Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (26 page)
T
ibor entered the windowless room in CIA headquarters, sat down, and spoke to his Flintlock colleagues. “It’s over. Cochrane’s given up trying to find Yevtushenko.”
Damien slapped a hand onto the table. “Excellent!”
“Did the source say anything else?” Lawrence made no effort to hide his feelings of relief and joy.
“Only that Cochrane’s been deployed on another mission; that his attempts to locate Yevtushenko were deemed a failure.” Tibor smiled. “But reading between the lines, I think Cochrane’s superiors have given him an almighty kicking.”
Marcus chuckled. “Oh well. We didn’t get him killed, but hopefully we’ve screwed his career.”
The operatives were silent for a while. All of them felt as if a weight had been lifted off them.
Lawrence was the first to break the silence. “Gentlemen, we must be more careful in the future.”
“No shit.” Tibor straightened his silk tie. “Yesterday I bumped into the Director of Intelligence. He said that Patrick had been sniffing around the Rübner case. He’d sent him packing, but he asked me if there was anything about the Rübner case that he should know about. I told the DI that Rübner had probably lost his nerve and had done a runner, that there was nothing more to it than that. I added that Patrick was an interfering busybody who was probably trying to dig up old cases because he had fuck-all else to do right now. The DI seemed happy with that. Plus, when I got him talking about our North Korean destabilization operation, it was clear that Rübner was completely off his mind.”
The mention of Patrick unsettled Tibor’s colleagues. Though Flintlock was privy to most of the CIA’s secrets, they’d never been told what Patrick’s place was within the organization. Tibor was right to describe him in the way he’d done, because that was exactly how Patrick would be perceived by others in the Agency. But it was only recently that they’d learned from Peter Rhodes that Patrick was the cohead of the task force that Cochrane and Rhodes belonged to.
Lawrence asked, “You’re sure the director got him to back off?”
“Yep. Thank God the DI’s a rulebook guy. Patrick doesn’t have clearance to the Rübner case and his intelligence, so the DI tells him to mind his own business.”
Lawrence was reassured by this. Because they were the DI’s chosen ones, they all knew that he would crucify them if he ever found out the truth about Yevtushenko and Rübner.
Tibor stated, “Our priorities now are our other operations: North Korea, getting the bomb into the delegation’s building in Dar es Salaam, turning the Asian cells against each other, feeding more disinformation to the Saudis, and further positioning France against Germany.”
Damien frowned. “It would’ve been good to know who got Yevtushenko out of Russia and why.”
Tibor disagreed. “It will be for some low-level, chickenshit reason. Fuck Yevtushenko, fuck Rübner, fuck Cochrane. We’ve got big boys’ stuff to get on with.”
K
ronos cupped his hand under the center of the rifle, lifted the weapon a few inches, and nodded approvingly. “Perfect balance.”
Leaning against a bench, a bespectacled gunsmith used a cloth to rub oil from his hands. Around him, the basement workshop contained more benches on all sides containing anvils, tools, manuals, electronic scales, spot lamps, magnifying glasses, a blowtorch, and gun parts. The middle-aged Dutchman pointed at the gun. “I modified parts from a German DSR-50 sniper rifle. It was a devil of a job. The customized magazine added an extra three pounds to the rear end.”
Kronos removed the clip and looked at the large bullets. “How many?”
“Twenty per clip, as you requested.”
Kronos slammed the magazine back into the weapon and raised it to eye level. “You’re sure it won’t need zeroing on site?”
“Absolutely. Once you’ve zeroed it at a range, the weapon can be transported and will be accurate when you need it to be. The case will help protect it, but even so you’d need to give the gun a fairly hard knock to put it out of alignment with the scope. I’ve spent hours ensuring the assembled parts are perfectly married.”
“Excellent. Faults?”
The gunsmith frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What faults does it have?”
“I can assure you that there are none.”
Kronos smiled. “Every make of weapon has its own idiosyncrasies. Including”—he glanced at the man—“those made by specialists.”
The Dutchman sighed. “I’ve tried to minimize recoil as much as I could, but you’ll need a firm grip, because it still kicks like a mule. Plus, I can’t suppress the sound any further without reducing projectile velocity. You’ll be heard from over fifty yards away. Other than that”—he ran a finger along the full length of the barrel—“this is the best rifle I’ve ever made.”
“Good. Neither fault presents me with a problem.” Kronos rested the weapon on a table and expertly stripped it down, placing the parts into foam inlets within a rectangular case. He withdrew an envelope containing fifty thousand euros and thrust it toward the gunsmith.
