The Spy House

by Matthew Dunn

  Safa rolled up his sleeve. “When will I see the bad people you spoke of?”

  De Guise thrust a needle into Safa’s vein. “In two days’ time. Before then you have quite a journey to make. I have friends who will assist you with your travel and other matters.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “The United States.”

  Safa grinned. “America?”

  De Guise injected Safa and placed an antiseptic swab on the needle hole. “You like America?” he said while preparing the next shot.

  Of course, Safa had never been to the States. But he’d read comics that had featured New York skyscrapers, gangsters, superheroes, corrupt cops, crazy villains, and mountains of readily available food. It seemed to him that America was an anarchic place, yet one that was bountiful and rich. He didn’t know if he liked America, but he was certainly in its thrall.

  He rubbed his arm after the third and final injection was made. He now felt as if he were floating in a warm bath; he thought he could hear singing, maybe angels celebrating Safa’s recovery. The monsieur was bent over adding wood to the fire; his back appeared to grow a hump, and the sight of it made Safa laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” asked de Guise in a jovial tone.

  “You have grown a hump, sir.”

  De Guise spun around and gave a theatrical flourish of his hand. “Like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A man who’s ugly on the outside but has a good soul.” De Guise guided Safa to the center of the room. “Stand here and close your eyes.”

  Safa swayed as he did so, wondering if he might lose balance and collapse.

  “Now, Safa. I’m going to place something on you. It is a jacket, though it is heavier than most. It might feel uncomfortable at first, but don’t be concerned, because you’ll only need to wear it for a short period of time.”

  The jacket was placed on him and it was indeed heavy. His guardian strapped it tightly around his chest and tummy, so tightly that Safa had to exert himself to breathe.

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. My eyes are shut, as you told me they had to be.”

  “Ah, but then you are not using your imagination. Pretend you are in a large crowd. Men, women, maybe even children, are around you. They speak with American accents. You can smell candy, nuts being roasted, burgers and hot dogs. People are shouting slogans. No war, they chant in unison. There are white, black, and Asian skins in the crowd. The people appear peaceful, are united by one purpose, and are walking slowly in the same direction. You join their ranks and walk with them, copying their slogans.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I can see them.”

  “Good. Do you like what you smell?”

  Safa frowned. “I like burgers and candy.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” De Guise was speaking very close to Safa’s ear. “Do you like what you smell?”

  Safa shook his head. “It smells bad. Why does it smell bad?”

  “Because the sugars and fats from the foods are intermingled with the stench of human self-loathing. You smell greasy rot and fear. It comes from the bad people. Everyone around you is bad.”

  “Bad because they do nothing to stop bad things happening?”

  “These people are worse. They are doing something, but it is the wrong something. Make them go away.”

  “How do I do that?”

  De Guise placed an object into Safa’s hand. It was a pen. “To make the bad people go away, you must do two things. First, step a few paces away from the crowd and shout as loud as you can, ‘Death to Israel!’ Second, press the end of the object in your hand.”

  Safa did so.

  “You are now moving faster than everyone around you. They cannot escape you. All of them will suffer.”

  Safa smiled. “I am a superhero?”

  “You are. Open your eyes.”

  Safa did so and looked at the garment the monsieur had placed on him. It was an army vest, with numerous pockets that contained heavy objects.

  De Guise undid the jacket’s straps. “This jacket, or at least one very much like it in appearance and weight, will protect you. It will allow you to walk amid evil and remain invincible. When you are in America, my friends will place the jacket on you and guide you to the location where the bad people live. My friends will tell you what to do.”

  “Will I be hurt?”

  “No. You will have no pain.”

  “Why is the jacket so heavy?”

  “It carries special metals. They make the jacket like armor.”

  “And what happens when I press”—Safa looked at his hand—“the pen?”

  De Guise patted his shoulder. “You’ve heard the expression, the pen is mightier than the sword?”

