Dark Spies (19 page)

“And the longest you’d spent in said water?”

“Thirteen hours and four minutes. Me and another guy, both of us in scuba gear and on the surface of the Indian Ocean with a rope between us while waiting for a mobile U.S. sub’s antenna to break through the sea, snag the rope, draw us together as it sailed onward, and put us on its back. Was cold and dark out there.”

Alistair nodded. “I’m sure it was. Cochrane’s longest time in water during his training program was four days, nine hours, and thirty-two seconds. And it was in the North Atlantic. During November. He had food, and water, and a dry suit and buoyancy aids, but not much else.”

One of the agents frowned. “Superspy?”

“No.” Alistair wagged his finger. “Human being. Like anyone in their right mind, he doesn’t like misery. And that’s his strength. His mind can overcome his body’s craving for rest and warmth and no further pain. That’s why he survived the program I put him through. When he’s in the field, he’s constantly fighting the very natural desire to give up. He’s no
super
anything. He is who he is.”

Marsha pointed again at the map of the States. “Non-Bureau law enforcement agencies are taking the lead on trying to capture him while he’s still in transit, including being all over public transportation routes. But they’ve got one heck of a task. We, on the other hand, are going to focus on ground that we can control. The only way he’s going to get the answers he wants is to grab someone in the CIA and make that person talk.” She looked at Sheridan, imagining Cochrane putting his hand around the officer’s throat. “The D.C. area is where we’ll get him, and I’ll lock down the entire city to do it if necessary.” She checked her watch. “Okay. I’m going to task all agents in this room individually. Pete—after that, I want to speak to you and your men so we can run through response and takedown drills.”

Pete Duggan nodded. “One thing I’m confused about—how come Cochrane made the International Avenue crossing and showed his face? Strikes me, guy like him would know all about covert infiltration.”

Marsha agreed. “It’s possible he was desperate or simply made a mistake, though I don’t buy that.”

“Guess we’ll just have to ask him when we got him in a cell.”

Alistair was once again leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. “You won’t need to. William deliberately chose to use the crossing knowing that it would be reinforced with extra men. He let us see him because he wanted us to know he’s in the States.”

Marsha turned to the MI6 officer. “What?”

Alistair opened his eyes and looked right at Marsha. “Once he’s found out the truth about why he’s on the run, he wants you to get very close to him, though I must warn you it will be completely on his terms.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I
n the rural outskirts of Moscow, Antaeus lit a candle and carried it into his study. He could have availed himself of the room’s electric lights or its gas lamps, but sometimes he just liked being in near darkness, with the smell of wick and wax, and light that erratically flickered to produce a partial, indistinct representation of the surroundings.

He sat down at his old wooden desk and lit a cheroot that was a gift from a Dutchman whose tobacco emporium was one of the best in Europe. The shop also happened to have a tunnel to a listening post where the Russians could eavesdrop on the American embassy in The Hague.

The chalkboard was in front of him; names on it appeared and disappeared each time a scant breeze nudged the candle’s flame left and right.

Senator Colby Jellicoe.

Charles and Lindsay Sheridan.

Ed Parker.

Gregori Shonin.

Project Ferryman.

Cobalt.

The key players in Antaeus’s plan to cause a major catastrophe and derail the United States.

Only Will Cochrane stood in his way of achieving that result.

He looked at Will’s name on the other side of the board, drew a circle around it so that the arrow from the code names of his four assassins was touching it, and drew four more arrows pointing at the circle from different angles.

Against the first new arrow, he wrote,
STATE
& COUNTY POLICE FORCES
.

The second arrow,
THE MEDIA AND CONCERNED U.S. CITIZENS.

The third,
MARSHA GAGE/FBI/HRT.

The fourth,
SHERIDAN/CIA/AUGUSTUS & ELIJAH.

Five arrows in total that wanted Will Cochrane incarcerated or dead.

Cochrane stood no chance of getting anywhere near Project Ferryman.

But something was nagging Antaeus.

He held the candle close to the reptile tank containing the chameleon. Its pigmentation had altered to reflect the fact that earlier today Antaeus had cleaned the tank and replenished it with lighter-colored foliage. He was sure the reptile liked to frequently change its appearance. Just like Ellie Hallowes.

Antaeus was sure that Hallowes was the only person who didn’t want Cochrane captured or killed. The nature of her deep-cover work made her dislocated from the unconditional loyalty prevalent in mainstream Agency operatives. That meant that even though Cochrane broke rules to protect her, she wouldn’t blindly agree with the rules that had put Cochrane on the run.

Instead, she’d help him if she could. And the best way she could do that was to read the Ferryman files and relay what she had read to Cochrane. Yes, that’s what had been troubling him. Hallowes was the threat to his otherwise watertight strategy. But how would she relay what she’d discovered to Cochrane? Not by standard forms of communication, because she’d know that she didn’t have the Agency’s full trust and it could be monitoring her. That left old-school tradecraft. A dead-letter box. In a location agreed upon by Cochrane and Hallowes. One she could easily access without garnering suspicion from the Agency by being absent for too long. Washington, D.C.

