Slingshot: A Spycatcher Novel (7 page)

Alina drummed fingers on the sofa, seemed deep in thought, and also looked scared.

“It’s vital that you tell me everything.”

She stopped drumming. “There was only one of them.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man.”

“Name? Appearance?”

“Mikhail. He didn’t give me a surname.” She smiled, though her fear remained evident. “Mid-thirties, I’d guess. Tall, short hair, muscular build. Immaculately dressed. Other than the fact that his hair was blond, he looked a lot like you.”

And a lot like the man Will had seen firing a big handgun on the bridge in Gdansk.

Will felt a moment of unease. “What did he say to you?”

Her smile vanished. “He asked me if I knew the identity of the man who’d told Lenka to abscond. I told him the truth: that I didn’t.”

“Was that the truth?”

“Yes.” Alina frowned. “Lenka was always a private man. Whenever he was with me, he’d prefer to talk about anything other than his work. I think his job sometimes embarrassed him.”

“You knew he was an intelligence officer?”

She answered in a whisper, “He wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he said he didn’t want there to be secrets between us.”

“Do you think he was cut out for the job?”

“I don’t think so.” She exhaled slowly. “We made plans. He was going to leave and come here to live with us. He said he’d apply for a job at the university.”

“What else did Mikhail say?”

Alina lowered her head. “He asked me the same thing you did—if I’d been in contact with Lenka during the last few days. I told him that I hadn’t.”

“And was
that
the truth?”

She was motionless, silent.

“What else?”

“He noticed the things you’d observed; the things Lenka had bought for me. He said that Lenka must have had another source of income, that no doubt he was being paid by the man who’d got him out of Russia.” She shook her head, and a tear ran down her cheek. “I just don’t understand what’s happening. Mikhail said that Lenka willingly absconded from Russia. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

She was now visibly upset. “But why? It’s so unlike him to do something like that. And he’s left a mess.” She swept an arm through the air. “As well as buying me things, during the last few years he’s also been contributing to the rent on this place and to the upbringing of Maria. He’s always been a good man. Always putting himself second, us first. But now he’s gone, and there’s no money.” She shook her head, her posture and expression strengthening. “Don’t misinterpret what I’ve just said. I’d rather have him back with no money than the opposite.”

Will leaned closer to her, and spoke with genuine sympathy. “I don’t doubt that. It’s obvious to me that you love him. Don’t be hard on him. He’s done something stupid, and though I don’t know why he’s done that, I’m sure it was for honorable reasons. Reasons to do with you and Maria.”

Alina seemed to be digesting Will’s observation. “I believe you’re right.” She glanced in the direction of Maria’s bedroom. The child was no longer crying and instead was emitting unintelligible words in between giggles. “She’s not frightened of you anymore.” Returning her attention to Will, she said, “The swan, the pike, or the crab.”

Will was silent. He had to let her come to her own conclusions.

“The Russian man. He scared me at first. But then I saw kindness. And you’re right. When I asked him what the Russians would do to Lenka if they found him, Mikhail said that he couldn’t lie to me, that Lenka would face imprisonment, but that incarceration would be a better fate than death by the hands of the men he’s with.” She nodded. “He seemed a good man. What differentiates the two of you is that he has no choice other than to deliver Lenka to jail, but you seem to have no such ambitions.” She frowned. “What has Lenka done?”

“He’s stolen a piece of paper from the SVR. I don’t know anything about the paper, other than it is of immense value and is extremely dangerous. Does that mean anything to you?”

Quietly, she answered, “No. Nothing.” She suddenly placed her head in her hands, rocked back and forth, and muttered, “Shit, shit.”

Will frowned.

“I wish you’d come earlier.”

She continued rocking, then removed her hands and looked up with an expression of exasperation. “There’s not just three of you involved.”

“What?”

Placing her nails to her teeth, she said, “Yesterday, I was approached on the street by a man. He gave me a note and asked me to read it and relay its message to Lenka. I took the note home and did precisely what the man asked me to do.”