  Safa nodded. “You once explained it to me. Knowledge and insight are more powerful than strength.”

  “Correct. When you are in America, the pen will be attached to a cord. The cord will be attached to your vest. That way, you can’t drop the pen by accident. When you are standing in the crowd and press the pen, you will be imparting divine wisdom.”

  “Will the bad people thank me for making them not bad?”

  “Yes, they will. But remember—what do you say before you educate them?”

  “‘Death to Israel.’ Why do I say that?”

  De Guise glanced at a side table. On it was today’s copy of Le Monde newspaper. Its lead article was about the U.S. president’s decision to back Israel when it went to war. Much of the content highlighted the divisions within his administration, some supporting the president, others critical of his stance. De Guise needed unequivocal backing for the president’s position, and most important a renewed and unwavering desire from all U.S. policy makers to support the nation of Israel. Safa’s role was to give life to Israel, not death. Americans would think he was a Hamas terrorist. The assassination of Israel’s ambassador to Paris had set de Guise’s objective in motion. Safa would bring it to a successful conclusion by the simple act of detonating a bomb vest and massacring hundreds of peaceful American protesters. Politicians and influential members of the public who previously were against support of Israel’s imminent action, or were sitting on the fence, would be horrified by Hamas’s atrocity and the fact that it had been committed by a boy Hamas had brainwashed. The U.S. president’s decision would receive unanimous support from people who had previously been skeptical of his position. It would be a return to the glory days of a protective uncle putting his arms around a child who’s been attacked from all sides in the school playground.

  De Guise didn’t care one way or the other as to whether that was a good or bad thing. He was paid to manipulate state intentions and policies. What mattered to him was winning the game.

  De Guise removed the jacket. “You tell everyone that Israel must die, because it is not just the act that counts, but also the motivation and mobilization of others who can follow your path. News crews will be watching the crowd. Maybe there will be CCTV cameras. Perhaps pedestrians will be filming the crowds with their cell phones. You will have an audience. Some bad people will survive your education and tell others what happened. It will be a moment in history that will dazzle the world. Before you use the pen, your words will capture the minds of good people and change things forever. It will be a wonderful thing to behold, will it not?”

  Safa smiled. “It will. Your hump has gone.”

  The monsieur wagged his finger. “I don’t mind, so long as you are not implying that I’m now the reverse of the hunchback.”

  Safa didn’t understand. “When do I leave?”

  “My friends will take you in one hour. First, you must pack.”

  “I have no passport.”

  “You didn’t need one to come to France.”

  “Does that mean you have to put me in a box again?”

  “Yes, but like before you’ll be given sleeping tablets and comfortable blankets. The journey will seem quick.”

  Sa
fa placed a hand on Monsieur de Guise’s arm. “Will I see you again?”

  De Guise looked at Safa’s hand and for a moment didn’t know how to respond. He’d enjoyed educating and cooking for the boy. He hadn’t expected that. “I won’t see you again, my dear Safa. Not in this life. But I’ve given you the tools to be a fine young man. There’s nothing else I can do for you.” De Guise brushed the back of his fingers against Safa’s cheek. “For a snapshot of time, you have been a son and a pupil. But there comes a time when all parents and teachers must let go. Godspeed, young man. My final piece of advice to you: America is a harpy. It is beguiling yet corrupt and savage. Don’t look at it, smell it, or taste it. Strike the beautiful beast. Make it hurt.”

  FORTY

  Mason entered his tiny home in D.C. and poured himself a glass of grog—rum, in layman’s terminology; fuel to pacify deckhands and build empires, in the admiral’s mind. He rarely drank liquor, but today had been particularly stressful. The normally unflustered naval officer felt that the failure of his plans had forced the president into making an uninformed decision to back Israel. Perhaps the president had made the right decision, but unless Cochrane could perform a miracle in the next two days, no one would know.

