Spycatcher (2 page)

“Am on the bridge waiting for Bravo.” This was Alpha.

Will spoke loudly. “Bravo, get on that bridge.” He heard no response. “Bravo?” He ran onward and heard almost continuous gunfire ahead of him.

“Charlie. I'm also on bridge and moving to get—” For a second the line went quiet. Then Charlie came back on the air. He was shouting. “Alpha's down! Multiples ahead! Have to engage!”

“Shit, no! Get Soroush out!” Will yelled, in a full sprint to the fight. Gunfire continued, becoming louder, and within seconds Will saw the bridge. And then he saw Charlie collapse. Four Iranians were about to step unopposed onto the bridge.

Will could easily see Soroush now. And Soroush could plainly see him. The man stared at him for what seemed like minutes but it was probably only a second. He shook his head very slightly.

Save yourself. I am lost to you now.

Will fired at the hostiles. One of them fell to the ground, and the others immediately swung toward Will and returned fire. He sprinted forward, ignoring the bullets that struck the ground on either side of him while continuing to fire. Two more men fell. He reached the bridge and saw the sole remaining Iranian quickly turn away from him. A gunshot rang out, and then the man turned back to face him. The man smiled. Will shot him in the head.

Soroush was now lying on the ground clutching his chest, breathing heavily. Will ran to him, crouched down, and cradled the man's head.

Soroush looked up and smiled through clenched teeth. “Good things do come to an end.”

Will looked at Soroush's chest. “Not yet. You're still alive.”

Soroush shook his head. “You've got to leave me here. They're all dead, but you're too important to be caught up in this mess.”

“Never.” As soon as Will spoke the word, he felt a strong blow on his back, followed by immense pain in his stomach. He fell forward onto Soroush and then forced himself up to look at the source of his pain. There was a large exit wound in his abdomen. He looked up and saw eight new Iranian men walking toward the bridge. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw another four men coming toward the other side of the bridge. As he turned forward again, two more bullets struck him in the stomach. He doubled over in pain and placed a hand against his wounds. The men were approximately sixty meters away from Will and Soroush. Will looked at his gun and shook his head. He knew he had only five bullets left in the Mark 23 pistol. And he knew he did not have the time to drag his body over to one of the discarded Iranian weapons. He silently cursed and glanced at Soroush. The man was looking at him and shaking his head while gripping Will's arm. Will breathed deeply and mustered all his remaining strength and focus. He fired four of his bullets at the men before him and watched four of them fall dead. He then ignored everything else and turned fully to his spy.

Soroush smiled again and said softly, “They must not take me alive. We both understand that. You know what has to be done.”

What Will knew was that he was losing consciousness, and he blinked hard to try to retain focus. He heard police sirens, but they were too far away. He shook his head. “I can still save you.”

Soroush kept his smile. “Not this time, my comrade.”

Will exhaled deeply and moved closer to Soroush. His pain was quickly being replaced by numbness, and he knew he had only a few remaining seconds of consciousness. He dragged his body up behind Soroush and pulled the man close to him so that they were both seated. The Iranian men were now only twenty meters away.

Will lifted his gun and placed its nozzle against Soroush's temple. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Good-bye, old friend.”

Then he pulled the trigger and shot Soroush dead.

Two

H
is eyes had opened, but all about him was pitch-black and silent. He felt around his body and realized that he was on his back on some kind of thin bed. He let his left hand fall to the side of the bed, and it felt bare floor. His right hand touched cold wall. He coughed and tried to gauge the effect of the noise. It seemed to him that he was in a very small room. Or a cell.

Will Cochrane sat upright and immediately was hit by a wave of nausea, giddiness, and severe pain. He placed a hand on his stomach and then felt around his torso. Bandages. He breathed slowly to try to control the sickness and focus his mind. He shut and reopened his eyes but could still see nothing.

He rubbed fingers against his temples and decided he must stand. He counted to five and then swung his legs off the bed. The movement sent searing pain to his lower back and abdomen. He gasped for air and gripped the side of the bed to keep himself from falling. He flexed his bare toes and his calf muscles. His legs felt strong and uninjured. He counted again and pushed upward with his arms, but the action was too much, and as soon as he was standing, he fell forward. Something immediately broke his fall—another wall. Its proximity suggested that he was in an extremely confined place. He concentrated and slowly eased himself backward until he was standing again. He tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the act of remaining upright. After however much time passed, he decided that he would not fall again. He turned ninety degrees and took one pace forward, then another. Within two further paces, he felt what must have been a door, but he could feel no handles. He stepped back two paces and moved his hands over his body again. He was neither cold nor warm, and apart from the bandages around his stomach, he was naked.

Will cleared his throat several times and was surprised to realize that his mouth did not feel dry. Somebody must have been giving him water. He let his arms hang down by his sides and checked his balance again. He inhaled deeply, then spoke.

