Spycatcher (6 page)

Will looked down at the snow under his feet and then back up at Ewan. “You know what I think.”

Ewan sighed and nodded. “I realize Harry's idea is a long shot. Does head office have any other targeting leads?”

“None that I'm privy to.”

“Then a lot rests on this woman Lana.” Ewan exhaled and turned fully to face Will. He frowned. “Given my seniority and length of service within MI6, it
is
incredible that we've never met before.”

Will shrugged.

Ewan steeled his gaze. “The Service may now be blocking any chances of further promotion for me, but one thing it can't take away from my twenty-three years of work for MI6 is a highly tuned ability to read people.”

“It comes with the territory.”

“It does.” Ewan stood very still and kept his gaze locked on Will. “You don't look like a messenger boy or indeed a man who does what others tell him to do.”

“Looks can be deceptive.” Will smiled. “Maybe you're losing your touch.”

“Maybe.” Ewan held his gaze for a moment longer and then looked away. Snow fell fast over his face. “Two years ago I heard a rumor within MI6 about an event in Algeria. A female MI6 agent and her daughter had been kidnapped by Al Qaeda, which made it clear that they were going to execute them both for no reason other than publicity. MI6 quickly learned where the kidnappers were most likely holed up with their captives and notified the SAS in Hereford. An eight-man SAS team was scrambled to rescue the agent and her daughter, but during their flight across to Africa it was learned that the kidnappers had decided to speed up the time of the execution. The SAS team had no chance of reaching their destination before the mother and daughter would have their heads cut off.”

Will yawned in an attempt to look tired and bored. Snowfall around him became heavier.

“But—and this is where the rumor gets interesting—an MI6 officer was nearer to the Al Qaeda hideout. A man who did not operate out of an MI6 station, an embassy, or indeed anywhere official. A man whose existence was so carefully concealed that even current and former British prime ministers are sworn to uphold lifelong secrecy about his existence. A man who is a lone wolf and lethal.”

Will tried to smile. “Rumors.”

“But this was a well-founded rumor.” Ewan did not smile. “Anyway, despite having no authority to do so, this mysterious MI6 man goes into the Al Qaeda house on his own, kills all thirteen terrorists, frees the woman and her daughter, and walks them to Algeria's border with Morocco, where he hands them over to the now-arrived SAS team. With his job done, he then disappears.”

Will checked the time on his watch and stretched.

Ewan looked back at him and said nothing for a while. Then, “I often wonder if that man really exists. It would be wonderful to know he does.”

Will stopped his attempts to show fatigue and turned fully to face Ewan. “If he did exist and you met him, what would you say to him?”

Ewan nodded slowly, and the faintest of smiles appeared on his face. “I would say to him that I do not envy the huge burden of responsibility he must carry, nor the isolated life he must surely lead.”

As he stopped speaking, Ewan spun around and collapsed to the ground. The movement was too quick to be self-induced. Will immediately stepped back two paces and looked up and down the street and at windows and rooftops. The streetlights around him produced only a dim glow, which, coupled with the snowfall, meant he could barely see beyond thirty meters. He kept still for a moment and crouched down beside Ewan's body. He placed a thumb and forefinger around the man's nose and pulled Ewan's head sideways. The man had been shot through the brain with a silenced weapon. Will checked the man's breathing. Ewan was dead.

He patted his hands against Ewan's legs and stomach, reached into one of the dead man's pockets, and drew out his cell phone. He placed it into his own jacket and rose to a standing position, surveying his surroundings and listening carefully. He could not see or hear anything that suggested a nearby attacker. Besides, even if the killer was still nearby, Will decided that he would have been shot already if he were also a target. He thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets and walked rapidly away from Ewan's body toward the city's side streets and alleys.

Eight

W
ill looked out of the adjacent window and could see the first indications of sunrise. He sat in an Air France carrier, and the early-morning light gave glimpses of the snow-clad Swiss Alps beneath him. He took a sip of his tea and rubbed his temples. He shook his head as he pictured Ewan twist and fall down dead, then sighed as he recalled the man's words:

I often wonder if that man really exists.

He looked away from the Alps and closed his eyes. He rarely dwelt on past missions, but Ewan's words forced snippets of what had happened in Algeria into his mind.

He remembered Alistair's message:

The team can't get there in time. The woman and her child are going to be slaughtered.

