Spycatcher (3 page)

The CIA man looked back at him. His eyes had narrowed to slits and had now become quite cold. “You can call me Patrick.”

Will shook his head slightly. “I still deserve to know why you would help me.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. “You deserve nothing of the sort. But I will tell you that Alistair and I share the same debt of gratitude to another man. And that debt brought me to this room today.”

“It's fortunate for you that you mentioned Alistair's name.” Will looked toward the door and lowered his voice. “What will happen now?”

Patrick also looked toward the door. “You're by no means fit to leave this place, but you can't stay here any longer. Nor can I offer you any more medical support.” He glanced back at Will and frowned. “I'm sorry that someone of your status had to be brought here. I couldn't take you to an Agency facility. And the men here were the best I could put together at such short notice. But you have to go now, although I suggest you rest up in a hotel somewhere for another week before attempting the flight back to London. One of my men will get you some clothes and set you up with anything else you need. And I presume you have your passport and credit cards safely hidden somewhere in the city?”

“Yes.”

Patrick placed a hand under Will's elbow and guided him to the exit. But before he opened the door, he turned to face Will fully. He spoke quietly and rapidly. “Take a message back to Alistair. Only Alistair. Tell him the following.” He nodded once. “The strike against us will be massive, and the great or the little will be the victim.”

Four

W
ill checked the map on his screen and noted that he was nearly halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. He was on a Heathrow-bound British Airways night flight and had paid for a first-class seat to ensure space and privacy. Save for occasional reading lights, the area around him was dark and most of the other passengers were sleeping.

Will had not heeded Patrick's advice to recuperate for a few days in New York City and instead had taken the next available flight back to London. He wondered now if he'd been wise to do so. Despite having taken a cocktail of medications before boarding the airplane at JFK, he now felt feverish and in agony. He pulled a thin blanket over his body and tried to sleep again. But the same memory kept coming back.

Soroush, I'm not who you think I am.

I suspected as much.

Good. Then you know who I really work for?

I do.

So you must also know what I'm about to ask from you.

Of course. You wish me to betray my country.

A new sweat broke out under Will's clothes, and he pulled off the blanket. He opened his eyes, reached for a glass of ice water, and forced half its contents down. His hand shook as he replaced the glass on the table beside him. He now felt very cold again, and he cursed the fever while pulling on the blanket. He looked once more at the electronic map. The plane barely seemed to be moving.

Will shook his head and spoke out loud. “Why the hell did you not get off that bridge when you had the chance, my friend?”

A flight attendant appeared next to him. “Is everything all right?”

He looked up at her. He tried to smile and lied. “Bloody jet lag. I don't know if I'm coming or going.”

The woman nodded and produced a sympathetic smile. “Let me know if you need anything. You're nearly home.”

Will closed his eyes again and this time saw Soroush sitting before him. He was eating breakfast on the day of his death. He looked tired. Reflective and sad. He spoke while shaking his head.

How can there be honor in what I do? How can there be any justification for taking others' secrets? How can I expect to keep doing this without one day being punished? Maybe today is that day. And maybe that is a good thing.

Five

W
ill saw the six men as soon as he exited Heathrow's passport control. He knew that under their jackets they would be armed. They looked at him and he looked at them.

One of the men walked up to him. He had the gait and posture of a Special Forces man, and the men behind him looked similar. The man nodded once at Will and said, “We're hoping to avoid any trouble, sir.”

Will looked around. To the left and right of the Special Forces men were airport police officers. They held Heckler & Koch submachine guns and were also eyeing Will. He looked back at the man before him and smiled. “If you try to put me into shackles, there'll be plenty of trouble.”

The man said nothing, nodded, and gestured toward Will's arm. Will shook his head slightly, and the man quickly withdrew his hand before pointing in the direction of his men.

Will stood for a moment. Then he stepped forward.

T
he black car turned into the basement parking garage of the MI6 headquarters in Vauxhall Cross, London. In a moment it was stationary, and four men quickly emerged from the vehicle. One of them looked back into the car and said to Will, “Come on, sir, let's go.”

Will was led toward an elevator, shielded by the men. One of his chaperones withdrew a crude-looking burlap hood and said, “We've been given instructions to hide your face from others in this building.” He handed Will the hood. “Sorry.”

Will exhaled slowly and looked at the men around him. “A hood won't make any difference to me if you try anything silly.”

“We know.”

Will pulled on the heavy hood and was immediately sightless. He felt the elevator move, then stop and heard doors swishing open. Hands gently gripped his arms, and he allowed them to do so. He was guided forward. All around him was quiet. He knew he was being walked down a special wing of the HQ, a place most intelligence officers were not permitted to enter. They stopped, and Will heard a key being inserted into a lock. He breathed deeply. The walk had been excruciating.

