The Spy House

by Matthew Dunn

  His handler momentarily lowered his gaze. “As ever—clean. No trail back to us.”

  Michael nodded. “No trail. But I promise you there’ll be no clean. Cochrane will suffer.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Citizens of Rennes were correct to believe that William de Guise was a professor in one of their city’s universities. And their conclusions were right that the Englishman was refined, with good manners and a breadth of knowledge that could captivate an audience. But they had no inkling that he was a criminal, nor that he’d previously served eighteen years in MI6 and had been tipped to one day be the organization’s chief until unproven suspicion fell on him that he’d betrayed his country for a considerable sum of money.

  That money was real, as it turned out, and had not only enabled him to purchase art and antiquities way beyond the budget of an academic, but had also given him the ability to set up a global network of assets. Only a handful of his most trusted employees knew he used the name William de Guise. None of them knew it was false.

  As de Guise sipped a coffee in a café in Mayenne, one of those trusted assets entered the premises and sat opposite him.

  He was a rangy Englishman, forty-five years old, with brown hair, red sideburns, and a sinewy body. He looked stiff, yet he could go without sleep for days while covering hundreds of miles on foot. The man was a hunter, formerly a colonel in Her Majesty’s Royal Dragoon Guards, and during his army career he had broken the world record for the longest confirmed sniper kill. He left the army after shooting one of his own men because the soldier owed him an unpaid gambling debt of five pounds and thirty-four pence.

  De Guise dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I want you to kill a man.”

  “You always do.” Colonel Rowe had jaw muscles that tensed as he spoke, an authoritarian demeanor, and cold eyes that were unflinching and stoic. “Does he have abilities?”

  “No man is bulletproof.”

  “Wounded animals can be painfully aggressive.”

  “Then don’t wound him.” De Guise stirred his coffee. “His name is Will Cochrane.” He gave him the alias Cochrane was using. “Via his passport and credit card usage, I will help you know his movements. He’s currently in America.”

  “Complications?”

  De Guise smiled because Rowe’s question was indicative of his focus and intellect. “Michael Stein. An Israeli assassin. I’ve triggered him to go after Cochrane.”

  “You doubt my abilities?”

  De Guise tapped his spoon against his cup, his eyes fixed on his employee. “No. Stein will push Cochrane to you. I’ve done you a favor.”

  Colonel Rowe asked, “Is this related to the Israeli project?”

  “It is, but that’s all you need to know.”

  “I helped you get the boy out of Gaza. I thought that was all that needed to be done.”

  “Alongside what we did in Paris, it remains the key strategy, and I’m throwing all of my efforts into that. But killing Cochrane is insurance. Also, there’s something else I want you to do. It will require you to travel to the States.” The man who called himself Thales told Rowe what he had in mind. “You might think of it as bloodying Cochrane’s nose before you track him down and kill him.”

  “Understood.” Rowe repeated, “Cochrane’s abilities?”

  “My source says his abilities are superb. That must end.”

  “It will end. You know that.”

  William de Guise drained the last of his coffee. “I do know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting opposite me now.”

  Colonel Rowe nodded. Thales paid his employees handsomely if they did what he ordered. But Thales always judged them on their last task. Thankfully, Rowe’s last mission had been successful. His bullet had struck the center of the heart of the Israeli ambassador in Paris.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Mae Bäcklund entered Admiral Mason’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

  Mason looked up from the piles of reports he was wading through. “I wanted to see both of you. Where’s Tanner?”

  Bäcklund checked her watch. “It’s lunchtime, so I guess he’s taking his run along the Potomac.”

  Mason made no effort to hide his irritation. “We don’t have time to take breaks.” He was silent for a moment before gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. “Still, it matters not.”

  “Is everything okay, Tobias?” Bäcklund blushed and darted a look at the door as she took her seat. “I’m sorry. Admiral.”