  He entered his living room and turned on the TV news. A reporter was providing the latest news about America’s support for Israel. With solemnity, he added that this new development had been greeted with anger from Hamas. A spokesman for the organization had issued a statement saying that America’s stance was highly regrettable; an Israeli attack on its territories would result in Hamas targeting not only Israel in reprisal, but also America.

  Mason turned off the TV and called Will Cochrane. He avoided pleasantries and went straight into the reason for the call. “We only have two days left. Our country has decided to back Israel. Is there any hope?”

  The former MI6 officer was silent for a few seconds before responding. “I’m pursuing a long shot, but don’t pin your hopes on me succeeding. All I ask is that you do everything you can to ensure that Israel doesn’t act in less than two days.”

  “It won’t. Now it has my country’s support, the timetable is fixed in stone. There’ll be no rash actions before the deadline.” Mason hesitated before asking, “How are you holding up, given—”

  “Don’t ask me. Don’t make me think about it. Not yet.”

  “There’ll come a time when you’ll have no choice but to think about what happened to your friends.”

  “I know. And I’m hoping that time is when I’m standing in front of the man who killed them.” Cochrane ended the call.

  Mason drank the remainder of his rum, deep in thought. The doorbell rang.

  Mae Bäcklund was in the entrance, wearing jeans and a sweater, and holding a plastic container. “I brought you your dinner. Home-cooked chicken chasseur.”

  “Are you taking pity on me?”

  “You don’t need to be in a bad way to eat.”

  “Fair point.” Mason gestured for her to enter his tiny home. “You needn’t have made the effort. I’m fine.”

  “Are you, Captain?” Mae smiled as she stood in the kitchenette and emptied the contents of the container into a saucepan. “Just some rice or potatoes and this’ll do you just fine.”

  Mason poured two glasses of rum and handed Mae a drink. For the most part she hated hard liquor, but rum was different. It reminded her of when she was a teenager—Tobias standing alongside her father in their country home’s big study, huge windows overlooking white-blossom-laden trees and grass-covered grounds that ran on forever and contained ponies and deer, and both men with grog in hand and discussing matters of strategic importance. Sometimes they’d let her listen to them, perhaps so she could learn, and to this day she could recall the scent of birch crackling in the fire, the smell of wood polish that her father used daily on his oak paneling, and the sweet and intoxicating aroma of rum.

  She took a sip of the drink and was instantly taken back in time to a moment when Mason was handsome and her father wasn’t riddled with stage-four cancer.

  “To your dad,” said Mason as he raised his glass. “No quarter given.”

  “No quarter given,” repeated Mae quietly. Her father had told her it was an old naval saying meaning “no surrender.” She took a seat in the living room. “I have plans this evening. A man. His name’s Anthony.”

  “Good for you, my dear.”

  “I haven’t met him before. He’ll probably turn out to be a jerk.”

  “But maybe he won’t.” Mason wondered whether Mae should have fixed an appointment at the hair salon this afternoon, and he dearly hoped she wasn’t going on her date dressed like that. But his paternal role had limitations. It would be imprudent of him to comment on her appearance. Only a mother, sister, or close girlfriend could have done so, and even they would have risked fireworks. He decided to try another tack. He withdrew a wooden box from his cabinet, opened it, and took out a necklace. “Would you do me the honor of wearing this tonight? It was my wife’s good-luck charm.” He laughed. “Or at least I told her it was when I gave it to her on the day we married.”

  At first, Mae was lost for words. The jewelry was antique, contained emeralds and sapphires embedded in white gold, and was sentimentally priceless. “Oh my. I . . . well, I’ll need to get changed and . . .”

  Mason placed the necklace in her hand and folded her fingers over it. “On matters of correct female presentation, you take this old dinosaur out of his area of expertise.”

  Mae’s mind raced as she thought about dress designs, colors, and hairstyles. None of it was for Anthony. It was for the necklace and Mason’s trust in her to wear the item. “Will you get some time to relax this evening?”