“I am awake.”

His voice sounded normal. He hoped that this indicated there was no damage to his brain. He breathed in through his nose and spoke again.

“I am awake.”

Will listened for any other noises. At first there were none, but then he thought he detected the very slightest of sounds, a noise that could have been the scuffing of shoes against floor. Then a more distinct sound could clearly be heard, an electronic humming. Just as it came to him what the noise could be—the humming sound that some lights made a second or two before illuminating—he screwed his eyes shut. From behind his eyelids, he could now see white. He placed a hand to his face to help shield his eyes and then carefully opened them. Even with the shield in place, the brightness was intense, and he had to close his lids and reopen them several times to adjust to the stark contrast. He lowered his hand and looked around him. The room was barely two meters wide and three meters long. The bed was the only item in the room. He turned back to face the door and waited.

Another scuffing noise sounded, this one louder. Then there was a clank of metal. The door opened. Will tensed his arm muscles, even though the action sent new shots of pain down his spine. He took one step forward.

A small, bespectacled man appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a white coat and looked like a doctor. He smiled at Will.

Will did not smile back. “Where am I, and who are you? Answer me in that order, please.”

The man looked up at Will's naked body. “Remarkable. You shouldn't be able to stand for at least another week.”

He sounded American.

“Do you think you can dress and walk?” The man retained his smile. Will was at least thirty centimeters taller and certainly twice as wide. But this differential did not seem to intimidate the small man.

“If I wish to.”

“Trust me, you wish to.” The man took a step back, out of the room, and reached for something in the hall. He produced a square, folded white parcel, which he tossed onto the bed beside Will. “Your clothes.”

Will looked at the parcel and leaned down to pick it up. He thought he was going to vomit when he made the movement but managed to hide any signs of the feeling. The parcel quickly unraveled in his hand, and he realized he was holding a disposable paper prison jumpsuit. Smiling a little, he climbed into the suit, then turned back toward the small man. “My questions?”

The man frowned. “You feel okay?”

“I feel in excellent health. My questions?”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Well, what do you think I look like?”

“A medical man. Of sorts.”

The man nodded once. “Of sorts, correct.” He regarded Will's stomach. “Maybe a better medical man than I thought. As to your other question, would you believe my answer?”

“Probably not.”

The medical man smiled again. “So why bother asking? You know you must leave this room. And you know that a diminutive fellow like me wouldn't be standing here without having other larger people within an arm's length. So let's take those first steps.”

Will ran a hand over his head. His hair felt clean and clearly had been washed. He stared at the man, feeling very calm. “All right. Let's get this over with.”

Will stepped out of the room and into a corridor. Three other men, all of them big and carrying nightsticks, were standing there. They said nothing as the small man led Will thirty meters before stopping.

The man pointed at a door to the right of the corridor. “You need to go in there. My job is done.” He shook his head. “Three bullets,” he said quietly. “You should have stayed in bed.”

Will smiled and also spoke quietly. “I'm grateful for anything you've done to assist my recovery. If things go badly here for your people, I will remember that.”

The man frowned again. Will turned and opened the door.

Three

T
he room before him was large and totally empty. Windowless. A solitary man stood on the far side, leaning against a wall. He wore suit trousers, a white shirt, and no tie. He was tall, slender, and silver-haired, and he looked to be in his fifties.

Will stepped forward. “Hello.”

“Hello back at you.” This man also had an American accent. He swept a hand in front of him. “Make yourself at home.”

Will looked around the room. He walked to the wall opposite the man, turned, and eased himself down to sit on the floor. He partially stretched his legs out before him and clasped his hands over his lap. “Do you have any tea?”

“What?”

“A cup of tea. That would be quite nice.”

“I'm sure it would.” The man did not move. “Why are you sitting?”

“I can stand if you prefer.”

“No, no. Stay where you are.” The man chuckled a little. “It's just that most people in your situation would prefer to stand, and generally they choose to do so in the center of a room.”

“Because they wish to project strength to hide their fear or any inclination toward subservience.”

“Meaning you're doing the opposite?”

“Maybe I'm just tired from the walk here.” Will patted a leg. “I get the feeling I haven't exercised for a few days.”

The man slightly adjusted his position against the wall. He put his hands into his trouser pockets. He seemed to be observing Will very closely. “No. You know exactly what you're doing.”

Will shrugged.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

Will smiled. “Nobody of particular consequence. Just a tourist who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man adjusted his position again. “When we found you, you were carrying no form of identity. Ditto your three dead colleagues.”

Will nodded slowly, then widened his eyes. “That's great. It means I can be whoever I want to be.”

“If you like. Who would you like to be right now?”