  Mason reached across the desk and patted her hand. Quietly, he said, “In here we must stick to the rules.”

  Bäcklund understood that, but lately she’d rarely had moments alone with her godfather. “Are you okay? Eating well? Getting enough rest?”

  Tobias smiled. “I’m fine, my dear. When this is over, perhaps you’d like to invite this old man over for dinner sometime.”

  “I’d love that.” Bäcklund knew the admiral wasn’t okay. He looked tired and drawn. But he thrived on his work, and in here that’s all that mattered. She inhaled deeply and decided this was the moment she had to get something off her chest that had been bothering her for months. “Sir, I find it hard to work with Tanner. He’s so . . . young, full of crap, says whatever he likes, and . . .”

  “Has aspirations way above his station.”

  “I was going to say something like that, yes.”

  The admiral nodded. “I keep him on a leash.”

  “Are you sure? Because sometimes it doesn’t look that way.” She immediately regretted saying that. “I’m sorry. It’s just that half the time I don’t know what Tanner’s doing.”

  “The key thing is that all of the time, I do.”

  Bäcklund frowned.

  “Is something else the matter, Mae?”

  She lowered her head. “I wonder if I’m worthy of my job.”

  “Because you’re thoughtful and don’t run around shooting off whatever thoughts enter your mind?”

  Bäcklund nodded.

  Mason leaned back in his chair. “I’ve always made a point of choosing the people around me with care. General Montgomery did precisely that in the Second World War—handpicked the brightest and the best young officers to work alongside him and make him look good. Montgomery’s press was overrated. He was fallible and vain. But the people around him were world class. It worked for him and it works for me.” Bäcklund was about to interrupt, but the admiral held up his hand. “Your maturity and restraint act as a useful counterweight to the impetuosity of youthful Tanner. Don’t doubt yourself.”

  “Based on what you’ve just said, I could say the same about you.”

  Mason laughed. “Indeed you could!”

  “What will become of you if you fail?”

  “I’ll move on to other things.”

  “Captain . . .” She gritted her teeth; the name she’d used was her most affectionate for Tobias because it had been Mason’s rank when he’d stood by her father’s grave, held her hand, and whispered to her that he’d make sure she was okay.

  Mason could tell she was attempting to control her feelings. “My dear” was all he said, his tone compassionate.

  Bäcklund composed herself. “What did you think of Cochrane?”

  “My first impressions were good; but so were my first impressions of Gibraltar until I stepped onto its dry land.”

  Bäcklund laughed, grateful for the admiral’s quip. “Will you be going to Capitol Hill today?”

  “We’ve all been summoned to a meeting this afternoon. We’re getting a briefing on Israel’s military preparations near its northern border. Word is, Israel’s not ready for an invasion yet, but it’s making darn sure it will be very soon.”

  Part of Bäcklund wished the admiral didn’t have to go there. She knew he hated being thrust into such political environments, and she preferred to recall the pleasure she saw on his face whenever she cooked for him or his armed Secret Service escorts would allow him to take a stroll with her somewhere private. She fe
lt this way because she was protective of him and knew who he truly was. “Do you think Cochrane will find out what happened in Paris and Beirut?”

  “I’m not optimistic.”

  “So why are you pinning your hopes on him?”

  Many times, Mason had asked himself the same thing. “I want to do the right thing.”

  “Even if it produces shit?”

  “Language, Miss Bäcklund!” Mason smiled, the expression in his eyes mischievous. “We must keep our decorum.”

  Bäcklund nodded, pretending to look serious. “Indeed we must, sir.”

  Mason’s gaze drifted away from her until it settled on the window. “I’m in a win-win-lose situation.”

  Bäcklund tried to decipher what he meant. “You’ve made it clear that you’re very uncomfortable with Israel going to war, with or without evidence that Hamas killed the Israeli ambassador. First win is Cochrane finds evidence it wasn’t Hamas who conducted the assassination—that’s going to force our president to tell Israel to back down.”