He recalled his own response:

I'm going to stop that from happening.

And he recalled Alistair's command:

No you aren't. It's too dangerous.

He remembered observing the house, seeing men arrive, seeing lights go on and off in rooms, checking the time on his watch, seeing dusk turn to night, pulling out his handgun and knife, breathing carefully, focusing on the gun-carrying sentry by the front door, sprinting at him, thrusting his knife into the man's stomach. He remembered running into the house, shooting as he moved along corridors and through rooms and seeing men fall as his bullets struck them in the head. He remembered jumping down a set of stairs into a large basement. He remembered his heart beating fast as he saw the camera and other equipment. He remembered thinking the room looked like a film studio. He remembered seeing two men rush toward him with guns raised. He remembered kicking one of them away as he shot the other, then shooting the prone man. He remembered training his gun on the four men who stood behind the kneeling mother and her seven-year-old daughter. He remembered how the men smiled as they held their swords firmly against their captives' throats. He remembered hesitating for the tiniest of moments as he calculated the distance between each man. He remembered shooting four bullets in less than a second. He remembered seeing all four men fall down, each with a bullet in his brain.

He could see the prisoners before him now. He could see himself cutting through their ropes. He could see the mother shaking with fear and shock. He could see the girl look at him, grab him with both arms, and pull him to her. He could see him holding her gently and telling her she was safe now. He recalled thinking that nothing else mattered to him besides saving these two innocent lives. He could see him lifting the girl in his arms. And he remembered her words:

Did God send you?

Nine

W
ill had arrived in Paris.

It was the morning after Ewan's assassination, and the city was covered with frost rather than snow. Will pulled out a pad and checked his handwritten notes again. Via telephone, Alistair had provided him with an address and a concise biography of the person he wanted to meet. Will closed the pad and placed it back in his coat pocket. He stepped out of the Charles de Gaulle International Airport terminal and hailed a taxi.

Within thirty-five minutes, he was in the Marais district of the city. He paid the taxi driver and walked northwest along rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie before turning right onto a narrow side street. Moments later the small terraced house was before him. Will checked the time on his watch. It was nearly 8:00
A.M.
, and he hoped that the occupant had not yet left for work or other duties. He knocked.

The woman who opened the door was tall, with silky teak hair that she had gathered and rested over one shoulder and breast. She was beautiful, and it was obvious to Will that beneath her thigh-length sweater and jeans she had an excellent figure. However, it was her face that interested him. She was stunning, but she also looked as though her nerves had been visibly fraying over several years, and as a result she had a hunted look.

“Miss Lana Beseisu?” Will smiled as unthreateningly as he could.

“Yes.” The woman frowned and looked cautious.

“No need to worry. My name is Nicholas Cree. I'm with the British embassy here in Paris, and I need to update our records of your residency in this country. May I come in?”

The woman retained her frown. “I filled in some new forms only a few months ago. You should have everything you need.”

Will rubbed his hands together to make it look as though he were cold. “We should, but unfortunately our database has crashed, and as a result our records are a mess. It's caused chaos, and the only way we can try to get out of this muddle is to update our records manually. If we don't get it done, there will be all sorts of bureaucratic problems for British residents living here in France.” Will folded his arms and squeezed them tight against his chest. “I could come back later, but it would be great if we could do this now. I've got another eleven people to see today who are in exactly the same position as you.”

Lana stood still for a moment and then nodded. “My mother's at the health clinic. I need to be around for her when she gets back, so it's better for me if we deal with it now.” She glanced quickly up the street and then back at Will. “All right, come in.”

Will followed her through a small hallway into a cluttered living area. The place was strewn with books and newspapers. Lana grabbed an armful of journals and papers from a chair and dumped them next to an open laptop on a small table. “Please, sit.”

Will removed his overcoat to reveal his suit and sat down. He took out a pen and his small notepad as Lana pulled out and perched on a dining chair.

Lana smiled. “I did not know that the British embassy had such handsome men working there. What do you want to know?”

Will sighed. “I do apologize in advance. We're in a thorough mess, so I'm afraid I'm going to have to confirm with you some of the basics.” He looked down at his notepad and spoke quickly. “Half Jordanian, half Saudi. But you've had a British passport for nearly twenty years.”