The man hesitated. “I’ll need another ten thousand. It took me much longer than I thought to complete the work.”
Kronos slowly shook his head. “There was no deal to pay you by the hour.”
“Nevertheless, I think I deserve . . .”
Kronos slammed the case shut and turned to face the gunsmith, towering over the man. “Consider this: I know your name, your place of work, your home address, your favorite restaurant, the pub where you like to have an occasional glass of Grolsch, your children’s school, and a hundred other facts about you and your family. A further ten thousand euros will severely antagonize me. Do you think the extra hours you worked are worth that situation?”
The Dutchman’s face paled and his eyes widened. “I . . .” He grabbed the envelope. “Please . . . please, forget what I said.”
Kronos smiled, slid the case inside a canvas bag, and held out his hand. “Good. And now you can forget what
I
said.”
With a sweaty palm, the gunsmith shook his hand. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for making such an excellent weapon.” Kronos’s expression turned cold and he gripped the gunsmith’s hand very tightly, causing him to wince. “A man in your delicate line of work needs his fingers. Never give me cause to come back here”—he nodded toward the blowtorch and anvils—“to remove them.”
W
ill called Patrick and updated him on recent developments. “The court’s lawyers are adamant that their security around the witness is watertight. They’re keeping him in a military installation in the south of the Netherlands. In two days’ time, he’s going to be flown north to another secure facility in The Hague. At all times, he’s going to have a ring of steel around him.”
“You threatened the court’s president and chief prosecutor?”
“I had to. Time’s running out.”
“It’ll run out for you if you keep behaving this way.”
Will ignored the comment. “Once I persuaded them that their witness is under severe threat, they began to cooperate with me to some extent. But they won’t give me access to the witness unless they have written authorization from your president and my prime minister, confirming my credentials and that I am acting with their backing.”
“Shit. That’s a big ask, since I’m not entirely sure you have their backing.”
“Can you arrange the authorization?”
The CIA officer was silent for a few seconds before answering, “I can try.”
“Also, they’ve asked the Russian premier to gain identical authorities for SVR officer Mikhail Salkov.” He told him about the court president’s terms.
When he spoke, Patrick’s tone was deliberate and incredulous. “Cooperating with the Russians? This could turn into a cluster fuck.”
“I know!” Will felt frustration. “Right now, the last thing I need is to work alongside an SVR spycatcher.”
“Sounds like you’ve got no choice. In any case, from what you’ve said, there’s no way the assassin can get to the target.”
Will agreed. The Dutch security teams that protected witnesses appearing at The Hague were second to none. “I can’t work it out. No matter how good the assassin is, by all accounts he’ll fail. But I need to make my own security assessment by analyzing the setup around the witness.”
Patrick sighed. “Okay.” He paused. “How’s your loved one?”
Mention of Sarah made Will feel even more anxious. “She’s had to move locations. There was a severe threat at the previous site. I’m getting regular updates.”
“Are you holding up?”
Will wondered how the cohead would react if he told him the truth—that he was mentally and physically exhausted, was living in constant fear that he’d receive a call from Betty saying that they’d failed, didn’t know if it was the right decision to ally with the Russian spycatcher, had no idea how he was going to look Alina in the eye and tell her that he’d broken his promise to bring Lenka home, and so far had failed to get closer to Schreiber and Kronos.
“I’m fine.”
K
ronos hauled the long canvas bag onto his shoulder, slammed the car trunk shut, and strode over the grass-covered undulating ground that ran along the Dutch coastline. The land around him was deserted, and light was fading, though easily visible ahead of him was the North Sea—dark and agitated, waves pounding against the sandy shore.
Wind and rain buffeted Kronos as he moved along the coast, walking for thirty minutes until he reached an area where the ground was flatter. He placed the canvas bag on the ground, unzipped it, and removed a hammer, a nail, and a wooden board, over which was stapled a paper target. Walking to one end of the flatland, he hammered the target onto a tree, retreated twenty-five paces, and used the heel of his boot to scuff a line in the ground. Returning to the bag, he withdrew a shopping bag containing food scraps and the rectangular case containing the components of the hand-built rifle. He assembled the weapon, attached the sound suppressor, and inserted a magazine containing twenty NATO rounds. Moving to the place where he’d scuffed the ground, he lowered the gun’s bipod, lay down, and glanced around to ensure there were no passersby. Taking aim at the center of the target, he fired three bullets. All struck a half-inch-square area of the target, a fraction to the right of the bull’s-eye. He made adjustments to the scope and fired three more times. Each bullet hit the center of the target.