He was moved forward again and then pushed down into a chair. Men spoke, and there was audible movement around him. He heard a door open and shut several times, then silence.

“Take your hood off.” The voice came from directly in front of him.

Will did as he was told. He looked around and saw that he was in a windowless room furnished solely with a conference table and surrounding chairs. There was one man in the room, and he sat at the table, opposite Will. Will knew that the man was fifty-seven years old, but he looked ten years younger. His blond hair was pomaded into place. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt with French cuffs, and a Royal Navy tie.

The man looked at Will with glistening eyes. “You are an obstinate liability at times.”

Will smiled. “Hello, Alistair.”

Alistair did not smile. Instead Will's MI6 Controller pointed a finger at him and asked, “Do you realize what you've done?”

“I was coming straight here. It was unnecessary to get me at the airport.”

“Do you realize what you have done?” Alistair repeated.

Will nodded, tenting his fingertips. “Obviously, I have killed a man.”

Alistair frowned, observing him for a moment, then exhaled slowly and shook his head. “You have done much more than that. You killed MI6's best-placed Iranian agent, a man who took us into the very heart of Tehran's decision making and intentions toward the West. You of all people”—Alistair raised his voice—“know that Soroush's intelligence gave us invaluable insight into the Iranian nuclear program, into Iran's export and support of terrorist activities, into its conventional military strategy in the Middle East, and into the leadership power struggles within its political machine. And you also know that the intelligence you gleaned from your agent has enabled us, on more than one occasion, to take essential, timely, preemptive actions. Actions that have almost certainly stopped Iran from blundering into war with its neighbors.” The man opened his eyes wide. “You did not just kill a man. You killed a major component of our collective defenses against a hostile and unpredictable regime.”

Will spoke quietly. “You are correct to say that Soroush had unique access to Iranian secrets. But you've forgotten that his years of servitude to the British intelligence community gave him significant information about us—information that could not fall into the hands of the Iranians.” Will pointed at Alistair. “Killing Soroush was the only solution. If we had allowed him to be taken away by the Iranians, they would have extracted everything from him via torture before murdering him. I killed Soroush to protect the integrity of what we do and to protect a man from unimaginable torment.”

Alistair shook his head. “You are a rule breaker, and I've always tolerated that because of your effectiveness. But even by your standards, engaging in a gunfight in the middle of New York City was the height of recklessness.”

Will reached into a pocket and pulled out three little blister packs of medication. He withdrew pills and threw them into his mouth, wondering how long the painkillers and antifever tablets would take to work. A fresh sweat had broken out under his clothes. “I don't give a damn about rules. All I care about is getting the job done.”

“What you care about is prosecuting and punishing bad people. Thankfully, it just so happens that those bad people are also enemies of the West.” Alistair caught Will's eyes and held them. “I know why you have an absolute sense of right and wrong; I know where all that unflinching sense of morality started for you. But you have to understand that I am your boss and that there are rules to be followed.”

“Your rules, not mine.” Will looked away for a moment. “My decision to kill Soroush was the correct one.”

“Your decision,” Alistair snapped, “very nearly compromised your role. You should have left Soroush to his fate. You know how hard I work to protect your identity and your missions for MI6. You are our most clandestine officer, and only the chief of MI6 and I know about your existence.”

“Not anymore. Apparently you told a CIA man called Patrick who I was.”

Alistair tapped a finger on the table. “What did Patrick say to you?”

Will swallowed to try to dislodge a pill stuck in his throat. “He said the strike against us will be massive and the great or the little will be the victim.”

Alistair spoke sharply. “Victim or victims?”

“Victim.” Will frowned. “What does it mean?”

His Controller glanced away for a moment. “As far as certain inflammatory Iranian commentators are concerned, America is the Great Satan and Britain is the Little Satan. Iran clearly intends to do battle with evil.” Alistair smiled briefly, then looked serious. “Soroush's death has come at the worst possible time.” He spoke the words quietly, and they did not necessarily seem directed at Will. Louder, he said, “Tell me what you know about Iran's Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and specifically its IRGC Qods Force.”

Will chuckled. “As head of the Middle East and Africa Controllerate, you should have whole teams of analysts who could produce reports on the IRGC for you, I'd have thought.”

“I do.” Alistair looked back at Will. “But given your time spent with Soroush, you should have a bit of knowledge on the subject. And I don't have time right now to wade through reports.”

“All right.” Will adjusted his position in his chair and felt fresh pain sear across his stomach. “The Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps is the component of the Iranian military used to enforce and protect the principles of the Iranian Revolution of 1979. Its exact size is unknown, but it's estimated that the IRGC is approximately one hundred and twenty thousand strong and with its own army, air force, and navy. It is almost certainly structured along the same lines as Iran's conventional military forces. The IRGC Qods Force, translated as ‘Jerusalem Force,' is a small unit of the IRGC. It is tasked with special operations, including assassinations, export of terrorism, and intelligence gathering.”