“That's correct.” Lana lit a cigarette. “My mother managed to get me one when she was living in London.” She looked worried. “We only moved to France a few years ago because of her health and so that she could be close to a particular specialist. She has chronic anemia, and they have to keep running tests. We intend to return to the U.K. as soon as she's better.”

Will held up a hand. “Rest assured we have no problem with you and your mother having British passports. The only problem the embassy has is with an IT database system that was supposed to make our lives easier but instead has made them hellish.” He looked down at his supposed notes again. “Now, it says here that your father is deceased, and your mother is obviously living with you. You're single. Your vocation is journalism.”

Lana grimaced. “When I can get the work.”

Will tried to look sympathetic as he wrote nothing in particular on his notepad. “And besides your mother you have no other dependents with you in France?”

“None.”

Will nodded and scanned the tip of his pen across notes. “I can see that you've regularly checked in with our embassy—that's good, as it
normally
makes our lives a lot easier.”

Lana tapped ash. “Anything else?”

“It's just a formality, but can I see your passport?” He checked his watch as if he were in a hurry, then smiled. “I always have to confirm the identity of people I interview.”

“Sure.” Lana stood and looked around the untidy room, frowning. She walked to a spilling-over wall bookshelf on the opposite wall, rummaged among some loose papers, and returned with the passport. She handed it to Will and sat down.

He quickly glanced at the passport's last pages. He nodded, handed it back to Lana, and made a small scrawl on his notebook. He was satisfied that the woman before him was Lana Beseisu rather than a protective housemate or friend. He decided to change the nature of the meeting.

“Let me just check if there's anything else.” Will spent a few moments reading his notes again. He opened his eyes a little wider and tried to look impressed. “You were in Bosnia during the wars in the early nineties?”

Lana laughed. “That was another lifetime ago. I was barely out of school.”

He went on reading, even though he had memorized the notes before coming here. “You initially worked for a German media outlet in Sarajevo before they closed down their representative office there, but you then got approached to work with an Iranian-backed newspaper based in the city.” Will nodded. “Must have been terrifying times, working in a war zone?”

Lana shrugged. “I was young then. I was blasé to the danger.”

Will slowly closed his notepad and put it away. “The naïveté of youth.” He flashed a smile that cut off as quickly as it had appeared. “Still, you would not have been so naïve as to not know that the newspaper you worked for was in reality a front for the Iranian military intelligence services.”

“What?” Lana looked shocked.

“Maybe they got their hooks into you slowly and subtly, but pretty soon you would have known exactly whom you were working for and what you were doing for them. After all, journalists don't secretly take Iranian money to Bosnian paramilitary units spread across the country. That's a job for a spy.”

Lana's shock seemed to turn into anger. Her eyes narrowed, and she spoke slowly. “Who are you?”

“Mind you”—Will ignored her question and grinned—“it would have been a logistical nightmare to work on your own in a besieged city without guidance and time-sensitive instructions. Which can only mean that you had someone with you in Sarajevo. Maybe even an Iranian intelligence officer.” He frowned. “More specifically, an IRGC Qods Force officer.” He smiled again. “But you would have been lonely as well. I'd say that it was probable your Qods Force man gave you comfort as well as orders.”

“Whoever you are, get out of my house!” Lana was standing.

Will did not move. His speech was sharp. “Whoever I am or am not, I am most certainly someone who can change your life for the worse. So I suggest you sit back down.”

Lana seemed to hesitate. She then reseated herself and picked up her cigarette with a shaking hand. “What do you want?”

Will leaned closer to her. “I need to know if you are still in contact with the Iranians. I need to know if you are still in contact with the Qods Force man.”

Lana stubbed out her cigarette, and a tear slid down her cheek. “Who are you?” she repeated.

Will leaned farther forward. “I work for MI6. And I will not leave this house until you tell me what I need to know.”

Lana shook her head, and tears were now freely spilling from both eyes. “Please don't do this.”

Will made his voice stern. “Lana, look at me.”

She wiped the back of a hand against her face.

“I am a British intelligence officer. I have no desire to hurt you or get you in trouble. That's not why I'm here. But you will clearly understand the implications of being a past or present Iranian spy who has a British passport. We call people like that traitors, so unless you help me, the alternative is prison. And the French authorities will not stand in our way to obtain such justice.” Will's voice was now loud. “Are you still in contact with the Qods Force man or any of his friends?”