Satisfied the weapon was zeroed, he got to his feet and scattered the contents of the shopping bag onto the ground. Holding the rifle with one hand and grabbing the canvas sack with the other, he walked out of the flat area and began jogging over rougher ground. It took him seven minutes to reach an elevated position, one mile away from the flat area. He lowered himself to prone position, looked through the rifle’s sight, and located the piles of food scraps. Nothing was there yet, but he knew it wouldn’t take long—in winter, there was little to eat out here.
He waited, motionless, his finger on the trigger.
Just as he’d done in Budapest, Helsinki, Prague, Tehran, Ankara, Casablanca, Nicosia, Lagos, Phnom Penh, Kuching, and in a desert during the First Gulf War when the dying Soviet Union couldn’t be seen to support its Iraqi ally but secretly had vested interests to ensure the United States didn’t push into Baghdad. Then, he’d had a U.S. general in his sites, waiting to pull the trigger if his tank battalion moved a few feet nearer to the Iraqi city. But under orders to withdraw, the general turned around and in doing so unwittingly saved his life.
Movement.
A seagull flew into the flat area and walked toward the food. Then another. Then five more. The birds stopped by the scraps, looked around, and lowered their heads to feed. Kronos moved the sight’s crosshairs so that they were over the center of the body of one of the birds.
He fired seven rounds in three seconds. All of the birds exploded.
M
ark Oates stared down the empty street on the outskirts of Germany’s eastern city of Leipzig and wondered what it would be like to live in one of the five-bedroom detached houses that lined the tastefully landscaped, tree-lined street or drive one of the Porsches or Mercedes that littered the driveways. When she was alive, his wife would have loved the opportunity to raise their two daughters in houses with this much space; instead she’d had to do the job in a two-bedroom row house close to the SBS base. Lowering the car window to let in some of the icy early-morning air, he glanced at Laith and said, “When my first daughter was born, the Royal Marines very
kindly
gave me four weeks’ leave so that I could bond with her and
cherish
every moment of her first days in the world. Fuckin’ hell—selection into the SBS was a walk in the park compared to what I had to do. No sleep, constant fear and paranoia, shit and piss everywhere, more kit in the house than a squadron would take to war, a wife who was in a state of either ecstasy or deepest depression, sterilizing everything, feeding, clearing up vomit, burping the baby, praying for her to sleep, and, when not doing any of all that, shuffling around the house while heavily hallucinating. The marines offered me the same amount of leave when my second was born. Instead, I volunteered for deployment behind enemy lines in Iraq.”
Roger’s voice came over his earpiece. “I’ve got twins. You should have seen me in my place during the first few weeks of them being born.”
Laith was flicking through the book on pregnancy that Will had bought Suzy. “My ex was in labor for ten hours. I don’t think she could’ve been in more pain if someone put red hot pokers in her eyes for that length of time.” He snapped the book shut. “Tell you what: all that resistance to torture stuff they teach us—reckon we’d be better off talking to women who’ve given birth, find out how they do it.”
Suzy’s voice came over the air. “Guys, I can hear all this crap.”
Mark smiled. “Sorry, love.”
Laith added, “Yeah, sorry.”
“Damn!” Roger sounded irritated. “None of us thought about a twin situation for the sweepstakes.”
“I did.” Suzy was speaking from her hotel room. “If it’s twins, I scoop all the cash.”
“I think you’ll need it if that’s the case.” Mark kept his eyes on the road, and his smile vanished. “Let’s hope today’s third time lucky.”
During the last forty-eight hours, they’d pursued leads in Bremen and Cologne, both of which had proven fruitless. Suzy had been working nonstop to find Rübner’s wife and daughter. Using the approximate dates she suspected Rübner left America and moved to Europe, she’d ascertained from Germany’s BfV that the Rübner family had legally entered Germany, though they couldn’t be sure if the family was still in the country. She’d gained access to and analyzed a vast amount of data, including school enrollment records, new car owner registrations, car rentals, gym and library memberships, cell phone purchases, and rented and purchased property agreements.
Mark said, “Getting locals coming out to play on the street. It’s rise-and-shine time.”
Roger instantly responded. “Same in our location.” Roger and Adam were stationary in a van in an adjacent road.
“Still a bit early for a school run.”
“Give it another hour.”
“Still not comfortable doing this.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
W
ill and Mikhail strode through southern Holland’s Eindhoven Airport. Three seconds after powering up his cell phone, Will saw that he had four messages: one welcoming him to use of a Dutch roaming phone service, another from Betty saying that they were now by the coast and that Sarah was cooking them sea bass for dinner and seemed to be coming out of her shell, a third from Patrick asking him to call, and the last from Roger saying that his team were about to do a take down on a woman and daughter who they were 80 percent sure were Rübner’s family.