Will’s mind raced. “Nationality of the man?”

“I could tell from his accent that he was foreign, but other than that I don’t know. He spoke to me in Belarusian. Looked European.”

“How did you communicate the message to Lenka?”

More tears rolled down Alina’s face. “He has a cell phone that only I know about. I sent an SMS to it.”

“Has he replied?”

“No.”

“Are you convinced he has the phone with him?”

“Yes. He told me that if he called me or messaged me from that number, then I could be sure that no one was listening or intercepting the message. He called it his ‘safe phone.’ It was his lifeline to me. He’ll have it.”

“And the note?”

Alina momentarily closed her eyes. “Does the name Will Cochrane mean anything to you?”

Will’s stomach knotted.

She opened her eyes. “Are you Will Cochrane?”

Will was motionless, determined not to betray any emotion, though confusion overwhelmed him.

“If you want to see the note, I have to know.”

Still, Will said nothing.

“I think I have made my decision, based on my judgment of you. But I can’t be sure unless you answer me.”

Oh dear God. Will had no idea what to say or do.

“It’s time for
you
to make a judgment about me and to choose.”

He stared at Alina. She seemed imploring, earnest, scared, confused. She seemed to be speaking honestly.

Finally, he answered, “Very few people call me by that name.”

She held his gaze for several seconds, nodded once, and said, “But some people do.” She stood up, disappeared out of the room, and reemerged a minute later holding a small piece of paper. She hesitated before handing it to Will.

Will examined both sides of the paper. It had been folded into quarters. One side was plain, the other contained printed black lines of text that looked as though they’d been written on a typewriter rather than anything more modern.

As Will read the note, he fought back every instinct to vomit.

To Miss Alina Petrova

Please forgive the rather crude manner in which this note was passed to you. The man who delivered it does not represent us, though we paid him to place it in your hands. We are desperate to reach out to our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Lenka Yevtushenko, because we believe he is in danger. Perhaps you have a means to forward the contents of this communication to him? We hope you do, and if so we implore you to get in touch with him with the greatest haste. The message you must relay to Mr. Yevtushenko is as follows:

We are sorry that in our business dealings with you, we misled you as to our real identities. We did that to protect you and when the time was right it was our intention to tell you the truth. That time never came due to unforeseen circumstances. No doubt you have since been told who we really are. That matters not. What does matter is that we continue to look out for your welfare and are concerned that you may now be in a vulnerable position. Be very careful because men are coming for you. The most dangerous of them is a British intelligence officer. He lives in West Square, Southwark, London.

His name is Will Cochrane.

Nine

T
he Lufthansa A321 Airbus touched down at Berlin’s Tegel Airport at 0920 hours. Will was sitting in business class, staring out the window at the dark clouds hanging over the airport and the rain that was pouring down from them. The men and women around him—Austrians, Germans, a Czech, two Englishmen, a Ukrainian, and three Italians—were all dressed in suits and were looking not at the airport but at the seat belt sign, waiting for it to switch off so they could stand, grab their cases, and make a dash toward whatever business beckoned them to the city.

Will had flown from Minsk to Frankfurt during the early hours. During the seventy-minute journey from Frankfurt to Berlin, he’d briefly analyzed every passenger around him. None of them were operatives. Will was glad of that because he’d needed to be alone, and he was never more alone than when he was surrounded by normal people.

As the plane taxied along the runway, he rubbed his temples. The note to Alina had confused and deeply unsettled him and had bolstered Alistair’s view that Will had too little to go on and was out of his depth. He wondered if he was doing the right thing by continuing to pursue the operation, whether the stolen SVR paper was less important than he’d thought, whether it was the right thing to do to follow his instincts and at the same time jeopardize the existence of the Spartan Section, whether he’d offered false hope to Alina, and whether the message to Alina meant he would be killed before he had a chance to get an inch closer to the truth of what was happening.

But these emotions and thoughts were also matched by anger. Knowledge of his existence within MI6 was limited to a small number of people. His home address was known to even fewer.