Will thought about the question and smiled again. “How about a private military contractor? Possibly South African but of English heritage. Someone engaged by a wealthy Middle Eastern businessman to protect him during a slightly shady transaction. Could that work?”

The man seemed to consider the idea. “Yes, it could work. I presume that the man whose head was nearly taken off with a pistol round would be the Middle Eastern businessman and the other dead Iranians strewn around the park would be the thugs sent by his business nemesis? But as for you, you'd need a lot of documentation to support your identity.”

Will shook his head. “Not necessarily. My work is sensitive. My paymasters are dangerous people and are not to be crossed. I'd be totally uncooperative with you.”

The man pulled his hands out of his pockets and raised his palms. “Then we'd just torture you to find out what we want.”

Will also raised his palms. “You could. But I've got so much nonsense stuffed in my head that you'd come away from the experience more confused than enlightened.” He brushed one of his hands against his clean hair. “In any case, you're not going to torture me. Somebody here cares too much about my well-being for that to happen.”

“Then it will be a thirty-year prison sentence.”

Will pulled back his arms to stretch his back muscles. The pain was excruciating, but he embraced the sensation. “Wonderful. I've often wanted to get away from it all.”

The man smiled and to Will's surprise slowly seated himself on the floor. The two men were now at eye level at opposite ends of the large room. “Where do you think you are?”

“I have no thoughts on the subject.”

“Well, you must assume that you're still in New York City.”

“I could just as easily be in Beijing.”

The man sighed. “I know, but you're not. You're actually only a few blocks from where you were shot.”

“Prove it.”

The man brought his knees up under his chin and rested his elbows on them. “If I need to, I will.” He frowned and dropped eye contact for a moment. “The doctors took three nine-millimeter bullets out of your stomach.”

“You operated on me here?”

The man shook his head. “No, we took charge of you after you were operated on in a hospital.”

“And it's amazing that I'm still alive.” Will spoke in a mocking tone.

The man reengaged eye contact. “You have older wounds on your body. From bullets, knives, and shrapnel.”

“I've always been a bit clumsy.”

“Or reckless.”

Will nodded slightly. “How about that cup of tea?”

The man exhaled again. He placed his hands on his knees. “The NYPD had to shoot eight Iranians dead before they could get near your body. They took possession of you and brought you to a hospital. But because your actions in Central Park were deemed to be terrorist-related, the incident was given national significance. As a result, I was brought in. I am a senior special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“No you're not.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “You want me to show you a badge?”

“No thanks.”

The man spoke with what sounded like slow exasperation. “Why am I not an FBI agent?”

Will shrugged and rubbed his chin. “It's an issue of agenda. You're not here to solve a crime and close a case.” He shook his head. “No, you view me in a different way.”

“The FBI is not just about law enforcement.”

“I know. But you're just not that type. I can tell from the way you're thinking.”

The man chuckled. “You can see what I'm thinking?”

“I can tell that you're thinking on multiple levels and not just about me.”

“So what would that make me?”

Will brought his hand down to rest on his lap. “Among many things it would make you an overburdened man.” He smiled. “Quite clearly an overburdened intelligence officer.”

“How would you know that type?”

Will shrugged again. “As I say, I'm a private military contractor. A man like me would obviously be living in a murky world. Sometimes getting deniable instructions from intelligence services, sometimes being chased by them.” He produced a pretend frown and looked away. “Maybe not South African, though. Maybe a white expatriate who grew up in Tanzania.” He looked back at the man. “That sounds less of a cliché.”

The man started drumming his fingers again. “So you would say that I'm CIA?”

Will crossed one foot over the other. “I didn't say that. You could be an Israeli Mossad agent. Or a Russian SVR officer. Or a number of other things. But”—he looked around the bare room before returning his gaze to the man—“based upon the dangerous assumption that you are American, I will allow myself to conclude that you are CIA.”

“So we're now making some progress.”

“Your progress. Not mine.”

The man nodded, then spoke quickly and quietly. “I'll give you a far better identity if you like.”

“I don't mind.”

The man leaned forward. “You are thirty-five years old. Single. No children. In fact, you have very few commitments beyond your solitary life.”

“That keeps things simple.”

“It does.” The man eased back a little. “You're English—we can't really disguise that fact—but let's also make you half American.”

Will sat motionless. He felt a twinge of pain in his stomach.

“So . . . so let's see.” The man tapped a finger several times on his leg. “Yes, I have it. Your American father died when you were a very young boy, leaving your English mother to raise you and your sister in the States. Your mother struggled on alone with you both but was later tragically assaulted and killed.” The man frowned. “You were seventeen when that happened, and you and your sister were left alone and with nothing—no other family, friends, money, or home.” He nodded. “Nothing. But your sister was four years older than you, and she was about to graduate from law school into an internship with a London law firm. She had prospects. You, on the other hand, decided to do something impulsive and ran off to France to join the French Foreign Legion for five years. You could tell people that it was”—he paused for a moment—“your subconscious need to have a new family of sorts.”