He called Patrick. “Yeah?”
“The written authorizations have been faxed to The Hague. Alistair and I had to pull some almighty strings and favors to get it done. Our premiers are very twitchy about the Russian angle.”
“So am I.” He glanced at Mikhail, felt uneasy being alongside the Russian. “Moscow’s faxed its authority.”
“I was kinda hoping they wouldn’t.”
“What are we supposed to do now?”
“Wait at the airport.”
“Wait?”
“Yep. They’ll find you and take you to the base where the witness is being held.”
Will snapped the phone shut and looked around. He repeated to himself, “Wait.”
R
oger spoke. “Woman and teenage female exit the house. Woman’s holding car keys. SUV’s lights flash. They’re thirty yards from vehicle. No one else around. Intercept now, now, now!”
Mark gunned his vehicle and drove it at high speed down the street, steered it right onto a smaller road, then right again onto the residential street containing the targets. Laith opened his passenger door, yanked on the seat belt to lock it in place, and gripped it as he stood half out of the speeding car. Ahead of them were the woman and teenager. Beyond the couple Roger and Adam’s black van was reversing fast toward them. Laith braced himself and shouted to Mark, “Stop!”
Mark slammed on the brakes, and as the vehicle slowed Laith jumped onto the road and raced toward the targets. Simultaneously, Adam jumped out of the back of the van, grabbed the woman, and dragged her fast into the vehicle. The teenager was about to scream, but Laith approached her from behind, placed his big hand over her mouth, muttered, “Best not to,” and forced her ahead, pushing her next to her mother. Laith shut the van’s rear doors, then jogged back down the road as Roger drove off in the van.
Mark overtook them, driving along several streets before coming to a halt and jumping out. He began walking toward the mother and daughter’s home. Under his jacket, he had a handgun, two spare magazines, and a military knife.
As Roger drove the van through the suburbs of the city, Adam sat cross-legged in the rear and stared at the mother and daughter. They were hugging each other, sobbing, looking terrified. The Scotsman asked in German, “You speak English, French, or Russian?”
The mother nodded. “English.”
The former SAS operative smiled. “Good. My German’s pretty rusty and I don’t speak Hebrew. Mind you, quite a few Englishmen tell me they can’t understand me when I speak English.”
“What do you want?”
Adam clasped his hands together. Like his colleagues, he had weapons concealed on him, though he wasn’t going to withdraw them unless it was absolutely necessary to do so. “We’re not going to kill you or rape you. And providing you cooperate with us, we’re going to release you as soon as we can.” He held out his hand. “One or both of you will have a cell phone containing Simon’s number.”
The mother responded angrily, “I left my phone at home.”
Adam was unflustered. “Did you now?” He moved his hand toward the girl. “Let’s hope you didn’t.”
Tears were running down the teenager’s face, and she was shaking. “I don’t have any money. Not here.” She glanced imploringly at her mother. “Have you got money for them?”
“I don’t want your money!” Adam kept his arm outstretched. “Just your phone.”
With a trembling hand, the girl reached into her school blazer pocket and withdrew a pink cell. She quickly passed it to him, then grabbed her mother with both arms and pulled her close.
The mother spat, “If you do anything to her, I’ll kill you!”
“That’s fair enough.” Adam flicked open the phone, scrolled through its address book, and found a number under the name
Papa
. He pointed the screen at the girl. “Simon Rübner? Your father?”
The mother interjected, “What do you want with him?”
“Just a word. We need to find his boss.”
“He works alone.”
“No, he doesn’t. He works for a guy called Kurt Schreiber. You know him?”
The mother looked venomous, said nothing.
“Aye, I think you do. He pays for yer fancy lifestyle. Bet you’ve got a lot of vested interests in Schreiber keeping yer old man on his payroll.”
“Go to hell!”
“One day I will. When did you last see your husband?”
The mother looked hesitant, then opened her mouth to speak.
But Adam spoke first. “If you lie to me, it’ll go bad for all of you.”
Fresh tears emerged onto the mother’s face. “He’s not at home. He’s been away for a few weeks. Work.”
Adam returned his attention to the daughter, moving the cell phone screen to within inches of her face. “Rübner. Yes, or no?”
“Yes . . . yes. What . . .” The girl started crying loudly. “What . . . what are you going to do to Papa?”
“That depends on him. Do you SMS him?”
The daughter nodded.
“Good. Hebrew or German?”
“German. Papa insists on it, so I improve my language skills.”