Someone had betrayed him.

T
hat afternoon, Will was leaning against the wall of a short, stone-covered tunnel. Parkland was visible at either end of the tunnel, though he could see no one within the place. The heavy rainfall had driven every sensible person inside.

After checking into the five-star Steigenberger Hotel, Will had walked here, arriving nearly thirty minutes ahead of schedule, and waited.

A tall man came into view at one end of the tunnel. He stopped for six seconds, then strode quickly up to Will.

Roger Koenig was wearing a waterproof jacket, jeans, hiking boots, and a skin-colored earpiece and cord that was barely visible on one side of his face. Leaning against the wall opposite to Will, he ran fingers through his sodden hair, rubbed his hands to aid circulation, and asked, “How was Belarus?”

“Bloody freezing.” Will forced a smile.

“Did Alina talk?”

“Yes.”

“Anything of substance?”

“Difficult to know.”

Roger produced a mock frown. “Let me help. Was she a bit more effusive than you’re being right now?”

Will laughed. “Much more.” His expression became neutral. “Tell me about the Russian team.”

Roger drummed his hands against the wall. “They’re in the Grand Hyatt and they ain’t moving.”

“Sightings?”

“We’ve seen two of them but only briefly. They’re ordering room service and the two we spotted have only been down to the lobby twice.”

“Who saw them?”

“Laith and Mark.”

“What do they think?”

“They’re sure we’re looking at a team. Doesn’t mean they’re the right team though.”

“I know.”

Roger was silent for a moment before saying, “Mark has the same level of team leader experience as me. Did you put him in the section so that he could learn the ropes and then take over if I get shot?”

Will smiled, and this time it was genuine. “Exactly. I’m just waiting for you to take a bullet. Trouble is, every time you do, you recover.”

“Yeah. I’m odd like that.”

“You are.” Will became serious. “I put him and Adam in because they fit. Do you foresee a problem?”

Roger seemed to consider this. “No. Mark doesn’t seem concerned about status. He just wants to get on with the job. He’ll be fine. Plus, since when did we have any hierarchy in the section?”

“We don’t. It’s better that way.”

Roger nodded. “How long do you want us to stay on the Russian team?”

“As long as it takes. Do you mind?”

“Not in the slightest.” Roger swept an arm through the air. “Germany’s home from home for me.”

“Your
fatherland
. . .”

Roger chuckled. “Stop that.” His expression changed. “Base of operation’s the Auguststrasse apartment.”

A modern, luxury vacation home located in Mitte, the heart of Berlin’s old city. Capable of sleeping six, more if the couches were used as beds. Peter had paid for the apartment in cash and told the owner that he and his business colleagues would need the place for at least three weeks while they were in town to close a major financial deal.

“Suzy and Peter have made it all quite homey. They’ve looked like newlyweds moving into their first home.”

Will grinned. “I can’t imagine two people more unsuited to marrying each other than Suzy and Peter.”

“Yeah, and Suzy’s real husband might have something to say about it.” Roger frowned. “You think Suzy should be on the case given she’s pregnant?”

“She’s not going to be in the field.”

“Even so . . .”

“Do you want to be the one to tell her that she should go home and rest?”

“No thanks.”

“I thought not. Still, we’re responsible for her.” He looked at one end of the tunnel. Rain was pounding the walkway beyond the exit. “Alistair and Patrick?”

“Back at Vauxhall Cross to ensure that the Gdansk operation hasn’t left an uncomfortable audit trail.”

“Okay. How are you operating your team?”

“While the Russians are static, it’s been easy. Two on at all times—one in the lobby; one making circuits outside.”

“Cover?”

Roger told him that he’d introduced himself to the hotel’s head of security, gave him false but verifiable credentials, said that he was responsible for the security of one of his guests, and that the identity of that VIP had to remain confidential, even from hotel staff. He’d further advised the hotel manager that there was no direct threat to the client, that Roger and three of his employees would be taking turns keeping an eye on the place, that they were unarmed, and that they would be grateful for the hotel’s cooperation in allowing them to sit in the lobby and other parts of the hotel, day or night. After checking Roger’s identity, the head of security had agreed.