Antaeus smiled and picked up his telephone.

The rolling, frost-covered vista of Middleburg, Virginia, was magnificent and all the better for being seen on horseback. Catherine Parker and Lindsay Sheridan were both proficient riders, and it had been Catherine’s idea to get out of D.C. for an afternoon so that the two women could get some bracing air, exercise, and time out from the craziness that came with being married to the Central Intelligence Agency.

Wearing jodhpurs, riding boots, helmets, and warm jackets and gloves, the women rode side by side at a fast trot along a valley that contained pine, ash, and oak trees. The horses were stabled at the Salamander Resort & Spa, and were their regular mounts when they could get out for a visit. But their last ride together had been over four months ago, so today’s venture was long overdue.

They reached a large pond that was glistening under the winter sunshine and looked like a perfect place to let the horses rest and for the women to catch their breath. Catherine called out, “Time for an aperitif?”

Lindsay smiled. “Now you’re talking.”

They stopped, dismounted, and tethered their horses to trees. Catherine withdrew a hip flask and unscrewed its cap. “I stole some of Ed’s best Scotch.” She took a swig and handed it to Lindsay. “It can be our little secret.”

Lindsay swallowed the fiery liquor and nodded her head in appreciation. “Tastes even better, knowing it’s illicit.” She removed her helmet and scratched her scalp where the hat had rubbed it. As she looked at the water, she exclaimed, “God, it feels good to get away.”

Catherine knew she was referring to her husband, but kept quiet.

“Sometimes it’s hard to breathe when I’m around Charles.”

“He’s not here now.”

Lindsay looked at Catherine with a smile that suggested she thought her friend’s comment was naive. “Trouble is, I can feel his presence all the time.”

So many times, Catherine had wanted to ask Lindsay the question she was contemplating right now, but she’d always feared what reaction she’d get. She hesitated, and asked, “Why don’t you just leave him? Start a new life?”

Lindsay bowed her head and said quietly, “Guess you’ve been waiting to ask me that for a long time.”

“I didn’t want to meddle, I—”

“It’s okay, Cathy.” She returned her gaze to the water. “I think about it all the time. Wonder what it would be like to be in a relationship with a nice man. Thing is though—when you’re young, it’s easy; you just hitch up your skirt, flash a bit of leg, and you’ve got a crop of men to pick from. Not so easy at our age though, is it?”

Catherine was about to tell her she was wrong, but stopped and placed her hand on Lindsay’s back. “Maybe you just have to find out.”

Lindsay turned to Catherine, her eyes watering. “I think . . . I think I’m not strong enough to walk out on him. You know, I fantasize that the decision is made for me. It’s awful”—tears were now running down her face—“awful, but I keep thinking it would be best if he was dead. Killed. Died. Dead.”

“You’re not planning anything bad, are you?”

Lindsay shook her head. “No, no. Nothing stupid. Don’t worry. This is just us talking and me spouting shit. I can’t touch him. I can’t do anything bad to him. That’s half the problem.” She wiped her tears away. “But it doesn’t stop me wishing every day that some drunk driver or whoever would wipe him out on his way home. At least then I’d be forced to do something.”

The black London cab stopped in King’s Road, in Chelsea. Though it was evening and raining, the popular thoroughfare of designer shops and restaurants was buzzing with well-groomed beautiful people, none of whom looked over the age of forty. As Dickie Mountjoy surveyed his surroundings, the retired major decided that everyone who came here was a scrounger who’d never done a decent day’s work and lived off swollen bank balances courtesy of their fathers.

Phoebe paid the cabbie, helped Dickie get out of the vehicle, and exclaimed, “Ooh, I do
love
King’s Road.”

Dickie huffed. “Thought you might.” He steadied himself with his walking stick, swung it under one arm, and followed Phoebe. He was properly dressed for the cold outing—leather gloves, scarf immaculately folded so it looked like a cravat around his throat, and a knee-length blue moleskin coat over his trousers and jacket. Aside from a chic cropped faux-mink-fur jacket, Phoebe, on the other hand, was wearing next to nothing and a pair of platforms. It was a miracle she didn’t get hypothermia during her regular evenings out.

She led him to an antique shop that was closed, though its inside lights were still on. She pressed the doorbell. An elderly man unlocked the entrance; he had half-moon spectacles hanging on a chain over his chest, was wearing a red smoking jacket that looked as though it had been made a hundred years ago, and had yellow and silver hair that had been styled to make him look Bohemian and eccentric. An arty type. For the love of Jesus, let’s get this over with quickly, thought Dickie.

Phoebe introduced herself as the woman who’d called the shop proprietor earlier in the day and had asked for an after-hours appointment. The man beckoned them in. Dickie was about to follow Phoebe in, but stopped as a newsstand billboard farther up the street caught his eye. He frowned as he tried to decide what it meant, and entered the shop.

On display were antiques that Dickie reckoned were targeted at more-money-than-sense people who wanted to furnish their West London homes with Victorian and Edwardian junk and old stuff from India and China that nobody there wanted anymore. The proprietor led them to a glass counter, on top of which was a musical instrument case. He stood behind the counter and placed his manicured fingers over the case. “I have an interested buyer for this in Vienna.”