  The admiral shook his head. “Alas, I must work.”

  Momentarily, Mae wondered whether she should cancel her date, stay with Tobias, and make him drink more rum so that he could forget his work and worries.

  Mason seemed to have read her mind. “When I was a lieutenant commander, the frigate I was stationed on berthed in Lisbon. Most deckhands, me included, were given a twelve-hour run ashore to unwind before we sailed for Asia. The majority of men headed straight to the bars, but I hadn’t been to Portugal before and wanted to explore Lisbon’s streets. After a few hours, I sat in an alfresco café and drank a coffee. That’s where I saw her.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman who one day would wear the necklace you’re holding.” Mason sat next to Mae. “We started speaking to each other from our respective tables. Her English wasn’t so good, and my Portuguese was merely a bunch of words and phrases I’d picked up from the Hispanic sailors on our ship. But we muddled by. I invited her to my table. We spoke some more until we’d exhausted every word we had in common. We took a walk, and kept walking. Side alleys, back streets, markets, a vineyard, parks, and at one stage a donkey-and-trap ride. Time ran away from us. I overstayed my leave to the extent that my captain sent a search party. Eventually I was found. The captain was sympathetic but said he was governed by navy law and had no choice other than to have me court-martialed. I asked him to consider not doing so, in return for me using my navigational skills to get his frigate to Brunei exactly on time and for him to be my best man if I could swing it to marry the woman who’d made me lose my senses. The captain was—”

  “Yes.” Mae didn’t want the tear to roll down her cheek, but she let it anyway. “You and Dad were always the biggest rule breakers. Goodness knows how the navy tolerated you both.”

  “We were tolerated precisely because we were rule breakers.” Mason placed his hand on Mae’s. “Were the captain not your father, I’d still not regret disobeying clear orders. After all, if I’d followed strict protocols, I wouldn’t have found my wife and we wouldn’t have had two lovely daughters. You go out this evening and enjoy yourself with the young Anthony. Give him a chance and forgive him if his nerves make him come across as awkward and foolish. Walk away if he talks and moves like a movie star.�
�

  “Tonight . . .”

  “I’m not your boss.” Mason adopted a faux stern expression. “But your father entrusted your well-being to my care and counsel, so do as this old sea dog instructs.”

  Mae planted a kiss on Tobias’s cheek. “Bless you, Captain.” She rose to leave, but hesitated. “Tanner’s been absent all afternoon. He left the office at lunchtime and I haven’t heard from him since. Tried calling, but . . .”

  “Mr. Tanner’s use to me is coming to an end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mason didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Cochrane isn’t giving up.”

  “Great to hear.”

  “But he’s not optimistic.”

  Mae was silent.

  “My Beirut initiative failed; deployment of Cochrane looks unlikely to deliver, and in the process, his team has been wiped out. My dear Mae, I owe it to you to speak the truth. Be in no doubt that in forty-eight hours it is probable that I will have to resign.”

  FORTY-ONE

  It was early evening as I walked into Beirut’s northern coastal district of Centre Ville, an area that had been inhabited for thousands of years and had been tastefully rebuilt after most of the district had been destroyed in the Lebanese Civil War. In keeping with its tradition, Centre Ville was a center for politics, finance, business, and culture. Most of its buildings were modern in style, though there were some that had survived the war and were hundreds of years old. I was searching for one such building.

  I walked through the Garden of Forgiveness, a commemoration of the tragedy of war, with exposed ruins from over fifteen civilizations including columns and other ruins belonging to the Roman city of Berytus. The presence of many people around me gave me some comfort; it was unlikely I would be attacked in such a public place by the blond man or the sniper. But I wasn’t complacent, and remained vigilant as I moved away from the garden and into a pedestrian street that mostly comprised antique shops and jewelry stores. One of the shops was different. It was closed, though inside there were lights on. I rang the shop’s doorbell.