“And why have we never been able to recruit a Qods Force officer?”

“Three reasons. First, merely identifying someone as a potential target is very difficult, given that Qods Force personnel aren't exactly visible. Second, individuals within the unit are totally dedicated to their task and are handpicked on the basis of their loyalty to the revolution. It is highly improbable that a Qods Force officer would have any chinks in his armor to make him malleable to an approach by MI6. Lastly”—Will shrugged—“you've never tasked officers like me to recruit such an individual. Our efforts against Iran have so far focused on the Ministry of Intelligence and Security and on senior politicians.”

Alistair nodded slowly. “I see. Well, things have now changed.” He paused for a moment before speaking with intensity. “It has become essential that we identify and capture a high-ranking Qods Force officer. Actually, I want us to find a very specific officer: the Qods Force Head of Western Directorate. The man responsible for all covert Iranian or Iranian-backed terrorist actions against the U.S., the U.K., and Europe.”

Will showed no expression. “We do not know if such a man actually exists. And even if he does, finding him would be like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack. In all probability he'd be ensconced in Iran, inaccessible to men like us.”

Alistair shook his head. “Patrick thinks otherwise. He's seen National Security Agency reports suggesting that the Qods Force Western Directorate is being run out of Central or Eastern Europe.” He smiled. “Which brings me back to you. Our Sarajevo station head has been contacted by a former agent, code-named Lace, who thinks he might be able to help us get alongside a senior Iranian military officer, given that the Iranians have been very active in Bosnia during and after the wars in what used to be Yugoslavia. I want you to meet Lace and find out what he has to say.”

Will observed Alistair silently. “You'll have regular intelligence officers for a task like that,” he said at last. “Are you trying to punish me? If you are, you know you'll fail.”

Alistair sighed and looked down at his cuff links. “I'm not angry with you because you took Soroush's life. I know you well enough to know that that must have been a terrible decision for you to take and no doubt one that was made with Soroush's own consent. But as vital to us as he was, you should have left him to his fate rather than trying to protect the man when all was lost. Soroush
was
vital.” He looked back up. “But you are
Spartan
and therefore invaluable. That is why I am angry.”

“I never leave anyone to his fate.” Will spoke with anger, and then he sighed, too. He looked around at nothing for a moment before returning his attention to Alistair. “Will our Service take care of Soroush's family? His wife and children have been totally reliant on his income and will struggle without financial support.”

Alistair did not meet his eyes. “I have spoken to our Benevolence Department. They are adamant that they cannot help Soroush's family, because in their eyes Soroush was not killed by our enemies. He was killed by you.”

Will banged his fist on the table. “Idiots.”

“They follow rules. You do not.” Alistair steeled his voice. “You should have left Soroush to his fate. You should have got out of that park. You should have realized how invaluable you are to MI6.”

“If I'm invaluable, then why task me on a regular intelligence mission?”

Alistair shook his head. “There is nothing regular about this mission.” He tapped his fingers again on the table. “But to start with, I do want you to pose as a regular intelligence officer. Our MI6 Sarajevo head knows nothing about you, so I will give you a new identity for your meeting with him. Meet him, meet his agent Lace, and see if this lead of theirs can take you to the Qods Force commander. If it can, then I give you total authority to use your . . . own methods to track the man down.”

Alistair paused before speaking again. “It is vital that we identify and recruit this high-ranking Qods Force man, and I need you to be fully fit for the task.” He checked his watch. “Patrick's men did their very best for you, but under normal circumstances you should still be in hospital. Goodness knows how you're still conscious. After we've finished here, you are being taken to see the best London doctor I could find who specializes in gunshot wounds and resultant trauma. I've told her to finish your treatment. And I've told her that she has her work cut out for her, as I need you on an airplane to Sarajevo tomorrow afternoon.”

Will frowned. “Patrick's message. Is it in any way connected to your requirement to capture the Qods Force commander?”

“Yes, it most certainly is related, William.” He pointed at Will. “I need you to identify and hunt down this man. I need you to interrogate him and find out what he plans to do to us. I need you to do what you do best and what no one else is capable of.” Alistair's face looked somber. “This will be your toughest and most critical mission. You must succeed despite the odds against your doing so.” Alistair nodded once. “Do whatever you have to do. But you
must
succeed. You must stop him.”

“Stop him from doing what?”

Alistair nodded slowly. “The Qods Force Head of Western Directorate has planned to inflict upon us a huge massacre the likes of which the world has never seen before. You must stop him from committing genocide.”