-carpeted stairway to reach his place. But he had no intention of going there and instead walked onward at ground level, scouring doors to his left and right. People were all around him, and some seemed to know where they were going and some not. He moved forward and wished that he’d had time to study the layout of the huge building he was in. But he was grateful that he was not the only one who didn’t know the layout, and for a while he hid among the ranks of the lost.

  He moved along a corridor until he was away from other people and door entrances to the auditorium. He moved on until he was alone. He reached a door that said NO ADMITTANCE, STAFF ONLY. He looked back down the corridor. Nobody was looking at him. He swiveled back to face the door, turned the handle, opened it, and walked through. Narrow stairs were immediately ahead of him. He walked quickly down them until he knew he was in a part of the building that was below stage level. A slender corridor was before him, with other corridors leading away from it to its left and right. Everywhere was dimly illuminated. A corridor on his right was lined with lockers that he imagined were used by performers, as was another corridor on his left. He kept walking.