Major Mountjoy stood ramrod straight, even though it hurt his back and legs to do so. “How much does he want to pay for it?”

“She.” The proprietor smiled. “And I rarely discuss money at the outset. In my business, it’s a tad gauche to do so.”

“In my world, ‘gauche’ is a word used by poofs, pricks, and the loiterers Phoebe hangs out with in her poncey art gallery.”

Phoebe hooked her arm under his, rubbed her hip against his body, and said in a mock stern tone, “Don’t be a naughty Dickie.”

The major wished she’d let go. “I’m just sayin’ I’m entitled to know how much it costs.”

The proprietor smiled with a look of insincerity. “Let me show it to you first.” He opened the case; inside was a handcrafted German baroque swan-neck lute. “It’s eighteenth century, and I have a certificate of authenticity from the man I purchased it from in Berlin.”

Though Dickie knew nothing about music, or art, or indeed anything that seemed to him to be a pointless load of nonsense, he had to admit the instrument looked beautiful. “In good nick?”

The proprietor frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Is it in good condition? Does it do what it’s supposed to do?”

The shop owner ran his fingers over the strings. “It’s perfect.”

Phoebe nestled her body closer to Dickie. “I think it’s gorgeous. Will would love to play this.” She looked sternly at the proprietor, and this time there was nothing false in her expression. “However, I agree with the major that we need to know what we’re dealing with. How much?”

The proprietor’s smile widened. “It’s not easy to put a value on an instrument of such—”

“How much?”

The proprietor pinged one of the strings. “Three thousand pounds.”

Phoebe was shocked. “I think you might have mistakenly added an extra naught on the price.”

“It has been valued with precision, and my Viennese potential buyer agrees with my valuation.” He shut the case. “By all means get an independent assessment of its value. But, I can show you my receipt of purchase, which unequivocally states that I bought it for five hundred pounds less than I’m asking for it. I believe the markup accurately reflects the effort and cost it took for me to source the lute.”

Dickie nodded at the case. “We’ll take it.”

“Dickie?” Phoebe pulled his arm. “You mustn’t spend that much money. My—”

“Mind’s made up.” He withdrew his wallet, containing five thousand pounds that he’d withdrawn from his post office pension fund earlier in the day. “It’s worth the price to make Mr. Cochrane happy, and to get out of this faggoty place.”

Ten minutes later, Dickie was standing on the sidewalk while Phoebe was holding the encased lute in one hand and hailing a taxi with the other. To Dickie’s surprise, she wasn’t staying out in the West End to make a night of it, but instead wanted to return to West Square because David was cooking for her. He coughed onto the back of his hand, silently cursed as he saw blood on his glove, and caught the headline on the billboard.

ROGUE MI6 OFFICER SPOTTED IN U.S. NET CLOSING IN.

“Keep going, lad. Don’t give up,” Dickie muttered to himself.

Traversing New Jersey, the Greyhound bus was 160 miles from Washington, D.C., and was due to arrive in the capital in exactly three hours and ten minutes’ time. Outside the bus, nothing was visible in the darkness; inside, every seat was taken and most people were sleeping or talking in the hushed tones that all but the brash and dumb adopt on a bus at night.

Toward the rear of the coach Will Cochrane was in an aisle seat next to a twenty-eight-year-old named Emma, who’d introduced herself to Will when she’d boarded the vehicle in New York City and had told him, somewhat flirtatiously, that she hoped he didn’t snore when he slept.

He felt cramped in the seat, and he couldn’t get his big frame and head into the right position; every time he tilted his skull back he feared an involuntary snort, and as he drifted into sleep, his head would move forward—slowly at first, but then culminating in a whiplash butt against nothing and an inhalation of air that produced a grunt. He decided it was too embarrassing to continue and stared ahead down the aisle.

“Want a slice of orange?” Emma held up a segment of fruit. “Good for the sinuses.”

Will smiled and replied in his Virginian accent, “Sinuses or snoring?”

“Same thing.” Emma dropped the orange segment into Will’s palm. “Actually, I don’t know if orange helps at all. But it sounds about right, doesn’t it?”

“Guess so. Thanks. I haven’t had fruit for a while.” His teeth crushed the segment, sending shots of vitamin C into his mouth.

“You look like you’re desperate for sleep.”

“That obvious, is it?”

Emma nodded. “Tell you what.” She rummaged in her knapsack. “I got a spare travel cushion. They’re great for getting comfortable, and”—she grinned—“stopping sinuses getting noisy.” She pulled out the pillow and held it out to Will.

“You sure?”

“Totally, because I’d kind of like to get some sleep myself.”

Will fixed the cushion around his neck. He knew that he shouldn’t sleep, but his whole body and mind were craving a few hours of shutdown. He decided to close his eyes and take a chance.

Ten minutes later, Emma could tell from her fellow passenger’s slow, deep breathing that he was asleep. She was relieved that her cushion had done the trick, not just because she wanted some peace and quiet to rest, but also because she’d meant what she’d said to him—the guy really looked dog tired.