  “Correct.”

  “Second win is Cochrane comes back empty-handed—that still puts the White House in a difficult position, because it’s going to have to decide whether to support Israel or not.”

  Mason nodded.

  “But the lose scenario for you is that Cochrane gets proof that Hamas deserves to be obliterated.”

  “And that produces an unpredictable military escalation in the Middle East, plus sucks the U.S. into the”—Mason smiled, though he looked sad—“cluster fuck.”

  “Whatever happens won’t be your fault.”

  “Fault and blame don’t factor. What counts is outcome.” Mason rose just as the quaint carriage clock on his desk chimed.

  Bäcklund looked at the timepiece that had once belonged to her father. “Why did you want to see me and Tanner?”

  Mason stared directly at her. “Cochrane will relay what he finds to Patrick in the CIA and me. He trusts us, and in turn that means there are three messengers who will tell it like it is. We speak the truth, however unpalatable. But when the message is passed on, who knows what will happen? Chinese whispers that will subtly corrupt the veracity of the message? Worse, an out-and-out distortion of the message as it makes its way to the top.”

  Bäcklund shook her head. “You are the top; or at least one step removed. There is no chain. You tell the truth to those who matter.”

  “Providing I’m in a position to do so.”

  Bäcklund felt her stomach wrench. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Mason placed a hand on her shoulder. “Some people might want men like me and Patrick dead before we can open our mouths. If they’re successful, I want you and Tanner to speak on my behalf. Become my messengers. And make sure my bodyguards become your bodyguards while you do so.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  This evening, my dear Safa, we are gentlemen about town.” Monsieur de Guise gestured for the boy to sit at the restaurant table, not opposite him, but instead in a seat immediately to the professor’s right. “You are dressed in fine silks that make you look like a young Arab emir. They give you refinement. They are a signal to others that you have wealth, a calm and cool head, and can deport yourself in style despite your surroundings more often than not being inhospitable.” De Guisetook his seat and grabbed a napkin. “I am wearing clothes befitting my status, albeit self-appointed, of seigneur. I wear a cravat because I wish people to know that I have some degree of formality when on an outing, but eschew the less flamboyant attire of a standard tie. My suit and waistcoat are heavy and handcrafted; they are chosen with care to convey to others that I have self-respect and dignity, yet lack vanity. And I carry my cane as a sign of respect to the French soil I tread. My stick is a solid thing, and shows my compatriots that it is not just my shoes that I want to connect to our beloved land.”

  Safa had no idea what the monsieur was talking about. Nor did he know that his guardian was English. As far as he was aware, he was a Frenchman held in high regard by the people of Rennes, and had retired from the United Nations to pursue academia in one of the local universities. Not that he cared to understand Monsieur de Guise right now. He was too excited. He’d seen restaurants since he’d been in France, but this was the first time the professor had allowed him to go to one in person.

  The restaurant was in Fougères, a town approximately twenty miles northeast of Rennes. A chauffeur had brought them here—Monsieur de Guise never drove—and the car and driver were waiting outside to take them home when they’d finished dining. It seemed to Safa that he was an emir. Even when he was a dreamer in Gaza, he could never have anticipated that one day he’d have an evening out like this.

  “You take your napkin, quick—like this, two fingers only per hand, and place it on your lap.”

  Safa grinned as he followed the professor’s instructions.

  “We are now ready to peruse the menu.” He placed a finger on Safa’s leather-bound menu. “I will permit myself a glass of wine. You will have a carafe of water. But aside from those rules, you may eat what you wish. One dish from the starter menu, one from the main. Dig deep into your French sensibilities and choose wisely.”

  Never mind learning English; more often than not, Safa struggled to comprehend what Monsieur de Guise said in French. Still, he was hungry and got the gist of his guardian’s instructions. “May I have mussels to start and duck for the main course?”