Will nodded. “Diplomatic boxes?”

“They’re at Auguststrasse, arrived yesterday.”

Boxes that were sent from London and contained guns, ammunition, cash, alias passports and bank cards, tactical binoculars, night-vision scopes, and military communications equipment.

Will hoped that most of the equipment would remain unused. “Alina told me that she was visited by an SVR man. Based on her description of him and the circumstances of his visit, I’m convinced it was the big guy I spotted in Gdansk. He gave her the name Mikhail. No surname. It will be an alias, but give the name to Suzy so that she can do some digging.”

“That’s a hell of a dig.”

“It is, but I’ve seen her do more with less in the past.” Will lowered his head and was silent.

“Something’s on your mind.”

Will didn’t respond.

“I reckon your lady
did
give you something of substance, something that’s troubling you.”

Will raised his head. “I’ve got a problem.”

Roger smiled. “You always do.” His smile vanished. “Tell me.”

Will studied the former DEVGRU SEAL. He completely trusted Roger and yet he was still unsure whether to tell him about the note because he knew what Roger would say if Will told him what he was planning. “You’ve got your work cut out on the Russian team. Focus on that.”

“You’re not going to fob me off that easily, Cochrane.”

Will sighed, hesitated, then said, “Someone knows my name and address and has given that to Alina, who in turn has relayed it to Yevtushenko.”

“What!”

Will told him everything he knew.

“That’s a
massive
breach of security. Alistair and Patrick need to get on it right away. They’ll task Peter—he’ll find the bastard who leaked this.”

Will shook his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

Roger’s expression turned to one of exasperation. “Why, oh why, doesn’t that surprise me? You
need
. . .”

Will held up a hand. “The note used the word ‘we’ ten times, ‘our’ twice, and ‘us’ once. It could have been done deliberately to hide the hand of one man, but I don’t think so. Whoever wrote the note is not in direct contact with Yevtushenko, but they wanted him to know exactly who they were. Plus, they didn’t expect the note to be read by anyone other than Alina. I’m certain we’re dealing with a team, and that the team is wholly independent of the men who have Lenka or the Russians. The other thing that leapt out at me was the reference to their business dealings with Yevtushenko and the fact they misled him as to their true identities. What does that say to you?”

Roger answered immediately, “Business cover operation.”

“Precisely.”

“There are other possibilities.”

“There are.” Will had thought of fourteen other possible explanations for the reference. “But none of them are as convincing.”

“Hostile intelligence agency trying to string a Russian SVR officer along by pretending to be a company?”

“It’s the most likely hypothesis at present.”

When he spoke, Roger’s tone was solemn. “You
need
a witch hunt. Find out who leaked your name and we’ll know which intelligence agency we’re dealing with.”

Will shook his head. “What’s the most vulnerable time in a witch hunt?”

Roger considered the question. “When the number of suspects falls to a handful of people. At that point, the investigation may be visible to the culprit and he or she may bolt.”

Will agreed. “Our problem is that the number of suspects is already small. The culprit knows that and yet has still leaked the information. I think he’s covered his tracks and betrayed me knowing that if I became aware of the leak, he’d find out very quickly. Going after the man or woman who did this is too risky. Yevtushenko remains the key. If I can find him, I stand a chance of finding out who’s got him, the location and significance of the paper, and who’s trying to get the men he’s with to take me out of the equation.”

“Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

“I’m going to disappoint you.”

“Then
I’m
going to come with you.”

“No, you’re not. I’m dealing with multiple assumptions and intangibles, but you’ve got four very tangible men holed up in the Grand Hyatt who remain our best hope of leading us to the paper. I can’t afford for you to have your eye off the ball for even a moment.”

When Roger spoke, his voice was measured, but tense. “Springing a trap sounds all good in principle. But you of all people know that it rarely works out that way.
Don’t
go back to London.”