“Or maybe I just wanted to kill things?” Will could feel the tension and aggression in his voice.

The man nodded. “Yes, either-or.” He smiled. “Okay, now let's think this through.” He scratched the side of his head. “My military knowledge isn't great, but I know that within the Legion there's an elite parachute regiment. And I'm pretty sure that within that regiment there's a small, highly trained Special Forces commando unit.” He pointed a finger at Will. “But you'd need to check out its name.”

“Maybe my military knowledge is better than yours.” Will swallowed, and the action felt uncomfortable. “It's called the Groupement des Commandos Parachutistes.”

The man clapped slowly. “Excellent. So that would clear up the first five years of your adult life. What next?” He angled his head and smiled. “I have it. You've gotten the boys-with-guns thing out of your system, so you go to England. And now you decide to try to flex your brain. So college beckons—that will get rid of another three or four years—but which one should it be?”

“Nothing too high profile.” Will's chest muscles had now tensed.

The man shook his head. “No, unfortunately your grades were just too good. It has to be Cambridge or Oxford, I'm afraid.”

Will spoke with an edge. “Make it Cambridge.”

“Cambridge it is.” The man folded his arms. “I think you would have studied politics, philosophy, and economics, and I think you would have graduated with a star first-class degree.”

“As you like.”

“As I like indeed.” The man looked serious. “And now we can really add some spice to your profile. Let's forget mercenary or military contractor or anything like that. Let's say you were recruited into the British Secret Intelligence Service—MI6, as we sometimes like to call it—and that you've worked there ever since.”

Will said nothing. He felt an almost overwhelming sense of anger. He lifted his head and looked at the man. He could feel his pulse rate throbbing in his temples. “You still need to give me a name.”

The man waved this away as a mere detail. “Oh, that's easy, because no matter what false names you may give yourself, there is only one true name that can ever be yours and yours alone.” He slowly nodded and lowered his voice. “You are the ultimate killer of killers, the man who terrifies his enemies and allies, the man who can start wars and end them, the man who is the West's deadliest and most secret weapon.” He raised his hand and pointed. “You are the great Will Cochrane. You are
Spartan
.”

Will stared at the man, desperate not to show the shock he felt.

The American lifted himself up from the floor and walked over to Will. He crouched down directly in front of Will and gazed at him. His eyes were as silver as his hair. “How could I even know that you're MI6, let alone the man who has been given its most distinguished and deadly code name?”

Will bunched his hand into a fist.

“After all, you've traveled into my country under a different passport and with no links to your real identity and vocation.”

Will narrowed his eyes and slowly exhaled. He thought about the man before him, he pictured the bespectacled doctor and the three large men waiting in the corridor outside, and he mentally rehearsed what he could do.

“So how could I possibly know about you, when your existence is kept secret from most of MI6, let alone other agencies?”

Will smiled and looked away for a moment. When he was no longer smiling, he returned his gaze to the man before him. He decided that, despite his injuries, he could kill this man and everyone outside this room in less than thirty seconds.

The man frowned. He looked quickly down at Will's hands, then back up at his face. He shook his head rapidly and with urgency. “Not that, there's no need,” he said softly.

Will watched him for a while.

The man shook his head again. “No need.” His eyes had widened.

Will smiled again but kept his fist tightly bunched. “Our games are over. I suggest you speak with candor and speed.”

The man glanced once more at Will's large fist and then looked upward. “I know about you because I was called by a friend who asked me to get you. That friend told me that if I did not do so, you would do everything in your power to destroy those who might try to keep you captive.”

Will frowned. “You received a call?” His frown slowly faded. “From someone in my organization?”

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, then spoke quite deliberately. “Not just someone. A man who knows me very well. A man who also happens to be your Controller.”

“Alistair?”

He nodded.

“Why did Alistair tell you that I was with British Intelligence? And why did you decide to help me?”

The man exhaled loudly. “The answer to both questions is the same, but it's not my place to give you that answer. Only Alistair can do that.”

Will bunched his fist tighter. “How do you know I am Spartan?”

This time the man showed no fear, speaking with steel. “Because your premier authorized Alistair to tell me. I know all about MI6's brutal Spartan Program. I know that it allows only one man to go through the program and, if he is not dead at the end of it, carry the title
Spartan
. No others are allowed to go on the program while the current Spartan lives. That Spartan is you.”

Will's heart raced faster. His Controller was one of the most senior operational members of MI6. For Alistair to have any form of bond with the man before him could only mean that this CIA officer held a similar rank within his own organization. And the fact that the British prime minister had authorized the disclosure of Will's code name to the American could only mean that the CIA man was exceptionally powerful and trusted. “What's your name?”