Lana shook her head vigorously. “No. No.”

“Anyone from Iran?”

“Nobody.” She was sobbing now.

“We can check. If we ask the French security services to analyze your phone calls over the last year or so and they find just one number dialed to Iran, you realize that all will be lost for you?”

“Then check!” Lana spat the words.

“Prison is not my objective—it does not serve my purpose in any way. I have another reason for needing to know if you are in contact with the Qods Force man.” Will leaned even closer. “Let me put this bluntly. If you are still in contact with the man or his colleagues, I can save you from prison. If not, then you are of no use to me and I will throw you to the British judicial system.”

“I've done nothing wrong. I've never spied on Britain. All I did was try to help stop some Bosnian Serb fanatics from being given carte blanche to commit genocide.”

“Very touching. But you were still a covert employee of an enemy of the West. And who knows what else would come out at a trial? What actions your Qods Force man may have taken based upon the secrets you fed him? Maybe you helped stop genocide, but maybe you wittingly or unwittingly helped fuel it. A British trial will be supported by United Nations evidence. They will no doubt be able, fairly or otherwise, to pin any number of atrocities on you.”

Lana dropped her head into her hands and pulled at her hair. “I understand, I understand, but I've not had any contact with him since 1995. And I've never had contact with his colleagues or anyone else from Iran.”

“Prove it to me.”

“Oh, come on!” Lana sounded exasperated. “How?”

Will leaned back in his chair and considered. He decided that for the moment he had been hard enough on her. Quietly, he said, “Tell me more about your time in Bosnia.”

Lana stared at him for a while and then pulled out another cigarette, lighting it with deliberation. She inhaled deeply and then spoke in a thin voice. “After I graduated from university, I took a job as a freelance journalist with the Düsseldorf-based media outlet you mentioned. They sent me to Sarajevo in 1991 to cover Bosnia and Herzegovina's impending referendum for independence from Yugoslavia. Shortly after my arrival, all hell broke out in the Balkans, and one of my colleagues in Sarajevo was killed. Düsseldorf then lost its nerve and decided to cover the conflict from Germany.” Lana shrugged. “And I was therefore without work.”

“That's when you were approached?”

“Not immediately.” She took another draw on her cigarette. “It was another two months before that happened. After I lost my job, I kept myself occupied helping in any way that I could: getting food parcels to the city from the airport, working in shelters, doing basic first aid—anything, really. They were terrible times. And then”—she studied the burning embers of her cigarette before returning her gaze to Will—“then he introduced himself to me.”

“His name?”

Lana shook her head slowly. “I never found out his name.”

“Age?”

“He was then in his late twenties.”

“Why did you agree to work with him?”

Lana's smile faded, and she looked down at her feet. “The first time I met him, I was working in a makeshift hospital trying to care for victims of bombs and sniper bullets. He came up to me and told me that he worked for a special unit in the Iranian army. He told me that Bosnian Muslims were being slaughtered throughout the country and beyond. He told me that he'd been sent to Bosnia to try to help stop that from happening. He said he needed my help.”

“Why you?”

Lana slowly turned her gaze back up toward Will. “Maybe because I am a Muslim. Maybe because I looked young and impressionable. Maybe because he had few other options available to him.”

“Or maybe because you still had a media identity pass, which in theory offered you a bit of protection when traveling?”

Lana said nothing.

“What did you do for him?”

She coughed. “Initially it was mapmaking. Establishing secret routes in and out of the city, finding small ways to breach the siege. Then, after a few months and when the maps were ready, he started using me to take cash to the Muslim paramilitary groups beyond Sarajevo so that they could buy armaments, food, clothing, and medicine. I would make the journeys, then come back and report anything he needed to know, and then he would send me on new journeys. I did that for nearly four years.”

Will was silent for a moment and then said quietly, “Extremely dangerous work. If you had been caught on one of those trips, you could have been raped, tortured, and executed.”

“I know.” Lana's face had grown stoical. Her tears had ceased.

Will tapped his fingers on a knee before bringing them to a stop. “Tell me about the man.”

Lana extinguished her cigarette and then immediately lit another. “I worked out recently that over the four-year period I saw him on fourteen occasions, and then only for a few hours or less at a time. It was only during the last three meetings that we became”—she shifted slightly in her chair—“better acquainted.”

“That's still fourteen meetings. What can you tell me about them?”