Adam looked at the phone, scrolled through a couple of messages she’d sent to her father, and saw that she was telling the truth. “How do you refer to your mother when talking to him?”
The girl looked confused.
Adam barked over the sound of the van’s engine, “What do you call her? Mummy? Mum? Mother?”
“Mumie.”
Adam leaned forward. “You sure? ’Cos if you’re trying to warn off your papa by speaking to him in the wrong way, then”—he gestured around him—“this’ll be your home for a long time.”
The daughter whimpered, “Muma.”
“That’s better.” He tossed the phone onto the daughter’s lap. “Write him a message. But don’t send it until I’ve read it. Message will read:
Emergency. Muma ill. Heading home now. Phone running out of battery.
”
The girl steadied herself as the van took a corner, then began typing the message. She held the phone out.
Adam took it and read out the message.
Roger, a fluent German speaker, called out, “That’ll do.”
Adam pressed Send, pulled the phone apart, and removed its battery. Discarding the pieces, he said, “Now, you ladies need to sit tight until Papa gets home.”
A
pretty woman, holding a clipboard and wearing a matching blue suit with the words
EINDHOVEN AIRPORT STAFF
on the jacket, approached Will and Mikhail at the airport café. With a smile on her face, she asked in English, “Mr. Cope and Mr. Klyuev?”
Mikhail answered, “Yes.”
“I’ve been told to collect you. May I see your passports?”
They presented them to her.
Her smile broadened. “Please bring your bags and come with me.”
She led them past restaurants and throngs of commuters, through a door marked
AIRPORT STAFF ONLY,
down corridors, out a door, along the edge of a taxiing runway, and into an aircraft hanger. There were no planes in the building. Instead it contained eight men all wearing jeans, boots, bomber jackets, and baseball caps, and beyond them two SUVs.
The woman’s smile vanished as she turned to Will and Mikhail. “I’m Superintendent Engert, police.” She pointed at one of the men. “My second in command is Kapitein Derksen, Unit Interventie Mariniers. We’re from DSI.”
The Dienst Speciale Interventies, or Special Intervention Service, was an elite law enforcement unit formed in 2006 to protect Dutch society from the threats of terrorism. Experts in dealing with complex situations such as hostage taking and aircraft hijacking, the unit comprised superbly trained police snipers and Special Forces personnel from the UIM, a force comparable to DEVGRU and U.K. SBS.
“We’ll take you to the base where the witness is being held.” Engert turned to Derksen. “Do it exactly as I ordered it to be done.” She returned her attention to the two intelligence officers. “You’re on Dutch territory, are answerable to Dutch laws, and right now are under Dutch command. My men are going to place hoods over you and they won’t come off until you’re inside the base. Don’t bother trying to use time to calculate the approximate distance between here and there, because they’re going to take a messy route to confuse you. If you try anything silly, they have my authority to knock you unconscious.” All trace of the welcoming expression was gone; instead she stared at them with an icy and professional air of command. “In short, don’t try to fuck with us.”
L
aith had been lying in the same position for six hours, hidden in a cluster of trees within a small stretch of parkland, using binoculars to watch the street containing Rübner’s family home. Though he couldn’t see him, he knew that Mark was 165 yards away, scrutinizing every inch of the quiet residential street from a different angle.
The big operative kept his breathing slow and tried to ignore the biting winter air that was penetrating his jacket, jeans, and boots. During his service in the Airborne Rangers, Delta Force, and SOG, he’d learned that the cold became your enemy at unexpected times. When deployed to the Arctic, Antarctic, or mountain ranges, operatives were typically equipped with clothing that acted as a total barrier to the extreme weather in those locations; problems usually only occurred if an operative made a mistake or became injured. But it was in situations like this that he’d seen operatives struggle and sometimes go down with hypothermia. If nothing happened in the next hour, he’d suggest to Mark that they swap positions, just so both men could briefly move their aching bodies.
He thought about Will Cochrane. This was his third mission with the MI6 officer. At first, he hadn’t taken to the man. Cochrane had appeared cold, aloof, reckless, and insubordinate, and at times he seemed to have a death wish. Perhaps some of those observations were still partly accurate. But over time, he’d seen glimpses of another man altogether—a man who had moments of utter compassion that counterbalanced his ruthlessness; an individual who displayed unwavering loyalty to those who helped him; a man who put on a metaphorical suit of armor not only to shield him from the horrors he had to deal with, but also to imprison the demons inside him. Not for the first time, he wondered how he’d cope with Will’s level of responsibility. Not well, he decided.
His body tensed as he saw a sedan drive slowly down the road. One man was in the driver’s seat. He spoke into his throat mic. “You getting this?”