  “You may indeed. Such a fine choice, so I, too, will have the same dishes.” He caught the attention of a waiter and gave the man the order. “Safa, how would you like your duck cooked?”

  Safa was confused. “I’d like it cooked.”

  “Of course. But rare, medium, or well done?”

  The waiter interjected. “Monsieur. We only serve the dish pink at most; our chef prefers to present it red.”

  Safa squirmed. “Red? Does he mean with blood?”

  De Guise looked at the waiter. “We’ll have it well done.”

  “But Monsieur, that is not possible! Our chef refuses . . .”

  The professor placed his hand on his cane. “Your chef will do what he’s told.”

  The waiter huffed. “Then you don’t know our chef.”

  De Guise pointed at Safa. “He comes from a part of the world where to eat meat that is anything less than well done would be imprudent. A hot sun breeds deadly bacteria that lie dormant in raw flesh and can only be killed by an oven or stove that cooks the meat through. This young man has survived by taking heed of his culture’s caution when handling and treating carcasses. Are you telling me that you insist my charge changes his attitude about what he can and can’t eat, just because your chef tells him to?”

  The waiter looked unsure how to respond.

  “Your chef is not the proprietor of this establishment. Correct?”

  The waiter nodded.

  “Then tell your proprietor that Monsieur de Guise dines at his restaurant this evening, and his guest would like duck that is served well done.”

  Two minutes later the waiter returned, his face flushed red. “Monsieur de Guise, if I’d known who you were, I’d—”

  “I will have a glass of Muscadet Prestige de l’Hermitage 2009.”

  “We only sell it by the bottle, but . . . yes, yes, a glass.”

  “And the boy will have water.”

  They ate their meal in silence because the professor wanted Safa to appreciate every mouthful of his food. When they finished, de Guise ordered a calvados for himself and a sorbet for Safa. “I will administer your medication when we are home, but tonight we work without the aid of their properties. Tell me what you see.”

  Safa looked around. “I see a restaurant that is full. People. Men and women.”

  “Numbers, dear boy. Give me detail. How many tables? Ratio of men to women?”

  Safa took a moment to count. “Twelve tables. Sixteen women. Fifteen men. Two men and one woman are dining alone. Five of the tables contain more tha
n two people.”

  “Excellent. You’ve given me more detail than I asked for. That means you are thinking ahead and with an inquiring mind. Tell me about the woman who dines alone.”

  “You know her?”

  “I’ve no idea who she is, nor have I ever seen her before. But let’s see if we can establish some information about her.”

  Safa spooned mouthfuls of the sorbet into his mouth while staring at the woman. Her face was in profile and she had no idea she was being watched. “Maybe forty years old, it’s hard to tell. She looks rich. Her hair is nice. Expensive jewelry.”

  “And why does she dine alone?”

  “Perhaps she’s just finished work, or . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Or she was supposed to eat with someone, but that didn’t happen for whatever reason.”

  “Someone? Male or female?”

  Safa tried to get his mind to work faster. “Male, I think.”

  “Why?”

  “The clothes she’s wearing—they seem designed to make her look pretty.”

  “Very good, Safa, though women will often also wish to look their best when meeting female friends. In any case, you are wrong on every front.”

  Disappointment struck the boy. He wondered if he’d have done better with his drugs inside him.

  De Guise took a sip of his calvados. “She is probably nearer to fifty-five, though she hides her age well. Once she was a wealthy lady, but times have been tougher on her financially in recent years. She deliberately chose to dine alone and most likely does so in this restaurant once a year and always on this date.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”

  “I don’t know that for sure, but it is a hypothesis which we can test once we are in possession of further data. Deductive reasoning is what criminologists call the process. But I like to think of it as storytelling. We tell ourselves a plausible story about someone. Over time, that story comes to seem more real, less real, or an out-and-out falsehood. But without the initial story we have nothing.”

  Safa smiled. “I like that. A story. And the information you gave me about her?”